Chapter 15

"Aren't you CLEVER to wear that suit. I dressed for spring and it's positively tropic here," Rhoda said. "Where's Madeline? Is she all right?" Quickly Janice explained why the daughter hadn't come. "Well! Hasn't Mad turned into the little career girl! My dear, I want to kiss you, but I daren't. Don't come near me. I'm virulent! I've got the cold of the ages. They should quarantine me. I'll infect the nation. Well! How beautiful you are. You're ravishing. Lucky Warren! How is he, anyway?" "all right, I hope. He's sweating out carrier landings, down off Puerto Rico somewhere." Victor Henry, looking more impressive than Janice remembered in a gold-buttoned blue bridge coat and gold-encrusted cap, came through the crowd with a surly-looking customs inspector. After a brusque greeting to Janice and an inquiry about Madeline, he wanted to know where Byron had gotten off to. "Briny disappeared. He had to make a phone call," the mother said. As the inspector glanced through the luggage, Janice told the Henrys about Palmer Kirby's invitation. Between sneezes, Rhoda said, "Well, of all things. His factory's in Denver. What's he doing here? I don't think we can go, can we, Pug? Of course dinner at the Waldorf would be a lovely way to start life in the USA again. Take the taste of Berlin out of our mouths! Janice, you just can't picture what Germany is like now. It's gruesome. I'm cured. When I saw the Statue of Liberty I laughed and cried. Me for the USA hereafter, now and forever." "Matter of fact, I have to talk to Fred Kirby," Pug said. "Oh, Pug, it's impossible, I have his filthy cold-and my HAm!" Rhoda said. "What could I wear to the Waldorf, anyhow? Everything's a mass of wrinkles, except what I'm standing up in. If I could only get my pink suit pressed-and if I could get to a hairdresser for a couple of hours-" Byron came sauntering through the noisy crowd. "Hey, Janice! I'm Warren's brother. I thought you'd be here." He produced from his pocket a small box with a London label, and gave it to her. Janice opened it, and there lay a Victorian pin, a little golden elephant with red stones for eyes. "Good heavens!" "Anybody who marries one of us needs the patience of an elephant," said Byron.
"Ye gods, if that's not the truth," said Rhoda, laughing. Janice gave Byron a slow female blink. He was even handsomer than Warren, she thought. His eyes had an eager aroused sparkle. She kissed him. have nothing to offer," said the grainy strong singsong voice out of the radio, slurring the consonants almost like a drunken man, 'but blood, toil, tears, and sweat." 'y, he's a genius!" Rhoda exclaimed. She sat on the edge of a frail gilt chair in Kirby's suite, champagne glass in hand, tears in her eyes. "Where has he been till now?" Smearing caviar from a blue Russian-printed tin on a bit of toast, and carefully sprinkling onion shreds, Byron said, "He was running the British Navy when Prien got into Scapa Flow and sank the Royal Oak. And when the Germans crossed the Skagerrak to Norway." "Shut up and listen," Victor Henry said. Janice glanced from the son to the father, crossed her long legs, and sipped champagne. Palmer Kirby's eyes flickered appreciatively at her legs, which pleased her. He was an interesting-looking old dog. ... You ask, what is our policy? I will say, it is to wage 'War, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and all the strength that God can give us: to wage war against a nwnstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, tvhat is our aim? I can answer in one mid: Victory-victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror... I take up my task with buoyancy and hope. I feel sure that our cause will not be suffered to fail atwng men..." The speech ended. An American voice said with a cough and tremor, 'Tow have just heard the newly appointed Prime Minister of Great Britain) Winston Churchill." After a moment, Rhoda said, "That man will save civilization. We're going to get in now. The Germans overplayed their hand. We'll never let them conquer England. There's something strangely thick about the Germans, you know? One must observe them close up for a long time to understand that. Strangely thick." Victor Henry said to Dr, Kirby, glancing at his watch, "Quite a speech. Can we talk now for a few minutes?" Kirby got to his feet and Rhoda smiled at him. "Champagne, caviar, and business as usual. That's Pug." "We're just waiting for Madeline," Pug said.
"Come along," Kirby said, walking into the bedroom. 'Say, Dad, I'm going to have to mosey along," Byron said. "There is this plane to Miami I have to catch. It leaves La Guardia in about an hour." 'What! Dr. Kirby thinks you're dining with him." 'Vefl, see, I made the reservation before I knew about this dinner." "You're not waiting till Madeline comes? You haven't seen her in two years. She's taking us all to her show after dinner." "I think I'd better go, Dad." Abruptly, Pug left the room. 'Briny, you're impossible," his mother said. "Couldn't you have waited until tomorrow?" "Mom, do you remember what it's like to be in love?" Rhoda surprised him and Janice Lacouture by turning blood red. "Me? My goodness, Byron, what a thing to say! Of course not, I'm a million years old." 'Thank you for my Marvelous pin." Janice touched the elephant on her shoulder. "That must be some girl, in Miami." Byron's blank narrow-eyed look dissolved in a charming smile and an admiring glance at her. 'She's all right." 'Bring her to the wedding with you. Don't forget." As Byron went to the door, Rhoda said, "You have a real talent for disappointing your father." 'He'd be disappointed if I didn't disappoint him. Good-bye, Mom." In the bedroom Dr. Kirby sat at a desk, checking off a stack of journals and mimeographed reports that Victor Henry had brought him from Germany. As be scribbled in a yellow notebook, the little desk shook and two reports slid to the floor. "They must rent this suite to midgets," he said continuing to write. Victor Henry said, "Fred, are you working on a uranium bomb?" Kirby's hand paused. He turned, hanging one long loose arm over the back of his chair, and looked into Henry's eyes. The silence and the steady look between the men lasted a long time. "You can just tell me it's none of my goddamn business, but"-Pug sat on the bed-'all that stuff there zeroes in on the uranium business. And some of the things I couldn't get, like the graphite figures, why, the Germans told me flatly that they were classified because of the secret bomb aspects. The Germans are fond of talking very loosely about this terrible ultra-bomb they're developing. That made me think there was nothing much to it. But that list of requests you sent gave me second thoughts." Kirby knocked out his pipe, stuffed it, and lit it. The process took a couple of minutes, during which he didn't talk, but looked at Captain Henry. He said slowly, "I'm not a chemist, and thisuranium thing is more or less a chemical engineering problem. Electricity does come into it for production techniques. A couple of months ago I was approached to be an industrial consultant." "What's the status of the thing?" "All theory. Years away from any serious effort." "Do you mind telling me about it?" "Why not? It's in the college physics books. Hell, it's been in Life magazine. There's this process, neutron bombardment. You expose one chemical substance and another to the emanations of radium, and see what happens. It's been going on for years, in Europe and here. Well, these two Germans tried it on uranium ode last year, and they produced barium. Now that's transmutation of elements by atom-splitting. I guess you know about the fantastic charge of energy packed in the mass of the atom. You've heard about driving a steamship across the ocean on one lump of coal, if you could only harness the atomic energy in it, and so forth." Victor Henry nodded. "Well, Pug, this was a hint that it might really be done with uranium. It was an atom-splitting process that put out far more energy than they'd used to cause it. These Germans discovered that by weighing the masses involved. There'd been an appreciable loss of mass. They published their finding, and the whole scientific community's been in an uproar ever since. "Okay, the next step is, there's this rare hot isotope of uranium, u-235. This substance may Turn out to have gigantic explosive powers, through a chain reaction that gives you a huge release of energy from mass. A handful maybe can blow up a city, that sort of talk. The nuclear boys say it may be practicable right now, if industry will just come up with enough Pure U-235-" Pug listened to all this with his mouth compressed, his body tensed forward. "Uh-huh, uh-huh," he kept saying when Kirby puffed on his Pipe. He pointed a stiff finger at the engineer. "Well, I follow all that. This is vital military intelligence." Kirby shook his head. "Hardly. It's public knowledge. It may be a complete false alarm. These chemical engineers don't guarantee anything. And what they want will take one hell of a big industrial effort to deliver. Maybe the stuff will explode, maybe it won't. Maybe as soon as you have enough of it, it'll all fly apart. Nobody knows. Five minutes of scratch pad work shows that you're talking about an expenditure of many many millions of dollars. It could run up to a billion and then you could end up with a crock of horseshit. Congress is on an economy rampage. They've been refusing Roosevelt the money for a couple of hundred new airplanes." "I'll ask you a couple of more questions. If I'm off base, tell me." "Shoot.""Where do you come into it?" Kirby rubbed his pipe against his chin. "Okay, how do you separate out isotopes of a very rare metal in industrial quantities? One notion is to shoot it in the form of an ionized gas through a magnetic field. The lighter ions get deflected a tiny bit more, so you stream 'em out and catch them. The whole game depends on the magnetic field being kept stable, because any wavering jumbles up the ion stream. Precise control of voltages is my business." "Uh-huh. Now. One last point. If an occasion arises, should I volunteer my valued opinion to the President that he should get off his ass about uranium?" Kirby uttered a short baritone laugh. "The real question here is the Germans. How far along are they? This cuteness of theirs about pure graphite disturbs me. Graphite comes into the picture at a late stage. If Hitler gets uranium bombs first, Pug, and if they happen to work, that could prove disagreeable." A doorbell rang. 'I guess that's your daughter," Kirby said. "Let's go down to dinner." Madeline arrived in a black tailored suit with a flaring jacket and a tight sheath skirt, dark hair swept up on her head. It was hard to think of her as only twenty. Possibly she was putting on the young career woman a bit, but she did have to leave the table in the Empire Room twice, when the headwaiter came and said with a bow that CBS was on the telephone. Victor Henry liked her confident, demure manner and her taciturnity. With alert eyes darting from face to face, she listened to the talk about Germany and about the wedding plans, and said almost nothing. In the studio building, at the reception desk, a stiff, uniformed youngster awaited them. "Miss Henry's party? This way, please." He took them to a barren low-ceilinged green room where Hugh Cleveland and his staff sat around a table. Briskly cordial, Cleveland invited them to stay in the room till the show started. He was looking at cards, memorizing spontaneous jokes he would make later, and discussing them with his gagman. After a while he snapped a rubber band around the cards and slipped them in his pocket. "Well, five minutes to go," he said, turning to the visitors. "I hear this fellow Churchill gave a pretty good speech. Did you catch it?" "Every word," Rhoda said. "It was shattering- That speech will go down in history." "Quite a speech," Pug said. Madeline said, "Darn, and I was so busy I missed it." The show's producer, who looked forty-five and dressed like a college boy, put a manicured hand to the back of his head. "It was fair. It needed cutting and punching up. Too much tutti-frutti. There was one good line about blood and sweat.""There was? How would that go with the butcher who plays the zither?" Cleveland said to the joke writer at his elbow, a melancholy young Jew who needed a haircut. "Could we throw in something about blood and sweat?" The joke writer sadly shook his head. "Bad taste." "Don't be silly, Herbie. Try to think of something. Captain Henry, how's the war going? Will the Gamelin Plan stop the Krauts?" "I don't know what the Gamelin Plan is." Madeline put her guests in privileged seats on the stage of the studio, near the table where Cleveland interviewed the amateurs before a huge cardboard display extolling Morning Smile pink laxative salts. She posted herself in the glassed control booth. A large audience, which to Victor Henry seemed composed entirely of imbeciles, applauded the stumbling amateurs and roared at Cleveland's jokes. Cleveland ran the program with smooth foxy charm; Pug realized now that Madeline had latched herself to a corner. But the show disgusted him. One amateur identified himself as a line repairman. Cleveland remarked, "Well, haw haw, guess they could use you in France right about now." "France, Mr. Cleveland?" "Sure. On that Maginot Line." He winked at the audience; they guffawed and clapped. "Does this amuse you?" Pug said across Rhoda, in a low tone, to Palmer Kirby. "I never listen to the radio," said the engineer. "It's interesting. Like a visit to a madhouse." "That Cleveland's cute, though," Rhoda said. Madeline came to them after the show, as the audience swarmed on stage around Hugh Cleveland seeking his autograph. "Damn, two of our best bits got cut off the air by news bulletins. They're so high-handed, those news people!" "What's happening?" Victor Henry asked. "Oh, it's the war, naturally. just more of the same. The Germans have overrun some new town, and the French are collapsing, and so on. Nothing very unexpected. Hugh will have a fit when he hears they cut the butcher with the zither." "Miss Henry?" A uniformed page approached her. "Yes?" "Urgent long-distance call, miss, in Mr. Cleveland's office, for Miss Lacouture. From Puerto Rico." On the flying bridge of the fishing boat Blue Bird, rocking gently along at four knots in theGulf Stream, Byron and Natalie lay in each other's arms in the sun. Below, the jowly sunburned skipper yawned at the wheel over a can of beer, and the ship-to-shore telephone dimly crackled and gobbled. From long poles fixed in sockets at the empty fighting chairs, lines trailed in the water. Sunburned, all but naked in swimming suits, the lovers had forgotten the fish, the lines, and the skipper. They had forgotten death and they had forgotten war. They lay at the center of a circle of dark blue calm water and light blue clear sky. It seemed the sun shone on them alone. The deck echoed with loud rapping from below, four quick knocks like a Morse code V. "Hey, Mr. Henry! You awake?" "Sure, what is it?" Byron called hoarsely, raising himself on an elbow. "They're calling us from the beach. Your father wants you to come on in." "My father? Wrong boat. He's in Washington." "Wait one-Hello, hello, Blue Bird calling Bill Thomas-" They heard the squawking of the ship-tshore again. "Hey, Mr. Henry. Your fatheris he a naval officer, a captain?" "That's right." "Well, the office has your girl's mother on the telephone. Your father's at her house and the message is to get back there pronto." Natalie sat up, her eyes wide and startled. Byron called, "Okay, let's head back." "What on earth?" Natalie exclaimed. "I haven't the foggiest idea." The boat, scoring a green-white circle on the dark sea, picked up speed and started to pitch. The wind tumbled Natalie's long free black hair. She pulled a mirror from a straw basket. "My God, look at me. Look put the back of her hand to her lips. "Well, no use trying to patch up this at that mouth. I look gnawed. As though the rats had been at me!" She Gorgon's head till we come in. What ran your father want, Briny?" "y are you so alarmed? Probably he's here with my mother, and she wants a look at you. I can't blame her, the way I shot down here. If so, I'm going to tell them, Natalie." Her face turned anxious. She took his hand. "Angel, there's sonic Jewish law about not getting married too soon after a parent dies. Possibly for as long as a year, and-good heavens! Don't make such a face! I'm not going toobserve that. But I can't distress my mother at this point. I need some time to figure this out." "I don't want you violating your religion, Natalie, but lord, that's a blow." "Sweetie, I wasn't planning on marrying you until about an hour ago." She shook her head and ruefully laughed. "I feel weird. Almost disembodied. Too much sun, or maybe I'm just drunk on kisses. And now your father suddenly showing up! Isn't it all like a fever dream?" He put his arm around her shoulders, holding her close as the boat pitched and rocked more. "Not to me. It's damned real, and the realest thing of all is that we're getting married. Reality just seems to be starting." "Yes, no doubt. I certainly don't look forward to writing to LeslieJehosephat, that scowl again! You put it on and off like a Halloween mask, it's unnerving-Briny, he came down to see me right after Papa died. He was remarkably helpful and kind. A new Slote, just a bit too late. He's been writing to his university friends to find me a teaching job. I wish I knew what your father wanted! Don't tell him about us, Byron. Not till I've talked to my mother." 'You'd better talk to her righi away, then. My father has a way of getting at the facts." "Oh! Oh!" She put both hands to her hair. "I'm so happy, and so confused, and so upset! I'm dizzy. I feel sixteen, which I'm not, God knows! "Better for you if I were." When the Blue Bird drew closer in, Byron got the binoculars and scanned the ragged row of skyscraper hotels along the beach. "I thought so. There he is, waiting on the pier." Natalie, lounging in one of the chairs, sat bolt upright. "Oh, no. You're sure?" "Right there, pacing back and forth. I know that walk." She seized her basket and darted into the cabin, saying to the skipper, "Slow down, please." might, miss." The bewhiskered man, with a grin, pulled back on the throttle. She closed the little door to the forward cabin. Soon she emerged in a cotton skirt and white blouse, her black hair brushed gleaming and loose to her shoulders. "I'm seasick," she said to Byron, wanly smiling. "Try putting on eyebrows and a mouth sometime in a rocking boat, in a hot little cabin. Whew! Am I green? I feel green." "You look wonderful." The boat was wallowing half a mile from the pier. Natalie could see the man in blue walking up and down. "Full steam ahead," she said shakily. "Damn the torpedoes." Victor Henry, leaning down from the tar-smelling pier, held out a hand as the boat stopped. "Hello, Natalie. This is a helluva thing to do to you. Watch it, don't step on that nail."Byron leaped ashore. "What's up, Dad? Is everybody all right?" "Have you two had lunch?" Pug said. They looked at each other, and Natalie nervously laughed. "I did pack sandwiches. There in this basket. We, well, I cion't know, we forgot. An amused look came and went in Victor Henry's eyes, though his face remained stern. "Uhhuh. Well, the smells from that joint there"-he pointed with his thumb at a dilapidated clam bar on the pier-"have been driving me nuts, but I thought I'd wait for you. I haven't eaten yet tcday." 'Please come to my house. I'd love to fix you something." "Your mother was kind enough to give me orange juice and coffee. D'you mind if we go in here? These waterfront places can be pretty good." They sat in a tiny plywood booth painted bright red. Byron and his father ordered clam chowder. 'I've never learned to like that stuff," Natalie said to the waiter. 'Can I have a bacon and tomato sandwich?" "Sure, miss." Victor Henry looked oddly at her. "What's the matter?" she said. "You're not fussy about what you eat." She looked puzzled. "Oh. You mean the bacon? Not in the least, I'm afraid. Many Jews aren't." "How about your mother?" "Well, she has some vague and inconsistent scruples. I can never quite follow them." "We had quite a chat. She's a clever woman, and holding up remarkably, after her loss. Well!" Pug put cigarettes and lighter on the table. "It looks like France is really folding, doesn't it? Have you heard the radio this morning? In Paris they're burning papers. The BEF is high-tailing it for the Channel, but it may already he too late. The Germans may actually bag the entire British regular army." "Good God," Byron said. "If they do that the war's over! How could this happen in three days?" "Well, it has. While I was waiting for you I heard the President on my car radio, making an emergency address to a joint session of Congress. He's asked them for fifty thousand airplanes a year." "Fifty thousand a year?" exclaimed Natalie. "Fifty thousand? Why, that's just wild talk.""He said we'd have to build the factories to Turn 'em out, and then start making 'em. In the mood I saw in Washington yesterday, he's going to get the money, too. The panic is finally on, up there. They've come awake in a hu " rryByron said, "None of this can help England or France." "No. Not in this battle. What COngress is starting to think about is the prospect of us on our own, against Hitler and the Japanese. Now." Pug lit a cigarette, and began ticking off points against spread stiff fingers. "Warren's thirty-day leave has been cancelled. The wedding's been moved up. Warren and Janice are getting married tomorrow. They'll have a oneday honeymoon, and then he goes straight out to the Pacific Fleet. So. Number one: You've got to get to Pensacola by tomorrow at ten." With a hesitant look at Natalie, who appeared dumbfounded, Byron said, "All right, I'll be there." "Okay. Number two: If you want to get into that May 27 class at sub school, you've got to report to New London and take the physical by Saturday." "Can't I take a physical at Pensacola?" The father pursed his lips. "I never thought of that. Maybe I can get Red Tully to stretch a point. He's already doing that, holding this place open for you. The applications are piling up now for that school." "May 27?" Natalie said to Byron. "that's eleven days from now! Are You going to submarine school in eleven days?" "I don't know. it's a possibility." She turned to his father. "How long is the school?" "It's three months." 'What will become of him afterward?" My guess is he'll go straight out to the fleet, like Warren. The n",? lubs are just starting to come on the line." "Three months! And then you'll be gone!" Natalie exclaimed, "Well, we'll talk about all that," Byron said. "Will you come with me to the wedding tomorrow?" "Me? I don't know. I wasn't invited.""Janice asked me to bring you." "She did? When? You never told me that." Byron turned to his father, "Look, when does the submarine course after this one begin?" 'I don't know. But the sooner you start, the better. It takes you thirteen more months at sea to get your dolphins. There's nothing tougher than qualifying in submarines, Briny. A flier has an easier job." Byron took one of his father's cigarettes, lit it, inhaled deeply, and said as he exhaled a gray cloud, 'Natalie and I are getting married." With an appraising glance at Natalie, who was biting her lower lip, Victor Henry said, "I see. Well, that might or might not affect your admittance to the school. I hadn't checked that point, not knowing of this development. In general, unmarried candidates get the preference in such situations. Still, maybe the thing to do-' Natalie broke in, "Captain Henry, I realize it creates many difficulties. We only decided this morning. I myself don't know when or how. It's a fearful tangle." Looking at her from under his eyebrows as he ate, Pug nodded. "There are no difficulties that can't be overcome," said Byron. "J-isten, darling," Natalie said, "the last thing I'll ever do is stop you from going to submarine school. My God, I was in Warsaw!" Byron smoked, his face blank, his eyes narrowed at his father. Victor Henry looked at his wristwatch and gathered up his cigarettes and lighter. "Well, that's that. Great chowder. Hits the spot. Say, there's a plane to Pensacola that I can still make this afternoon." "Why didn't you just telephone all this?" Byron said. "It would have been simple enough. Why did you come here?" Victor Henry waved the check and a ten-dollar bill at the waiter. "You took off like a rocket, Byron. I didn't know your plans or your state of mind. I wasn't even sure you'd agree to come to the wedding." "Why, I wouldn't have heard of his staying away," Natalie said. "Well, I didn't know that either. I thought I ought to be available to talk to both of you, and maybe answer questions, and use a little persuasion if necessary." He added to Natalie, "Janice and Warren do expect you. That I can tell you." She put a hand to her forehead. "I just don't know if I can come." "We'll be there," Byron said flatly. "Or at least I will. Does that take care of everything?"Pug hesitated. "What about sub school? I told Red I'd call him today." "If Captain Tully has to know today, then I'm out. All right?" Natalie struck the table with her fist. "Damn it, Byron. Don't make decisions like that." "I don't know any other way to make decisions." "You can talk to me. I'm involved." Victor Henry cleared his throat. "Well, I've spoken my piece and I'll shove off. We can pick this topic up tomorrow." "Oh?" Byron's tone was acid. 'Then you don't really have to call Captain Tully today, after all." Victor Henry's face darkened. He leaned back in the hard seat. "See here, Byron. Hitler and the Germans are creating your problem. I'm not. I'm calling it to your attention." "Well, all this bad news from Europe may be highly exaggerated, and in any case, no American submarine will ever fail to sail because I'm not in it." "Oh, be quiet, Briny," Natalie said in a choked voice. "Let your father catch his plane." "Just keep remembering I didn't start this war, Byron," Victor Henry said, in almost the tone he had used on the waiter in Wannsee, picking his white cap off a peg while looking his son in the face. "I think you'd make a good submariner. They're all a bunch of goofy individualists. On the other hand, I can't hate you for wanting to marry this brilliant and beautiful young lady. And now I'm getting the hell out of here." Victor Henry stood. "See you in church. Get there early, you'll be best man. Wear your dark suit.-Good-bye, Natalie. Sorry I broke up your day on the boat. Try to come to Pensacola." "Yes, sir." A sad little smile lit her worried face. Thank you." When he went out, she turned to Byron. "I have always loathed the smell of cooking fish. Let's get out of here. I was half sick during all that. God knows how I've kept from shooting my cookies." Natalie strode seaward along the wharf, taking deep gulps of air, her skirt fluttering on her swinging hips, the thin blouse wind-flattened on her breasts, her black hair flying. Byron hurried after her. She stopped short at the end of the wharf, where two ragged Negro boys satfishing, and turned on him, her arms folded. 'y the devil did you treat your father like that?" "Like what? I know why he came here, that's all," Byron returned with equal sharpness. "He came to separate us." His voice rang and twanged much like Victor Henry's. 'Oh, take me home. Straight home. He was utterly right, you know. You're blaming him for the way the war is going. That's the essence of immaturity. I was embarrassed for you. I hated that feeling." They walked back up the pier to her father's new blue Buick sedan, glittering and baking in the sun, giving off heat like a stove. "Open an the doors, please. Let some air blow through, or we'll die in there!" Byron said as he went from door to door, "I have never wanted anything before, not of life, not of him, not of anybody. Now I do." "Even if it's true, you still have to look at reality, not throw tantrums.)' "He did quite a job on you," said Byron. "He usually gets anything done that he intends to." They climbed into the car. "That's how much you know," she said harshly, slamming her door as he whirred the motor. 'I'm coming to Pensacola with you. All right? I love you. Now shut up and drive me home." IL With a groan, to the clatter of an old tin alarm clock, Lieutenant Warren Warren Henry woke at seven on his wedding day. Until four he had been in the sweet arms of his bride-to-be in a bedroom of the Calder Arms Hotel, some twenty miles from Pensacola. He stumbled to the shower and turned on the cold water in a gush. As the needling shock brought him to, he wearily wondered whether spending such a night before his wedding morning hadn't been somewhat gross, Poor Janice had said she would have to start dressing and packing as soon as she got home. Yes, certainly gross, but ye gods! Warren laughed aloud, hemid up his face to the cold water, and started to sing. It was rough, after all-a rushed wedding, a one-night honeymoon, and then a separation of thousands of miles! Too much to ask of human nature. Anyway, it wasn't the first time. Still-Warren was drying himself with a big rough towel, and cheering up by the 'minute-there was such a thing as propriety. Such doings on the wedding eve were ill-timed. But it was rotten luck to be torn away from her like this. It was just one of those things, and Hitler's invasion of France was the real cause, not any looseness in himself or Janice.
Truth to tell, the prospect of parting from Janice was not bothering Warren much. She would be coming along to Pearl Harbor in due course. The sudden orders to the Pacific had put him in an excited glow. Cramming in a premature night with Janice had been an impulse of this new bursting love of life he felt. He was rushing to fly a fighter plane from the U-S-S. EnterPrise, because war threatened. It was a star-spangled destiny, a scary ride to the moon. For all his mental motions of regret at leaving Janice, and remorse at having enjoyed her a little too soon and a little too much, Warren's spirit was soaring. He called the mess steward, ordered double ham and eggs and a jug of coffee, and gaily set about dressing for his nuptials. Byron, standing in the hall outside his brother's room, smiled at a rlude cartoon tacked to the door: Father Neptune, a lump throbbing on his pate, wrathuly rising from the sea ahead of an aircraft carrier, brandishing his trident at an airplane with dripping wheels, out of which the pilot leaned, saluting and shouting, "So sorry!" "Come in!" Warren called to his knock. "'Wet Wheels' Henry, I presume?" Byron quoted the cartoon caption. "Briny! Hey! My Christ, how long has it been? Well, you look great! God, I'm glad you made it for the wedding." Warren ordered more breakfast for his brother. "Listen, you've got to tell me all about that wild trip of yours. I'm supposed to be the warrior, but Jesus, you're the one who's had the adventures. Why, you've been bombed and strafed by the Nazis! My buddies will sure want to talk to you." "Nothing heroic about getting in the way of a war, Warren." "Let's hear about it. Sit down, we have a lot to catch up on." They talked over the food, over coffee, over cigars, and as Warren packed they kept talking, awkwardly at first, then loosening up. Each was taking the other's measure. Warren was older, heavier in the face, more confident, more than ever on top of the world and ahead of his brother: so Byron felt. Those new gold wings on his white dress uniform seemed to Byron to spread a foot. About flying Warren was relaxed, humorous, and hard. He had mastered the machines and the lingo, and the jokes about his mishaps didn't obscure the leap upward. He still spoke the words naval aviator" with pride and awe. To Byron, his own close calls under fire had been stumblebum episodes, in no way comparable to Warren's disciplined rise to fighter pilot. For his part, Warren had last seen Byron setting off to Europe, a hangdog slouching youngster with a bad school record and not a few pimples, already cooling off about a career in fine arts.
Byron's skin now stretched brown and clear over a sharpened jaw; his eyes were deeper; he sat up straighter. Warren was used to the short haircuts and natural shoulder lines of the Navy. Byron's padded dark Italian suit and mop of reddish hair gave him a dashing appearance that went with his saga of roaming in Poland under German bombs with a beautiful jewess. Warren had never before envied his younger brother anything. He envied the red stitch-marked scar on his temple-his own scar was a mishap, not a war wound-and he even somewhat envied him the jewess, sight unseen. "What about Natalie, Byron? Did she come?" "Sure. I parked her at Janice's house. That was decent of Janice, telephoning her last night. Did Dad put her up to it?" "He just said the girl wasn't sure she was expected. Say, that thing's serious, is it?" Warren paused, suitcase hanger in one hand and a uniform jacket in the other, and looked hard at his brother. 'We're getting married." "You are? Good for you." "Do you mean that?" "Sure. She sounds like a Marvelous girl." "She is. I know the religious problem exists-21 Warren grinned and ducked his head to one side. "Ah, Byron, now-a-days-does it really? if you wanted the ministry-or politics, say-you'd have to give it more thought. Christ, with the war on and the whole world coming apart, I say grab her -I look forward to meeting that girl. Isn't she a PhD. or something?" "She was going for an M.A. at the Sorbonne." "Brother! I'd be more scared of her than of a carrier landing at night in a line squall." Byron's grin showed possessive pride. "I was around her six months, and never opened my mouth, hardly. Then she up and said she loved me. I'm still trying to believe it." 'Why not? You've gotten damned handsome, my lad. You've lost that string-bean look. You marrying up now, or after sub school?" 'I"o the devil says I'm going to sub school? Don't start that. I get enough from Dad." Warren deft]Y moved clothes from bureau to a foot locker. "But He's right, Byron. You don't want to wait till you get called up. If you do they'll shove you around, rush you through, and you may not even draw the duty you want. You can pick your spot now and get decenttraining. Say, have YOu given naval aviation any thought? Why do You want to go crawling around at four knots, three hundred feet underwater, when you can fly? I get claustrophobia just thinking about subs. You might make a great flier. One thing you are is relaxed." "I got interested in subs." Byron described Prien's talk in Berlin on the sinking of the Royal Oak. 'That was a brave exploit," said Warren. "A real score. Even Churchill admitted that. Very romantic. I guess that's what attracts you. But this s an air war, Briny. Those Germans haven't got that much of an edge on the ground. The papers keep talking panzers, panzers, but the French have more and better tanks than the Germans. They're not using them. They've been panicked by those Stukas, which just use our own divebombing tactics." "That's what got me, a Stuka," Byron said. "It didn't look that scary. Fixed wheels, single engine, medium size, kind of slow and awkward." Tossing ByrOn a large gray book, Warren said with a grin, "Take a look through The Flight jacket. I'm there in Squadron Five, tying on my solo flags. I've got to pay some bills, then we're off to church." Byron was still looking through the yearbook when his brother returned. "Holy cow, Warren, number one in ground school! How'd you do that and court Janice, too?" "It took a toll." Warren made an exhausted face, and they both laughed. 'Bookwork is never too tough when you organize it." Byron held up the yearbook, pointing to a black-bordered page. "These fellows all got it?" Warren's face sobered. "Yep. Frank Monahan was my instructor, and a great flier." He sighed and looked around the barren room, hands on hips. "Well, I'm not sorry to leave this room. Eleven months I've sweated in here." Pensacola might look small and sleepy, Warren said as they drove into town, but it had perfect climate, great water sports, fine fishing, good golf and riding clubs, and up-and-coming industries. This was the real Florida, not that Brooklyn with palm trees called Miami. These rural western counties were the place to get a political start. Congressman Ucouture had had no competition. He had recently decided to run for the Senate in the fall, and his chances were considered excellent. Warren said he and Janice might well come back here one day. 'When you retire?" Byron said. "That's looking far ahead."'Possibly before then." With a side glance, Warren took in Byron's astonishment. 'Listen, Briny, the day I soloed, President Roosevelt fired the Commander-in-Chief of the United States Fleet. Some dispute over policy for the Asiatic Fleet. Made him ambassador to Turkestan, or something, but actually just kicked him out. CinCus himself! In the Navy you're just a hired man, my lad, right on up that big climb through the bureaus and the shore stations and the sea billets. Right to the top. Don't ever tell Dad I talked like this. Janice is an only child and the Lacouture firm does twenty million a year. Of course, as long as I can fly, that's all I want to do." Inside the pink stone church topped by a square bell tower, two men in smocks were finishing up a huge flower display, and an unseen organist was rippling a Bach prelude. "Nobody can say I kept her waiting at the church," Warren said. "Almost an hour to go. Well, we can talk. It's cool in here." They sat halfway down the rows of empty purple-cushioned pews. The music, the odor of the flowers, the unmistakable childhood smell of church, hit Byron hard. He felt again what it was like to be a reverent boy, sitting or standing beside his father, joining in the hymns, or trying to follow the minister's talk about the misty and wonderful Lord Jesus. Marrying Natalie, there would be no such wedding as this. What kind could they have? A church was altogether out of the question. What was it like to be married by a rabbi? They had not discussed that part at all. The two brothers sat side by side in a long silence. Warren was again regretting, in a fashion, last night's indulgence, and making half-hearted pious resolves. The feelings of a bridegroom were coming over him. "Briny, say something. I'm getting nervous. Who knows when we'll have a chance to talk again?" Byron wistfully smiled, and it struck Warren once more how goodlooking his brother had become. "Long time since you and I went to church together." "Yes. Janice likes to go. I guess if these walls aren't falling in on me now, there's still hope for me. You know, Briny, all this may work out pretty well. If you do get into subs, you can put in for duty at Pearl. Maybe the four of us will end up there together for a couple of years. Wouldn't that be fine?" Natalie had often visited the homes of wealthy college friends, but she was not prepared for the Lacouture mansion, a rambling stone house on the bay, in a private section guarded by a mossy stucco wall, an ironfenced entrance, and an iron-faced gatekeeper. Gentility, seclusion, exelusion, were all around her. The rooms upon rooms of antique furniture, Persian rugs, grandfather clocks, large oil portraits, heavy worn draperies, ironwork, gilt-framed big nidrrors, old-fashioned photographs-the whole place unsettled her. Janice scampered to meet her in a fluttery pink housecoat, her blonde hair tumbling to her shoulders.
'Hi! So sweet of you to come on this short notice. Look at me. I didn't sleep all night. I'm so tired I can't see. I'll never be ready. Let's get You some breakfast." "Please, just put me in a corner somewhere till we go. I'm fine." Janice scanned her with weary but keen big hazel eyes. This happy girl, all pink and gold, made Natalie the more conscious of her own dark eyes, dark hair, wrinkled linen suit, and sad dowdy look. "No wonder Byron fell for you. My God, you're pretty. Come along." Janice took her to a breakfast alcove fating the water, where a maid brought her eggs and tea in old blue-and-white china on a silver tray. She ate and felt better, if no more at home. Outside, sailboats tacked here and there in the sunshine. Clocks struck nine in the house, one after the other, bonging and chiming. She could hear excited voices upstairs. She took the letter from her purse, where it had seemed a lump of lead all the way from Miami: five single-space pages so faintly typed that her eyes ached to read them. Obviously A.J. was not going to learn to change a typewriter ribbon till he died. It was a long tale of woe. He had a fractured ankle. With a French art critic, an old friend, he had gone on a tour of cathedrals the week after Byron had left. At Orvieto, mounting a ladder to look at an inaccessible fresco, he had slipped and fallen to the stone floor. To make matters worse, there was his mixed-up citizenship problem, which for the first time he was taking seriously. He had "derivative citizenship' from his father's naturalization around igoo; but because of his long residence out of the country, difficulties had arisen. There seemed to be conflicting records of his age at the time of his father's naturalization. The man in Rome, a decent enough person to talk to but an obsessive bureaucrat, had pressed searching questions and demanded more and more documents, and Aaron had left Rome in deep confusion. Aaron wrote: I may have made a mistake at that point, but I decided to drop the whole thing. This was in December of last year. It seemed to me that I was like the fly blundering into a spider web; the more I'd struggle, the tighter I'd become enmeshed. I didn't really want to go home just then. I assumed that if I let the thing cool off and asked for the passport renewal later-especially if some other consul general were appointed meantime -I'd get it. it's a question of a purple stamp and a two,-dollar fee. It seemed unthinkable to me then, and still does now, that I could actually be denied permission to return to my own country, where I am even listed in Who's Who! During the spasm of alarm over Norway, he had once visited the Florence consulate. There a "shallow but seemingly affable crew-cut type' had conceded that these were all silly technicalities, that Dr. Jastrow was certainly an eiwnent and desirable person, and that the consular service would somehow solve the difficulty. Much relieved, Jastrow had gone off on the cathedral tour, fractured his ankle, and thus missed an appointment to return to the consulate two weeks later.
The letter continued: What comes next I still cannot understand. It was either incredible stupidity or incredible malevolence. Crew-cut wrote a letter to me. The tone was polite enough. The gist was that as a stateless person in wartime I faced serious complications, but he thought he had found a way out. Congress has recently passed a law admitting certain special classes of refugees. If I were to apply under that law, I probably would have no further trouble, being a prominent Jew. That was his recommendation. Do you realize the ill depth of the stupidity and the damage in his letter? I received it only five days ago. I'm still boiling. To begin with he wants me to abandon all claim to being an American-which I am, whether my papers are in order or not-and to enlist myself in the mob of clamoring Jewish refugees from Europe seeking admittance as hardship cases! But that isn't the worst of it. He put all this on paper and he put it in the mail. I cannot believe that even such a dullard doesn't know that a letter from the consular office to me would be opened and read by the Italians. I'll never know why Crew-cut did it, but I'm forced to suspect a trace of anti-Semitism. That bacfflus is in the European air, and in in personalities it lodges and flourishes. The Italian authorities now know my problem. That alarmingly increases my vulnerability here. I've been sitting in the lovely sunshine of the terrace day after day, in a wheelchair, alone except for Italian servants, growing more and more perturbed. Finally I decided to write to you, and give the letter to my French friend to mail. Natalie, I have certainly been heedless about a serious matter. I can only plead that before the war these things seemed of no consequence. To you I'm sure they still don't. You were born on American soil. I was born on the banks of the Vistula. I am getting a late lesson in the vast difference that makes, and in the philosophy of personal identity. I really should straighten my situation out. Happily, there's no desperate urgency in it. Siena's tranquil, food's plentiful again, my ankle's healing, and the war is distant summer thunder. I am getting on with my work, but I had better clarify my right to go home. One can never know when or where the villain with the mustache will make his next move. Now will you tell all this to Leslie Slote? There he sits in Washington, at the heart of things. A hangman's noose of red tape can be cut by one word spoken in the right place. If he still has a shred of regard for me, let him look into this. I could write him directly but I know we'll get faster action if you go to him. I beg you to do this. Jastrow wrote a touching pAragraph about Natalie's father. He blamed their estrangement on himself. The scholarly temperament was a sejf-absorbed one. He hoped that he could treat her as a daughter, though a father's place could never really be filled. Then came the passage aboutByron which had prevented Natalie from showing him the letter. Have you Byron yet? I miss him. He has a curiously charming Presence-triste, humorous,reser(seen) ved, virile. I've never known a more winning boy, and I've known hundreds. A young fellow in his twentis shouldn't seem a boy, but he does. An aureole of romance plays about him. Byron might be all right if he had any talent, or a vestige of drive. Sometimes he shows doggedness: and he has a way of coming out with bright Hashes. He said Hegel's world-spirit was just God minus Christianity. That's commonplace enough, but he added it was much easier to believe in God's sacrificing him for mankind, than in His groping to understand Himself through the unfolding of mankind's stupidities. I rather liked that. Unhappily it was the one good thing amid many banalities such as, "This Nietzsche was just some kind of a nut," and 'Nobody would bother reading Fichte, if anybody could understand him." If I'd marked Byron for our seminar on the Slote Reading List, he'd have made a C minus. Often I came upon him reading your letters over and over in the lemon house. The poor lad has a terrible crush on you. Are you at all aware of that? I hope you won't inadvertently hurt him, and I rather wonder at your writing him so often. For all my troubles, I've been a reasonably good boy, and stand on manuscript page 847 Of ConstantineA clock chiming the half hour brought Natalie back with a start from the terrace in Siena-where in her mind's eye she could see A.J. sitting wrapped in his blue shawl, writing these words-to the Lacouture mansion on Pensacola Bay. 'Oh God," she muttered, "oh my God." Feet trampled on a staircase; many voices called, laughed, chattered. The bride came sailing down the long dining room, wheat-colored hair beautifully coiffed and laced with pearls, cheeks pink with pleasure. "Well, l did it. Here we go. Natalie jumped to her feet, cramming A.J."s pages into her purse. "Oh, you're enchanting! You're the loveliest sight!" Janice pirouetted clear around on a toe. "Bless you." The white satin, clinging to Hanks and breasts like creamy skin, rose demurely to cover her throat. She moved in a cloud of white lace. This blend of white chastity and crude fleshy allure was devastating; it shook Natalie with envy. The bride's eye had an ironic gleam. After her wild pre-wedding night, Janice Lacouture felt approldmately as virginal as Catherine of Russia. It didn't bother her. Rather, it appealed to her sense of humor. "Come," she said. "You'll ride with me." She took the Jewish girl's "You know, if I weren't marrying Warren Henry, I'd give you a run arm.
for that little Briny. He's an Adonis, and so sweet. Those Henry men!" Rhoda arrived at the hotel in a flurry, and frantically bathed and dressed, pulling cosmetics from one valise, underwear from another, her new Bergdorf Goodman frock from a third. Dr. Kirby had chartered a & small plane and had flown down with her and Madeline. 'He saved our Lives!" trilled Rhoda, dashing about in a sheer green slip. "The last plane we could get from New York didn't leave us any time to finish shopping. Your daughter and I would have come to this wedding in OLD RAGS. This way, we had a whole extra afternoon and, Pug, you never sAw such fast shopping. Isn't this a cunning number?" She held the green frock against her bosom. "Found it at the last second. Honestly, a small plane is such FUN. I slept most of the way, but when I was awake it was RREAT. You really know you're flying."Damn nice of him," Pug said. "Is Fred that rich?" "Well, of course, I wouldn't hear of it, but then he said it was all charged to his company. He's taking the plane on to Birmingham today. Anyway, I wasn't going to argue too much, dear. It was a deliverance. Fasten me up in back. Pug, did Briny really bring that Jewish girl here? Of all things. Why, I've never even laid eyes on her. She'll have to sit with us, and everybody'll think she's part of the family." "Looks like she will be, Rhoda." "I don't believe it. I just don't. y, how much older is she? Four years? That Briny! just enjoys giving us heart failure. Always has, the monster. Pug, what's taking you so long? My land, it's hot here." 'She's two years older, and terrifically attractive." "Well, YOu've got me curious, I'll say that. I pictured her as one of these tough Brooklyn chickens who shove past you in the New York department stores. Oh, stop fumbling, I'll finish the top ones. Mercy, I'm roasting! I'm PerSpiring IN rivers. This dress will be black through before we get to church." Natalie knew in thirty seconds that the handsome woman in green chiffon and rose-decorated white straw hat didn't like her. The polite handshake outside the church, the prim smile, told all. Pug presented Natalie to Madeline as "Byron's sidekick on the Polish jaunt," obviously trying with this clumsy jocula make up for his fe's e rity to wiEr ere "Oh, yes, wow! Some adventure!" Madeline Henry smiled and looked Natalie over. Her pearl-gray shantung suit was the smartest outfit in sight. "I want to hear all about that, some time. I still haven't seenBriny, YOu know, and it's been more than two years." "He shouldn't have rushed down to Miami the way he did," Natalie said, feeling her cheeks redden. "Why not?" said Madeline, with a slow Byron-like grin. It was strange to echoes of his traits in his family. Mrs. Henry held her head as Byron did, erect on a long neck. It made him seem more remote. He wasn't just himself any more, her young companion of Jastrow's library and of Poland, or even the son of a forbidding father, but part of a quite alien group. The church was full. From the moment she went in, Natalie felt uncomfortable. Cathedrals gave her no uneasiness. They were just sights to see, and Roman Catholicism, though she could write a good paper about it, was like Mohammedanism, a complex closed-off structure. A Protestant church was the place of the other religion, the thing she would be if she weren't a Jew. Coming into one, she trod hostile territory. Rhoda didn't make quite enough room for her in the pew, and Natalie had to push her a little, murmuring an excuse, to step clear of the aisle. All around, women wore bright or pastel colors. Officers and air cadets in white and gold abounded. And there Natalie stood at a May wedding in black linen, hastily selected out of a vague sense that she was still in mourning and didn't belong here. People peered at her and whispered. It wasn't her imagination; they did. How charming and fine the church was, with its dark carved wooden ceiling arching up from pink stone walls; and what stunning masses of flowers! How pleasant, comfortable, and normal to be born an Episcopalian or a Methodist, and how perfect to be married this way! Perhaps A.J. was right, and encouraging Byron had been irresponsible. Leslie Slote was an and bookish pagan like herself, and they had even talked of being married by a judge. The robed minister appeared, book in hand, and the ceremony began. As the bride paced down the aisle on the congressman's arm, moving like a big beautiful cat, Rhoda started to cry. Memories of Warren as a little boy, memories of her own wedding, of other weddings, of young men who had wanted to marry her, of herself-a mother before twenty of the baby who had grown into this handsome groom-flooded her mind; she bowed her head in the perky hat and brought out the handkerchief. For the moment she lost her awareness of the melancholy Jewish girl in black beside her, and even of Palmer Kirby towering above people three rows back. When Victor Henry softly took her hand, she clasped his and pressed it to her thigh. What fine sons they had, standing up there together! And Pug stood slightly hunched, almost at attention, his face sombre and rigid, wondering at the speed with which his life was going, and realizing again how little he allowed himself to think about Warren, because he had such inordinately high hopes for him. Standing up beside his brother, Byron felt many eyes measuring and comparing them. Warren's uniform, and the other uniforms in the church, troubled him. His Italian suit with itsexaggerated lines, beside Warren's naturally cut whites, seemed to Byron as soft and frivolous as a woman's dress. As Janice lifted her veil for the kiss, she and Warren exchanged a deep, knowing, intimately amused glance. "How are you doing?" he murmured. "Oh, still standing up. God knows how, you doing?" And with the minister beaming on them, they embraced, kissed, and laughed, there in the church in each other's arms, over the war-born joke that would last their whole lives and that nobody else would ever know. Cars piled up in front of the beach club, only a few hundred yards from the Lacouture house, and a jocund crowd poured into the canopied entrance for the wedding brunch. "I swear, I must be the only Jew in Pensacola," Natalie said, hanging back a little on Byron's arm. "When I walk through that door, I'm going to set off gongs." He burst out laughing. "It's not quite that bad." She looked pleased at making him laugh. "Maybe not. I do think your mother might be a wee bit happier if a wall had fallen on me in Warsaw." At that moment, Rhoda, half a dozen paces behind them, was responding to a comment by a Washington cousin that Byron's girl looked striking. "Yes, doesn't she? So interesting. She might almost be an Armenian or an Arab. Byron met her in Italy." Champagne glass in hand, Byron firmly took Natalie around the wedding party from room to room, introducing her. "Don't say I'm your fiancee," Natalie ordered him at the start. "Let them think what they please, but don't let's get into all that." She met Captain Henry's father, an engineer retired from the lumber trade, a short withered upright man with thick white hair, who had travelled in from California and who looked as though he had worked hard all his life; and his surprisingly fat brother, who ran a soft-drink business in Seattle; and other Henrys; and a knot of Rhoda's kin, Grovers of Washington. The clothes, the manners, the speech of the Washington relatives set them off not only from the California people, but even from Lacouture's Pensacola friends, who by comparison seemed a Babbitty lot. Janice and Warren came and stayed, joking, eating, drinking, and dancing. Nobody would have blamed them, in view of their limited time, for vanishing after a round of handshakes, but they evinced no impatience for the joys of their new state. Warren asked Natalie to dance, and as soon as they were out on the floor, he said, "I told Byron this morning that I'm for you. That was sight unseen. "Do you always take such blind risks? A flier should be more prudent." "I know about what you did in Warsaw. That's enough.""You're cheering me up. I feel awfully out of place here." "You shouldn't. Janice is as much for you as I am. Byron seems changed already," Warren said. "There's a lot to him, but nobody's ever pressed the right button. I've always hoped that some day a girl would, and I think you're the girl." Rhoda Henry swooped past, champagne glass in hand, and gathered them up to join a large family table by the window. Possibly because of the wine, she was acting more cordial to Natalie. At the table Lacouture was declaring, with rebsh for his own pat phrases, that the President'request for fifty thousand airplanes year was "politically hysterical, fiscally irresponsib(s) le,andindustriallyinconceivable."Eve(a) n the German air force didn't have ten thousand planes all told; and it didn't have a single bomber that could fly as far as Scotland, let alone across the Atlantic. A billion dollars! The interventionist press was whooping it up, naturally, but if the debate in Congress could go on for more than a week, the appropriation would be licked. "We have three thousand miles of good green water between us and Europe," he said, "and that's better protection for us than half a million airplanes. Roosevelt just wants new planes in a hurry to give to England and France. But he'll never come out and say that. Our fearless leader is slightly deficient in candor." 'You're wring to see the British and French go down, then," Pug Henry said. p "That's how the question s usually put," said Lacouture. 'Ask me if I'm willing to send three million American boys overseas against the Germans, so as to prop up the old status quo in Europe. Because that's what this is all about, and don't ever forget it." Palmer Kirby put in, "The British navy's propping up our own status quo free of charge, Congressman. If the Nazis get hold of it, that'll extend Hitler's reach to Pensacola Bay." Lacouture said jovially, "Yes, I can just see the Rodney and the Nelson right out there, flying the swastika and shelling our poor old beach club." this raised a laugh among the assorted in-laws around the table, and Rhoda said, "What a charming thought." Victor Henry said, 'This isn't where they'll come." 'They're not coming at all," Lacouture said. "That's New York Times stuff. If the British get in a jam, they'll throw out Churchill and make a deal with Germany. But naturally they'll hang on long they think there'a chance that the Roosevelt administration, the British Sy(as) mpathizer(as) s, and the New York (s) Jews will get us over there." "I'm from Denver," said Kirby, 'and I'm Irish." He and Victor Henry had glanced at Natalie when Lacouture mentioned the Jews. "Well, error is contagious," said the congressman with great good nature, "and it knows no boundaries.n This easy amused war talk over turkey, roast beef, and champagne, by a broadpicture window looking out at beach umbrellas, white sand, and heeling sailboats, had been irritating Natalie extremely. Lacouture's last sentence stung her to say in a loud voice, "I was in Warsaw during the siege." Lacouture calmly said, "That's right, so you were. You and Byron. Pretty bad, was it?" "The Germans bombed a defenseless city for three weeks. They knocked out all the hospitals but one, the mine I worked in. The wounded were piled up in our entrance hall like logs. In one hospital a lot of pregnant women burned up." The table became a hole of quiet in the boisterous party. The ngers. "That sort of thing has been going on in Europe for centuries, my dear. It's exactly what I want to spare the American people." 'Say, I heard a good one yesterday," spoke up a jolly-faced man in steel-rimmed glasses, laughing. "Abey and his family, see, are driving down to Xfiami, and about Tampa they run out of gasoline. Well, they drive into this filling station, and this attendant says, 'Juice?" And old Abey he says, 'Veil, vot if ve are? Dunt ve get no gess?"$ The jolly man laughed again, and so did the others. Natalie could see he meant no harm; he was trying to ease the sober Turn of the talk. Still she was very glad that Byron came up now and took her off to dance. "How long does this go on?" she said. "Can we go outside? I don't want to dance." 'Good. I have to talk to you." They sat on the low wall of the terrace in blazing sun, by stairs leading to the white sand, not far from the picture window, behind which Lacouture was still holding forth, shaking his white-thatched head and waving an arm. Byron leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers clasped together. "Darling, I think I'm getting organized here. I may as well fly up to New London today or tomorrow and take that physical, so that-what's the matter?" A spasm had crossed her face. "Nothing, go on. You're flying to New London." "Only if you agree. I'll do nothing that we both don't concur on, from now on and for ever. "All right." "Well, I take the physical. I a check the situation, and make very sure that a married applicant has a chance, and that if he's admitted he gets to spend time with his wife. That takes care of our first few months, maybe our first year. I'll eventually go to one submarine base or another, if I get through, and you'll come along, the way Janice is doing. We all might end up at Pearl Harbor together.
There's a university in Hawaii. You might even teach there." 'Goodness, you've been thinking with might and main, haven't you?" Victor Henry came through the doors to the terrace. Byron looked up, and said coolly and distantly, "Hi, looking for me?" 'Hi. I understand you're driving Madeline to the airport. Don't leave without me. I just talked to Washington and I've got to scoot back. Your mother's staying on." "When's the plane?" Natalie said. "One-forty." "Can you lend me some money?" she said to Byron. "I think I'll go to Washington on that plane." Pug said, "Oh? Glad to have your company," and went back into the club. 'You're going to Washington!" Byron said. "Why there, for crying out loud?" She put a cupped palm to Byron's face. "Something about Uncle Aaron's citizenship. While you're in New London, I can take care of it. My God, what's the matter? You look as though you've been shot." "You're mistaken. I'll give you the fare." "Byron, listen, I do have to go there, and it would be plain silly to fly down to Miami and then right back up to Washington. Can't you see that? It's for a day or two at most." "I said I'd give you the fare." Natalie sighed heavily. "Darling, listen, I'll show you Aaron's letter. He asked me to talk to Leslie Slote about his passport problem, it's beginning to worry him." She opened her purse. "What's the point?" Byron stile[y stood up. "I believe you." Warren insisted on coming to the airport, though Pug tried to protest that the bridegroom surely had better things to do with his scanty time. "How do I know when I'll see all of you again?" Warren kept saying. Rhoda and Janice got into the argument, and the upshot was that the Henrys plus the bride and Natalie all piled into Lacouture's Cadillac. Rhoda on the way out had snatched a bottle of champagne and some glasses. "This family has been GYPPED by this miserable, stupid war," she declared, handing the glasses around asByron started up the car. "The first time we're all together in how many years? And we can't even stay together for twelve hours! Well, I say, if it's going to be a short reunion it's damn well going to be a merry one. Somebody sing something!" So they sang "Bell Bottom Trousers" and "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" and "I've Got Sixpence" and "Auld LangSyne" as the Cadillac rolled toward the airport. Natalie, crowded between Rhoda and Madeline, tried to join in, but "Auld LangSyne" was the only song she knew. Rhoda pressed a glass on her, and filled it until wine foamed over the girl's fingers. "Oops, sorry, dear. Well, it's a mercy your suit's black," she said, mopping at Natalie's lap with her handkerchief. When the car drove through the airport entrance they were singing one Natalie had never even heard, a family favorite that Pug had brought from California: Tillwe meet, till we meet Tilltve meet at Jesus' feet Till we meet, till we meet God be with YOU till 'we meet again and Rhoda Henry was crying into her champagne-soaked handkerchief, stating that these were tears of happiness over Warren's wonderful marriage.