Second Generation (37 page)

"Why not. Sure. I'm going to talk to all of you—here, San Pedro, Long Beach, Oakland, Sausalito, right up and down the coast. I SDoke to a few already. You call that a lousy little shipyard," he said, pointing out the window. "It's not. It's a damn fine shipyard, rotting away, like every other shipyard in America. Do you know how many ships we're operating in our merchant marine?"

"I could guess. Maybe a thousand."

"Just about that. Ten and a half million deadweight tons. Why, a tiny country like Holland floats more tonnage than that. And how many merchant ships do you think we built last year?"

"None?"

"You're not far from wrong. Tell me something, Lavett, what do you think of this war in Europe? Do you think it's a joke? That's what they're saying."

"No war's a joke. My daughter was in Germany five months ago. Not for long, but it was a nightmare while it lasted. No, I don't think it's a joke."

"We're going to be in that war."

"I hope not."

The admiral shook his head. "Nobody wants to believe it. Nobody wants to deal with it. I have to deal with it. We have one thousand, one hundred, and fifty merchant vessels, and that includes the junk—rusty tramps, the old hulls tied up in the Hudson River, anything that floats and can be called up to make a statistic. I hate to think of what the number would be if we considered the condition of the ships. Now what will happen if we try to send an expeditionary force overseas? We have no army, we have sort of a navy, thank God, but we have no merchant marine. Six months of submarine warfare could just about put us out of business."

"I suppose so," Dan agreed.

"It doesn't bother you?"

"I don't think about it. I operated a fleet of ships in the last war and I became a millionaire. I lost it all. I don't regret that kind of money."

"What in hell are you, Lavette, some kind of damn pacifist?"

Dan puffed his cigar and considered it. "I don't know. I never thought about it that way. I watched the shipping prices in the last war. Every dollar of cargo became thirty dollars. We got fat on the blood of the kids who died. If you're looking for a patriot, you came to the wrong stall, Admiral."

"I'm looking for a man with some guts."

"That doesn't impress me or flatter me," Dan said.

"What in hell gives with you, Lavette? They told me you were some kind of legend here on the Coast. You're one lousy legend, if I may say so." "Who told you that?"

"Roosevelt."

"I never met him."

"He got it from A1 Smith. I gather you met him."

"I met him. All right, Admiral, I gather you're not taken with me. That's all right. Just what do you want?"

"I want you to build ships, not toys. Merchant ships. Steel ships."

"With what?"

"With that shipyard you have out there. You could lay six keels and build something that matters instead of that silly yacht."

"Maybe I could. I don't know. I never tried to build a real ship. Everything I built has been wood. Suppose I did. Who'd buy them? Who'd finance me? Who'd operate them?"

"We'll guarantee the financing and the price and the operator."

"We?"

"My commission, the government. We'll get you the loans, and we'll guarantee the sale."

"You're kidding—God Almighty, you don't mean that?"

"Why don't you try me, Lavette?"

"How many ships do you want?"

"As many as you can build. Put on three shifts. Put that whole yard of yours to work. Enlarge it. I know your situation here. You bought one of the finest shipyards on the Coast for a song because the bank couldn't give it away. I don't give two damns what in hell you believe in. My own belief is that unless we build ships, this whole stinking world is going up in flames. I know about the last war. To hell with that! It's done."

"I told you," Dan said after a long moment, "I never built an iron ship." Then he sat and stared at the admiral, who stared back, his blue eyes cold and unwinking. "I'd need architects, engineers, designers, welders, and specifications."

"We'll help you find the architects and engineers. There's one thing, Lavette, you're short on bullshit. That impresses me—if nothing else about you does. So tell me straight out-—if we supply what I said we would, can you build the ships?"

"I can build them," Dan said. "When do I start?"

"Start now. Show me your yard, and we'll get down to facts."

Since she had returned from Europe, Barbara felt unmoored, displaced, as if her being had lost its substance. She had a repetitious dream in which she was old, unloved, lonely and childless in a strange land. One night she awakened from this dream and fell into a fit of half-hysterical sobbing that went on for hours. When at last she sat down to write her book, the dreams ceased.

On her way back from Europe to California, she stopped for a few days in New York. Frank Bradley had arranged a press conference, and in spite of her unwillingness and protests, he insisted that she go through with it. She had become a sort of celebrity, the American heiress who had been arrested and subjected to various indignities by the Gestapo. When she insisted that she had not been arrested by the Gestapo but by the Berlin police and only held in the police station for a few hours, Bradley begged her to allow the story to stand. "For all you know," he said, "the thugs who picked you up were Gestapo. In any case, the publishers are eating it up. I can get you an advance of ten thousand dollars on the book. I put together twenty stories, your best. All we need is the conclusion."

"No," Barbara told him. "I'm not going to publish those articles, Frank."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not the person who wrote them. Because they consist of silly, pointless gossip, and I'm ashamed of them."

"You're crazy. They're damn good writing, and nothing to apologize for. At this point in your career, getting a book published is very important. It's good for you, and it's good for the magazine. I know the money doesn't mean anything to you. That's the curse of being rich. But you've had experiences that should be shared."

"That's just it, Frank. If I write, I want to write about what I felt and what I saw. It's not in those silly stories."

The argument went on, but Barbara remained unmoved. However, since the press conference had been arranged, she agreed to go through with it. It took place at the Hotel Algonquin, in the sitting room of a suite Bradley had provided for her; and the first question, thrown at her by a reporter from the New York
Daily News,
demanded to know "whether it is true, Miss Lavette, that your lover was killed fighting for the communists in Spain?"

Barbara stared at the reporter without replying, and Frank Bradley, standing beside her, whispered, "Don't answer that, Barbara."

She couldn't answer it. A lump was forming in her throat, her heart, her mind. "What were your impressions of Germany?" "Were you expelled, Miss Lavette?" "Did you undergo torture?" "What can you tell us of the methods of the Gestapo—from personal experience?"

She pushed through them and left the room. The action was so unexpected that no one tried to stop her, and then she was out in the corridor with Bradley running after her.

"You can't do this, Barbara! For Christ's sake, you can't just walk out of a press conference like that!"

"I did it."

"Don't you have one lousy shred of consideration for me?"

She stopped suddenly and turned to face him. "Frank, I can't even answer the questions I ask myself, much less what others ask me. Do you know what Germany is? Germany is the final demented horror of what men have created. Do you know what death is, Frank? Do you know what agony is? Have you ever been closer to death than a funeral parlor?"

The reporters had flowed into the hallway, and they stood in a cluster, staring at her. Then the elevator door opened. Barbara bolted into the elevator, and the door closed behind her. A week later, back in Los Angeles at long last, Bradley wrote to her: "What a performance! Did you plan it? And a day later, Germany and Russia sign the pact. I am enclosing the clippings. How do you like that: 'The final demented horror of what men have created— Barbara Lavette.' On the front page of the New York
Times.
My dear Barbara, even when you leap blindly off the curb, you manage to step squarely into a bed of roses. I offer my most humble apologies for unwarrented anger, and in return I offer you any assignment you desire. Robinson has increased his offer to an advance of fifteen thousand and a guarantee of as much in advertising. Let him publish the book, I beg you."

Barbara tore the letter into shreds. She never communicated with Frank Bradley after that and returned his letters unopened. She had gone to San Francisco, spent a day

with her mother—Tom and John were in Washington—

and then to Los Angeles. On her second day in Dan's

house, awakening from a dream of horror, she sat in bed,

sobbing uncontrollably until dawn brushed the darkness

away.

May Ling came into her room. "Barbara?"

"I'm all right."

May Ling went over to her and took her in her arms. "Of course you are. Of course."

"Just a bad dream and a miserable night. I couldn't fall asleep again."

"I know such nights," May Ling said gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I can't."

"I understand. Barbara dear, I've never interfered or advised you. If I do so now, will you consider it?"

"Yes."

"Not just to be rid of me at this moment. Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise."

"Very well," said May Ling, almost primly. "Take a cold shower, get out your typewriter, and begin to put it all down on paper. Your own way."

"Oh, May Ling," Barbara said woefully, "I don't even know where to begin."

"It doesn't matter. Only begin, and things will fall into place."

That morning she began the book. The little house in Westwood was a haven of peace. She was fussed over, coddled, and adored in a way that she had never truly experienced before. So-toy, barred from other communication, expressed her affection in the only way she could—in an endless stream of exotic Chinese dishes. During the day Barbara wrote, rewrote, corrected, and then destroyed what she had written in hopeless exasperation. But, bit by bit, the past five years came into focus. In the evenings, she sat in the living room with her father and May Ling and So-toy, reading for the most part, sometimes listening to the radio or to records. She had no dates, nor any desire for them; she was totally fixated on the manuscript she was writing.

The weekends when Joe was home were the best part of it. He and Barbara became very close during that time. He was patient, kind, gentle; he never pried and never invaded her privacy, and perhaps because of that she talked to him as she had not talked to anyone else. They had found a bit of beach at Malibu that seemed to be theirs entirely, cupped between two jutting piles of rock, and always deserted. In Southern California, September is the best month for swimming; the water is at its warmest, the days hot and still long in the aftermath of the summer. They would pack a picnic lunch, swim, eat, and then lie in the sun, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking. For the first time, Barbara was able to talk about Marcel, freely, openly. Strangely, this half-Chinese half brother, three years younger, but older in so many ways, had become dearer to her than any other person in the world.

One day, when the two of them were together on the beach, she asked him, "Were you ever in love, Joe?"

He nodded.

"That's the part of me that's missing, and I feel such guilt."

"Guilt? But why guilt?"

"Because I long to be in love even more than I long for Marcel."

"Marcel's dead, Bobby. You can be in love again."

"I don't know. Sometimes I doubt it. I was so alive with him. Everything had a golden glow. I remember the sunsets in Paris, as if the whole city were painted in gold. And then when I went back there, after Germany, the city was dead and colorless. I was alive for a little while, and it was the most wonderful thing."

"I know."

"How do you know?" she asked, smiling suddenly, prodding him. "Who is she? Tell me, Joe."

"It's dumb."

"Being in love?"

"Being in love with a fourteen-year-old kid. Being so much in love with her that I don't think of anything else."

"I don't believe you. A fourteen-year-old kid? Where did you find her?"

"At Higate. She's Jake Levy's daughter, Sally. Why do you think I go there?"

"I couldn't imagine. But then, this whole thing is crazy, Joe. That place has a hold on our lives. You know how Bernie Cohen saved Marcel's life. Years ago, when he was just a kid, there was some kind of rabbi in San Francisco who got the Levys into the business of sacramental wine,