GEORGE SIMISTER WATCHED THE BLUE FLAMES writhe beautifully in the grate, like dancing girls drenched with alcohol and set afire, and congratulated himself on having survived well through the middle of the twentieth century without getting involved in military service, world-saving, or any activities that interfered with the earning and enjoyment of money. Outside rain dripped, a storm snarled at the city from the outskirts, and sudden gusts of wind produced in the chimney a sound like the mourning of doves. Simister shimmied himself a fraction of an inch deeper in his easy chair and took a slow sip of diluted scotch — he was sensitive to most cheaper liquors. Simister’s physiology was on the delicate side; during his childhood certain tastes and odors, playing on an elusive heart weakness, had been known to make him faint.
The outspread newspaper started to slip from his knee. He detained it, let his glance rove across the next page, noted a headline about an uprising in Prague like that in Hungary in 1956 and murmured, “Damn Slavs,” noted another about border fighting around Israel and muttered, “Damn Jews,” and let the paper go. He took another sip of his drink, yawned, and watched a virginal blue flame flutter frightenedly the length of the log before it turned to a white smoke ghost. There was a sharp knock-knock.
Simister jumped and then got up and hurried tight lipped to the front door. Lately some of the neighborhood children had been trying to annoy him probably because his was the most respectable and best-kept house on the block. Doorbell ringing, obscene sprayed scrawls, that sort of thing. And hardly children — young rowdies rather, who needed rough handling and a trip to the police station. He was really angry by the time he reached the door and swung it wide. There was nothing but a big wet empty darkness.
A chilly draft spattered a couple of cold drops on him. Maybe the noise had come from the fire. He shut the door and started back to the living room, but a small pile of books untidily nested in wrapping paper on the hall table caught his eye and he grimaced.
They constituted a blotchily addressed parcel which the postman had delivered by mistake a few mornings ago. Simister could probably have deciphered the address, for it was clearly on this street, and rectified the postman’s error, but he did not choose to abet the activities of illiterates with leaky pens. And the delivery must have been a mistake for the top book was titled The Scourge of the Swastika and the other two had similar titles, and Simister had an acute distaste for books that insisted on digging up that satisfactorily buried historical incident known as Nazi Germany.
The reason for this distaste was a deeply hidden fear that George Simister shared with millions, but that he had never revealed even to his wife. It was a quite unrealistic and now completely anachronistic fear of the Gestapo.
It had begun years before the Second World War, with the first small reports from Germany of minority persecutions and organized hoodlumism — the sense of something reaching out across the dark Atlantic to threaten his life, his security, and his confidence that he would never have to suffer pain except in a hospital.
Of course it had never got at all close to Simister, but it had exercised an evil tyranny over his imagination. There was one nightmarish series of scenes that had slowly grown in his mind and then had kept bothering him for a long time. It began with a thunderous knocking, of boots and rifle butts rather than fists, and a shouted demand: “Open up! It’s the Gestapo.” Next he would find himself in a stream of frantic people being driven toward a portal where a division was made between those reprieved and those slated for immediate extinction. Last he would be inside a closed motor van jammed so tightly with people that it was impossible to move. After a long time the van would stop, but the motor would keep running, and from the floor, leisurely seeking the crevices between the packed bodies, the entrapped exhaust fumes would begin to mount.
Now in the shadowy hall the same horrid movie had a belated showing. Simister shook his head sharply, as if he could shake the scenes out, reminding himself that the Gestapo was dead and done with for more than ten years. He felt the angry impulse to throw in the fire the books responsible for the return of his waking nightmare. But he remembered that books are hard to burn. He stared at them uneasily, excited by thoughts of torture and confinement, concentration and death camps, but knowing the nasty aftermath they left in his mind. Again he felt a sudden impulse, this time to bundle the books together and throw them in the trash can. But that would mean getting wet; it could wait until tomorrow. He put the screen in front of the fire, which had died and was smoking like a crematory, and went to bed.
Some hours later he waked with the memory of a thunderous knocking. He started up, exclaiming, “Those damned kids!” The drawn shades seemed abnormally dark — probably they’d thrown a stone through the street lamp.
He put one foot on the chilly floor. It was now profoundly still. The storm had gone off like a roving cat. Simister strained his ears. Beside him his wife breathed with irritating evenness. He wanted to wake her and explain about the young delinquents. It was criminal that they were permitted to roam the streets at this hour. Girls with them too, likely as not.
The knocking was not repeated. Simister listened for footsteps going away, or for the creaking of boards that would betray a lurking presence on the porch.
After a while he began to wonder if the knocking might not have been part of a dream, or perhaps a final rumble of actual thunder. He lay down and pulled the blankets up to his neck. Eventually his muscles relaxed and he got to sleep.
At breakfast he told his wife about it.
“George, it may have been burglars,” she said.
“Don’t be stupid, Joan. Burglars don’t knock. If it was anything it was those damned kids.”
“Whatever it was, I wish you’d put a bigger bolt on the front door.” “Nonsense. If I’d known you were going to act this way I wouldn’t have said anything. I told you it was probably just the thunder.”
But the next night at about the same hour it happened again. This time there could be little question of dreaming. The knocking still reverberated in his ears. And there had been words mixed with it, some sort of yapping in a foreign language. Probably the children of some of those European refugees who had settled in the neighborhood.
Last night they’d fooled him by keeping perfectly still after banging on the door, but tonight he knew what to do. He tiptoed across the bedroom and went down the stairs rapidly, but quietly because of his bare feet. In the hall he snatched up something to hit them with, then in one motion unlocked and jerked open the door.
There was no one.
He stood looking at the darkness. He was puzzled as to how they could have got away so quickly and silently. He shut the door and switched on the light. Then he felt the thing in his hand. It was one of the books. With a feeling of disgust he dropped it on the others. He must remember to throw them out first thing tomorrow.
But he overslept and had to rush. The feeling of disgust or annoyance, or something akin, must have lingered, however, for he found himself sensitive to things he wouldn’t ordinarily have noticed. People especially. The swollen-handed man seemed deliberately surly as he counted Simister’s pennies and handed him the paper. The tight-lipped woman at the gate hesitated suspiciously, as if he were trying to pass off a last month’s ticket.
And when he was hurrying up the stairs in response to an approaching rumble, he brushed against a little man in an oversize coat and received in return a glance that gave him a positive shock.
Simister vaguely remembered having seen the little man several times before. He had the thin nose, narrow-set eyes and receding chin that is by a stretch of the imagination described as “rat-faced.” In the movies he’d have played a stool pigeon. The flapping overcoat was rather comic.
But there seemed to be something at once so venomous and sly, so timebidingly vindictive, in the glance he gave Simister that the latter was taken aback and almost missed the train.
He just managed to squeeze through the automatically closing door of the smoker after the barest squint at the sign to assure himself that the train was an express. His heart was pounding in a way that another time would have worried him, but now he was immersed in a savage pleasure at having thwarted the man in the oversize coat. The latter hadn’t hurried fast enough and Simister had made no effort to hold open the door for him.
As a smooth surge of electric power sent them sliding away from the station Simister pushed his way from the vestibule into the car and snagged a strap. From the next one already swayed his chief commuting acquaintance, a beefy, suspiciously red-nosed, irritating man named Holstrom, now reading a folded newspaper one-handed. He shoved a headline in Simister’s face. The latter knew what to expect.
“Atomic Weapons for West Germany,” he read tonelessly. Holstrom was always trying to get him into outworn arguments about totalitarianism, Nazi Germany, racial prejudice and the like. “Well, what about it?”
Holstrom shrugged. “It’s a natural enough step, I suppose, but it started me thinking about the top Nazis and whether we really got all of them.”
“Of course,” Simister snapped.
“I’m not so sure,” Holstrom said.“I imagine quite a few of them got away and are still hiding out somewhere.”
But Simister refused the bait. The question bored him. Who talked about the Nazis any more? For that matter, the whole trip this morning was boring; the smoker was overcrowded; and when they finally piled out at the downtown terminus, the rude jostling increased his irritation.
The crowd was approaching an iron fence that arbitrarily split the stream of hurrying people into two sections which reunited a few steps farther on. Beside the fence a new guard was standing, or perhaps Simister hadn’t noticed him before. A cocky-looking young fellow with close-cropped blond hair and cold blue eyes.
Suddenly it occurred to Simister that he habitually passed to the right of the fence, but that this morning he was being edged over toward the left. This trifling circumstance, coming on top of everything else, made him boil. He deliberately pushed across the stream, despite angry murmurs and the hard stare of the guard.
He had intended to walk the rest of the way, but his anger made him forgetful and before he realized it he had climbed aboard a bus. He soon regretted it. The bus was even more crowded than the smoker and the standees were morose and lumpy in their heavy overcoats. He was tempted to get off and waste his fare, but he was trapped in the extreme rear and moreover shrank from giving the impression of a man who didn’t know his own mind.
Soon another annoyance was added to the ones already plaguing him — a trace of exhaust fumes was seeping up from the motor at the rear. He immediately began to feel ill. He looked around indignantly, but the others did not seem to notice the odor, or else accepted it fatalistically.
In a couple of blocks the fumes had become so bad that Simister decided he must get off at the next stop. But as he started to push past her, a fat woman beside him gave him such a strangely apathetic stare that Simister, whose mind was perhaps a little clouded by nausea, felt almost hypnotized by it, so that it was several seconds before he recalled and carried out his intention.
Ridiculous, but the woman’s face stuck in his mind all day.
In the evening he stopped at a hardware store. After supper his wife noticed him working in the front hall.
“Oh, you’re putting on a bolt,” she said.
“Well, you asked me to, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d do it.”
“I decided I might as well.” He gave the screw a final turn and stepped back to survey the job. “Anything to give you a feeling of security.”
Then he remembered the stuff he had been meaning to throw out that morning. The hall table was bare. “What did you do with them?” he asked.
“What?”
“Those fool books.”
“Oh, those. I wrapped them up again and gave them to the postman.”
“Now why did you do that? There wasn’t any return address and I might have wanted to look at them.”
“But you said they weren’t addressed to us and you hate all that war stuff.”
“I know, but — ” he said and then stopped, hopeless of making her understand why he particularly wanted to feel he had got rid of that package himself, and by throwing it in the trash can. For that matter, he didn’t quite understand his feelings himself. He began to poke around the hall.
“I did return the package,” his wife said sharply. “I’m not losing my memory.”
“Oh, all right!” he said and started for bed.
That night no knocking awakened him, but rather a loud crashing and rending of wood along with a harsh metallic ping like a lock giving.
In a moment he was out of bed, his sleep-sodden nerves jangling with anger. Those hoodlums! Rowdy pranks were perhaps one thing, deliberate destruction of property certainly another. He was halfway down the stairs before it occurred to him that the sound he had heard had a distinctly menacing aspect. Juvenile delinquents who broke down doors would hardly panic at the appearance of an unarmed householder.
But just then he saw that the front door was intact.
Considerably puzzled and apprehensive, he searched the first floor and even ventured into the basement, racking his brains as to just what could have caused such a noise. The water heater? Weight of the coal bursting a side of the bin? Those objects were intact. But perhaps the porch trellis giving way?
That last notion kept him peering out of the front window several moments. When he turned around there was someone behind him.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” his wife said. “What’s the matter, George?”
“I don’t know. I thought I heard a sound. Something being smashed.”
He expected that would send her into one of her burglar panics, but instead she kept looking at him.
“Don’t stand there all night,” he said. “Come on to bed.”
“George, is something worrying you? Something you haven’t told me about?”
“Of course not. Come on.”
Next morning Holstrom was on the platform when Simister got there and they exchanged guesses as to whether the dark rainclouds would burst before they got downtown. Simister noticed the man in the oversize coat loitering about, but he paid no attention to him.
Since it was a bank holiday there were empty seats in the smoker and he and Holstrom secured one. As usual the latter had his newspaper. Simister waited for him to start his ideological sniping — a little uneasily for once; usually he was secure in his prejudices, but this morning he felt strangely vulnerable.
It came. Holstrom shook his head. “That’s a bad business in Czechoslovakia. Maybe we were a little too hard on the Nazis.”
To his surprise Simister found himself replying with both nervous hypocrisy and uncharacteristic vehemence. “Don’t be ridiculous! Those rats deserved a lot worse than they got!”
As Holstrom turned toward him saying, “Oh, so you’ve changed your mind about the Nazis,” Simister thought he heard someone just behind him say at the same time in a low, distinct, pitiless voice: “I heard you.”
He glanced around quickly. Leaning forward a little, but with his face turned sharply away as if he had just become interested in something passing the window, was the man in the oversize coat.
“What’s wrong?” Holstrom asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve turned pale. You look sick.”
“I don’t feel that way.”
“Sure? You know, at our age we’ve got to begin to watch out. Didn’t you once tell me something about your heart?”
Simister managed to laugh that off, but when they parted just outside the train he was conscious that Holstrom was still eyeing him rather closely.
As he slowly walked through the terminus his face began to assume an abstracted look. In fact he was lost in thought to such a degree that when he approached the iron fence, he started to pass it on the left. Luckily the crowd was thin and he was able to cut across to the right without difficulty. The blond young guard looked at him closely — perhaps he remembered yesterday morning.
Simister had told himself that he wouldn’t again under any circumstances take the bus, but when he got outside it was raining torrents. After a moment’s hesitation he climbed aboard. It seemed even more crowded than yesterday, if that were possible, with more of the same miserable people, and the damp air made the exhaust odor particularly offensive.
The abstracted look clung to his face all day long. His secretary noticed, but did not comment. His wife did, however, when she found him poking around in the hall after supper.
“Are you still looking for that package, George?” Her tone was flat.
“Of course not,” he said quickly, shutting the table drawer he’d opened.
She waited. “Are you sure you didn’t order those books?”
“What gave you that idea?” he demanded. “You know I didn’t.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “I looked through them. There were pictures. They were nasty.”
“You think I’m the sort of person who’d buy books for the sake of nasty pictures?”
“Of course not, dear, but I thought you might have seen them and they were what had depressed you.”
“Have I been depressed?”
“Yes. Your heart hasn’t been bothering you, has it?”
“No.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“I don’t know.” Then with considerable effort he said,“I’ve been thinking about war and things.”
“War! No wonder you’re depressed. You shouldn’t think about things you don’t like, especially when they aren’t happening. What started you?”
“Oh, Holstrom keeps talking to me on the train.”
“Well, don’t listen to him.”
“I won’t.”
“Well, cheer up then.”
“I will.”
“And don’t let anyone make you look at morbid pictures. There was one of some people who had been gassed in a motor van and then laid out — ”
“Please, Joan! Is it any better to tell me about them than to have me look at them?”
“Of course not, dear. That was silly of me. But do cheer up.”
“Yes.”
The puzzled, uneasy look was still in her eyes as she watched him go down the front walk next morning. It was foolish, but she had the feeling that his gray suit was really black — and he had whimpered in his sleep. With a shiver at her fancy she stepped inside.
That morning George Simister created a minor disturbance in the smoker, it was remembered afterwards, though Holstrom did not witness the beginning of it. It seems that Simister had run to catch the express and had almost missed it, due to a collision with a small man in a large overcoat. Someone recalled that trifling prelude because of the amusing circumstance that the small man, although he had been thrown to his knees and the collision was chiefly Simister’s fault, was still anxiously begging Simister’s pardon after the latter had dashed on.
Simister just managed to squeeze through the closing door while taking a quick squint at the sign. It was then that his queer behavior started. He instantly turned around and unsuccessfully tried to force his way out again, even inserting his hands in the crevice between the door frame and the rubber edge of the sliding door and yanking violently.
Apparently as soon as he noticed the train was in motion, he turned away from the door, his face pale and set, and roughly pushed his way into the interior of the car.
There he made a beeline for the little box in the wall containing the identifying signs of the train and the miniature window which showed in reverse the one now in use, which read simply EXPRESS. He stared at it as if he couldn’t believe his eyes and then started to turn the crank, exposing in turn all the other white signs on the roll of black cloth. He scanned each one intently, oblivious to the puzzled or outraged looks of those around him.
He had been through all the signs once and was starting through them again before the conductor noticed what was happening and came hurrying. Ignoring his expostulations, Simister asked him loudly if this was really the express. Upon receiving a curt affirmative, Simister went on to assert that he had in the moment of squeezing aboard glimpsed another sign in the window — and he mentioned a strange name. He seemed both very positive and very agitated about it, the conductor said. The latter asked Simister to spell the name. Simister haltingly complied:“B-E-L-S-E-N…” The conductor shook his head, then his eyes widened and he demanded, “Say, are you trying to kid me? That was one of those Nazi death camps.”
Simister slunk toward the other end of the car.
It was there that Holstrom saw him, looking “as if he’d just got a terrible shock.” Holstrom was alarmed — and as it happened felt a special private guilt — but could hardly get a word out of him, though he made several attempts to start a conversation, choosing uncharacteristically neutral topics. Once, he remembered, Simister looked up and said, “Do you suppose there are some things a man simply can’t escape, no matter how quietly he lives or how carefully he plans?” But his face immediately showed he had realized there was at least one very obvious answer to this question, and Holstrom didn’t know what to say. Another time he suddenly remarked, “I wish we were like the British and didn’t have standing in buses,” but he subsided as quickly. As they neared the downtown terminus Simister seemed to brace up a little, but Holstrom was still worried about him to such a degree that he went out of his way to follow him through the terminus. “I was afraid something would happen to him, I don’t know what,” Holstrom said. “I would have stayed right beside him except he seemed to resent my presence.”
Holstrom’s private guilt, which intensified his anxiety and doubtless accounted for his feeling that Simister resented him, was due to the fact that ten days ago, cumulatively irritated by Simister’s smug prejudices and blinkered narrow-mindedness, he had anonymously mailed him three books recounting with uncompromising realism and documentation some of the least pleasant aspects of the Nazi tyranny. Now he couldn’t but feel they might have helped to shake Simister up in a way he hadn’t intended, and he was ashamedly glad that he had been in such a condition when he sent the package that it had been addressed in a drunken scrawl. He never discussed this matter afterwards, except occasionally to make strangely feelingful remarks about “what little things can unseat a spring in a man’s clockworks!”
So, continuing Holstrom’s story, he followed Simister at a distance as the latter dejectedly shuffled across the busy terminus. “Terminus?” Holstrom once interrupted his story to remark.“He’s a god of endings, isn’t he? — and of human rights. Does that mean anything?”
When Simister was nearing an iron fence a puzzling episode occurred. He was about to pass it to the right, when someone just ahead of him lurched or stumbled. Simister almost fell himself, veering toward the fence. A nearby guard reached out and in steadying him pulled him around the fence to the left.
Then, Holstrom maintains, Simister turned for a moment and Holstrom caught a glimpse of his face. There must have been something peculiarly frightening about that backward look, something perhaps that Holstrom cannot adequately describe, for he instantly forgot any idea of surveillance at a distance and made every effort to catch up.
But the crowd from another commuters’ express enveloped Holstrom. When he got outside the terminus it was some moments before he spotted Simister in the midst of a group jamming their way aboard an already crowded bus across the street. This perplexed Holstrom, for he knew Simister didn’t have to take the bus and he recalled his recent complaint.
Heavy traffic kept Holstrom from crossing. He says he shouted, but Simister did not seem to hear him. He got the impression that Simister was making feeble efforts to get out of the crowd that was forcing him onto the bus, but, “They were all jammed together like cattle.”
The best testimony to Holstrom’s anxiety about Simister is that as soon as the traffic thinned a trifle he darted across the street, skipping between the cars. But by then the bus had started. He was in time only for a whiff of particularly obnoxious exhaust fumes.
As soon as he got to his office he phoned Simister. He got Simister’s secretary and what she had to say relieved his worries, which is ironic in view of what happened a little later.
What happened a little later is best described by the same girl. She said, “I never saw him come in looking so cheerful, the old grouch — excuse me. But anyway he came in all smiles, like he’d just got some bad news about somebody else, and right away he started to talk and kid with everyone, so that it was awfully funny when that man called up worried about him. I guess maybe, now I think back, he did seem a bit shaken underneath, like a person who’s just had a narrow squeak and is very thankful to be alive.
“Well, he kept it up all morning. Then just as he was throwing his head back to laugh at one of his own jokes, he grabbed his chest, let out an awful scream, doubled up and fell on the floor. Afterwards I couldn’t believe he was dead, because his lips stayed so red and there were bright spots of color on his cheeks, like rouge. Of course it was his heart, though you can’t believe what a scare that stupid first doctor gave us when he came in and looked at him.”
Of course, as she said, it must have been Simister’s heart, one way or the other. And it is undeniable that the doctor in question was an ancient, possibly incompetent dispenser of penicillin, morphine and snap diagnoses swifter than Charcot’s. They only called him because his office was in the same building. When Simister’s own doctor arrived and pronounced it heart failure, which was what they’d thought all along, everyone was much relieved and inclined to be severely critical of the first doctor for having said something that sent them all scurrying to open the windows.
For when the first doctor had come in, he had taken one look at Simister and rasped, “Heart failure? Nonsense! Look at the color of his face. Cherry red. That man died of carbon monoxide poisoning.”