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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: Fields Of Gold
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“I can understand why the Jewish people wish to overthrow the Nazis,” he said more softly. “The persecution they have suffered in Germany would be sufficient to make bitter enemies of any race.” He paused to let his words sink in. “No person with a sense of the dignity of mankind condones the persecution of the Jewish race in Germany. Certainly I and my friends do not.”
For a moment, relief flooded through me. So many papers around the country had accused Slim and the America First supporters of hating Jews. Maybe this would quiet their criticism. I'd never actually heard or read anything by Slim that mentioned Jews by name, but plenty of people had speculated about his opinions.
It was hard for me to precisely understand anti-Semitism. In my entire life, I'd never met anyone Jewish. But I knew all about feeling like an alien in my own land and how people were capable of ostracizing, even demonizing, people who didn't fit into an accepted mold. Every day of my life I'd seen how ignorance and cruelty walked hand in hand. The papers never talked much about what was happening to Jews in Europe, not in a direct way. The reports talked about confiscated businesses and freedoms denied, but that was all. The rest was just implied and hinted at, but I knew from Nils's letters to Paul that these weren't just rumors. Something terrible was happening, but no one would talk about it.
I couldn't bear for people to think Slim condoned such evil. He had looked past my lameness and seen to the inside of me. People who tried to label him an anti-Semite didn't know him like I did. Hearing him denounce the Nazi persecution, seeing his eyes cast down in sorrow and sympathy, no one could dare to pin such an ugly name on him. For a moment, I thought I'd been wrong to be so worried. Maybe everything would be all right.
If he'd stopped right there, that would have been the moment everyone remembered about Des Moines, everything would have turned out differently for him, but he didn't. That speech changed his life. No amount of explanation would soften its meaning. Sometimes I still try, but no matter how I rearrange the words or use the times to justify them, the phrases are still there, black and white and red. They mean what they mean.
“But though I sympathize with the Jews, let me add a word of warning. No person of honesty and vision can look on their prowar policy here today without seeing the dangers involved in such a policy, both for us”—he looked up from his notes and stared into the eyes of the audience—“and for them.”
“Instead of agitating for war, the Jewish groups in this country should be opposing it in every possible way, for they will be among the first to feel its consequences. Tolerance is a virtue that depends upon peace and strength. History shows that it cannot survive war and devastation. A few farsighted Jewish people realize this and stand opposed to intervention. But the majority still do not. Their greatest danger to this country lies in their large ownership and influence on our motion pictures, our press, our radio, and our government. We cannot blame them for looking out for what they believe to be their own interests, but we must also look out for ours. We cannot allow the natural passions and prejudices of other people to lead our country to destruction.”
Even after he said this, many people were still cheering, but a few were frowning and even booing. Still more were whispering among themselves, shaking their heads as though they couldn't quite believe that “Lucky Lindy,” the hero of all their childhood dreams, could actually say such things. It was as if Lindbergh, much like the despots he claimed to deplore, had declared Jews a foreign nation within our borders, to be tolerated only if they kept to themselves, made no noise, demanded no rights. It sounded almost as though he was issuing a threat. They could hardly believe their ears.
I didn't blame them. Neither could I.
Chapter 18
“
M
iss? Miss, your ticket?”
“Oh, I'm sorry. I know it's here somewhere.” I fumbled in my pocket for the ticket stub. “Here it is.” I tried to smooth out the wrinkles before handing it over, but it was no use. I had unthinkingly crushed the little slip in my pocket over and over, until it was so creased the conductor had to squint just to read the destination.
“Oklahoma, eh?” He smiled and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I got a cousin used to live in Oklahoma, but she and her family moved off to Utah when the dust came. Can't see where that was much improvement. I been through to see her a time or two. Just as barren as Oklahoma was. A regular desert. Can't think why anybody'd live there to begin with.” He spoke cheerfully, but then his cheeks reddened as he remembered where I was headed.
“Sorry,” he sputtered. “No offense intended, miss. I'm sure Oklahoma must have its good points, same as anywhere,” he added seriously.
“No offense taken. Every place looks like heaven to someone, I suppose. Though you're right about it being flat, and the dust was terrible. But if you live somewhere long enough, flat starts to feel like coming home.”
“Well,” he said with a laugh, “at least can't nobody sneak up on you there. You can always see what's coming.”
“I guess so. Anyway, that's what we tell ourselves.”
He laughed again as he punched my ticket. “You have a nice trip now. You'll probably be glad to get home. Looks like you didn't get too much sleep in the big city.”
I smoothed a hand over my hair, thinking how awful I must look. “Not used to all the city noises, I guess.”
“You just close your eyes and we'll be there in no time.” He winked and held out my ticket. As he moved on to the next passenger, he looked back once more. “No place like a train for a nap. Those wheels thump so regular, you'll sleep like a baby.”
I was looking forward to that sleep the conductor promised, for I hadn't slept at all the previous night, and when morning came, I looked for the first train back to Dillon. There was no reason to stay longer, not after what had happened.
 
Slim had been waiting for me in a small office near the auditorium. The room looked sterile and unused, housing only a gray metal desk and two folding chairs that faced each other straight on, as though they were ready to square off for battle. Slim stood near the desk with his back turned, his hands shoved in his pockets, tapping his foot nervously on the mottled linoleum, his impatience echoing through the empty space like a drum cadence. He cleared his throat when I came in and took care to make sure the door was closed after Mr. Hodges excused himself. Neither of us sat down or moved toward the other. It seemed safer to stand at a distance. I clutched the soft paper-wrapped package to my breast like a shield.
After an uneasy hesitation, Slim spoke first. “You've caught me by surprise, Evangeline. You should have let me know you were coming.” He sounded uncomfortable.
“And just how would I have done that?” I said, more archly than I'd intended. “Contacted Mr. Ashton? Who would have contacted some faceless lawyers in New York, who would have sent me a carefully worded letter suggesting that I stay home?” I checked myself and murmured an apology. This wasn't how I wanted to start off. “How are you? How are your children?”
“They're fine. Growing like weeds, of course. I can't think where the time has gone.” He paused for a moment. “How is Morgan?”
I couldn't help but smile. I would have made the trip again, just to hear him say Morgan's name. “He's away at college. University of Oklahoma. He almost quit before he got started, though. He wants to fly more than anything. I guess he got that from you.”
“And did his valedictory speech go well?” he asked. “I was proud to hear he was first in his class. He's obviously a much better student than I was. He must get that from you.” He smiled, and for a moment I was stunned into silence.
“My letters ...” I faltered, uncertain of what to say next, but my heart beat a little faster.
“I read them all,” he said. “Even before you began writing I had people check up on him from time to time—anonymously, of course. Though I much prefer your letters. I'm sorry I can't answer them, Evangeline, but you understand.”
“No, of course. You couldn't risk ...” I agreed, but, truthfully, I couldn't see that the risk was so very great. If he could anonymously make inquiries about Morgan, couldn't he have anonymously responded to my letters? Still, I was pleased to know he'd read them at all, I didn't want to push the issue. “It's good to see you.”
“You too,” he said. His face seemed to relax a bit. “Do you want to sit down or anything? At least take off your coat.” He came nearer and held my coat while I extracted my arms from the bulky sleeves. I put the package on the desk and covered it with my coat and handbag. We turned and leaned side by side against the edge of the desk. “I meant that, about it being good to see you. You were about the only friendly face in the crowd.”
“That's not so. They cheered you like the star quarterback of the high school football team.”
He snorted derisively. “The ones who weren't booing, you mean. Government plants, most of them. Roosevelt is out to label me as a coward and an anti-Semite. The crowd cheered me because that's what crowds do. They act like one big, mindless mass and follow the guy in front because it's easier than actually thinking for themselves. They cheered, but they didn't understand. Not a one of them.”
He shoved his fist into his palm and ground it as if he were milling pepper, working hard at a task with no purpose. I wanted to take his hands in mine and let them rest, cool and soothing on my cheek, forgetting all about the speech, bathing him in comfortable words and assurance, but I couldn't.
“Neither do I,” I confessed. “I can't imagine you really believe those things you said. Even if you do, how could you say them? You had to have known how people would react.”
“You sound just like Anne,” he said, pushing himself up off the desk and beginning to pace the room nervously. “She begged me to leave out the last part. Said it was ‘like lighting a match near a pile of excelsior.' She even rewrote it, but I changed it back.” He ran his fingers through his hair, that old, unconscious gesture that had always seemed so boyish and appealing. Now it just spoke of age and fatigue.
“That's why Anne didn't come. She said she couldn't bear to watch, so here I am alone.” He stopped his pacing, and for a moment I thought he was going to reach for my hand, but then he stepped back, shoved his fists in his pockets, and resumed his restless pacing.
“It felt pretty lonely walking into that hall, knowing no one was truly on my side. All the reporters were circling like vultures, waiting to catch me out, hoping I'd trip, or have a heart attack at the microphone. Or better yet, walk in wearing a swastika on my sleeve. Anything so they'd have a good headline in the morning. Well”—he laughed ruefully—“I guess I gave them one: ‘Lindbergh Attacks Jews!' That's how the morning editions will read. Never mind what I actually intended. None of that matters. Even if there were a reporter who would explain what I said in logical, rational terms, no one reads past the headlines, anyway. People always want to believe what's worst about other people.”
“I don't,” I said plainly. “Ever since I met you, I wanted to believe the best about you. I confess, listening to you today makes it harder. Slim, you want people to understand you? Start with me.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he took a step back, pulled up a desk chair, and perched himself on the back of it. Though his arms were crossed casually across his chest, I could tell that underneath his palms were clenched defensively, ready for a fight. “All right.” he said coldly. “Ask me anything you want.”
I took a step closer to him, hoping to break through the wall of suspicion that divided us. “Slim, I'm not here to attack you. I'm not a reporter looking for a headline. There was a time when I understood everything you thought before you said a word, but things are more complicated now. If you knew that saying these things would make people think you were anti-Semitic, why did you say them? You made it sound like the Jews who live here aren't real Americans, as though they are some isolated group of foreigners who are with us, but not of us.”
A picture I'd seen flashed in my mind: a German street, a rainy day, a black and gray sea of overcoats, each like another, but here and there a glimpse of yellow star, the space that opened in the crowd between stars and sea. It seemed a strangely familiar scene, as though I'd walked there myself and knew it all well, especially the empty spaces.
Slim growled, obviously irritated at my lack of understanding. “Of course they're Americans, but they ought to start acting like it! Anyone who has America's best interests at heart can see that we should stay out of this war. Germany has air power that we can't even begin to match. If we get into this fight, a fight that isn't ours to begin with, it will cost of millions of dollars, tens of thousands of lives, and in the end, we will probably lose! Anyone with an ounce of sense and loyalty to
this
country should see that.”
“And you don't think American Jews are loyal to this country?” I asked slowly, not really certain I understood his meaning, hoping I didn't.
“Don't put words in my mouth,” he snarled. “Awful things are happening in Europe. I'll be the first to admit that Hitler has abused his power. War inevitably brings terrible consequences, but when I weigh the cost of a war that's happening an ocean away against the potential cost in American lives, it's just not worth the price.”
“But, Slim,” I said dubiously, “you click your tongue and say, ‘What a pity,' as though we were talking about a little feud between disinterested parties. How can you dismiss Hitler's tyranny as a mere abuse of power? Slim, the man is a murderer! He's crowned himself a god and filled the foundation of his temple with bodies! We can't just stand by as though it doesn't concern us.”
Slim thumped his fist impatiently against wooden chair, “Now, this is just the sort of hysterical rhetoric I'm talking about, Evangeline. A few people, putting their ancestral loyalties before the interests of their adopted country, start these terrible rumors about wholesale murder of Jews. They prey on the emotions of the American people.”
“But,” I insisted, “these aren't just rumors—”
“No, you're wrong!” He nearly shouted and was back on both feet again, stabbing the air with his finger at the beginning of every sentence, a static punctuation to underscore the experience which was his alone. “I have been to Germany. I have met the German people and men high up in their government. They are not the barbarians you are describing!
“I fled this country, running for my son's life, the only son I had left, because the press hounded us like a pack of wild dogs! They showed no respect for our privacy. They sold our suffering for a nickel in the early edition and made it so dangerous for my family that we had to escape to Europe. Even there, I was always looking over my shoulder. I've never slept through the night again, always lying awake, listening for the scrape of a ladder against the wall of the house, or the creak of a window opening in the nursery.” His voice broke for just a moment. I looked into his eyes, expecting to see tears, but all I could see was rage. He continued speaking, more softly, but with smoldering intensity.
“In all those years, in all those countries, the only place I felt safe was Germany. No reporters hounded us, no one asked questions they shouldn't. We were treated with respect. Everyone knew his business and kept to it. The government wouldn't have tolerated anything less. If the war tensions hadn't been so high, we probably would have stayed. I'd asked Anne to look for a house. It was the only peace I've had since ...”
My heart melted for him. The pain, the terrible, unimaginable pain I'd felt come upon him the night Baby Charles was taken had scarred him even more than I'd feared. It had left him blind.
“Oh, Slim,” I mourned, wanting to cry, if only because he couldn't cry for himself. “I am sorry, so very sorry for all that you've been through. I'm glad you found some healing in Germany, even if it didn't last. Maybe you were right about Germans at that moment in time. Maybe they were a civilized society before the war. Maybe Hitler has been only recently corrupted by power. But maybe not. Has it occurred to you that they may have been using you, filtering what you saw and manipulating you so you would go back to America and say just what you did—that Germany was too strong to be contained so we should just stay out of it?”
For an instant I thought I saw a flicker of doubt in his eye, but I don't know for sure. If I did he quickly extinguished it and left my question unanswered. The implacable mask was back.
“Slim,” I said urgently, pleading for him to listen, “these rumors about what is going on in Europe aren't just stories. A friend of mine has a brother who lives in Holland, and he writes the most awful letters. He has seen it with his own eyes. Thousands of people have disappeared! When Hitler's army conquers a city, it brings soldiers, tanks, guns, and boxcars. Mile after mile of freight cars roll into the stations, and the soldiers fill them with whoever they consider undesirable, mostly Jews. They stuff them in like so many cattle going to the slaughterhouse. Then the trains pull away, and no one ever hears from the passengers again. Their names are removed from the mailboxes and painted over on the shop windows. New people move in: good, loyal members of the Nazi party. They live in empty Jewish houses and sit in chairs that don't belong to them, and people forget who used to live there, just like they never existed. No one knows how many. No one even bothers to count.”

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