Winds of War (42 page)

Roon’s assertion about the British plan to land in Norway is correct. His conclusions, again, are a different matter, showing how slippery the issues at Nuremberg were. England was the sole protector and hope of small neutral countries like Norway and Denmark. The purpose of a British landing would have been to defend Norway, not to occupy and dominate it. In a war, both sides may well try to take the same neutral objective for strategic reasons, which does not prove that both sides are equally guilty of aggression. That is the fallacy in Roon’s argument. I would not recommend trying to persuade a German staff officer of this. – V.H.

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Chapter 18

Warren Henry and his fiancée Janice were set straight about Russia’s invasion of Finland by an unexpected person: Madeline’s new boyfriend, a trombone player and student of public affairs named Sewell Bozeman. Early in December the engaged couple came to New York and visited Madeline in her new apartment. Finding the boyfriend there was a surprise.

The news of her move to her own apartment had enraged Pug Henry, but had he known her reason, he would have been pleased. Madeline had come to despise the two girls with whom she had shared a flat. Both were having affairs - one with a joke writer, the other with an actor working as a bellhop. Madeline had found herself being asked to skulk around; stay out late, or remain in her room while one or another pair copulated. The walls in the shabby apartment were thin. She had no way of even pretending unawareness.

She was disgusted. Both girls had good jobs, both dressed with taste, both were college graduates. Yet they behaved like sluts, as Madeline understood the word. She was a Henry, with her father’s outlook. Give or take a few details of Methodist doctrine, Madeline believed in what she had learned at home and at church. Unmarried girls of good character didn’t sleep with men; to her, that was almost a law of nature. Men had more leeway; she knew, for instance, that Warren had been something of a hellion before his engagement. She liked Byron better because he seemed, in this respect, more like her upright father. To Madeline sex was a delightful matter of playing with fire, but enjoying the blaze from a safe distance, until she could leap into the hallowed white conflagration of a bridal night. She was a middle-class good girl, and not in the least ashamed of it. She thought her roommates were gross fools. As soon as Hugh Cleveland gave her a raise, she got out.

“I don’t know,” she said, stirring a pot over a tiny stove behind a screen, “maybe this dinner was a mistake. We all could have gone to a restaurant.”

She was addressing the boyfriend, Sewell Bozeman, called Bozey by the world. They had met at a party in September. Bozey was a thin, long, pale, tractable fellow with thick straight brown hair and thoughtful brown eyes that bulged behind rimless glasses. He always dressed in brown, in brown shoes, brown ties, and even brown shirts; he was always reading enormous brown books on economics and politics and had a generally brown outlook on life, believing that America was a doomed society, rapidly going under. Madeline found him a piquant and intriguing novelty. At the moment, he was setting her small dining table, wearing over his brown array the pink apron he had put on to peel onions for the stew.

“Well it’s not too late,” he said. “You can save the stew for another night, and we can take your brother and his girl to Julio’s.”

“No, I told Warren I was cooking the dinner. That girl’s rolling in money - she wouldn’t like an Italian dive. And they have to rush off to the theatre.” Madeline came out, patting her hot face with a handkerchief, and looked at the table. “That’s fine. Thanks, Bozey. I’m going to change.” She opened a closet door crusted with yellowing white paint and took out a dress and slip, glancing around the small room. With a three-sided bay window looking out to backyards and drying laundry, it was the whole apartment, except for the kitchenette and a tiny bath.

Large pieces of blue cloth lay on the threadbare divan under yellow paper patterns. “Darn it! That divan is such a rat’s nest. Maybe I’ll have time to finish cutting that dress, if I hurry.”

“I can finish cutting it,” Bozey said.

“Nonsense, Bozey, you can’t cut a dress. Don’t try.” A doorbell wheezily rang. “Well, the wine’s here already. That’s good.” She went to open the door. Warren and Janice walked in and surprised the tall popeyed man in his pink apron, holding shears in one hand and a sleeve pattern in the other. What with the smell of the hot stew, and Madeline in a housecoat with a dress and a lacy slip on her arm, it was a strikingly domestic scene.

“Oh, hi. You’re early. My gosh, Warren, you’re tan!” Madeline was so sure of her own rectitude that it didn’t occur to her to be embarrassed. “This is Sewell Bozeman, a friend of mine.”

Bozey waved the shears feebly at them; he was embarrassed, and in his fluster he started to cut a ragged blue rayon sleeve.

Madeline said, “Bozey, will you stop cutting that dress!”

She turned to Janice. “Imagine, he actually thinks he can do it.”

“It’s more than I can,” Janice Lacouture said, staring incredulously at Bozeman. Bozey dropped the shears and took off his apron with a giggle.

Warren said just to say something and cover his stupefaction, “Your dinner smells great, Madeline.”

After completing introductions, Madeline went off into what she called her boudoir, a grimy toilet about four feet square. “If you’d like to freshen up first –” she said to Janice as she opened the door, gesturing at the few cubic feet of yellow space crammed with rusty plumbing. “It’s a bit cozy in there for two.”

“Oh, no, no I’m just fine,” Janice exclaimed. “Go ahead.”

A halting conversation ensued while Bozey donned his jacket and tie. Soon Madeline put out her head and one naked shoulder and arm. “Bozey, I don’t want that beef stew to boil over. Turn down the gas.”

“Sure thing.”

As he went behind the screen, Janice Lacouture and Warren exchanged appalled looks. “Do you play with the New York Philharmonic, Mr. Bozeman?” Janice raised her voice.

“No, I’m with Ziggy Frechtel’s orchestra. We play the Feenamint Hour,” he called back. “I’m working on getting up my own band.” He returned and sat in an armchair, or rather lay in it, with his head propped against the back and the rest of him projecting forward and down, sloping to the floor. Warren, something of a sloucher himself regarded this spectacular slouch by the limp long brown bulging-eyed trombonist with incredulity. In a way the strangest feature was his costume. Warren had never in his life seen a brown tie on a brown shirt. Madeline issued from the bathroom smoothing her dress. “Oh, come on, Bozey, mix some drinks,” she carolled.

Bozey hauled himself erect and made drinks, talking on about the problems of assembling a band. A shy, awkward fellow, he honestly believed that the best way to put other people at their ease was to keep talking, and the one subject that usually occurred was him was himself. He disclosed that he was the son of a minister in Montana; that the local doctor had cured him of religion at sixteen, by feeding him the works of Ingersoll and Haeckel while treating him less successfully for thyroid trouble; and that in rebellion against his father he had taken up the trombone.

Soon he was on the topic of the war, which, he explained, was nothing but an imperialist struggle for markets. This was apropos of a remark by Warren that he was a naval fighter pilot in training. Bozey proceeded to set forth the Marxist analysis of war, beginning with the labor theory of value. Madeline meanwhile, finishing and serving up the dinner, was glad to let him entertain her company. She knew Bozey was talkative, but she found him interesting and she thought Warren and Janice might, too. They seemed oddly silent. Perhaps, she thought, they had just had a little spat.

Under capitalism, Bozey pointed out, workers never were paid what they really earned. The capitalist merely gave then the lowest wages possible. Since he owned the means of production, he had them at his mercy. Profit was the difference between what the worker produced and what he got. This had to lead to war sooner or later. In each country the capitalists piled up big surpluses because the workers weren’t paid enough to buy back what they produced. The capitalists, to realize their profits, had to sell off those surpluses in other countries. This struggle for foreign markets, when it got hot enough, inevitably turned into war. That was what was happening now.

“But Hitler has no surpluses,” Janice Lacouture mildly observed. An economics student she knew these Marxist bromides, but was willing to let the boyfriend, or lover - she wasn’t yet sure which - of Warren’s sister run on for a while. “Germany’s a land of shortages.”

“The war is a struggle for foreign markets, all the same,” Bozey insisted serenely, back in his deep slouch. “How about cameras, just at random? Germany still exports cameras.”

Warren said, “As I understand you, then, the Germans invaded Poland to sell Leicas.”

“Making jokes about economic laws is easy, but irrelevant.” Bozey smiled.

“I’m fairly serious,” Warren said. “Obviously Hitler’s reason for attacking Poland was conquest and loot, as in most wars.”

“Hitler is a figurehead,” said Bozey comfortably. “Have you ever heard of Fritz Thyssen? He and the Krupps and a few other German capitalists put him in power. They could put someone else in tomorrow if they chose, by making a few telephone calls. Of course there’s no reason why they should, he’s a useful and obedient lackey in their struggle for foreign markets.”

“What you’re saying is the straight Communist line, you know,” Janice said.

“Oh, Bozey’s a Communist,” Madeline said, emerging from behind the screen with a wooden bowl of salad. “Dinner’s ready. Will you dress the salad, Bozey?”

“Sure thing.” Bozey took the bowl to a rickety little side table, and made expert motions with oil, vinegar, and condiments.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever met a Communist before,” Warren said, peering at the long brown man.

“My gosh, you haven’t?” said Madeline. “Why, the radio business swarms with them.”

“That’s a slight exaggeration,” Bozey said, rubbing garlic on the salad bowl, and filling the close, warm flat with the pungent aroma.

“Oh, come on, Bozey. Who isn’t a Communist in our crowd?”

“Well, Peter isn’t. I don’t think Myra is. Anyway, that’s just our gang.” He added to Warren, “It dates from the Spanish Civil War days. We put on all kinds of shows for the benefit of the Loyalists.” Bozey brought the salad bowl to the table, where the others were already seated. “Of course there’s just a few of us left now. A lot of the crowd dropped away after Stalin made the pact with Hitler. They had no fundamental convictions.”

“Didn’t that pact bother you?” Warren said.

“Bother me? Why? It was a wise move. The capitalist powers want to snuff out socialism in the Soviet Union. If they bleed themselves white beforehand, fighting each other, the final attack on socialism will be that much weaker. Stalin’s peace policy is very wise.”

Warren said, “Suppose Hitler polishes off England and France in a one-front war, and then turns and smashes Russia? That may well happen. Stalin could have made a deal with the Allies, and all of them together would have had a far better chance of stopping the Nazis.”

“But don’t you see, there’s no reason for a socialist country to take part in an imperialist struggle for foreign markets,” Bozey patiently explained to the benighted naval aviator. “Socialism doesn’t need foreign markets, since the worker gets all he creates.”

“Bozey, will you bring the stew?” Madeline said.

“Sure thing.”

Janice Lacouture said, speaking louder as he went behind the screen, “But surely you know that a Russian worker gets less than a worker in any capitalist country.”

“Of course. There are two reasons for that. Socialism triumphed first in a feudal country,” Bozey said, reappearing with the stew, “and had a big industrial gap to close. Also, because of the imperialist threat, socialism had to divert a lot of production to arms. When socialism triumphs everywhere, arms will become useless, and they’ll all be thrown in the sea.”

“But even if that happens, which I doubt, it seems to me,” said Janice, “that when the state owns the means of production, the workers will get less than if capitalists own them. You know how inefficient and tyrannical government bureaucracies are.”

“Yes,” interjected Madeline, “but as soon as socialism triumphs everywhere the state will wither away, because nobody will need a central government any more. Then the workers will get it all. Pass the wine around, Bozey.”

“Sure thing.”

Warren said to his sister, narrowing his eyes at her, “Do you believe that?”

“Well, that’s how the argument goes,” Madeline said, giggling. “Wouldn’t Dad die if he knew I’d made friends with Communists? For heaven’s sake don’t write and tell him.”

“Have no fear.” Warren turned to Bozey. “What about Finland?”

The Russian invasion of the tiny northern country was then about a week old, and already looking like a disaster.

“Okay. What about it?”

“Well, you know Russia claims that Finland attacked her, the way Hitler claimed Poland attacked Germany. Do you believe that?”

“It’s ridiculous to think that Poland attacked Germany,” Bozey said calmly, “but it’s highly likely that Finland attacked the Soviet Union. It was probably a provocation engineered by others to embroil socialism in the imperialist war.”

“The Soviet Union is fifty times as big as Finland,” Janice Lacouture said.

“I’m not saying the Finns did something wise,” said Bozey. “They were egged on into making a bad mistake. Anyway, Finland just used to be a duchy of Czarist Russia. It’s not an invasion exactly, it’s a rectification.”

“Oh, come on, Bozey,” Madeline said. “Stalin’s simply making hay while the sun shines, slamming his way in there to improve his strategic position against Germany.”

“Of course,” Warren said, “and that’s a damned prudent move in his situation, whatever the morality of it may be.”

Bozey smiled cunningly, his eyes starting from his head. “Well, it’s quite true he wasn’t born yesterday. The imperialists all lift up their hands in holy horror when a socialist government does something realistic. They think that’s their exclusive privilege.”