Volk (3 page)

“If thee is quite through—” Quality said, nudging him gently. She teased him sometimes about his vanity. She never seemed to touch up her own face, yet she always looked prim. Perhaps it came with inner goodness.

The rain had finally eased. They got out of the car, emerging into a drizzle becoming too fine to heed; only the irregular puddles impeded progress. They walked toward a garishly illuminated establishment a block distant.

“That will not do,” Quality said as they drew close enough to make out the neon lettering.

“Oh—beer, ale” Lane said. “You don't drink.” He said that for Ernst's benefit. Germany was famous for beer, and Lane did not want there to seem to be any obscure affront.

“Sensible people do not,” Ernst said tactfully. “Perhaps there is a more suitable place beyond.”

They resumed walking. At that point the door to the bar burst open and four men staggered out in an ambiance of alcohol. The first almost collided with Quality. “Look at that!” he exclaimed, his beer-breath surrounding her.

Quality averted her gaze, and Lane took her by the elbow and guided her around the stranger. At this moment she reminded him of a Christian Temperance lady, and it bothered him to have her sensitivities bruised by these oafs.

“Hey!” the man cried, lurching about, reaching for Quality. The reek of his breath intensified. But Ernst's forearm intercepted him.

“Please let us pass in peace,” Ernst said, gently setting the man back.

But the drunkard swung his fist instead. Ernst blocked the blow and shoved the man back again, so that he collided with his fellows. “Please let us pass,” he repeated without emphasis.

The man should have taken warning, because Ernst's physical competence was readily apparent. But he had the belligerence of befuddlement. “What are you, a Communist?” he demanded.

“I am a Nazi.” Ernst turned stiffly to follow Lane and Quality. If there was one thing a Nazi hated, it was Communism, Lane knew. Ernst hardly showed it, but he had been deeply insulted.

“A Nazi!” Now all four men were pressing forward aggressively, discovering the opportunity to convert their drunken ire into patriotism. It was all right to beat up a Nazi.

“That wasn't diplomatic, friend,” Lane said, turning quickly around.

“No fighting!” Quality protested. But it was too late. The four drunks were wading in.

“Stand clear, girl,” Lane said. “This is a job for us warmongers.” She skipped back hastily.

Lane and Ernst made contact with the first two men almost simultaneously. Suddenly the two drunks were hoisted in the air, whirled about, and half-shoved, half-hurled into the remaining two. All four collapsed in a heap.

“Compliments of the two leading members of the collegiate wrestling team,” Lane said, dusting himself off and clapping his friend on the shoulder. It was hard to conceal his satisfaction, but Quality's stern gaze assisted him.

The fight was gone from the drunks. Lane and Ernst turned around again and rejoined Quality.

“That would not have been a fair match even had they not been intoxicated,” she reproved them. But her sympathy for brawling drunks was quite limited, and she knew the four men had not been hurt. It occurred to Lane that even a pacifist like her could appreciate certain advantages in associating with nonpacifists like him. What would she have done if she had encountered the drunks alone? But he knew the answer: she would never have gone near a bar alone.

They found a suitable place to eat. They relaxed and became college students again. They were all the same age and had many common enthusiasms, and the summer was just beginning.

By the time they returned to the car, the drunks were gone. The rain had dwindled to nothing, leaving a rather pretty nocturnal clarity.

Lane's thoughts drifted from the tedious drive. That scar on his face, glimpsed in the mirror—that had a history that returned at odd moments, especially when he was depressed or tired. He was tired now. The night road reminded him of the streets of his home region, not so very far from here. His father was a mason and a Mason—in the employment and social senses—in the Troy/Albany section of New York State. Mr. Dowling had been there most of his life and was well established. Lane had been granted material comforts from infancy, never going hungry or poorly clothed, always having the best of education and entertainment. Odd how far that missed the truth of his upbringing.

He glanced at his companions, as if fearful that his thoughts were being overheard. Both were nodding. Quality had let her head fall back against the cushion, so that her smooth neck was exposed; it was not an ideal pose, but she remained pretty, her delicately rounded chin projecting, her petite bosom heaving gently. Ernst, in back, had slumped against the window, one arm elevated to cushion his head; his neck too was exposed, showing the muscles and cords. He had a wrestlers neck, of course; he could not be choked by any ordinary person, because his neck was too strong. He was the very best companion to have, when encountering pugnacious drunks—and excellent also in intellectual conversation. The German believed in the so-called Aryan ideal, the perfect white Christian—though at times Lane doubted whether it was even Christianity the Nazis ultimately sought—physically and mentally pure by their definitions. Ernst was that ideal, as smart and strong and handsome as a man could be without being obvious.

Ernst and Quality: two unique people, his closest associates. It had been Lane's minor grief that they did not get along with each other, since each was so important to him. Yet he was well able to understand their fundamental separation. A Nazi and a pacifist? There was no way such people could enjoy each other's company! They did have certain areas of common ground, in that each could speak Spanish, but they never spoke it to each other. Ernst was the son of a minor or middling embassy official—the kind who did all the work and never got the credit—who had been assigned in Madrid for two or three years, so of course Ernst had picked it up. Since Ernst never let a talent go once he had it, he surely spoke Spanish fluently now. Quality had started Spanish as an elective course in high-school and continued it in college. She had taken French too, with what fluency Lane didn't know because he spoke no language other than English. He was good at airplanes, not tongues. But probably she was good at both French and Spanish, because she had a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. Perhaps it derived from her empathy with people; she could communicate with anyone, one way or another.

Lane pictured himself in a small airplane, with Quality beside him, passenger rather than co-pilot. They were flying high up above the clouds, and she was thrilled. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

Someone spoke in Spanish. Lane could not understand the words, but he recognized the general nature of the language. It was Ernst, in a seat behind. Quality answered in the same language.

“Hey, speak English!” Lane protested.

But they ignored him, and continued their dialogue, to his annoyance. What were they saying, that was so important, that had to be hidden from him?

Well, he would show them! He swerved the plane to the left—

A horn blared, startling him. Lane blinked; headlights were flashing in his rearview mirror, alternately blinding him and leaving his vision darkened. Quality was stifling a scream. What was happening? Was the driver behind him crazy?

He pulled to the right, slowing, to let the impatient one by. “I'd like to ram you, you idiot!” he muttered.

“Peace, friend,” Ernst said. “We were sleeping. He gave us warning.”

“You were sleeping,” Lane retorted. “I was driving.” But as he spoke, he realized that he had had to pull too far to the right. His left wheel had been across the center line. He had in fact been dreaming, and his swerve to the left could have wrecked them.

“Cancel that. I was drifting off.” His anger was shading into retroactive consternation; this was dangerous.

“Perhaps we should stop and rest,” Quality said. Her voice was strained. “Thee is naturally tired.”

“Can't,” Lane replied. “We have to get Ernst to New York immediately.”

“We do not know that it is an emergency,” Ernst protested. “Only that my father is concerned.”

“If he's like you, his concern is anyone else's emergency,” Lane said.

Ernst did not demur. “Yet it is not wise to drive tired. Perhaps I should after all—”

“No, I'm okay.” Indeed, he was now absolutely awake. He was aware that he seemed unreasonable, and probably
was
unreasonable, but he could not help himself; to turn over the wheel now would be a sign of weakness. Of course if Quality were to make an issue, he would have to back down. But she could not drive herself; her conservative Quaker family had not yet seen the need for her to indulge in such activity. Maybe they thought that might have made her too independent. “I'll be all right.”

“Certainly.” Ernst nevertheless looked alert. It was evident that he intended to see that there was no more nodding while driving.

Quality cast about for a positive solution. “We were wrong to leave it all to Lane. We must maintain a dialogue.”

“I do not seek to impose my words on you,” Ernst said.

She turned her head to face back toward him. “I have made my peace with thee, as well as I am able. It is not thy fault that I abhor elements of thy situation. I do not seek to be uncivil.”

“Nor I. But on what subjects may we maintain an dialogue that is neither dull nor objectionable?”

“Play the game of Truth,” Lane said, chuckling. “We take turns asking each other questions, and the answers must be absolutely truthful, or there is a penalty.”

“I always speak the truth,” Quality said. “Those of my faith do not practice a double standard.”

She meant that literally, Lane knew. Strict Quakers refused even to take an oath, because that implied that they might be untruthful at other times. So they did not swear, they affirmed. They did not swear in the colloquial sense, either, as Quality had already reminded him on this trip. There, again, was the essence of her appeal for him: her honor, her sheer consistency in life. She had been so aptly named that it was a marvel; she was quality.

Nevertheless, he could challenge her. “But there are questions you avoid. In this game you can not avoid them.”

She nodded, reconsidering. It was Ernst who spoke. “The Nazi and the pacifist speaking truth! This game is dangerous.”

Quality glanced back at him, then at Lane. Probably she was trying to decide between the risks of candor and those of a sleepy driver. Candor won. “I will play it.”

“Then so will I,” Ernst said. “Until it becomes unkind; then I will default.”

“I'll lead off,” Lane said. “And I'll state one other rule: we have to take turns answering. To ensure that, the one who answers a question will be the one to ask the next question. We don't have to go resolutely clockwise, in fact we don't want any order fixed, but if someone gets left out more that a couple of turns, he'll have to answer until he catches up.” He paused, and no one objected. “First question: Quality, exactly what do you have against Nazism?”

“This is not fair of thee!” she protested.

“No, answer, then ask me to respond,” Ernst suggested.

She considered. “Very well. I regard Adolph Hitler as what Lane would call a posturing pipsqueak, an accident of history who has floated to the top of the German political caldron like the froth on sewer water. The man is an unscrupulous demagogue and hideous racist, and his chief lieutenants are little more than thugs. The movement he espouses is similarly ugly. I have difficulty understanding how any person of conscience can support Nazism.” She took a breath. “Now I ask thee, Ernst, for thy response.”

Lane made a silent whistle. She had surprised him by really socking it to the German. She might be a pacifist, but she had fighting spirit.

“There are many answers I might give,” Ernst said slowly. “I might point out that other lands have their demagogues and their racists, and that nowhere is virtue necessarily rewarded in politics. I might mention Franklin Roosevelt of America, and the mistress he keeps despite being married. But we have touched on the faults of America before; they are no worse than the faults of other nations, including my own. I will say that while I do not support everything in which the Nazi party may be involved, and that there are those who owe their positions to factors other than merit, I strongly disagree about the
Führer
being either inconsequential or evil. I met him, two years ago, and I believe he is a great man, the kind of leader Germany requires in desperate times. He lifted us out of our slough of despond and made us powerful again. His programs have greatly helped the youth of our nation, and I am one who has benefited. I am here at this moment because Hitler arranged it, indirectly. He sees to the welfare of the brightest of our nation. I can not do less than applaud that.” He passed his hand inside his shirt and drew out a small object on a chain about his neck. It was a silver swastika. “This is why I value this symbol of Nazism, and wear it always. It represents my devotion to the Nazi ideal.”

“But the racism—” she protested, staring at the swastika with a certain morbid fascination.

“Nuh-uh,” Lane cut in. “No back talk. Wait your next turn.”

“She merely reminds me of an aspect I had neglected,” Ernst said. “The Nazis are not racists. We merely seek to promote the greatest welfare of our kind. We believe in encouraging the fittest, and in discouraging those who are detrimental to our society. Hitler discovered that the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, mentally unfit, Communists and some others were not contributing to the welfare of the whole. Therefore he prefers to have them go to those lands where they may be welcome. We consider this to be good management.”

Quality seemed unconvinced, but did not protest again.