Volk (4 page)

Ernst turned to Lane. “And how do you justify keeping company with a pacifist, when you are not?”

How, indeed! Lane watched the road ahead, trying to marshal his thoughts. It was not enough merely to swear (affirm) that he loved Quality, or that she was perhaps the prettiest coed on the campus. He needed an objective basis. So he broadened the base, addressing not this one aspect, pacifism, but her religious background which fostered it.

“I am turned off by ordinary people, which accounts for my acquaintances with both of you,” he said carefully. “Quality is a loyal member of her religion. She is a Quaker, which is the common name for the Religious Society of Friends. They got their nickname because in the early days they were supposed to have quaked in the presence of God. They object to many of the follies of man, such as violence, intoxication, cigarettes, foul language, gambling and overt sexuality. They are gentle people, concerned with good works, but that does not mean they are foolish. Many Quakers are well-to-do, for good business is part of their religion. Good
honest
business, for a Friend never cheats. There's a joke that perhaps has some truth: a Quaker is the only person who can buy from a Jew, sell to a Scotsman, and make a profit.”

There was a bark of laughter from Ernst, but Quality frowned. Perhaps she objected to the seeming derogation of Jews and Scotsmen. “At any rate, I understand that in Germany today, Quakers are the only people willing to do business with both Jews and Scotsmen,” Lane added quickly. “As you can see, Quality is attractive both physically and intellectually, but it is her ethical core which sets her apart. She is such a good person that I could forgive many faults in her, yet do not have to, for she has none. The fault is mine, for not being more like her. How could I not love her?”

Ernst nodded. “How could you not,” he murmured.

There was a silence. Quality was blushing, but could not protest, because he had indeed told the truth. He could not resist teasing her. “Do you deny it, woman?”

“No,” she said. “Now thee has asked, and I have answered. There is no set length to answers. It is my turn again. Lane, why does thee seek unusual people? That is, why is thee, as thee puts it, turned off by ordinary people?”

He realized that she had turned a table on him, by taking his joke question seriously. He was stuck with another honest answer.

“That may take some time,” he said. “I'm not sure you would want to listen to—”

“We are listening,” Ernst said.

So he had to do it. “It dates from my childhood, right here in the state of New York. I was a wan, spindly child, lacking proper size and vitality. Naturally ordinary children picked on me. The average person seems to remember childhood as a happy time, because his memory selects for the good and the bad things fade, but I can't forget my early inability to compete. It was clear that I was both different and inferior. Everyone knew it except the adults, who didn't count.

“Then an unusual person came on the scene. He was Jed, an Australian, with his special accent setting him apart. Of course the kids started in on him, because he was new and different. Anything different was fair game, and children have no limitations of conscience. But Jed was normal in one crucial respect: he could fight. When someone got obnoxious, Jed called him out in his polite, accented way and gave him his choice: fists or wrasslin'. At first it seemed like a joke, for Jed was neither large nor muscular. But he turned out to be a well coordinated whirlwind, with a high pain threshold and considerable endurance and native cunning. Very soon it became gauche to mock Jed's accent. In fact it got so that when a boy was provoked to the point of no return about an issue, such as the shape of his nose or the pronunciation of his middle name, his voice would assume a certain Australian tinge of accent: warning of the kind of trouble that was brewing. Newcomers to the community seen learned the signal.

“Jed was victoriously different. He began looking out for others who were different. When I got in trouble, he tended to show up, his accent becoming more pronounced, as it did when he was ready to Call Out. So nobody picked on me when he was near— and after a while they stopped picking on me when he wasn't near, too. He never said why he picked a given fight, but the bullies caught on.

“I only knew him a year, before his family moved away. but since that time I've been attracted to those who are different. Especially those who are different and superior. Ordinary people are clannish and insensitive, but when I find those few who aren't—” He shrugged. “Now you know. Both of you remind me in a subtle way of Jed. And here we are in the outskirts of New York City. So here's my question for you, Ernst: how do I reach your place?”

“It is an apartment complex used by foreign nationals,” Ernst said. “I will direct you.”

So he did, and they wound through the night city until they reached it.

“We'll see you to your door,” Lane told Ernst. “None of my business, I know, but if I can find out what made your folks call you home so suddenly—”

“You are entitled to know,” Ernst agreed. “I hope there has been no misfortune in the Fatherland. All my relatives are there, and some are old.” And, he did not add, his immediate family had not seen those relatives in two years, while Herr Best served his term as liaison for certain Germanic interests in the New York area. This residence had enabled Ernst to attend a good Northeastern college, where he had encountered Lane as a fellow wrestler.

Lane and Quality waited in the lobby while Ernst went up to meet his father. Lane took her hand unobtrusively, and this familiarity she consented to so long as they were alone. Such stolen contacts with her were more precious to him than considerably more emphatic gestures would have been from other girls, because everything Quality did was sincere. Only a close friend held her hand; only her fiancé kissed her.

Soon Ernst was back, his face serious. “We have been recalled to Germany,” he said regretfully. “We depart within the fortnight.

I must help pack and terminate our affairs in this country.”

“To Germany!” Lane exclaimed. “So soon!”

“I regret I shall not after all be able to serve at your wedding.”

“Maybe it's temporary,” Lane said. “Maybe you'll be back next semester—”

Ernst shook his head. “In the present international climate, this must be final. I fear we shall not be meeting again—as friends.”

“Oh, Ernst—I hate this! I only really came to know you this past year, when we started winning meets together. The team needs you—”

“You must continue the winning tradition for us both, friend. I fear my wrestling days are over. Perhaps I can continue my education at a University in the Fatherland, though normally I should be liable at this time for military service. But either way, we must part.”

Lane's protests had been largely rhetorical, though sincere. He knew the way of these things. He had never seen Jed again after separation; probably he would never see Ernst again. All he could do was accept the situation bravely. They shook hands. “Whatever happens, we'll always be friends,” he said passionately.

“Always friends,” Ernst agreed. “Politics are nothing.” He turned to Quality. “Lady, I differ with you, but respect your mode. Will you shake hands with me?”

Silently she offered her hand, granting him this token of respect. It was evident that she was on balance relieved to see him so conveniently out of the picture, but she knew him to be a worthy individual on his own terms.

Lane gave his friend a final friendly, half-savage punch on the shoulder, striking at the vagaries of fortune, then escorted Quality out of the building.

“But we'll stay in touch by mail,” he called back at the door. “Send me your address, wherever you are.”

“I shall,” Ernst agreed, and sadly turned away.

It was a hot summer afternoon when Herr Best and family approached his brother's city of Wiesbaden. The journey had been tedious, with delays for ship passage and train passage and assorted clearances and briefings, and Ernst was thoroughly tired of traveling. Now he admired the scenery with increasing nostalgia as the train drew closer to the familiar area. This was the Rhineland, perhaps the most beautiful region of Germany. The rivers wound through the hills and mountains, girt by lovely old castles, the remnants of medieval greatness. These were among the few things that were not tidy, orderly, and cleaned up in Germany, but it would have been a shame to modernize the ruins, which had endured for centuries. The area was thickly wooded, with vegetation threatening to overrun the edifices; Ernst's mind's eye filled in what he could not see from the tracks. Yes, Germany remained in certain enchanting respects primal; no one would take it for a modern industrial nation, from this vantage.

Then the suburban outskirts of Wiesbaden appeared, dominated by agriculture, fruit plantations, vineyards and mansions . A hundred and seventy thousand people lived here—a small number compared to the half million of Frankfurt, nearby. But Wiesbaden was still far from village status.

This had been home for Ernst during the first years of his life. Then his father had gotten the good position that took the family all around the world, and Ernst had been here only irregularly. His Uncle Karl had taken over the estate, though he was only a shopkeeper. Theoretically he maintained it for his brother; in practice it seemed to have become Karl's. But if Herr Best—to Ernst, his father would always be Herr Best,
the
important figure of the family—if he remained in Germany this time, that would change. Ernst hoped that would be the case. He was tired of getting uprooted.

Uncle Karl met them at the station and chauffeured them to the estate in the big 1936 convertible Mercedes Limousine. New cars, Ernst realized, were hard to come by these days; too much of the country's industrial capacity was going to war machines. In fact the possession of a new car might almost be considered unpatriotic, since the materials and effort squandered in its manufacture might better have been contributed to the nation's effort of improvement. But Herr Best was not an ordinary citizen, and this car would last for decades; it had been built with German pride.

“This time you must stay,” Uncle Karl said genially to Herr Best. “It is no longer safe in foreign lands.”

“But there is money to be made there, and there are services to be rendered there, for the good of the Fatherland,” Herr Best replied with the cheerful resignation of his nature. They were speaking in German, of course; it still seemed slightly strange to Ernst, after two solid years of English. Uncle Karl knew English, but normally declined to speak it. However, Ernst knew that German, like a long disused shoe of good quality, would soon become fully natural to him again.

“Money to be made here too!” Uncle Karl exclaimed. “Since Hitler came to power, the economy is booming. My shop caters to the affluent factory workers, and business is good, very good.” He turned his face to Ernst. “Do you miss the Hitler Youth, lad? There's an excellent outfit.”

“I miss Germany,” Ernst said. Which was true—but at the moment, the memory of his friends in America was more poignant. He had been a little afraid to make new friends after the loss of Hans Bremen, especially among flyers. But Lane Dowling, who in certain respects resembled Hans, had not been one to be denied. It was as though such people forged ahead as rapidly in social contacts as they did in the airplanes they so loved, and the targets of their attention could not be unmoved. He sincerely hoped Lane would not crash also. But Uncle Karl would never understand that sentiment, so it wasn't worth discussing.

Karl went on to other subjects, ensuring that there would be no gap in conversation. Karl was not much for silences, in contrast to Herr Best's more introspective side of the family. Perhaps it was a survival trait for shopkeepers to be loquacious, and for diplomats to be silent. “Have you kept up with current events?” he inquired meaningfully.

“You are referring to Austria?” Herr Best replied.

“Wasn't that something! This man Hitler is a marvel! Remember the terrible, degrading terms forced on Germany after the war? The bruising reparations, the occupation of Frankfurt? Right here, those misbegotten French troops passed, pillaging—”

“That is the nature of armies,” Herr Best agreed grimly. “The French occupied the Saar until the end of 1930, as I recall.”

“As you recall!” Karl snorted. “As if you weren't cursing the French the whole time, since the Saarland is hardly a stone's throw from here. German territory, stolen by the French!”

“But we do have it back now,” Herr Best rejoined mildly. He had a more cosmopolitan outlook, having traveled far more widely and been exposed to many foreign viewpoints. Ernst, remembering the differences in attitudes about the Jews, could understand. What made sense in France or America did not necessarily make sense in Germany—and vice versa.

“And the occupation of the Ruhr,” Uncle Karl continued, warming up to a favorite subject. “All because they claim we defaulted on reparations payments. How could Germany repay such huge amounts when she had six million workers out of work, with their families hungry—and that meant twenty-five million living
people
hungry—and no freedom, no equality, no territory because the French had annexed it all? The Versailles treaty was a monster; they promised us Wilson's Fourteen Points, but they betrayed us— and then they violated even that poor document! They had no honor at all!”

“True,” Herr Best agreed, remembering. “Victors need no honor.” He had not spoken openly of this at home, but Ernst had picked it up. Germany had been foully treated and could no longer trust the promises of enemies. Especially those who were not Aryans. What was honor to lesser races? Better to fight to the last man! Better still to make sure that Germany never lost another war.