War and Remembrance (70 page)

“It’s all set? It’s definite? You’ve quit?”

“Absolutely. Isn’t that terrific?”

“When do you go to work for this Asparagus person, or whatever?”

Madeline tried to hold her offended look, but her lips tightened and then she exploded in laughter.
“Asparagus!
Honestly, Byron, you’re a sketch. What’s so hard about Spreregen?”

“Sorry. When do you start with him?”

Still giggling, she said, “Next month. I called Lenny, he’s agreed, and —”

“Wait a minute.
Next month?” Byron sat up and swung his hairy naked legs to the floor.

“Sweetie, of course. I had to give a month’s notice. I can’t walk out overnight, that’s childish.” Byron crashed a fist on the coffee table so that
books and ashtrays jumped. Frightened, Madeline raised her voice. “Oh, I can’t
stand
you! How can you be so unreasonable? Could you or Dad walk off your ship without a replacement?”

Byron leaped to his feet. “Goddamn you, Madeline, are you comparing the garbage Cleveland does to what I do? To what Dad does? To what
Warren
did? I’ll go see this fellow again.”

“No! I don’t want you to!” Madeline began to cry. “Oh, how ugly and cruel you can be! Did I mention Warren?”

“Hell, no, you haven’t since I got here.”

“I can’t bear to!”
Madeline screamed, shaking her fists at him. A storm of tears burst from her eyes. “And neither can you! Oh, God, why did you say that? Why?”

Rocked back by the outburst, Byron muttered, “Sorry,” and tried to put an arm around her.

She pulled away, drying her eyes with a shaky hand. Her voice was tremulous but hard. “My work’s important to me, Byron, and to millions of people. Millions! It’s honest work. You’re just bullying me, and you have no right to do it. You’re not Dad. And even he doesn’t have the right anymore. I’m not sixteen.”

The door opened and Rhoda walked in, juggling large parcels. “Hi, kids, I’ve
BOUGHT
OUT Beverly Hills! Swept down Wilshire Boulevard like a typhoon! They’ll be clearing the wreckage for
WEEKS!
Byron, I’m roasting, make me a nice tall gin and tonic, will you, dear?” She went on into her bedroom.

“Oh, Lord,” Madeline muttered, wiping her eyes. She had turned her back as her mother entered.

“Go wash your face, Maddy.”

“Yes. Fix me another drink, too. Strong.”

In a new gay print robe, Rhoda soon looked into the kitchenette where Byron was mixing highballs. “Dear, are you really going back to sub school tonight? That’s so awful. It seems I’ve barely laid eyes on you.”

“I’ll stay with you tonight, and drive down early. And I’ll be back next Sunday.”

“Oh, lovely! You and Maddy have brought me back from the
DEAD,
you truly have. In Washington I felt
ENTOMBED.
I’ve bought a
RAFT
of these California clothes, they’re so smart, and light, and
different.
Amazing the stuff they’ve got out here, war or no war. It’s a whole wardrobe for Hawaii. I intend to knock Dad’s eyes out.”

“You think you can get there?”

“Oh, I do. I do. There are ways and means, darling, and I’m absolutely determined — oh, thank you, pet. I may just dunk myself in the pool before I drink this.”

Madeline said in a placating tone, when they were alone again sipping drinks, “Byron, will you really go to Switzerland after sub school? Will the Navy allow it?”

“I don’t know. It depends on what I can find out from the State Department, and the legation in Rome. I won’t start up with the Navy unless I have to.”

She walked to his armchair, sat on the arm, and caressed his face. “Look, don’t be so hard on me.”

“Can’t you quit in two weeks?”

“Trust me, Byron. You’ve been a big help. It’ll work out, I swear.” Madeline’s voice shifted to loud cheerfulness as her mother came out in a bathing suit, carrying a towel. “Hey, Mom, big news! Guess what? I’m going to work at Universal Pictures!”

E
ARLY
in August, in the American legation in Bern, the Jastrow-Henry case came to a sudden boil.

Dr. Hesse, Slote’s friend in the Swiss Foreign Ministry, returned from Rome with the shocking news that Jastrow and his niece, having been granted the extraordinary privilege of a seaside holiday, had violated parole and vanished. A Jewish doctor from Siena, a secret Zionist, was involved. The Italian authorities were wrathful, and Dr. Hesse had been called in to the German embassy and asked what he knew. The roly-poly pink little diplomat was recounting all this to Slote in a sidewalk café, and half a chocolate éclair trembled on his fork as he described how he had told the German first secretary, a hard nasty customer named Dr. Werner Beck, to go to hell. The situation of Jastrow and his niece, in Hesse’s opinion, was now hopeless. If they were hiding, they would be found; if they tried to leave Italy, they would be caught. On recapture, they would go straight to an Italian concentration camp. The government had confiscated Jastrow’s villa, his bank account, and the contents of his safe deposit box.

Oh, God, thought Slote as he heard this upsetting tale, the same old Natalie, plunging headlong into incalculable risk, this time baby and all! He decided not to report this grave development to Natalie’s mother or to Byron — who was writing him letter after letter — until he could find out more; and to do this, he decided, he would have to go to Geneva. There the big Jewish organizations, including the Zionists, had their Swiss offices. The American consulate dealt all the time with them; it had contacts too with the Jewish underground. He might learn nothing about the escape. On the other hand, one heard surprising things from the Jews in Geneva, and the information tended to be accurate.

It was through these contacts that the ghastly accounts of the German extermination camps were trickling in. Slote had been shutting his mind to these reports. After his failure to authenticate the Wannsee Protocol, and the strange death of Father Martin, he felt helpless, even threatened. Preserving himself and his sanity came first. Anyway, who was he to change history? Beyond the postcard beauty of the snowy Alps, there was not only a great war going on, but — he was all but sure — a vast secret slaughter. Meantime, the sun rose each day, one ate and drank, and one’s desk was laden
with work. There were diplomatic cocktail parties and dinner parties. Wartime life wasn’t bad in Bern, everything considered, and the town itself was so clean and quiet and charming! On the Zytglogge tower the little jester jingled the hours, the golden giant clanged the bell with his hammer, the puppets did their dance; in the bear pits the tame bears sadly stumbled through their waltzes for carrots. On days when the
Fõhn
blew away the Alpine mists, the snowy Oberland ridge sprang into sight, white and pink and azure, looking like the approaches to Heaven. The only link to the terror beyond these pretty peaks was the permanent line of refugees with haunted eyes outside the door of the American legation.

Slote entrained for Geneva in a glum frame of mind. When he returned to Bern three days later, commercial work had piled up in his office. He ground through the heap with his secretary, grateful to be using his mind on rational matters. At the end of the day he declined a dinner with two other bachelors of the staff who had some visiting French ballet girls lined up. Telephoned at his flat by the married Swiss woman he now and then discreetly slept with, he stalled her off, too. After what he had learned in Geneva, petty sensualities seemed dirty to him. He ate some bread and cheese, then sank into an armchair with a bottle of Scotch.

What he had picked up about Jastrow and Natalie was only a vague third-hand report; still, it sounded plausible and cheering. Unfortunately, and unwillingly, he had also found out much more about the exterminations. The thought of resigning from the Foreign Service was circling in his mind, like a recurring slogan on an electric sign. Hard behind it there flashed the red reminder that he would at once be drafted into the Army.

Leslie Slote found himself reviewing his ambitions, his origins, his moral values, his hopes, in an agony of self-stripping, as before a decision to try a new career, or to give up a woman or marry her. He cared nothing for the Jews. He had grown up in a Connecticut suburban town where they could not easily buy homes. His father, a quiet philosophical Wall Street lawyer, had had no close Jewish friends. At Yale Slote had kept his distance from the Jewish students, and his secret society had tapped none. Natalie Jastrow’s Jewishness had once seemed to Slote a flaw about half as bad as being a Negro.

Nor had he really changed. Now as always he was strictly out for himself, but by chance the Wannsee document had come his way. Because he knew German history and culture, what struck others as utter fantasy he believed to be true. Between the episode of the Minsk documents, and his stridency about the Wannsee Protocol, he was already suspect. If now he raised his voice about the new evidence, he would mark himself “Jew-lover” at the State Department for good. So Slote ruminated, sunk in his armchair, as the whiskey dwindled in the bottle.

Yet even the new Geneva evidence, though shocking and sickening, was not irrefutable. How could it be?
Where were the dead Jews?
Nothing surely proved murder except the
corpus delicti
— in this case great mounds of murdered people or mass graves full of them. How could one gain access to such proof? Photographs could be faked. There would never be irrefutable proof of this thing until the war ended; and then, only if the Allies won. The Geneva evidence, like the Wannsee Protocol, was only words: words spoken, words written, mixed with other words that were hysterical bosh, and still others, like the story of factories making corpses into soap, that were stale atrocity propaganda from the last war.

Slote could blame nobody for hesitating to believe in this weird gigantic massacre. Pogroms were an old story, but only a few people died in a pogrom. The Nazis did not bother to hide their persecution and looting of the Jews; still, they dismissed as Allied propaganda or Jewish ravings the ever-multiplying stories of secret murders in the hundreds of thousands. Yet these murders were happening, or at least Slote believed they were. The plan in the Wannsee Protocol was simply being carried out, in a grisly world of killers and victims as inaccessible as the unseen side of the moon.

Glass after glass of Scotch and water coursed down his throat, leaving a warm glowing trail, relaxing and comforting him, floating him above himself. Almost, he could look down like a released spirit at his skinny bespectacled self stretched on the chair and ottoman, and feel sorry for this clever chap whose future might be sacrificed for the goddamned Jews. How could he help it? He was a human being, and he was sane. If a sane man who knew about this insane thing didn’t fight it, there was not much hope for the race of man, was there? And who could say what one man might not accomplish, if only he could find the right words to utter, to proclaim, to shout to the world? What about Karl Marx? What about Christ?

When a solitary boozing session got around to Marx and Christ, Slote knew it was running down. It was time to reel off to bed. He did.

Next morning he was in his shirt-sleeves, typing a letter to Byron Henry about what he had learned of Natalie, when his secretary came in, a fleshily sexy blonde girl named Heidi. Heidi kept flirting with Slote, but to him she was like a cream pastry in a skirt. “Mr. Wayne Beall from the Geneva consulate says you expect him.”

“Oh, yes. Tell him to come in.” He locked the letter in a drawer and donned his jacket. As Wayne Beall entered, Heidi made cow eyes at the handsome young American vice consul, a short man going very bald in front, but so straight-backed, flat-stomached, and bright-eyed that the bald brow didn’t matter. He had dropped out of West Point on developing a heart murmur, but at thirty he still strode like a cadet, and kept trying to get back into the Army. Beall regarded Heidi’s hind parts thoughtfully as she twitched out.

“You didn’t bring your papers?” Slote closed the door.

“Hell, no, my hair stands on end to think of losing such stuff on a train. If the minister decides to act, I’ll send him everything I’ve got.”

“Your appointment is for ten o’clock.”

“Does he know what it’s about?”

“Certainly.”

Beall’s bald brow became corrugated with worry lines. “I’m in way over my head on this, Les. You’ll join us, won’t you?”

“Not a chance. I’m considered bonkers on this subject.”

“Hell, Leslie, who considers you bonkers? You’ve read the files. You know who these informants are. You have a reputation for brilliance. I’ve never been suspected of that. Damn it, come along, Les.”

Resignedly, and with a sense of foreboding, Slote said, “You’ll do the talking, though.”

The minister wore a Palm Beach suit and well-chalked white shoes. He was going to a garden luncheon, he said, so this interview would have to be a brisk one. He dropped into his swivel chair and keenly regarded with his living eye the two men sitting side by side on the couch.

“Sir, I appreciate your giving me this time out of your busy schedule,” Beall began, somewhat overdoing the briskness in tone and gesture.

The minister made a tired deprecatory hand wave. “What new information have you?”

Wayne Beall launched into his report. Two hard separate confirmations of the massacre had come into his office from very high-level persons. From a third source, he had eyewitness affidavits of the mass murder process in action. He said this at length, with much talk about disaster, American humanitarianism, and the minister’s wisdom.