To the End of the War (24 page)

At times, Johnny felt like angrily grabbing Weidmann by the shoulders and asking him if he was blind, if he didn’t know, and telling him to do something about it, to write Washington, or to go to Second Army Memphis, to fight back without suffering pointlessly. But the immense reserve Weidmann kept wrapped about him forced Johnny to be silent. Washington and Memphis were pipedreams anyway, and Johnny knew it. Occasionally his sense of injustice boiled over into anger, and he would quit work and spend the rest of the evening in the PX distending his stomach with 3.2 beer in a fruitless effort to get drunk as hell. But he never went on the evenings Isaac sang.

One evening, Weidmann stepped to the open door to listen. Isaac’s voice came across the cold air clear as a bell, each note distinct yet the whole slurred slightly together, as a man in great pain will slur his sentences. Weidmann stood tall and stooped, leaning on his hand against the wall, relaxed as if he were accepting without reservation, were escaping into the tortured music of Isaac’s voice.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Johnny asked, feeling he ought to talk. After he uttered them, the words sounded crude and blunt. The chants of Isaac’s voice were too far above description to be labeled with anything so commonplace as “beautiful.”

Weidmann turned back with his peculiarly twisted smile. “Yes. Yes, it’s beautiful.” He sat down at his desk and cocked his feet up on it. It was an unthinking gesture of possession, and Johnny could not help wondering if Weidmann did it because he did not expect to be able to do it long. “Isaac’s voice is beautiful because Isaac’s religion is a part of him, as much as his testicles or the hair on his arms. Isaac’s religion is a formality that goes above formality and becomes informal, an intimate part of each man.”

“It gets me. I’ve never heard anything quite like it before.”

“And you never will again—outside of a Jewish synagogue. But it’s been going on for centuries, always the same. And I suppose it will continue to go on for centuries, probably till the world ends. That stuff about two thousand years of pain and agony is old and trite: Every poet’s had a crack at it, and now the radio commentators are getting their chance. Still it’s there: It’s true, none the less. Isaac knows it, it’s bred in him, he feels it, just like he feels his teeth. He couldn’t escape it if he wanted to.”

“Why should he want to?”

“Want to? I don’t know. Lots of us do. Maybe it’s because he wants to feel that he’s the same as other men, acceptable to other men as they accept each other. But the moment he
wants
acceptance, he’s admitting that he doesn’t have it. I guess other people feel that, and they immediately think he’s trying to leap over his own sense of inferiority. Did you ever notice that as soon as anyone
wants
something badly, almost everybody else automatically tries to stop him from getting it?”

“Yes. I’ve noticed it.” Johnny was thinking about what Eddie Marion had told him about work and efficiency: People don’t want you to love your work. The minute they find out you do, they try to talk you out of loving it and take up playing pool. People instinctively seem to fear a man who loves his work and is efficient in it. That may be because they sense their own inefficiency; or it may be because they feel such a thing is inhuman. I’ve fought it all my life.

“The most common way is through money,” Weidmann said. “A Jew thinks if he makes enough money, he’ll be acceptable and so will be able to escape that indescribable loneliness in Isaac’s voice. But in the end it’s always useless.

“For the next thousand years the Germans may have to undergo what the Jews have suffered for the last thousand. A race without a home. A race turned back upon the memory of its former glory. It’s all in Isaac’s voice. A punishment for too great an arrogance.”

“The Wandering Jew,” said Johnny musingly. “Then that’s a symbol, isn’t it?” Weidmann nodded. “I think that’s one of the most sorrowful stories I’ve ever heard.”

Weidmann smiled, “It is. It’s a pitiful story. And that’s just the trouble. Pity implies condescension.”

“I’ve never thought of it just like that before.” Johnny put aside his work and lit a cigaret, leaned back in his chair. “I’ve thought about it a lot, too. The reason for it, I mean. Fear maybe, hatred, arrogance—all on the part of the Gentiles, too. I never can quite figure it out. I find I have a strong antipathy to most Jews. Miami Beach is the place to experiment with your own reactions. It’s hard for me to be civil to most Jews, especially there. They hog the sidewalk, they bull in ahead of you, they run the rents racket there. They’re loud-mouthed and crude to boot.”

“I know,” Weidmann said. “They do do that. It’s a very hard thing to be pitied. It’s almost worse than being hated. I find I have a hard time trying to keep from wearing a chip on my shoulder—because I’m a Jew, and because I know how most people feel toward a Jew.” Weidmann took down his feet and leaned back in his swivel chair.

“I’d like to go over some time and hear Isaac sing,” Johnny said.

“Why can’t you?”

“Oh, you know how it is. I’d feel like I was intruding where I had no right to be. I feel it’s something private—I saw a guide taking a bunch of tourists through a Chinese church in Honolulu once. Besides, I’m afraid seeing Isaac would spoil it. When I hear him now, it’s like hearing a disembodied voice. I can’t associate Isaac in ODs with that voice.”

“You needn’t worry on that score. He’ll be wearing the formal robes. We’re like the Catholics: We’ll have our robes and formality, even here.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No,” said Weidmann shortly. “I haven’t. I stopped going a long time ago. I wanted to live my life and make my way as an individual, completely apart from any race or creed.” His twisted smile was like a sardonic laughter at himself. “How are you making out with those Service Records?” It was a polite indication that he wanted to go no further with that line of conversation.

“Pretty good,” said Johnny. He stuffed out his cigaret and drew his chair back up to the desk.

“I’ve got a new job for you tomorrow,” said Weidmann with a grin. “A good one. A new Second Army idea. A chart with fifty-six items on it, a line for each man in the company. It’s to see at a glance if each man’s prepared for overseas. You have to check each item with each man’s Service Record and enter the data on the chart.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Shouldn’t take you over two weeks’ hard work.” The work went on. The thumbscrews tightened around Weidmann, but still the work went on, just as if there were no impending disaster. Weidmann refused to give up his belief that he, as an individual, could make his own way, his own success. Johnny watched him going down with admiration. For some reason, it is always the man who goes down fighting overwhelming odds that is the most greatly admired. Perhaps it is because other men always wish they had the nerve to forego their security and fight for what they really want against the million to one odds that say they cannot attain it. They ache to take up arms in their own fruitless lost cause, but they so seldom do.

The first blow fell on Big Red, the first sergeant. An old Regular Army first sergeant was imported to take Red’s place. He was one of those unofficial inspectors who go around from outfit to outfit straightening them out. This time his job was more to seal it up and affix the stamp of doom. Big Red was offered a sop: He could have his old staff sergeant’s rating back and take a transfer to another company. Red thought it over and turned it down. He would rather stay in the company as a private. After he was busted, he was transferred anyway, on the grounds that a former first sergeant serving in the same company as a private was bad for discipline. Red stayed in camp, but in another company. He spent all his time off over in the old company barracks, talking to the guys. He was glad to be a private again, he said, no responsibility, no work, just do as you’re told. He would grin, but his boisterous grin seemed to have taken on some of the characteristics of Weidmann’s twisted one.

Several of the men protested to Weidmann, but Weidmann was powerless. Red’s bust had come down from Second Army. The new first sergeant was working direct from there. He ran the company his own way, through Weidmann, and if Weidmann tried to argue with his suggestions he went over Weidmann’s head.

The new first sergeant worked with Johnny in the office. He was surprised to find another Regular Army man here who seemed to know the clerical ropes. He spent a good bit of time telling Johnny what was wrong with Weidmann as an officer, as if he were trying to justify himself. He knew the whole story on the setup and told it to Johnny.

There were several officers up at Second Army who had nothing to do. They had been promised commands in one of the new companies being activated, but orders from War Department had superseded that promise. They were being used temporarily as inspectors but that couldn’t go on forever. If they were found no place, they’d have to go into “nigger” companies. These boys had worked together before, and they were all well connected at Second Army, Weidmann’s company was being opened up for them.

With Big Red gone, the Company muled and balked. Several men went over the hill. Nobody could get any work out of them, least of all Weidmann.

A week after Red had gone, Johnny walked into the office and found a stranger sitting behind Weidmann’s desk, a big husky ham-handed flat-nosed captain named Dupree. Johnny recognized him as the recent supply inspector. He had been in position to do himself good, and he hadn’t let it go by: The supply reports were some of the worst marks against Weidmann. Captain Dupree handed Johnny a copy of the new Special Orders, just cut. They stated that Captain Frank M Dupree was to proceed immediately to take over Lieutenant Weidmann’s command.

Dupree was a disciplinarian. As he told Johnny, he had come up the hard way, from the ranks, and discipline was the thing; Dupree knew. Weidmann stayed in the company as second in command. This was a deliberate slap in the face.

The furlough and pass restrictions were immediately lifted, as soon as Dupree took over. He gave out three-day passes and fifteen-day furloughs galore. Weidmann had to sit by and watch. The men in the company became happy again. AWOLs dropped down to nothing.

Thompson was the first to go. He was given command of a Negro Gasoline Supply Company, for some reason considered a comedown for an officer who had been with white troops.

Johnny’s name came up on the furlough list, but Dupree couldn’t spare him. He kept on doing the work he had done before. He made the papers out and laid them on the desk and Dupree signed them. Dupree was a disciplinarian. Johnny would be working in Dupree’s office and Dupree would be sitting behind the desk. The phone, which sat on Dupree’s desk, would ring and Dupree would say: “Get the phone, Sergeant.” Johnny would have to get up, walk across the room, answer the phone, and hand it to Dupree when the party asked for the company commander—as they always did. Then he could go back and continue his work.

Needless to say, Johnny did not like Dupree any better than he liked the pinch-faced captain in the 26th Division, but at least here he had the solace of losing himself completely in the details of work. He still worked savagely, because there was never time enough to do all that needed to be done, there were always two or three unfinished jobs that needed attention. But he did not enjoy working as he had enjoyed it before Dupree took over. Intangibly, the sense of unity in the office had been destroyed when Dupree came. When Dupree worked, he worked for approbation; the work in itself or the satisfaction of a job well done held nothing for him. Dupree was less concerned with the work and getting the work done than he was with the impression he and his company made on higher Second Army officers. Dupree, with an utter lack of self-consciousness, used Weidmann whenever he needed his advice or help, Johnny detested seeing Weidmann sitting around doing nothing in his former office at the beck and call of Dupree, waiting for Dupree to ask questions and advice about how such and such a thing was done.

Weidmann didn’t seem to mind the indignity. He let Dupree order him around like a lackey without any sort of protest, spoken or unspoken. The only change in him was that he didn’t work hard; he didn’t seem to give a damn if all the work got done or not. The only hint of the humiliation he was suffering came from his smile; where before it had been sardonic, now it was caustic; where it had been bitter, it was now vitriolic. Johnny was surprised when Isaac Rabinowitz told him in the course of a conversation that Weidmann had started coming to services. Isaac was surprised, too; it was the first time he had seen Weidmann in church.

Dupree was especially hard on Lieutenant Bird, the motor officer. Bird was what Dupree considered a diapered intellectual, and Captain Dupree made no effort to soft-pedal his sarcasm, even in the presence of enlisted men. He made it quite plain that he wanted to get Bird out of his company as soon as possible. Bird was unhappy and he picked Johnny to talk to, probably because he and Johnny had had some longwinded conversations about books and literature. Johnny made a mental note of this. It seemed invariably that the main tiling which broke down the class distinction between officers and himself was intelligent conversation; literature seemed to be the love that laughed at the locksmith of military discipline. Of course, that didn’t fit with a man like Dupree, but to Johnny it was for some reason a consoling thought. He wondered what provision army policy made for literature. Bird had ideas; he had written Washington applying for the Allied Military Government School. He figured his training in international law would get him in. It was the only way he could see to beat the rap that was being pinned on all of them, he was sitting on pins and needles hoping the order came from Washington before he was kicked out and assigned to another outfit.

After Thompson, the Scot, Weidmann was next to go. He was also sent back to commanding a “nigger” company. When his orders came in, Johnny was sitting up in the room he shared with the two other non-coms, and Weidmann came up to say goodby to him, an unprecedented thing for an officer to do. Johnny was the only person in the company Weidmann said goodby to. He thanked Johnny for the help he had been, even if it hadn’t turned out so well, he added with his grin of gall. He left then, and Johnny never saw him again. He was the only officer whose home address, civilian address, Johnny had ever asked for. Johnny found out from Isaac that Weidmann kept on coming to church. Isaac couldn’t understand it; Isaac didn’t like religion, he only went to church so he could sing.