It was several minutes before Mr. Saito and his partner from Israel learned that the author of their book was attending the shooting; when told, they hurried to greet him as an old friend: ‘You bring us good luck,’ Mr. Saito said, and he halted his preparations to introduce Lukas to the crew. But the Israeli cut the greetings short: ‘We’ve got to get this shot within the next hour. Sun’ll be getting too bright by then,’ and Yvonne whispered to me: ‘Now I see why it costs Kinetic only a few thousand dollars to produce a book, a film company a few million to make the movie.’
When the actors driving the two buggies had their roles letter-perfect for the scene, the horses acted up, and even soiled the road with their droppings. This called for a long discussion as to whether the balls of manure should be removed or not, and if they were to be removed, who was to do it. The adviser said: ‘I wanted the manure there from the beginning, but this man said it would cost too much to set it up,’ and the Israeli barked: ‘Keep it.’
When men and horses were performing ideally, one of the children looked at the camera, and just as everything fitted gloriously like an intricate puzzle, a jet flew over on its way from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia and the take was ruined.
At the end of another forty-five minutes of useless shooting—the director had not yet called the magic words ‘Print that one’ because no shots were even remotely adequate—the Israeli grabbed a bullhorn and roared: ‘We have fifteen more minutes of usable light. For God’s sake, let’s get this one right.’ The director went to him in some anger and said: ‘If we don’t get it today, we get it tomorrow,’ and the Israeli, uncowed, snapped: ‘Why not? It’s only money.’
After a flawless take in the thirteenth minute, the director cried: ‘Print that one and let’s try for three more.’ So back went the horses at a mild trot, back came the two children to have their black uniforms—flat hat for the boy, lace cap for the girl—adjusted, and a second effort resulted in another ‘Print that one.’
They missed badly on the third emergency backup; horses whinnied, children jumped, drivers lost control, but on the fourth try, as the October sun was about to throw too much light on the scene, all elements blended into an almost perfect depiction of life among the Amish, their fields, their children and their old-fashioned mode of transportation. The director applauded and the Israeli cried to the farmers who had provided buggies and the teams: ‘Can I kiss those horses?’ The Amish men looked at him as if he were crazy.
On the drive to Dresden, Lukas reported: ‘All morning, eighty workers and six horses, they got one minute and twenty seconds’ worth of finished film,’ and Yvonne said: ‘But if they got the right eighty seconds, it was worth it.’
When I asked the Yoders what they thought of the shooting, Lukas said: ‘I was impressed. They were working so hard to get their pictures right. And I thought I had worked beyond the call of duty to get my words right. And Yvonne worked so hard to make everything mesh. I respect professionals’. And during the rest of our trip he had no more to say. But Emma did: ‘Remarkable accomplishment. When those two were here last year they mumbled broken English. Today their English is fluent, idiomatic. I always admired students who mastered their assignments.’
The Pennsylvania Dutch restaurant south of Kutztown known widely as the 7&7 featured typical German country cooking—lying on a big table were dishes of ham, beef, chicken, scrapple in season, sausage, but no fish or lamb or veal—and fourteen small crocks, seven labeled SWEET in bright red, and the other seven SOUR in bright green, in honor of the Dutch tradition. At this restaurant, the only one in the region that featured the actual crocks, sweets would be spiced apples, apple sauce, sweet pickles, three kinds of jelly or other sweet concoctions; the sours would be pickles, relishes, a kind of sour mustard and other condiments.
We were eight in my party that night: The Yoders, the Zollicoffers, Yvonne, my grandson, Timothy, and his date, Jenny Sorkin, and me. The restaurant, pleased to have such distinguished visitors, had given us a semidetached room containing a huge central table crowded with the fourteen colored crocks, but when my guests entered to take their places they found that nine chairs had been provided, and Yvonne, who had done much of the inviting, started to ask: ‘What’s the extra chair for?’ I refrained from explaining because I had arranged what I hoped would be a pleasant surprise for her, and here it came! Into the room strode Karl Streibert on his first return since his hasty departure to Temple, and I must say that I was both surprised and delighted by the dramatic change in his appearance. No longer a hesitant young man with slightly stooped shoulders, he now seemed more mature, with an erect posture and wearing a new pin-striped suit of the kind favored by executives and the department heads of prestigious universities. Ignoring the rest of us, he went directly to Yvonne, grasped her hands and said quietly: ‘I owe you an apology. That newspaper story about leaving you and Kinetic was brutal. Worse, it was in poor taste. I owe you so much.’
When Yvonne did not choose to respond I jumped in: ‘Then why did you make such hurtful statements?’ and he said: ‘It was a telephone interview. I couldn’t see the questioner, who was just a disembodied voice.… I was disoriented and said too much. I’m truly sorry,’ and he was so contrite that Yvonne said: ‘When I read it I told Mrs. Garland that you were being a nervous little boy striking out at your elders. I was being ungracious, too, so it’s only right that I accept your apologies,’ and peace was restored.
As Karl took his seat beside her I happened to see Yoder’s reaction to this extraordinary display of feeling; he raised his eyebrows as if to say: I don’t believe I’d have said that in public, and I thought: What I’d really like to hear is Karl’s explanation for that savage review of Stone Walls.
Before the food came, Yvonne made a gracious speech: ‘How strange it is that I have found in the Dresden area four of my major writers,’ and she named them, including Streibert, whom she mentioned last and said slyly: ‘I guess we’ll have to make that three, because recently I seem to have lost one.’ Before anyone could comment, she continued: ‘You may think it premature to include Jenny Sorkin in the category of major writers, for the public hasn’t had a chance to read her book yet, but four of us in this room have, and we know it’s a winner. Let’s drink our first toast to the novelist yet to be born, Jenny Sorkin.’
When Emma asked: ‘How can you say “yet to be born” if she’s already completed her novel?’ and Yvonne said: ‘In our league it’s not completed till it’s published,’ Emma commented: ‘Not a bad definition. Lukas and I know a professor at Mecklenberg who can write about the Pennsylvania Dutch a world better than Lukas. But he can never sit down and really do a book—all the way through—and so it’s never done,’ and I noticed that Yvonne looked away, strangely.
Now three waiters brought in heaping plates of meat and the meal began, with Mrs. Zollicoffer eating prodigiously and her husband not far behind. The feasting was interrupted by a waitress who informed Yvonne that a telephone call had come for her, and as she left us she winked at the Zollicoffers and flashed them the good-luck sign of clasped hands.
The call took so long that I almost forgot she was part of our company, and I was further diverted by Jenny Sorkin, who leaned over to whisper: ‘Have you seen that marvelous square face of Zollicoffer? Looks so much like a Mennonite barn you’d expect to see hex symbols painted across his forehead,’ and as I looked not at his face but hers I was gratified that my grandson had come upon this girl who was both witty and wise.
When Yvonne returned, beaming, she remained standing: ‘That was Mr. Troxel. He said the Hertzlers have accepted my bid for their family house—don’t cheer yet—but they insist that I assume responsibility for all repairs—don’t moan yet—because they’ll give me back fifteen hundred dollars to cover those costs.’
To steady her nerves, she reached for her glass and pressed its cool sides against her forehead, then said, raising it high: ‘To my longtime friends and my new-time friends, I am now one of you and
could not imagine a more appropriate celebration.’
There were cheers, and both Streibert and Timothy came forward to embrace her. Yoder nodded. Emma grasped her hand. I tapped a glass and said: ‘I propose a toast to our new taxpayer. Salut!’ and both Zollicoffer and Yoder corrected me: ‘Prosit!’ and the toasts were drunk.
Now the table was cleared. In the waiting period between courses, Streibert rose, cleared his throat modestly, and said: ‘I was allowed this privilege of returning only through the thoughtfulness of my longtime friend, Mrs. Garland, whom I thank profusely. For the past year I’d been scheduled to moderate a symposium at Mecklenberg tomorrow night on a subject close to my heart, “The Place of the Artist in Society.” Alas, I shall not be present, but you’re all invited to attend as my proxies. It should be a rousing evening.’
When he sat, we applauded lightly and then I asked: ‘How many of you noticed that the waiters, when they cleared the table, left one crock remaining? Marked SWEET, it symbolizes the most glorious sweet of all.’ A cowbell sounded, the door to the kitchen opened, and the three waiters entered, each holding like a votive offering before him, in two hands, a deep luscious pie—apple, pumpkin or mince. One by one they were placed before our women, who were then given serving knives.
Cheers greeted the pies, and Emma, serving as mistress of ceremonies, cried as she brandished her knife: ‘Take your pick!’ Pumpkin seemed to be the favorite, but the knowing took mince, for it is the greatest of the German pies. Some asked for tiny slivers of two different pies, and Mrs. Zollicoffer wanted all three, with no mention of slivers.
As pies began to be devoured, with a surprising number of guests asking for seconds, Emma rapped on her glass and posed a riddle: ‘Who can tell me what goes into the making of the mince pie? Dutchmen not allowed to answer.’ The guesses were remarkably accurate: ‘Apples, raisins, some kind of nut, candied citron, currants, spices, brown sugar.’ Emma said: ‘Very good, but you’ve left out the most important.’ Guests tasted the savory filling again but could not solve the riddle.
‘The name is mincemeat pie. Meat! Yes, shreds of beef and pork, that’s what makes it so rich and good,’ which caused Yvonne to say: ‘Bits of ham and bacon in my lemon meringue pie. That’ll take some getting used to.’
FRIDAY, 1 NOVEMBER: Since Yvonne had not intended staying in Dresden past Thursday night, her sudden decision to remain and buy the house gave me the opportunity for an important discussion I’d wanted to have for some time.
She could not have been prepared for our tea, because what faced her at Windsong was not an eighteenth-century affair, two gentlewomen idly indulging in gossip, but a brass-knuckle interrogation on vital matters: ‘I need guidance regarding my problems with my grandson, Timothy.’
‘I should think any grandmother would be delighted to have whatever problems that amazing young man produces.’
I leaned forward: ‘Tell me. Is he really gifted?’
Struck by my intensity, she said with considerable care: ‘Timothy is one in ten thousand. If he gets the cultivation he merits—from you—Streibert—from Kinetic as an institution, he can go to the stars.’
‘I should like to speak with the greatest frankness, Ms. Marmelle. Timothy is twenty-three. He’s already practically finished his second novel and it’s revolutionary, like the first. As you may have heard, my husband, his grandfather, inherited a sizable fortune and multiplied it many times with Bethlehem Steel stock when it was on its way to the top.
‘Larrimore and I had one daughter, a brilliant child, headstrong as a hurricane, ran off with a wastrel who married her for her money. Both were killed when Timothy was only a child. I reared him, made mistakes, made some wondrously right decisions. The point of all this is, I have no other descendants, and when I die, Timothy is going to be very wealthy—destructively so, I sometimes fear. Can he handle a fortune and a writing career too?’
Yvonne pondered how to answer that question, and rejected several sharp ideas with a shake of her head: ‘I grew up in Jewish genteel poverty, not many dresses but loads of books. I knew several other girls and boys my age who had everything. I didn’t think then that they had it much better than I did. And looking at them now, I see that they were damaged by their affluence, but there was another girl I did envy. Her parents were rich by our standards—lavished everything on her, but they also gave her a lot of love, security. She went to Barnard, swept the honors and now she’s the wife of a liberal university president in the Midwest and has three kids. I still envy her.’
‘You think Timothy is made of strong stuff?’
‘He’s willing to fight with me. And I’ve heard him give Professor Streibert what for.’
I asked abruptly: ‘And your opinion of young Miss Jenny Sorkin?’
‘Very gifted. A most solid young woman. I’d be proud to have her as my daughter.’
‘I’m delighted to hear you say that. Timothy has, as they used to say, “taken up with her,” and I see her as a possible salvation for him, an anchor to reality.’
‘In my book she’s Miss Reality, and Timothy’s lucky to have found her.’
Reassured, I shared a quick meal with her. Then she drove us the relatively short distance east to the college, where we found an excited crowd assembled for the symposium. The chairman, a professor of art from Ohio State, explained: ‘The format, and indeed the list of speakers, were organized a year ago by Professor Streibert, who, alas, is not able to be here tonight, but whose brilliant concept “the Imperative of the Now” motivates and drives our discussion.’
Hard facts were introduced by the professor from England’s Nottingham University, who gave a brilliant synopsis of how the intellectual life of Europe in the 1930s had converted excitable men like Pound and Eliot into virulent anti-Semites and seduced the weaker young men at Cambridge University into committing actual treason against the Allies, especially the United States, and in favor of Communist Russia. Having laid this groundwork, he then plunged into the middle of the controversy that still raged about Pound:
‘We are indebted to Professor Streibert for the phrase that scholars are now increasingly applying to this phenomenon, “the Imperative of the Now,” which gently pushes any young artist or intellectual toward the edge of that perilous chasm called treason, and not necessarily treason to one’s nation, but to one’s religion, one’s mode of earning his livelihood or, especially in Britain, one’s class.
‘Consider the great anomalies. In Mexico there are no statues to their greatest hero, Cortés, because both the Spaniards and the Indians considered him a traitor to their interests. In South Africa there are no great memorials to their noblest son, Jan Christiaan Smuts, because the Boers are convinced that in World War II he might have been one of the saviors of Britain but was certainly a traitor to Boer interests. And here in the United States, who is indubitably your greatest man of the century? Franklin D. Roosevelt, but you are not allowed to erect any memorials to him because the conservative people who dominate decisions in your nation will not allow it. They know that Roosevelt in striving to aid the common man was a traitor to his class.
‘Artists are like the great political leaders. They tend to reject their own class, they attend to the imperative of the now, the problem at hand, and the establishment abhors them, designating their behavior treason.’
It was a bravura performance, delivered in an energetic style, and the audience cheered.
Then my grandson approached the podium, and I was proud of his manly bearing, his mature self-confidence and the able manner in which he marshaled his ideas. He at once put forth in simple terms the gist of his argument:
‘I doubt if anyone here tonight would argue with the fact that Ezra Pound, who certainly attended to “the imperative of the now,” was three distinct persons: one of America’s greatest poets, the world’s foremost teacher of other poets, and a notorious wartime traitor to his own country. But I want to speak of him in his fourth category, the one of which this nation
cannot be proud, the tortured prisoner of St. Elizabeths.’
He then proceeded to give a harrowing account of the twelve long years Pound spent in the asylum for madmen because the government simply declared him insane, without a trial.
‘Thus our government itself converted this great poet into a symbol of all artists who rebel against authority, who ask impertinent questions, who by one trick or another infuriate the establishment. Pound reminds us of the dangerous tightrope on which the artist balances between regard for the past and vision of the future. The young man or woman who aspires to become an artist but who is not willing to take that risk will have no chance whatever of being remembered. Art is a confrontation in which one gambles his or her life.’
Timothy’s peroration drew such vigorous cheering that I had to approve of his performance, even though I rejected his conclusions. When the applause continued, as if he had uttered divine truth, I felt that someone with a more considered grasp of values must remind the audience of the greater truth. Rising from my seat, I signaled for the floating microphone, and when an usher brought it to me, the chairman said from the dais: ‘We’re so fortunate in having with us tonight a woman who supports the arts in a magnificent way. She gives us funds to run them. Mrs. Jane Garland, of our board of regents.’
Grasping the microphone with a firm hand, I said: ‘Tonight we’ve been hearing a great deal about the obligation of the artist and his freedom to behave as he likes. We have in our audience a man who has probably done more actual writing than any of us, who on a daily basis has wrestled with these abstract problems in the arena of actual performance. I refer to Lukas Yoder, well known not only in these parts but in America generally, and I wish he would come forward and share his views with us.’