“Well,” said Jochen, “I think that’s all, Roger. And, as I said, it hasn’t anything to do with that announcement of my daughter’s marriage to your son being ‘indefinitely postponed.’ I want you to believe that.”
“Of course, I do believe it,” said Brinkwell. He lit another monogrammed cigarette from the burning stub in his small fingers. He put down the stub and crushed it in a silver ash tray. All his movements were swift and decisive.
“But, you’re more important just now, Joe, than those kids. I don’t want you to leave me. Oh, yes, I’ve listened when you said you just couldn’t work for anyone at all, and that you want to get into something of your own. That’s natural. I understand. You’re an independent devil,” and Brinkwell smiled, with real friendliness. “Like all Germans,” he added.
Now, why the hell did old Joe look so sullen all at once, thought Brinkwell, genuinely puzzled. Then, being an intuitive man, he said: “That is, the best kind of German.”
“I’m an American,” said Jochen, flatly. His sullenness gave his massive face a heavy obstinacy. His little brown eyes looked at Brinkwell with something hostile in them.
“There’s no reason to be ashamed of one’s racial heritage,” said Brinkwell.
“I don’t give a damn about anybody’s racial heritage,” said Jochen, and believed he meant it. “All I care about is whether or not he’s an American.”
Brinkwell was silent. The wrinkles about his eyes deepened, giving them a sardonic expression. Jochen saw this, and his flabby cheeks colored unhealthily. He took out a cigar, in order not to have to look at Brinkwell, and lit it.
Then Brinkwell spoke lightly: “I’m all for being an American, too, unless it interferes with profits.” He laughed, as if at some mutual joke. Jochen did not laugh. He seemed to be having some trouble making his cigar draw.
“All right, all right,” said Brinkwell, in a lively voice. “But we’re wandering away from the subject. Joe, let’s be sensible. I know you’re not a poor man; you could go to Cincinnati or some other place, and invest in one of those machine tool shops. They’d be glad to have you; I know that. But this is your town; you’ve got a home here, even though you’ve told me you’re going to sell the land you bought and aren’t going to build that new house. You’ve got an investment in this town, Joe, a real one. Your friends, Isabel’s friends, your daughters’ friends. You think you won’t miss your town and your home and your friends, but you will. After thirty, it’s hard for a man to pull up roots and move somewhere else, into unknown territory. I know. I still think of myself as living in Pittsburgh, that’s why I go back there as often as I can.
“But, that’s the emotional side. There’s a more practical one. The machine tool shops in Ohio, though excellent, are still small concerns. Even if you invest in one of them, and are a partner, or an officer, it’ll be years before you’ll be making any real money. You’ve said you don’t care, and that Isabel doesn’t care, either. You think that now. Later, you’ll care like hell. You’re under forty, still, but you’re not what is meant by a really young man. It needs enthusiasm to begin all over again in a new place, among strangers.
“Now, I’m not going to pretend to think that you’ll fail. You won’t. You’ll just begin to remember the money you’ll money, yet! Believe me, I know it.” For some reason he have lost by leaving us. Joe, you haven’t begun to make glanced at the framed calendar on the wall: May 5, 1915. “I can almost guarantee that your salary would be double in less than two years—double what it is now. Do you have the right to throw up such a future for independence, when you know what that independence will eventually cost you, and what it’ll cost your family?”
Jochen did not answer him; he was staring at his cigar. Brinkwell shrugged, good-humoredly. “I haven’t mentioned the fact that I need you, Joe, need you like hell. You know what the men in Pittsburgh think about you. Why, sometimes I’ve been afraid they’d give you my job, if I didn’t watch out!” He laughed. “We. need you here. You’re worth anything to us.”
“Even without the Wittmann Machine Tool Company,” said Jochen.
“Even without the Wittmann Machine Tool Company,” repeated Brinkwell. “Our machine tools are every bit as good as your brother’s, or, at least, they serve their purpose, which is all that has mattered, and is going to matter. I’m not asking you to stay because of anything I might think you can do for us, with your brother’s company. But you know that.”
“Yes,” said Jochen, somberly. “I know it.” He moved uneasily in his chair. “I can’t stay, Roger. I can’t. I’ve got to be in something for myself. That’s all there is to it. I’m glad that you want me to stay. It—it’s given me even more confidence in myself.”
Brinkwell said, softly: “You don’t think that if you went into one of those concerns in Ohio, they wouldn’t be making tools for—shall we say—friends?” He began to laugh. “We’re neutral, Joe. We sell to anybody who has the money to pay, and who can cart off our goods. The machine tool companies will be just as neutral. Or did you think they wouldn’t be?”
Jochen said simply: “I don’t know. It’s just that I think we shouldn’t be supplying anybody with anything. The Amalgamated, for instance, isn’t selling to either England or Germany, but only to neutral countries.” Now he flushed again, and said violently: “And if England keeps on boarding our vessels, and confiscating our goods, and hoisting our flag over her damned ships—well, I think we should knock hell out of her! If Germany did that to us only once, we’d be right in, shooting! Sure, some of our seamen have been killed, when they’ve been working on British ships, but that was their own fault; they oughtn’t to have been on those ships in the first place. Oh, I know!” he cried. “It’s all figured out. And that’s another reason I’m leaving.” His eyes, inflamed now, could not conceal his hatred.
So, thought Brinkwell, you’re a Dutchman, after all. Scratch a German’s hide and you’ll find the pork underneath. But he smiled soothingly.
“Joe, you’re a sensible man, aren’t you? And you’ve said you were an American, and had no concern with anything that was German. All you have to do is to remember that.”
Jochen stood up. He pointed to a paper on Brinkwell’s desk. “There’s my resignation, Roger. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to do it.” He paused. “And Roger—I don’t want you to think, even for a minute, that anything I’ve found out here will ever be told by me, to anybody.”
Roger shrugged again. “Oh, that wouldn’t matter, Joe. Not in the least. You see, there’re so many in Washington who do know. They just haven’t let Mr. Wilson in on the secret.” He stood up, and moved actively to the calendar. He lifted the pages, scrutinized them, nodded as if satisfied. He came back to his desk, and looked up at Jochen.
“Joe, if you go now, everyone will think it has something to do with the delaying of the marriage of our children. You don’t want people to laugh at you. You want to leave on June first That isn’t fair to me. Why don’t you stay until September first? In the meantime, if you want to, you can be getting in touch with those Ohio concerns, while drawing your salary. It might be months before you find out just where you want to go. Months without any income. That isn’t intelligent, and you know it. And, if you remain here until September you’ll have had time to think it all over, and to have come to some considered, instead of impulsive, decision.”
“It isn’t impulsive,” said Jochen, stubbornly. But he was thinking. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll stay till September, if you really want me. I suppose it isn’t the right thing to leave as abruptly as I intended. Just consider that my resignation takes place on the first of September.”
“Good!” exclaimed Brinkwell. He stood up, smiling delightedly, and held out his hand.
Jochen looked at that small, neat hand. He looked at Brinkwell’s face, affable, friendly. He took the extended hand and shook it briefly.
All German ships of all German lines in New York had been empty of prospective passengers f
or many, many months. All German ships were either in the shelter of their home ports, in Germany, or idle in neutral ports. But British lines calmly rode the seas, majestic and placid.
The Cunard Line advertised sailings of its proudest liner, the Lusitania, on various dates in May, 1915. Directly under this advertisement in the New York newspapers appeared a warning from the Imperial German Embassy in Washington: “Travellers intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that, in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or of any of her allies, are liable to destruction in those waters and that travellers sailing do so at their own risk.”
On May 7, 1915, the Lusitania, unprotected by any British convoy, was sunk off the coast of Ireland by a submarine, and 1,198 men, women, and children lost their lives. There was also lost a considerable amount of “contraband,” which lay in the vast hold of the ship.
CHAPTER LVII
“Nothing,” said Ralph Grimsley to Charles Wittmann, “but God’s intervention can keep us out of the war now, Charlie.”
They sat in Mr. Grimsley’s gritty office; there were piles of news telegrams all over the big roll-top desk. Charles held some of them in his hands, and read them doggedly. Some of them were excerpts from editorials in many influential American newspapers: “The sinking of the Lusitania was murder!”
Charles threw down these telegrams. He picked up another. Theodore Roosevelt was quoted: “It is inconceivable that we should refrain from action. We owe it not only to humanity but to our own national self-respect.”
Other telegrams told of accounts of naturalized, and unnaturalized people, of German stock being attacked by “unknown gangs of youths and men” in many American cities. Mobs shouted for war against Germany in other towns, and in a number of villages. Hatred, rage, and fury against all that was German were reported in still other telegrams, from all points in the nation. Washington, it was said, was full of dazed men.
Mr. Grimsley shook his head drearily. He watched Charles as he read. How was it possible for a man to become so wizened, so gray of face, so sunken of eye, in only a few days? Especially a man like old Charlie? Well, now, if old Charlie didn’t know so much, and hadn’t understood so much, these past two years, he, too, might be shouting for war. He was horrified, it was true, as all decent Americans were, since the sinking of the Lusitania, and he was also bitterly angry. But still—he knew too much.
Charles threw down the telegrams. He looked at his friend in a long and brooding silence. Mr. Grimsley waited. Then Charles made an effort to speak, coughed weakly, and finally said in a stifled voice: “I haven’t read anything yet which explains why the Lusitania wasn’t convoyed by British destroyers, as the other liners have been convoyed right along. Where were the destroyers?”
Mr. Grimsley said, quietly: “Yes, where were they?”
They stared at each other with grim, sick eyes.
Charles said: “All the other liners—they were convoyed. But this one, carrying so many hundreds of Americans—the biggest lot of them all—wasn’t convoyed.” He coughed again. “Yes. Murder. Deliberate. And all the murderers aren’t being named.”
“No,” Mr. Grimsley admitted, “they aren’t.”
“The bastards, the bastards!” said Charles. The words sounded even more violent because his voice was so low, almost indistinct.
“All of them,” agreed the editor. “And too many of us, too, in Washington—everywhere. The torpedo that sank the Lusitania had many stamps of approval on it, and not only the one stamped in Germany.”
Charles sat, appalled, and looked at the floor, blinking his sleepless eyes. Jim—nineteen, now. Jim—in a war not of his making. Jim—dying—for what, whom? The torpedo that had struck down that giant ship had been directed against thousands of American lives in every city, every town, every village, every home. Thousands of young men in their schools, their fathers’ homes, their factories and their mills, had been marked to die—for what, for whom?
Nothing worth living for, nothing worth fighting for, nothing worth dying for, in all the world. Nowhere, in the world, a fixed point for a man’s faith. Nowhere, honor or justice or mercy. What could a man do, how could he go on living, knowing this, understanding, even if only a little, of what real motivations lay behind this war, what real shadows fell on a million walls, what real ghosts marched throughout the earth?
“It would be easier, not knowing,” said Charles. “It would be much better to be fooled. Then you could listen to the murderers and wave your flag, and feel noble and exalted, and go out to kill, thinking you were doing a good and holy thing. You could even give up your—your—son, ‘for his country.’ I wish to God,” he said, “that I had never found out!”
He rubbed his eyes with the blunt tips of his fingers. “There is one thing no government will let its people know—the truth. No, there’s nothing a man can hold to, or believe in.”
The editor said, looking at Charles with alarmed sympathy: “Yes. Yes. But your own minister said, on Sunday, that a man can’t ever put his trust in anything, in anyone, but God. Look, Charlie, I’m not a religious man,” he added, with embarrassment. “But you might think of what Mr. Haas said.”
Charles got up so abruptly that the pile of telegrams near his elbow were jolted, and slithered down to the floor. Then Charles walked out of the office without another word, out into the warm May sunshine he never saw or felt, out past faces he could not see. It was a work day, but he went home, and he went upstairs to his room and lay on the bed. Mrs. Meyers, hearing him, crept up to the door; it was slightly ajar. She saw Charles staring blindly at the ceiling, and she crept away again, crying.
She heard the telephone ringing, and hurried downstairs to answer it. It was Friederich, who asked for his brother in a worried voice. “Yes, Mr. Wittmann, he’s here. But you know he won’t talk to anyone. Mrs. Wittmann has called every day, but he won’t answer her. Yes, he’s lying down. I think he just wants to rest. I’ll tell him you called.”
The poor woman sat on the telephone chair, and bowed her head and shook it with grief for Charles. He was thinking of his boy. How many fathers were thinking of their sons just now?
The postman knocked at the screen door, and Mrs. Meyers went for the mail. There was only one letter of importance, and that was from Jim. Mrs. Meyers ran with it, upstairs again, to Charles’ room, tapped at the door, and called eagerly: “A letter for you, from Jim, Mr. Wittmann!”
Charles was up at once, holding out his hand, without a word. Mrs. Meyers gave him the letter, and asked anxiously: “You haven’t had any lunch, Mr. Wittmann. Let me bring you some coffee and a sandwich, or something.”
“No,” said Charles. He was already opening the letter. He shut the door in Mrs. Meyers’ face.
He had written a long letter to Jim five days ago, a letter incoherent here and there, and imploring and vehement. He had said: “I know all you young fellows will be shouting for war, or talking about it, and reading the papers, and studying the cartoons, and quoting Roosevelt, and the editorials, and everybody. But Jim, I want you to remember the things I’ve told you for the past two years. I want you to remember—”
The envelope fluttered to the floor. Charles carried Jim’s letter to the window. The shadow of moving green leaves fell upon it. Charles could hardly read that clear, small writing, for his eyes kept blurring, and there was a savage ache behind them. He bent his head over the single page.
“Dear Dad—I didn’t have to wait for a letter from you to know what you’ve been thinking and feeling, all these days. But I’d hoped that you wouldn’t feel so awful—you’ve so many things worrying you—I’ve understood, right along, and I’ve known what was in your mind when I was home, and so I didn’t want to talk to you about the war—I see I was wrong. I should have tal
ked it out, and then you wouldn’t have had me to sweat and stew about—you would have known what I’ve been thinking, too. We shouldn’t hide anything that bothers us from each other; we aren’t doing each other a favor at all. I’m especially doing you a wrong, and I ought to have remembered your blood pressure and what old Doc Metzger has told me about you. But I thought if I didn’t talk about the war you’d believe it doesn’t matter to me.—Dad, I can promise you this, and I mean it sincerely: I’ll never go to war. I remember what you’ve told me. I promise you, so help me God, that no one is ever going to put a rifle in my hand and make me kill another man—”
Mrs. Meyers was sitting dolefully in her kitchen when she heard Charles enter the dining-room. She hurried into the room, also, full of fear. But Charles, though still terribly haggard and pale, was smiling. “I think,” he said, “that I’ll have that coffee and that sandwich, after all, Mrs, Meyers. Will you hurry with it? I have to go back to the office.”
Charles went to the telephone and called Phyllis. When she heard his voice, her own caught in her throat, and she could only murmur: “Oh, Charles!!”
“I’m all right, Phyllis. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls. But, there was Jim; I was afraid. You know, all this war hysteria. I haven’t worked, or done anything. But I had a letter from Jim, just now. And he tells me I mustn’t worry, that they’ll never send him out to kill. Yes, my darling, I’ll come for dinner, tonight. I’m a wreck, but when I see you I’ll forget all about it.”
He carried his unread New York and Philadelphia newspapers to the table. They had quieted down considerably. They quoted a speech of the President’s:
“The example of America must be a special example—the example not merely of peace because it will not fight, but of peace because peace is the healing and elevating influence of the world and strife is not.—There is such a thing as a man being too proud to fight.”