The End of Innocence (6 page)

“The funeral was quickly over and my parents wanted to leave for Maine for a week. So I came early,” said Ann.

She turned to Helen and her eyes suddenly widened. “Is that a new ring?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Helen, walking over and showing Ann her hand. “Father gave it to me this morning.” Peter hadn't even noticed. What Ann saw in him was completely beyond Helen. Now that she and Ann lived together, perhaps they could be as close as they used to be, before Peter decided Helen's best friend should be his.

“I wish I'd kept my men to help move you, Ann,” interrupted Peter.

“Thank you, Peter,” she said, her cheeks dimpling. “I thought I would need more help, but I met a member of your crew team outside.”

“Cheers!” came a British accent from the hallway, and it was Helen's turn to smile. Riley Spencer walked in, carrying a large steamer trunk that he set down by one of the stuffed chairs. She noticed he was pale and his tie was loose. He looked harried. “Sorry I'm late. I must have written down the wrong time,” he said with a glare at Peter. “Jackson Vaughn said he was given a different time than you told me this morning.”

“Jackson didn't show up either. He's all right, is he?” asked Peter.

“No, he's not. Jackson is still despondent. He's having nightmares. But he's not as bad as Wils today. Or Max,” said Riley quietly.

“What's wrong with Wils?”

“Terrible headache.” He lowered his voice. “Too much champagne.”

Peter winced. “Champagne headaches are the worst. Terrible business, all.” The two men nodded.

“Would you help Ann?” Peter asked after a respectful pause.

“Of course,” said Riley. “But I just need to catch my breath after bringing up this heavy steamer trunk. Be down in a second.”

Peter offered Ann his arm, and turned to give Helen a concerned look before he shut the door. The pair sat in silence for a minute as Riley caught his breath. Helen noticed he had little of the cheer he'd brought to the dance.

“Riley, I'm sorry about the loss of von Steiger,” said Helen after some length. “Did you know him well?”

He shook his head. “My cousin, Wils, was his friend back in Germany. Von Steiger's father acted as Wils's father after Wils's own father had died. Wils's father had been a great poet and a good man. My cousin felt his loss keenly.”

Helen was confused. “How are you cousins with Mr. Brandl? I thought you were British.”

“My mother is German. Her formidable sister is Wils's mother.”

“How is Wils dealing with the news?”

“I don't know. Things have been nasty since we came back from summer holiday, but we thought it would pass. And now I'm not certain. I'm a bit concerned, not least because I live with Wils and a murderer is on the loose.” He set his jaw and shook his head. “Damned unpleasant business.” Riley peered into an open box on the table beside him. “What is this?” he asked, lifting out a volume. “
Little
Women
. What's that about?”

“A family of sisters whose father is at war.”

“Do you like it?”

“Every woman does.”

“Should every man?”

“I don't know any man who has read it.” She laughed, watching him fidget with the book.

“Perhaps the girls find their peace,” Riley said, then shivered as if shaking off a bad thought. He put the book back and paced nervously. “We all are called to find our own peace when war intrudes so on our lives.” He walked over to her window seat and looked out. “An excellent window,” he said, his eyes suddenly lighting up. “You could put a ladder up here and escape anytime you needed to.”

She felt her cheeks go pink. “There will be no ladders of any kind put under that window.”

He gave a soft laugh and looked back. “Miss Brooks, from the looks of it I've arrived too late to be of use in hauling your boxes, and I've no interest in Miss Lowell's—”

Before he could finish his sentence, they heard steps pounding in the hallway. Into the room burst Miss Sullivan, her large face red, her curls untamed and hostile.

“Riley Spencer!”

“Miss Sullivan.”

The woman's small dark eyes darted around the room. “I heard you were in the building.”

“I was just leaving.”

“I'll not have you here, not even for moving day.” She gave Helen a stern look. “Miss Brooks, your grandmother and mother would probably prefer you kept your moving to your own family.”

Helen's face went bright red. “He's doing me a great favor, Miss Sullivan, as my own brother seems to have left me here. I've a problem returning rudeness for kindness.”

“I'm sure you do, Miss Brooks,” she said, her hands on her ample hips. “But you don't know his history. After today, no men are allowed in Longworth Hall.” She poked a meaty finger at him and glared. “Especially not you. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly,” said Riley. He returned her contemptuous glare. “Miss Brooks, perhaps we will continue our conversation at a different time.”

“Wait, Riley—”

“Let him go,” said Miss Sullivan, standing in front of Helen as Riley walked out the door. “You'll not be seen with that young man as long as I have something to say about what goes on under this roof. If I see him back here, I'll be obliged to write your father. He's no good for a woman like yourself.” She turned on her heel and left the room.

Helen was aghast. How rude! How could someone do such a thing in polite company? He'd done nothing wrong, and yet he'd been treated abominably. Her frustration over everything—her fear of class, the murder-suicide, even the dusty carpets—erupted into defiance.

She ran to her window and saw Riley below, walking to the curb. “Riley, wait!” she called. “Riley!”

He looked up and around, then waved. “Miss Brooks? Do you need a ladder after all?”

She laughed. “Would you like to come to the Harvest Festival this Saturday in Concord?”

“Is it any fun?” he asked.

“There's a car race and I've been asked to be one of the drivers.”

“A race?” He beamed. “I'd be delighted to come. We'll take my cousin's car.”

“Will we have to take your cousin?”

“Most certainly! I promise you'll like him. See you then.” He waved, turned, and walked down the street.

She brought her head back inside.

“Good God, Helen!” said Peter from the doorway. He strode over to the window and shut it. “Have you none of the sense the good Lord gave you? Riley Spencer's an engaged man.”

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Sunday Afternoon

The news of von Steiger's death and Arnold Archer's arrest electrified the campus, spreading throughout residence hall lounges, from student to student, and in quiet murmurs among the staff. Wils had found a fresh broadsheet in the foyer of Beck Hall. He was shocked to find that the evidence that had forced the police to arrest Archer was his (Wils's) very own gold watch, one that he'd lent to Max. But he frowned as he read the rest of the
Crimson
's report, filled as it was with innuendo and anti-German accusations.

It sickened him to see that Archer's family was launching something called a Patriots' League in order to help the government identify other German spies. He hoped the police wouldn't fall for such a ruse.

He opened the door to his apartment and walked straight to his room. He threw the newspaper in the trash can. Max—a German spy, indeed! What filth.

At least Arnold had been arrested. Despite Copeland's protests about all of Arnold Archer's family's power, it seemed that the privileged were not above the law. Some justice might prevail in New England after all was said and done.

Wils sat down at a thick oak table opposite his bed under a tall arched window and opened his books to get to work. If he were forced to leave classes due to the war, he preferred to withdraw with high marks. He didn't want his classmates snickering about the stupid German among them. Most of his assignments were not difficult, they just required doing. The only one that really required thought was a poem for Professor Copeland's seminar on advanced editing, and he'd found his topic.

For this poem he had decided to write about fate: cruel, coldhearted, absolutely rotten, callous fate. Three blind women in the stars chopping up people's lives with their nasty scissors. The kaiser with his stupid war gulping down Belgium, scraping for France—demanding power in exchange for blood. Prussian mothers throwing their sons into harm's way for some hysterical and ill-founded mission.

What was it with his own government? The war wouldn't create freedom to pursue the noblest instincts of anyone's soul. What was this business of Germany above all? And what if they accomplished that? What good would it do for humanity?

Free will, my Aunt Frieda's big bottom
, he thought, whipping out a piece of paper and beginning to write.

It had been easy at first, as he wrote, his anger fueling his art. But as his mind relaxed, as he spent his anger, the ditty from the girl's poem last night crept into his mind and replayed itself over and over.

Fall comes in shades of red

And leaves in shrouds of white

He recalled her looking down at him, startled. He laughed as he thought back to her cheeks' reddening when she had detected the slightest whiff of criticism. Her raven hair looked so severe against those flushed cheeks.

Yet it set off to perfection the white skin of her throat.

He found several minutes had passed by the time he got back to work again. Such insecurity for one so beautiful, was his final judgment, as he picked up his pen again.

This time he was interrupted by a loud noise in the hallway. An irksome young man standing outside his door was spewing angry words about Germans.

Ignore
it
, thought Wils, pushing his ink pen hard to the page. He was almost finished, and then he'd leave for the club.

But the lunatic kept at it. He threatened to confront any German he saw. Wils stiffened in his chair and put down his pen. He heard the muffled voice of Mr. Burton, his hall master, trying to calm the young man down, arguing house rules, but the man kept at it.

Wils could hear every caustic remark about his nation. Enough was enough. He was not a coward, and there came a time when one had to stand up to a bully.

A loud crash shook his door, sending the brass knocker rumbling. Wils rushed to the living room fireplace and picked up the poker as Mr. Burton shouted and a door slammed. Wils ran to the hall but found it empty except for Mr. Burton, and at his feet the remains of a shattered chair on the wide floorboards. Burton's balding head was covered in sweat.

“Go back, Wils,” said Burton. “There's nothing here.” Wils turned to see a large scar across his door.

“The boy's cousin was just killed in Belgium. Have a little mercy,” continued Burton, collecting the broken bits. “And put that poker back unless you want them to grab it and use it on you.”

“I'm not going to be threatened.”

In a heavy motion, Burton raised himself up. He stood shoulder height to Wils but was three times as thick. Perspiration dripped from his nose.

“Don't you be getting into this trouble, Wils,” Burton said in a low tone. “Some people are looking for a fight and they'd just as soon fight you as not. And don't think you can take them. The police aren't going to be helping you after what's just happened to Arnold Archer. They protect their own over at City Hall.”

“They didn't protect Arnold from his crime,” Wils replied hotly. “That means the Archers have enemies at City Hall too. I'm talking with the police tomorrow.”

Burton didn't reply as he sat back down to write a report.

Wils was livid. It was time to leave. He locked his scarred door and walked to Burton's desk. “Burton. My door.”

“I'm preparing the paperwork as we speak.”

“Thank you, then, and good day.”

“Where are you going, Wils?”

“Dinner,” he said, pushing open the heavy entryway door.

“I'd stay away from the Spee.”

Stay away from the Spee? Hardly. He'd had enough of this nonsense. “Good evening, Burton,” Wils said, not answering his request.

“Good evening, Wils.”

Wils defiantly walked to the club's mansion, becoming angrier with every step.

Damn Max! Archer was looking for fire and Max had lit the fuse. Then again, maybe he was a gambler. Maybe he did have debts. He just didn't know.

Wils took a deep breath and caught the face of Ronald Chudley in the window looking down at him with a haughty glare. Wils looked away.

To
hell
with
them
all,
Wils thought, turning on his heel. Burton was right. Why would he even want to go to the club? He'd eat at the Harvard Union, where Morris Rabin, a classmate with the most sense of anyone he knew, would see that he was left in peace.

* * *

Since early August, as the war in Europe escalated, anti-German sentiment flared through Boston beyond all reason. It had become spectacle and sport. People didn't want to entertain serious debate. German professors were being watched by their fellow townsfolk—their neighbors and friends. German books were being burned. The Spee Club, a place of privilege, was now a place of anonymous elbows in Wils's back. Ink had been spilled on his books. A chair had been pulled out from under him. Since early August he'd been met with glares and quiet taunts at crew practice. Jackson Vaughn's mother in Alabama had even warned her son not to fraternize with “the enemy.”

It couldn't last, Wils tried to tell himself. Everyone was saying that the conflict was so massive it couldn't be sustained. Everyone would be ruined if this war didn't stop—that there had to be some emergency brake. He hoped so. But he was unsure that would happen. The Germans learned after Napoleon to believe that power was the ultimate expression of being alive. That idea had no emergency brake.

As Wils entered the Harvard Union, the pungent fumes of lye reminded him why he seldom dined there. Not only were the environs less than luxurious—wood chairs against scarred tables scattered around a cavernous room—but he knew no one. There would be no laughter nor friendship there. But there would also be no recrimination. That was a victory of sorts.

He heaped a tray with lamb pie and roasted potatoes, then sat down, placing his notebook on one side of his tray to create a barrier to anyone of manners wishing to speak with him, and for a quarter hour was left in peace.

“Brandl!” came a voice from across the room. Wils looked up to see Morris Rabin walking toward him with a paper tucked under his arm.

Rabin was dark and short, from a rough neighborhood in New York. Despite working part-time in the Union kitchens to earn money for school, he'd outranked Wils in nearly every class they'd taken together.

“Brandl? What are you doing here?” he said, moving Wils's notebook and sitting down.

“Avoiding patriots.”

Rabin nodded. “I heard about Archer, may he hang higher than Haman. Did ya know about this?”

“Copeland told me Wednesday. The police want to talk with me tomorrow.”

Rabin leaned back. “Your watch. I heard they found it on Archer yesterday when they searched his room.”

“Yes. I gave that watch to Max when his broke.”

“I'm surprised Max didn't pawn it. I mean, it doesn't look good. Even if Arnold did go take the watch, these gambling debts—”

“Don't say it,” said Wils, his stomach tightening. For a man from a rough neighborhood, Rabin was always interested in upper-class intrigue. Perhaps that was the way of the world. A man is jilted, it's his pain to deal with. But die and it's everyone's business.

“Oh no,” said Morris. “I'm on your side in this. I liked Max. We were friends before he became such a sad case,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm sorry he's gone.”

“How is Jackson taking the news?”

A look of weariness crossed Morris's face. “Not well. His nightmares about Jenny have been getting worse. He kept me up all night last night and now with the news about Max—well, he had better pull it together. Enough of this love business, I say!”

“I'll drink to that,” said Wils, raising his glass.

They sat in silence for a moment. Morris had brought little of his usual cheer, and Wils wondered if he should risk the rest of his lamb pie getting cold to keep talking with him.

“Wils, I did find something that I think will interest you,” Morris said, offering a newspaper. “I was going to show you tomorrow in class. It's about the war.”

“Save it,” said Wils glumly. “I'll find out soon enough. My mother just recalled me.”

“No, mate, I'm serious,” he said, his eyes intense. “You can't go.” As Morris pulled out the
London
Times
from the crook of his arm, Wils held up his hands in protest.

“Morris, I've seen one too many nasty articles on how insecure we Germans are. You know, it's not like America hasn't been in its share of wars during the past century with its own natives, or the Mexicans and the Spanish. And America's not been between an angry France and Russia before, has it?”

“Are we on trial here? You have this wrong. The London papers say the Germans are winning.” Morris pointed to the middle column. “Mons and Cambrai: Losses of the British Army.”

“What? Where'd you get this?” he asked, surprised to hear such news. “I'd heard about Namur, but—”

“Exactly!” said Morris. “It's bad for the British and French and frankly I hate the kaiser, so I'm not too happy about the news myself. We shouldn't reward tyranny. But the kaiser's plan is working. Your ma isn't going to be sending for you after this.
The
Times
would never print this news if it weren't really bad for England.”

Wils read down the column:

The German commanders in the north advance their men as if they had an inexhaustible supply. Of the bravery of the men it is not necessary to speak. They advance in deep sections, so slightly extended as to be almost in close order, with little regard for cover, rushing forward as soon as their own artillery has opened fire behind them on our position. Our artillery mows long lanes down the centres of the sections, so that frequently there is nothing left of it but its outsides. But no sooner is this done than more men double up, rushing over the heaps of dead, and remake the section. Last week so great was their superiority in numbers that they could no more be stopped than the waves of the sea. Their shrapnel is markedly bad, though their gunners are excellent at finding the range. On the other hand their machine guns are of the most deadly efficacy, and are very numerous. Their rifle shooting is described as not first-class, but their numbers bring on the infantry till frequently they and the Allied troops meet finally in bayonet tussles. Superiority of numbers in men and guns, especially in machine guns; a most successfully organized system of scouting by aeroplanes and zeppelins; motors carrying machine guns, cavalry; and extreme mobility are the elements of their present success.

To sum up, the first great German effort has succeeded. We have to face the fact that the British Expeditionary Force, which bore the great weight of the blow, has suffered terrible losses and requires immediate and immense reinforcement. The British Expeditionary Force has won indeed imperishable glory, but it needs men, men, and yet more men.

Wils looked over at Morris, shocked at what he had read. “
The
Times
is saying—”

“Yes, Wils. It could be over. Just not as they—or I—wished.”

Wils shook his head in disbelief. “Thank God,” he mumbled. “Mother wanted me to leave this week after I spoke to the police.”

Morris clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, now you won't have to go to war. Riley—he may be going. But not you. The war is almost over, it seems. Keep the paper, Wils. I've got to go back to work.”

Wils thanked him and reread the story again, his heart beating faster as the reporter spoke of German victories. The tightness rolled back in his chest, and he thanked Morris silently for bringing such news. Morris was solid and for a moment, Wils felt badly for wanting to avoid him at first. He was always there to lend a hand in crisis. He certainly had bailed Jackson out when Jenny McGee had broken his heart. And as a working-class man, he'd listen to both sides, and then say something measured and moderate and be done with it. He wasn't ideological. Morris Rabin represented what was good about America.