Chapter 17
For some reason, my decision to go to Iowa cleared the clouds from Mama’s mind and roused her to action. She seemed more herself than she had in years, industrious and commanding. The lunch basket she packed for my trip was an embarrassment. Big enough to carry a week’s laundry, it was loaded with cold chicken, ham sandwiches, dried apples, cookies, cake, bread and butter, and an amber jar of cold, sweet tea. You’d have thought to look at me that I was taking the train all the way to the north pole instead of Iowa. Under all those provisions, on the very bottom of the hamper, was a flat, soft package. I’d wrapped it myself in three layers of brown paper to make sure the contents arrived in Des Moines undamaged.
Balancing the load on my lap, I felt self-conscious, figuring the other passengers must be wondering about the size of my appetite, but I knew that enormous lunch was Mama’s way of saying, “I love you. I’m worried about you.”
I was worried myself, but a lifetime of carefully engineered avoidance of pain was exhausting. I was tired of being afraid. Mama knew that, so she came to the station and leaned on Ruby’s arm, waving a tiny white handkerchief. It seemed I could see it through the dust and grime of the coach window, clean and fluttering like a flag of surrender, long after the silhouette of the station had faded in the distance.
After an hour or two I started to feel more at home with the rocking motion of the cars. The steady thunk of steel wheels against steel rail became familiar, even comforting, like the tuneless, constant song a mother hums to quiet a child.
The landscape changed quickly as we headed farther north. The dunes of sand that still nestled against buildings and fences got smaller and smaller until I realized that just a few hours away from Dillon there had been no dust bowl. If I’d stopped in that town and told the folks there that my papa had died from swallowing a small mountain of dust, or described storms of dirt so thick and black they blocked the sun and made noon seem like night, they would have looked at me with wide eyes, wondering if I was telling stories. In a way, I suppose they would have been right.
Looking around the coach at the other passengers, one eating an apple, another reading a newspaper folded in half, still another sleeping with head lolled back, breathing heavily through an open mouth, I realized they all had stories. We were all human, born of mothers, but beyond that there were so many differences among us that it was a wonder we recognized each other as the same species. Their lives were nothing like mine. Their Depression was theirs alone. Some were easier, some harder.
I had lived in Dillon all my life, surrounded by people I’d known since the day I was born. Yet it seemed I knew more about these strangers I was traveling with than the folks I knew by name. People in Dillon had become such a part of the landscape that I’d forgotten to notice what was special about them. It seemed odd that my fellow passengers seemed so much less guarded than my friends and neighbors. Maybe it was because when you’re on a train, surrounded by people you know you’ll never see again, you forget to keep up appearances, so you reveal more of yourself than you’d intended.
If I looked at the faces around me long enough, I could just make out, in the web of worry wrinkles and smile lines, the outlines of who they were, where they’d been, and how it had changed them. Not a single person was like the one sitting next to him, but I could see in their eyes, whether darting and suspicious or steady and stoic, the one thing they all had in common: they didn’t know what was coming next or if they were up to handling it.
Even the bravest among them flashed expressions showing little seeds of doubt at unguarded moments, like stray thread ends I found in my quilts sometimes. I always shoved them back under the fabric so everything looked smooth and planned, but though the stitches looked perfect to others, I knew where every little thread was tucked, a hidden weakness that might unravel the entire seam. A whole train, a long, narrow world full of complete strangers seated side by side, a thousand different stories, and the only thing we really shared was uncertainty. It comforted me in a way I still can’t explain.
I let my head drop back and slept like the others, not concerned about how I’d look if my jaw relaxed and dropped open onto my chest, or if people stared, wondering why my leg was so twisted, or if the woman sitting in the next seat could read my life in the lines near my eyes. Why shouldn’t she? I was what I was. What could it hurt for people to know?
The hall was like the city, loud and smoke-filled, everybody talking and nobody listening, everybody knowing somebody, except me. I left my suitcase and basket at a hotel and carried only the package I’d wrapped to give to Slim when I found him. If I found him. The green velveteen dress was my very best, but compared to the tailored suits and cunning little hats I saw on the women sitting on folding chairs, murmuring and smoking cigarettes while waiting for the program to start, I felt like just what I was, a country girl come to town. I sat down on the far left of the auditorium, near two double doors where a group of serious-looking men in gray suits stood, visually assessing the crowd and talking to each other knowingly out of the sides of their mouths. They looked official and tense. I figured they were waiting to escort Slim and the others to the platform.
Eventually, the doors opened slightly, but Slim didn’t enter. Instead a carefully dressed man with glasses and a receding hairline approached the microphone and announced that, as promised and in the interest of fairness, the America First Committee had decided to broadcast President Roosevelt’s speech to the nation before beginning its own program. He thanked the audience for their attendance, and almost before he finished speaking, the warm, familiar, nasal voice of the president came over the loudspeaker, and the crowd grew quiet as they strained to hear the broadcast.
The president lashed out against the Nazis. He announced that he had given the navy permission to clear the sea of enemy warships whenever it was necessary to protect American interests. The crowd was supposed to be made up of isolationists, dedicated to keeping America out of the war, so I was surprised at how many times they cheered the president’s words, especially when he verbally attacked Hitler as a despot. Apparently, the people of Des Moines were as torn between the desire for peace and the hatred of evil as the rest of the country. Between the reaction of the crowd and the president’s announcement that the navy was authorized to attack “enemy” ships, before we’d even officially declared an enemy, I could see our entry into the war wasn’t far off. There was no stopping it now.
When the address ended, the audience applauded warmly, then laughed and covered their ears when the loudspeaker squealed as the microphones were adjusted for the America First speakers. They’d set them too high for Slim, I could see that. He was tall, tall as anyone I knew, but the stagehand set the microphone so high he must have thought Slim was some fantastic giant of Nordic legend and not a man at all. I knew better.
The double doors burst open as the band struck up a patriotic tune. The committee came striding in, some grinning and pointing to people they recognized in the crowd, others looking nervous and pulling at tight collar buttons. Slim looked calm, serious, and resigned, like a doctor coming to give bad news to a terminally ill patient. He was so alone. Despite the questions that had driven me to be there, I couldn’t help but feel compassion toward him.
For one ridiculous moment I thought that if I could push through the crowd somehow and reach him, I could tell him that war was inevitable and he should just thank everyone for coming and go home, before it was too late. The crowd that heard his words today might believe him for a moment, might even cheer him, but tomorrow they were going to war, and they’d forget. Once the declaration was made, all these people, everyone who’d been against fighting, would deny they’d ever said such a thing, and no one would remember if it was true or not, but Charles was too famous and his campaign too fervent for people to forget his words. They’d think he was a coward, a traitor to a just cause. I was afraid for him. What could be so worth hating as a hero made unheroic?
Flashbulbs exploded in his face, but he didn’t look at the cameras. I leapt from my seat as he passed near me and tried to grab his sleeve, but one of the stern-looking men I’d seen guarding the door pushed me back. “Slim!” I called. He couldn’t hear me above the din of the crowd and the band. I yelled once more, so loudly it made my ears ring. “Slim!”
He turned for a moment and searched the mob, trying to pinpoint the voice that must have sounded faintly familiar in his ears. When his eyes found me I saw recognition there, but nothing else. In fact, he seemed embarrassed and slightly annoyed, as though my appearance was an unwelcome development, designed to break his concentration. I knew then that nothing I could say to him would stop him from making his speech. He frowned at me and whispered something to the man in a pinstripe suit who was standing next to him. Frowning again, he shook his head at me in warning before continuing to the stage. He walked up the steps heavily, like a man ascending a gallows scaffold.
Though the whole thing had taken a second, it seemed longer, and all I could think was, “He’s ashamed of me.” Ever since I’d decided to come to Des Moines, I’d imagined how his face would look when he saw me; I’d pictured many different reactions, possibly joy, anger, even denial. Somehow shame had never occurred to me.
Well, it should have, I scolded myself. It should have. What did you expect? You should have left things alone. The room seemed even hotter and louder than before. I started to gather up my things and leave. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
But as I stood up, a hand reached out and gently pushed me back down into my chair. The man in the pinstripe suit laid his hand on my shoulder and spoke into my ear. “Stay right here until the speech is over and the crowd has left. I’ll come back for you, but it may take a while. If anyone asks, you’re waiting for me, Ben Hodges. You’re my cousin Edith, and I promised to introduce you to Colonel Lindbergh. You understand?”
I nodded dumbly and murmured an awkward thanks, but I don’t suppose he heard me. By then the crowd was up on its feet, applauding and hollering as Slim was introduced. Mr. Hodges glanced at me for a moment, sizing me up with a flat look, as though he knew all about me and considered me just another unpleasant piece of business to be dealt with in a world where nothing could surprise him anymore. I wondered what he knew about me.
Then Slim came up to the podium, and suddenly his face was the only one worth thinking about. He smiled automatically, as though he knew it was expected of him, and lowered the microphone so he could speak comfortably into it. For a moment he stood still, just to let everyone get a good look. The sight of him took my breath away. He was still so handsome. He stood tall, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd with good grace, not as if he deserved them or even as if he didn’t, just accepting it all, the way other people say grace for the blessing of food they receive every day of their lives, grateful but not surprised, never imagining a day when the bounty will cease, because it has always been there. He was so sure of himself, so straight and open and earnest. I loved him all over again, despite the life I’d lived without him. How could I not love him? He was so much more alone than I’d ever been.
He began his address. In the shadow of a frown that creased his brow, I saw a tiny crack in the mask he covered himself with. He was afraid, too. I’d walked in on the pivotal scene. He’d already lost the battle for peace, peace for the country and for himself, and so this was the day he’d chosen to show them what he was, and dare these last loyal few to cheer him if they could. He already knew the outcome, so he was afraid. It was written on his face. If I could have, I would have stopped him, but I was what I had always been, a spectator. It was too late to choose another role.
His words, carefully rehearsed, rang out clear and sharp. The audience clapped and acclaimed his statements as though they’d written the text themselves. “England’s position is desperate,” he boomed. “She cannot win the war by aviation regardless of how many planes we send her. Even if America enters the war, it is highly improbable that the Allied armies could invade Europe and overcome the might of the Axis forces.”
The assembly applauded again. Slim paused to let the noise die down before continuing. “If it were not for her hope that she can make the United States responsible for the war, financially as well as militarily, I believe England would have negotiated a peace in Europe many months ago, and be better off for doing so.”
More cheers followed that. Cries of, “That’s right!” echoed in the hall. Nobody but me seemed to wonder why handing half of Europe over to the Nazis would leave England more secure than she was now. If we were English, I thought, we’d fight to the death, even if winning was “highly improbable.” If he were English, Slim would be leading the battle cry.
I half wanted to whisper this into the ear of the woman sitting next to me but decided there was no point. Everyone in that room had already made up their minds what to think; they’d just come tonight to have their own opinions confirmed. The audience grew quiet again as Slim continued.
“I can understand why the Jewish people wish to overthrow the Nazis,” he said more softly. “The persecution they have suffered in Germany would be sufficient to make bitter enemies of any race.” He paused to let his words sink in. “No person with a sense of the dignity of mankind condones the persecution of the Jewish race in Germany. Certainly I and my friends do not.”
For a moment, relief flooded through me. So many papers around the country had accused Slim and the America First supporters of hating Jews. Maybe this would quiet their criticism. I’d never actually heard or read anything by Slim that mentioned Jews by name, but plenty of people had speculated about his opinions.
It was hard for me to precisely understand anti-Semitism. In my entire life, I’d never met anyone Jewish. But I knew all about feeling like an alien in my own land and how people were capable of ostracizing, even demonizing, people who didn’t fit into an accepted mold. Every day of my life I’d seen how ignorance and cruelty walked hand in hand. The papers never talked much about what was happening to Jews in Europe, not in a direct way. The reports talked about confiscated businesses and freedoms denied, but that was all. The rest was just implied and hinted at, but I knew from Nils’s letters to Paul that these weren’t just rumors. Something terrible was happening, but no one would talk about it.
I couldn’t bear for people to think Slim condoned such evil. He had looked past my lameness and seen to the inside of me. People who tried to label him an anti-Semite didn’t know him like I did. Hearing him denounce the Nazi persecution, seeing his eyes cast down in sorrow and sympathy, no one could dare to pin such an ugly name on him. For a moment, I thought I’d been wrong to be so worried. Maybe everything would be all right.
If he’d stopped right there, that would have been the moment everyone remembered about Des Moines, everything would have turned out differently for him, but he didn’t. That speech changed his life. No amount of explanation would soften its meaning. Sometimes I still try, but no matter how I rearrange the words or use the times to justify them, the phrases are still there, black and white and red. They mean what they mean.
“But though I sympathize with the Jews, let me add a word of warning. No person of honesty and vision can look on their prowar policy here today without seeing the dangers involved in such a policy, both for us”—he looked up from his notes and stared into the eyes of the audience—“and for them.”
“Instead of agitating for war, the Jewish groups in this country should be opposing it in every possible way, for they will be among the first to feel its consequences. Tolerance is a virtue that depends upon peace and strength. History shows that it cannot survive war and devastation. A few farsighted Jewish people realize this and stand opposed to intervention. But the majority still do not. Their greatest danger to this country lies in their large ownership and influence on our motion pictures, our press, our radio, and our government. We cannot blame them for looking out for what they believe to be their own interests, but we must also look out for ours. We cannot allow the natural passions and prejudices of other people to lead our country to destruction.”
Even after he said this, many people were still cheering, but a few were frowning and even booing. Still more were whispering among themselves, shaking their heads as though they couldn’t quite believe that “Lucky Lindy,” the hero of all their childhood dreams, could actually say such things. It was as if Lindbergh, much like the despots he claimed to deplore, had declared Jews a foreign nation within our borders, to be tolerated only if they kept to themselves, made no noise, demanded no rights. It sounded almost as though he was issuing a threat. They could hardly believe their ears.
I didn’t blame them. Neither could I.