Sustenance (29 page)

IN OTHER PARTS of the world: Johannesburg at the end of January, the colored population protesting the new apartheid program. The King of Belgium, Leopold III, will be able to return to his country later this year; his return from exile is favored by most UN member-states, but there are some nay-sayers. The King of Sweden, Gustav V, has been ill for some weeks, not surprising in a man over ninety, but there is concern for his well-being in all of Scandinavia. Pope Pius XII is causing some excitement in Rome, claiming that he has had a number of visions regarding the Virgin Mary, and that Roman Catholics may expect a Papal Encyclical in the near future. With the war behind them, the Japanese are about to release a new tape recorder, first in Japan, and then, if sales warrant it, on a larger market. The terms of the Marshall Plan may yet permit the Germans to do the same in the near future.

IT IS RUMORED that Britain, the US, and the UN will recognize the People’s Republic of China diplomatically, and that although Chiang Kai-shek is resuming the presidency of Nationalist China, with a fair amount of shoring up from the US and its allies, will continue to be a separate state. This does not bode well for south-east Asia. There is an indication that the US will recognize VietNam—until recently French Indo-China—and provide military support as a means of holding the People’s Republic of China at bay, at least for a while, though it is also feared that the People’s Republic of China may direct its expansion toward Tibet, not the former French colonies in the south. All of this may test the newly formed United Nations, for with so many new forms of conquest being tried out, it is not at all certain that the UN will be able to live up to its lofty ideals, and make its rulings stick.

OUR MEMBER FROM Helena has returned from a month in Barcelona (“the Gaudi house was splendid!”), which was an opportunity to rest up from her six months of job-hunting. While she is discouraged, she remains determined to find a position for herself even if it is only giving planetarium narrations in English for tourists. She would like to try some place where she can work at the science of astronomy, not just its public appeal. She has asked if anyone has contacts with astronomers in India or New Zealand, where she would not be at the disadvantage that she is now, and could continue her work on the asteroid belt beyond Mars.

OUR HELPFUL COLONEL has been transferred to Alaska, out on the Aleutian Islands, running an installation dedicated to monitoring Soviet activities in the northern Pacific, and the various communications made in Korea, where more trouble is expected. While this is not a demotion, it is an isolation, and our helpful Colonel admits that the method is effective. He informed me that this is an unofficial punishment for the assistance he has given us for the last three years. He says the Army wants him where he is as closely watched as the Soviet Union is, and this is a way to do that, as well as using his fluency in Russian to military advantage. He apologizes for having to depart in this abrupt way, and extends his good wishes to all of us. He informs this reporter that those of you who have ordered hi-fi components from him will be able to pick them up in Le Havre after May 10
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.

WE ARE SADDENED to learn of the death of Yale Professor Leonard Nye, 61, in New Haven. He suffered terrible injuries in an automobile accident in January, when his Packard was rammed by a Chevrolet delivery van which had gone into a skid on black ice; the driver of the van was killed outright at the scene. Police investigators concluded that the accident was just that: an accident, one of several that occurred on that stretch of road in a period of a week. After almost a month in a deep coma, Nye died on February 21
st
, and is survived by two brothers and a sister, six nephews, and four nieces. His long-time associate, Maurice Yeoman, has arranged a memorial service for March 17
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, at Holy Trinity in New Haven. In lieu of flowers, Yeoman requests donations be made in Nye’s name to American Red Cross, Easter Seals, or The American Humane Society.

T.B., OUR LEGAL genius, has filed an amicus curiae brief on behalf of B. and W. K. and T. and M.F., seeking to have their positions at their schools restored in good standing, and in the case of K. PhD, his tenure with compensatory pay as part of the attempts being made at many colleges and universities to fire all faculty and administration accused of having Communist connections without any proof beyond the accusation itself. He has also prepared a challenge to the Farm Security Administration’s new claims that W.P.’s work on disease-resistant wheat is not sufficient to brand him a Communist sympathizer. Guilt by association is not valid evidence for prosecution, T. B. affirms, and in W.P.’s case, doubly so: the government approved his working with Soviet agronomists on this problem in 1942, and not simply because we were allies in the war, but because their research dovetailed with P.’s. Those of you who believe you might have a similar claim, speak to T.B. at our next meeting.

THERE WILL BE an extra Coven meeting on March 18
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at the Sign of the Raven Bookstore on Avenue Isabeau, in the upstairs lounge, to hear a progress report from our foreign publisher friend, which will include six titles by Coven members. Bookstore owners are also being asked to attend. The meeting will begin at seventeen hundred hours or five pm, and is expected to last two hours.

ONCE AGAIN, WE find ourselves in need of a permanent meeting place, and are asking for recommendations for any location fairly centrally located. We need a location that allows us privacy to speak openly without fear of being overheard, an is not conspicuous in any sense. Pass on your locations to this reporter or to W.P., who currently leads us.

A publication for and by the victims of witch-hunts

5

B
Y
T
OLLIVER
Bethune’s standards, the figure he cut was decidedly unkempt: his coat was of military design and none too clean, his hat resembled a peaked cap although it lacked an insignia and was of a color so neutral that it hardly seemed real, his sweater was olive-drab with patches at the elbow and worn over a khaki-colored shirt and slacks. He carried a postman’s bag over his left shoulder, its weight pulling that side of his body down a bit, changing his clean, swift stride to more of a furtive crouch. In such garb and behavior he could easily be mistaken for a courier or a member of the US Embassy staff, which is what he intended. On this weepy morning in late March, Bethune could not summon up any enjoyment of this drizzly spring day, for the summons he had received twenty-six hours ago had been terse and demanding; he knew better than to attempt to negotiate his way out of it. He suggested a salute to the Marine guards at the gate, keeping his head down, so that the camera that took the picture of everyone entering the building would not get a clear view of his face. He flashed an ID and went into the marble-fronted building, moving at a pace that suggested that he had an urgent appointment, which was correct. He climbed to the second floor and stopped at the desk newly set up in front of the corridor leading to the office where he was expected. Another cosmetic approach to security, Bethune thought as he took out his ID card and handed it over to the pretty young WAC lieutenant who seemed to be too tired or bored to enter his name in the log-book in front of her; he could feel her sizing him up with her eyes. “Good morning,” he said, but got no response to his greeting. He pulled a plastic cigarette case and a brass lighter from his overcoat-pocket, selected a cigarette, tamped it on his fingernail, and lit up, then repeated, “Good morning,” and added “Lieutenant,” this time.

“Good morning,” she said as if overwhelmed by boredom.

The doors of the various offices along the corridor in front of Bethune were closed and the whole floor seemed almost empty, though he supposed it was not; it was coming up to the lunch hour, but was not there yet, and that meant there would be workers in a hurry to finish up the morning’s business before their forty-five-minute break. Another drag on the cigarette gave him a second or two to try to locate any cameras set up to record all visitors on this floor—he saw nothing. He looked from one door to the next, trying to determine who, if anyone, was watching him, for given that these were CIA offices, he was fairly certain that someone more than the WAC lieutenant was keeping an eye on the corridor.

“Tolliver Bethune,” he said, hoping to gain the WAC’s attention.

“Yeah. That’s what it says. I can read, mister,” she told him in an annoyed tone as she handed the card back to him and tapped a line on the daily schedule; looking over his name, her curiosity was sparked and she asked, “You were one of the men assigned to the Nuremberg trials, weren’t you?”

“I was.” It had been demanding work, but he felt that his service was worthwhile, or he had until he was accused of passing information to the Soviets. He had not done that, but he had occasionally discussed the progress of the prosecution of the Nazis with some of the Russian advocates who were presenting evidence to the court, and that was enough to tarnish him. He had left Germany without being able to prove his alleged espionage untrue; the calumny still followed him, and left him in the awkward situation of having to assist the CIA or risk being brought up on spurious charges that were likely to ruin him completely.

“Who are you here to see?”

“Whom,” he corrected her. “Whom am I here to see?”

“That’s what I’m asking,” she said.

“But that’s not what your grammar says,” he persisted, wanting to kick himself for antagonizing the WAC.

“You understood me, didn’t you?” She glowered at her telephone. “Lawyers!”

He ignored her expostulation. “I understood you, yes, but not because you were right, but because English is structurally very flexible. You don’t strike me as uneducated, so you should have learned this in school. The person I am here to see takes the objective—whom—since I am the subject of your question.”

“If you say so,” she said testily; her brightly lipsticked mouth made a moue of disgust.

“Say goodnight, Gracie,” Bethune muttered, had recourse to his cigarette again, then raised his voice. “Deputy Coordinator Peter Leeland. I know where his office is.”

She consulted her schedule for the day. “He’s going to be in the Blue Room—three doors down on your left. He’s waiting for you.”

“Why isn’t it in your log, then?” He had the knack of being able to read upside-down, and at moments like this, it came in handy.

“Because this meeting never happened,” she said as if the answer were obvious. “It only appears on this schedule, and the visitors’ schedule is destroyed every evening.”

Bethune went cold, shocked by this practice that erased events and people with the lighting of a match, but did his utmost to conceal his reaction, assuming that it would be reported if he did not. “Fine.” He went around the WAC’s desk and made for the door in question, wondering as he went why the meeting had been rescheduled for the smaller conference room rather than Lee’s office; he did not like any of the answers that raced through his head. He did his utmost to banish uneasiness from his demeanor as he raised his hand to rap on the door.

“Come in,” called the familiar voice from inside.

Bethune swung the door open, and slipped inside the conference room, letting the door close itself. “Why all the secrecy?” he asked, turning to face Leeland while taking in the cobalt-blue draperies and upholstery. Only then did he see a second man at the broad oaken table. Bethune stopped still.

Peter Sinclair Leeland, who looked to be a decade younger than Bethune, though was only four years his junior, had the practiced manner of an ambitious bureaucrat, and now managed a lupine smile as he stubbed out his dark, odorous Turkish cigarette in the ashtray that was the size of a long-playing record. “Well, we are spies, aren’t we? This is Philetus Rothcoe. Phil, this is Tolliver Bethune.”

Knowing that he had to appear forthcoming, Bethune took a step toward Rothcoe and held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Rothcoe half-rose and shook Bethune’s hand. He was in his early thirties, his navy-blue suit, white shirt, and maroon tie making him all but invisible in a place like this Embassy; he had an air of anonymity about him, an ordinariness that was so comprehensive that Bethune knew he would be hard-put to describe the man after he left the Embassy. In Rothcoe’s unprepossessing appearance, the one feature that stood out was his hazel-green eyes, which had the shine of singular purpose that told Bethune that Rothcoe was a zealot, prepared to do anything for his country and his cause. “Pleasure,” he said as if he had said
perfunctory.

“I didn’t realize that we were going to have … Mister Rothcoe with us,” Bethune said to Leeland, not caring that he was being rude; he, too, put out his cigarette in the large ashtray.

“No; I didn’t tell you,” said Leeland smugly, relishing Bethune’s discomfort.

“Is he the reason I’m here?” Bethune inquired, recognizing that Leeland was showing off for Rothcoe’s benefit.

“That remains to be seen,” Leeland responded, his smile becoming fixed and humorless.

“Right you are,” said Bethune, trying to conceal his consternation. What was going on here? he asked himself, and took out his cigarette case, putting it on the table in front of him. “Let’s get down to—”

“You’re doing legal work for the group calling itself the Ex-Pats’ Coven,” Rothcoe said, cutting short the verbal fencing that Bethune and Leeland had started. “I have some questions that I hope you’ll be able to answer for me.”

All of Bethune’s legal senses were now on high alert. “I am their counsel of record, so I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

“Tell him what you can, Tolliver, and remember, it could prove helpful to your clients if you can provide proof of your answers,” Leeland said bluntly. “I don’t want you to fail your clients, but you do understand that Rothcoe needs as much help as you’re able to provide.” He indicated one of the empty chairs. “Put your sack down and sit.”