Famous Last Words (16 page)

They reached the Round Pond and Allenby sat, to relieve his legs, on a small stone bench and lighted up a Turkish cigarette.

“All right, Gus. We won’t get more alone than this,” he said. (The terrace with its people was about five hundred yards away.) “What can 1 do for you?”

Lindbergh had already laid the groundwork for what he’d come to say to Allenby by delivering, as they’d walked across the lawns, a sort of “eulogy” to Hitler’s Germany that in fact was rather commonplace and therefore not too much of a

shock to Allenby. He’d heard it all a dozen times before from a dozen other “converts”: not unlike an actor’s audition piece, spoken entirely by rote and more often than not with a total failure to connect the words to their meaning. Lindbergh’s version might have rated a C-minus. Whatever genuine passion he invested all came within that part of the

speech that had to do with air power.

Now, by the pond. Lindbergh came directly to the point: what to do with the future once it had been captured. Kidnapped.

Ill

He spoke of a world divided: halved. “We all know the

greatest menace is Bolshevism,” he said. “And in order to counteract its encroachment, our half of the world must act in concert against it.”

“Led by Germany, no doubt,” said Allenby—blowing smoke.

How disappointing that Lindbergh was becoming just another boring Nazi evangelist.

“No,” said Lindbergh. “Not led by Germany. Led by us.”

Allenby looked at him sharply. “Us?”

Lindbergh didn’t even blink. “That’s right.”

Allenby might not have understood what he was hearing.

He looked up across the lawn, because he wanted to see his wife and children—just to verify their existence. “Us?” he said. “Who do you mean by us.”

“You and me.” Lindbergh’s voice was like a child’s describing what it was going to have for supper. “You and me.

Our friends…”

Allenby narrowed his eyes. “What friends? Which ones?”

“Oh, come on, Ned. We both have friends in

Germany…here…America…”

There was a very slight pause and then Allenby felt constrained to say; “you and I are friends. Gus. But not political

friends. Surely to God you know that.”

“What are you, then? Some sort of Communist?”

“Don’t be childish.”

“Well then, what are you? Tell me. Give it a name.”

“Can’t we have some other—any other conversation?

Something pleasant. Something grownup.”

“No. 1 want an answer. I’m making a point.”

“All right,” Allenby said. “I’m in the centre, where you know damn well I am. And where, I might add. all sane

people should be in this hopelessly juvenile world of yours.

God, Gus—don’t make me angry. 1 can’t bear it.” He rubbed his leg.

Lindbergh didn’t respond to Allenby’s anger at all. What he did was brush a fly from the back of his hand and then said; “there is no centre.”

Allenby laughed.

“There is no cenlre.” Lindbergh repeated, flaring, redfaced.

“There’s nothing now but two halves: right and left.

If the world were a lemon,” he said; “and someone cut it with a knife, it would lie there like this—” he used his hands “—in halves. Them and us. Nothing in between.”

Allenby felt belittled. Degraded; his political sophistication insulted. Undergraduates had more sense than to talk

of halves—as if the world were black and white. “Gus,” he said, speaking as to a child, “my friend, there have been parties of the centre since time immemorial. Why? Because they are the only civilizing, saving grace we have with which to stave off those two halves you keep talking about—barbarism and complete eiitism.”

“Maybe once,” said Lindbergh. “Maybe once there was

a centre—but not any more. Now there’s just…”

“If you say ‘two halves’ once more I’ll hit you.” Allenby tried to laugh.

The laughter wouldn’t quite come, but Lindbergh had

sensed it was there and it altered his features, moulding them into an ugly, paranoic mask that was not only unattractive but shocking. And with it came an unfortunate.

bullying tone of voice. “I’ve started to tell you something,”

he said. “And I mean to finish…by which I mean 1 insist you hear the end of this—because if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Maybe. But I’d prefer to call it advice.”

Allenby sighed. He lighted up another Abdullah—elegant and oval; evocative of other, better times than these: the early days of his marriage…the linden trees in the Wilhelmstrasse when he’d been a corner, making his mark in

the Foreign Office… .Was it that? All that time he’d spent in Berlin? The German connection? Had someone drawn a

dreadful, dreadful conclusion: dead wrong and damaging?

Had someone thought he could really be converted to the present German cause and sent Gus to do the dirtv work?

Was that it?

Then he saw Lindbergh’s eyes through the smoke, with

their menacing light that impelled attention. Yes. Whatever this was, it was dangerous.

He looked awav. Far off across the lawns, his wife and

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Mrs Lindbergh and all the other guests were seated in their places—actors in a scene they didn’t even know was taking place. He waved, just to make contact. But no one waved back. Surely only because they hadn’t seen. Nonetheless, it made him feel appallingly alone.

“All right; I’ll give you five minutes,” he said. “Finish it.”

Lindbergh now became very quiet. He folded and made

a knot of his hands. For the next few moments, as if it was a vital condition of what he had to say, he was utterly still.

“You have been chosen.” he began, “among a few others,

to be given a chance to save your country… .”

(Chosen, Allenby thought. Chosen? Dear sweet God, he

sounds like a Buchmanite, or one of Aimee Semple’s simpletons.

Any minute now, he’ll froth at the mouth and fall

down.)

Lindbergh went on. “When I was in Berlin,” he said; “I

had the privilege of watching the German air force in action.

I’ve seen its size. I’ve seen its power. I’ve seen its potential.”

He paused. “Ned, England mustn’t ever draw its fire. Never.

They can bomb you out of existence.”

Allenby’s mind went ticking over everything he knew

about the Lindberghs and the Germans. Hermann Goring

was their friend. And Hess, who was Deputy Fiihrer. And von Ribbentrop, in London, often entertained them. Who

else? Robert Ley? Goebbels?

He looked at his children playing with the dog. He could hear Diana laughing. Oh God, he thought. This man here

used to be my friend, and now he’s trying to blackmail me: frighten me into submission, so I’ll say what he wants me to say in the House… .

“If there were to be a war right now,” said Lindbergh;

“England would lose it as surely as you and I are sitting here beneath this sun. They can cut you off from the whole of the British Empire. Nothing would reach you. Nothing. All the convoyed ships would be sunk, and you would starve.”

He looked at Allenby, who was sitting more and more dejected, slumped on the bench. “I hope you believe me, Ned.

I mean every word of this—and, of course, I’m saying it all for a reason.”

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Allenby didn’t dare speak. But he did nod.

“Someone has to prevent there being an English war,”

said Lindbergh. “And that someone has to be us.”

Allenby looked up then.

“So that’s what you mean by ‘us’? A sort of peace movement?”

“No. Not quite.”

Allenby looked away. “You know, this has an awful ring

of conspiracy to it, Gus. I like it less and less and I like you less and less for making me listen to it.”

Lindbergh lowered his head. He seemed acutely aware of

the others on the terrace—even given the enormous distance between them. His next words were almost a whisper. “There’s more at stake than England,” he said. “And more at stake than Germany.” for the first time, he looked directly into Allenby’s eyes. “And more at stake than America.”

Allenby went pale. He could feel the colour draining down towards his heart. What…? What was this? What could it be about?

“Tell me exactly what you mean,” he said, driven himself to a whisper. “Say it.”

Lindbergh sighed and folded his arms—his wings—and

twisted the upper half of his body away from Allenby; the gesture of a boy. Then all the way back, his arms hanging down against his sides. “There is more at stake than nations.

And more at stake than governments. More than parties and regimes and systems.”

Allenby wondered what was left when you took away

nations and governments; parties, regimes and political systems.

“Us,” said Lindbergh.

“God damn it! Tell me who you mean by us?”

Lindbergh lowered his chin against the knot of his hands.

“You, Ned; and I—and others like us—can control what

happens, even when governments come and go, even when

nations fall.”

“Dear Jesus God…”

“And I’m telling you, we must.”

A bee buzzed—drowning in the pond.

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“There are others,” Lindbergh said, “who want to see all this destroyed: that house, these lawns, the pond, you and me, that terrace and its people…your kids…my son Jon…even that dog.”

Allenby bowed his head.

“You know who they are, Ned. So do I. Eating at us from within. Eating at us here, and in Germany, and all over Europe, and in America. So why should it surprise you that someone means to prevail against them?”

“But that’s why we have political parties,” said Allenby.

“That do prevail against them.”

“No, they don’t,” said Lindbergh. “And you know they

don’t.”

Buzz—buzz.

Allenby stood up.

“So I have been chosen for this?” he said.

“Yes. There’s a very small group already…”

“And they want me, too?”

“Yes.”

“WHY?” Allenby was finally outraged, and he yelled.

Lindbergh, maybe inadvertently, looked towards the terrace.

Allenby followed his gaze. Everyone was staring at

them, having heard Ned’s cry.

“You want my friends,” said Allenby, hoarse. He felt ill.

Lindbergh was calm. “They would be useful. Yes,” he

said. “And your voice in the House.”

Allenby sat back down. He looked at the pond and tried

to concentrate on the bee. He took off his shoes. He began to roll up his trousers. For a moment, he simply couldn’t speak. He took off his socks, and then said, very carefully; “This small group you speak of…” He stood back up. “Who are they?” He started to walk towards the pond.

Lindbergh said; “I’m not prepared to tell you that.”

“Oh?” The pond was cool. The water reassuring. Allenby

got out his handkerchief. “You want me to join, but you won’t tell me who with,” (He floated the handkerchief under the drowning bee.) “But I presume, because I’m Parliamentary Under-Secretary and because of my friends up there on

the terrace, you want me to exert my influence to offset the

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possibility of war between Britain and Germany.” (The bee caught hold of the cloth.) “And therefore I presume this small group of yours holds its meetings in Berlin. Am I right?”

“Not at all.”

AIlenby seemed to catch on fire in his stomach. Panic. He tried very hard to be calm, at least to sound it.

“Oh?” He waved the bee away across the grass towards

the roses—watching it, shading his eyes and squinting, giving an excellent imitation of nonchalance. “Not in Berlin,

eh? Where, then?”

Lindbergh thought about it and decided all he could afford to say was: “there are common factions everywhere whose interests have to be protected come what may.” (AIlenby was certain these words had been memorized, which meant that somewhere there must be some of this written down.

Maybe a manifesto.)

AIlenby sat and put on one sock, one shoe. Some of the

scars could be seen on his left leg. “So. Not a purely German thing?”

“No. It is not just German.” Lindbergh was watching what he could see of the wounds. “It goes beyond mere Nazism, Ned,” he said.

AIlenby was holding up the second sock, dangling it over his toes. His mouth opened. But there wasn’t any voice with which to speak. Beyond mere Nazism…

Then, at last his voice came back and he put up’his hand.

“Gus,” he said. “say no more.”

“But…”

“No, Gus! Not another word! Amen.” AIlenby was shaking.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “You god damned sonof-a-bitch!”

And that was the end of it. Allenbv just stood

up, wearing one sock and one shoe and carrying the others, his trouser leg still rolled, and limped away.

From the centre of the lawn, he turned back and shouted “Gus, I pray to God. one day you can come to me and tell me what it is that can possibly go beyond mere Nazism.

Really. I’d be fascinated. Does it have to do with human beings?”

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Lindbergh didn’t move.

“One day, Gus. I pray God!” And Allenby was gone.

Finally, Lindbergh sat down. But not on the bench provided.

He sat on the grass and stared at the pond. For an

hour. Till dark when the bees at last were silenced and the flies crept under the leaves and the moths came out, attracted by the whiteness of his face and hands. And the lights in his eyes.

Edward Allenby never again let Lindbergh come to Nauly.

Once—ten years before—he had thought so highly of the young man’s courage and daring as to call his own son

Charles Augustus. And he had grieved for both Lindberghs with all his heart when their baby had died. The birth of Gus’s second son had been celebrated at Nauly as it had been at Englewood, where young (on Lindbergh was born.

(Only Allenby of all Lindbergh’s English friends ever called him ‘Gus’. It had been his way of trying to break down

Lindbergh’s shyness.)

Allenby lay awake in his bed for many hours that night, deeply troubled by all that had been said in the afternoon.