The Rift Page 28
When the major had first seen Billy, he had looked at the handsome face, his tall, thin body and the self-assured manner, and developed an immediate dislike for him. What diluted his dislike was the warmth of the man, and his intellect. Billy was a very intelligent young man, perhaps someone he could talk to about Homer or Robert Burns. As he listened to the lieutenant, he was always conscious of the general. It was the next to last day when the shackles fell from the body of Meredith Marchand Somersville.
As he sat that evening, he saw Lieutenant Housman walk by, looking in, no doubt curious why the major sat in the dark. The appearance galvanized him. He would not return home to a cold meal and Virginia. He would write the report tonight.
---
The major stood before the general. He had stood at attention for five minutes while the general pretended to read what he and Colonel Dodd had read several times, and discussed. The colonel was not present.
“How many copies have you made of the report, Major?” “Three in addition to the copy you have, sir.”
“Would you see to it that all copies are delivered to me personally, Major?” “Yes, sir.” The major knew there were four, but he would claim ignorance of the one his secretary routinely filed in a file of all reports he produced.
“I was surprised at your report, Major. Your interpretation of what happened to Lieutenant Housman shows little regard to military discipline and military justice.”
The major watched the general’s face redden. He thought he saw hate for a man who was intellectually more powerful and had used his intellect to subordinate the general’s own position of power.
“You make this man a hero.” “Yes, General, I believe he was.”
“You say he was more effective than most units in Mexico in killing Villistas.” “I think the facts will bear that out, sir.”
The general suddenly stood, and pounded his fist on the desk, staring at the major, who still stood at attention. He stared into the eyes of the major, who looked back at him calmly. He felt the chill of the cold stare and remembered somewhere about the major saving his company. The general felt his hate for this man grow. He is taking out his revenge on me, the little weasel. For all those years we sat him behind a desk, he is making me pay. For a moment, he continued to stare, then, regaining control, he sat back down.
“You make the argument that no opportunity presented itself to return.” The general bore in on his adversary. “If that was true, major, how did he find time to ambush Colonel Lopez? How did he find time to rescue the two girls? Is it not true, major, that he could have left that morning?” Looking into the major’s face, hoping to wear him down and send him back to change his conclusions, he found his own eyes begin to dance around the edges of the major’s round face.
“Our army, general, has taken every opportunity to attack the Villistas. Lieutenant Housman was not dressed in the uniform of the American army, but he was still a soldier. He did what Pershing has ordered to be done. He attacked the Villistas.” He suddenly found that he had no more reason to control his anger at the army or the general in front of him. “Would you, general, want to shoot a man whom the American people will consider a hero?”
The redness was gone now. The general’s face, thought the major, had turned chalk white. Then the face grew hard. This was a man also decorated in the Spanish war and many Indian campaigns. He had learned that some battles are lost, and it was the war that was important. He considered another tack. The support of his senior officers depending on his support for any one of them. Colonel Dodd expected the young lieutenant would be court-martialed. He was prepared to offer the major a command, but something warned him. To be rebuked, as he now knew he would be, would be too much to bear.
“I will send your recommendations to the board, together with Colonel Dodd’s and my own, Major.”
The major had stood at attention for an hour. He would not ask to stand at ease. Finally, after the general had closed the report, straightened his desk, and lit his pipe, then got up and walked toward the window. Standing there, facing away from the major, he spoke.
“That will be all, Major.”
As he walked outside into the bright Texas sun, he saw the young lieutenant walking toward him. Passing, he raised his right hand casually to his cap. He smiled warmly.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” His eyes shifted quickly to Private Bitters, then back. “It seems the army is still providing you with your own personal escort.”
Billy turned to watch the major walk jauntily toward his tiny office. He turned and continued his walk. The same each day, he felt the eyes of the fort on him. He, and they, would soon know.
---
The secretary stood behind his desk, reading in the light of the window that provided him with a grand view of the Potomac. Despite the fans, it was hot. Washington, he thought, is the hottest place on earth. He thought about the flimsy basis for his conclusion. It must be, he decided. As he read the letter, he shouted to the empty room.
“Who is Lieutenant William Housman?”
Immediately, the door was opened by a young assistant, Mortimer P. Mortimer.
“I’m sorry sir, did you want something?”
Calmer now. “I want to know who in the hell is Lieutenant William Housman.”
The secretary of state, William Hoff Bell, knew a lot about Billy Housman, but not enough. This morning he had read the letter from the Mexican foreign minister. The letter began and ended ceremoniously, observing all the protocols that had built up over the hundreds of years between nation-states. It was the middle paragraphs that first surprised, then angered, then shocked the secretary.
“On June 28, we were advised in Mexico City of the murder of twenty Mexican citizens in the state of Chihuahua near the town of Bachinava. An investigation by our army revealed that the citizens were killed by an American named William Housman. Our reports, which we consider most reliable, note that the American was a member of the American army, attached to the Seventh Cavalry commanded by Colonel Dodd.
Given the gravity of this incident, a reasonable course of action according to international law and protocols of behavior is for the United States government to release Lieutenant Housman into our custody to be charged under Mexican law. While the incident represents but one which has caused the government of Mexico to protest to the United States and the international court at the Hague, it is a matter of such importance that we ask that it be dealt with separately.”
“This, I do not need, Mortimer.” “Yes sir, I understand, sir.”
And from this conversation with Mortimer P. Mortimer, what became known in the State Department cafeteria as the Morty solution was put into effect. Billy Housman vanished from the roles of the Seventh Cavalry, and not the colonel, not even the general, was allowed to mention his name. Before they cashiered Major Somersville out for lacking sufficient aptitude for the modern army, he was informed that he never conducted the interviews, under threat of losing his pension, and Corporal Bitters was reminded that he had not escorted a Lieutenant William Housman about the fort’s grounds. Among those receiving this message, young Bitters had the hardest time accepting this new reality. The extra stripe eased his mind greatly.
Because the legwork was done by Mortimer, he was allowed to prepare the draft of the letter from Secretary Bell to Foreign Minister Velasquez. Although the twenty-three revisions before it was signed altered the letter to a degree, the Under-Secretary-to-be Mortimer often boasted that the substance of the letter changed little.
Stripping it of its civilities and inanities in the first and last paragraphs, the middle paragraph captured the substance of what the Secretary wanted to say.
“A search of our military records failed to uncover a soldier named William Housman missing from the Seventh Cavalry during that time. There have been rumors of German activity in the area during that period, which leads our government to suggest that the government of Mexico explore the possibility of a German citizen using
the English vernacular of a United States citizen while claiming to be the same. The United States government stands ready to assist in any manner possible to assure continued good relations with the government of Mexico.”
Twenty-four hours after the letter from Secretary Bell, Billy had delivered to him an envelope from the general of the Southwest Command. In it were orders granting him two weeks of leave.
“Pursuant to Army Regulations 2406-3, you are hereby granted two weeks of leave effective at 0800 hours on August 22, 1916, ending at 2400 hours September 5, 1916. Upon completion of leave, you are to report to Building 9, Room 37 at Ft. Belvoir, Virginia, traveling by train and reporting no later than 2400 hours on September 9, 1916. Your travel authorization to be handed to the ticket agent in Denver is enclosed.”
---
It was nearly midnight when the train pulled into Union Station. As he stepped onto the platform, he saw a tall, young man with a wrinkled, white cotton suit walk toward him. He was about his age, Billy thought; his feet seemed to splay as he walked, much like the walk of a circus clown. Curly red hair, glasses. Despite the summertime, his complexion was pasty white. When he reached out his hand with its long, bony fingers, it collapsed as Billy took it. The young man from Colorado almost recoiled from the cool dampness of the young man’s hand, but pressed it warmly instead.
“Hello, I’m Billy Housman. Are you David?”
“David Penchansky, yes. We have a car waiting in front of the station.”
As they walked together, Billy noted the strong accent. He was not surprised. So many Europeans had come to America in the last twenty years that hearing many foreign languages being spoken on the streets of large cities came as no surprise. Billy could not keep himself from wondering about the origin of the accent, but he would not ask. David would tell him or he would find out at the base.
As they walked to the front of the great station with its marble facade, the air was warm and thick. Two weeks in Colorado had spoiled him. He had ridden into the mountains with Father, feeling the chilly night air, sleeping under wool blankets. Now, the air seemed so thick with moisture that he had the feeling of walking chest-deep in water. The sweat poured into his eyes as they walked, and his jacket began to show wet spots beneath the arms.
“It is not so different from Ukraine where I was born. The winters can be very cold, but the summers can be hot like this, also. Denver is very different, is that not true?”
“I have never spent a summer in Washington, so I can’t say for sure. But certainly, this evening comes as a shock. Even in--” Billy started to say Mexico and caught himself. “...eastern Colorado, on the plains, I don’t think it is like this.”
“There is the car from Fort Belvoir. They will take you to your quarters and drop me off nearby. I can walk to the fort from where I live. You will find the fort beautiful, I think.”
While in Denver, Billy had learned that the tall, young man would be his Russian language teacher. Billy had learned to speak French in school as a boy, and learned Spanish from the Housman servants and while traveling with Father. But Russian was something very different. He remembered listening to two people speaking Russian on a street corner in Denver. He tried to pick up words he might be able to understand. He could not. There were interpreters at the fort, but he decided he must learn the language.
He had arrived Saturday night. Sunday morning, and Billy had been informed by the duty officer that nothing would be happening until the next day. Then, he should report to Building 9, Room 37 at 0800. He was able to obtain a pass and walk off the post, to see the countryside on the Virginia side of the Potomac. He had walked from the fort to a path beside the river, watching the sailboats on the river and the fishermen who had spread themselves along the banks. From where he stood, he saw the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials close to the River and in the distance, the dome of the Capitol, shining in the morning sun. Although he was not born in America, he loved his country deeply. As he read the accounts of the war in Europe, and saw the awful poverty in Mexico, he knew he was blessed to live in a land with so much. He thought of the beautiful faces of the Mexican children, who by the accident of being born below an invisible line were condemned to lives of misery. His mind drifted. He was in Santa Maria, with Theresa’s cool hand on his brow. He felt her face close to him, he could smell the sweetness of her breath, and the touch of her silken hair on his cheek. Billy could see her smile as he said goodbye that morning.
“I see you have found a wonderful place to look upon the Capitol.” David was standing there. In a white cotton shirt and canvas shoes, Billy saw someone different.
“I was thinking how blessed we are, David.”
“For most, yes. For you and I, most certainly, Billy.”
---
The skies were beginning to cloud over, the sun which had brightened his spirits, was gone. Still, he was feeling good. He watched Tomas riding away from the castle. Perhaps, in a few days, they could go hunting as they did last fall.
He turned from the window to find Erika standing in the doorway. The war had been hard on Erika. Frail by nature, her auburn hair had begun to show strands of gray at her temples. Dark circles had formed under her deep-set, soft gray eyes, and tiny lines appeared around the edges of her mouth. Gone was the merry laughter that caused heads to turn in a crowd. Erika had lost one brother at Liège in August, two years ago, three days after the German Army crossed the Belgian border. Another had lost an arm in the same British attack. Only mother Maria’s presence had saved her sanity; Mother listened to her sorrow and helped her manage the castle. The letters from the Embassy in Washington DC all said the same thing. The staff of the Embassy had contacted the Housmans in Denver and the Housmans had denied that they had adopted a boy from Africa or that they had ever heard of James Alfred Fleming. For a year, his mother had written letters to the Housmans, tactfully asking if they might have heard of such a boy while they were in Africa. She had not received a reply. They knew they had found Willie, but how could they get in touch with him? When the war was over, Friederich promised his family, he would go to America and find Willie.
In the distance he could hear the hoof beats. It was Simba, Tomas’s stallion. Tomas was coming back from his visit to the village. As he stood, he watched Tomas dismount and begin walking toward him. Closing the file, he waited for his son. Tomorrow, he thought, Tomas von Mecklenburg will be ten years old. As he watched the boy with the black hair and dark eyes, he saw Willie. Willie and Tomas had been born in the same month.
PART FIVE
Chapter One
With five million German marks supplied by the German Treasury, thirty-two Russian émigrés left Zurich, and passed through Germany by train. On the train were nineteen Bolsheviks, six members of the Jewish Bund, and three followers of Trotsky. Among the Russian passengers was the leader of the Bolsheviks, Nicolai Lenin. Germans talked about the train as it passed by because it had only two passenger cars. One was filled with Russians, the second by their German escort. When it reached Berlin, it stopped. After twenty hours, the train began to move north again.
From Berlin the train moved to the Baltic port of Sassnitz, where the Russians boarded a steamer bound for Sweden. On arrival, they were welcomed by the mayor of Stockholm and escorted to the capital. One day later, the Russian Embassy delivered visas to all but one of the passengers and they embarked for Petrograd. Three days later, less than an hour before midnight, they arrived in St. Petersburg; it was the middle of April 1917.
The arrival was watched by a young American army officer attached to the American Embassy. Only two months since his arrival, Lieutenant Housman still found it difficult to ignore the bitter cold which bit his face, and numbed his hands and feet. Dressed in a heavy woolen greatcoat and beaver hat, his presence had been noticed by the many security guards who circulated in the crowds. This was the final day of the All-Russian Bolshevik Conference. At the urging of the Petrograd committee, a great crowd had gathered at the Finla
nd station awaiting the arrival of their leader. As the train came to a halt, and Lenin appeared, the brass band boomed the Marseillaise, and the guard sprang to attention.
When Billy had been assigned to the Russian Information Center at Fort Belvoir, he had attacked his billet as he attacked any challenge. Late into the night he had studied Russian history. With the help of David he had spent hour upon hour studying the language with his Russian immigrant tutor and listening, then speaking with David’s Russian friends. By December, four months before the czar had abdicated, he no longer found it necessary to use an interpreter but read the Russian documents himself. Now, as he waited for the Russians to disembark, his heart raced. He was about to see Nicolai Lenin.
What he saw surprised him despite the pictures he had seen of the man. Short, thick, bald, slanted eyes and high cheekbones. The British diplomat Lockhart was rumored to have said he looked like a provincial grocer. Lenin, someone said, does not think himself the leader of the Party, but the Party itself. Le parti c’est moi, Billy thought. Whether from the reaction of those around him, or the man himself, Billy could sense the energy. Before Lenin walked onto the platform, there was excitement, now there was electricity.
Their Swedish informants had cabled the American Embassy with information that Lenin’s entourage, although not Lenin himself, had met for several days with the Germans. The go-between, Parvu, had met with the Russians, returned to Berlin, then back again. There was now no question that Lenin had entered into some sort of alliance with Germany, that the purpose was to pull the Russian government out of the war.