Roger Brinkwell let Jochen talk without making any comment of any kind. They sat in Mr. Brinkwell’s elaborate office, and the clerks had been told not to interrupt. The early May sunshine ran in waves of light over the polished windows, and the long deep roaring of the mills could hardly be heard here. Jochen had found it easier to talk to his superior than he had thought; in fact, as he continued, he lost all his first nervousness and embarrassment, and gained confidence. He had long ago learned that it was impossible to guess what Brinkwell was thinking, for he was almost always smiling.
The sunlight lay on Brinkwell’s big head with its crisp black hair, and there was a certain boyishness about him, which was due to his small and active body, his quick and energetic ways, his manner of speaking which was like the brisk snapping of fingers. Only the eyes that watched Jochen thoughtfully had no youth in them. They were shrewd and considering, and, to Jochen’s surprise, they were not in the least unfriendly.
“Well,” said Jochen, “I think that’s all, Roger. And, as I said, it hasn’t anything to do with that announcement of my daughter’s marriage to your son being ‘indefinitely postponed.’ I want you to believe that.”
“Of course, I do believe it,” said Brinkwell. He lit another monogrammed cigarette from the burning stub in his small fingers. He put down the stub and crushed it in a silver ash tray. All his movements were swift and decisive.
“But, you’re more important just now, Joe, than those kids. I don’t want you to leave me. Oh, yes, I’ve listened when you said you just couldn’t work for anyone at all, and that you want to get into something of your own. That’s natural. I understand. You’re an independent devil,” and Brinkwell smiled, with real friendliness. “Like all Germans,” he added.
Now, why the hell did old Joe look so sullen all at once, thought Brinkwell, genuinely puzzled. Then, being an intuitive man, he said: “That is, the best kind of German.”
“I’m an American,” said Jochen, flatly. His sullenness gave his massive face a heavy obstinacy. His little brown eyes looked at Brinkwell with something hostile in them.
“There’s no reason to be ashamed of one’s racial heritage,” said Brinkwell.
“I don’t give a damn about anybody’s racial heritage,” said Jochen, and believed he meant it. “All I care about is whether or not he’s an American.”
Brinkwell was silent. The wrinkles about his eyes deepened, giving them a sardonic expression. Jochen saw this, and his flabby cheeks colored unhealthily. He took out a cigar, in order not to have to look at Brinkwell, and lit it.
Then Brinkwell spoke lightly: “I’m all for being an American, too, unless it interferes with profits.” He laughed, as if at some mutual joke. Jochen did not laugh. He seemed to be having some trouble making his cigar draw.
“All right, all right,” said Brinkwell, in a lively voice. “But we’re wandering away from the subject. Joe, let’s be sensible. I know you’re not a poor man; you could go to Cincinnati or some other place, and invest in one of those machine tool shops. They’d be glad to have you; I know that. But this is your town; you’ve got a home here, even though you’ve told me you’re going to sell the land you bought and aren’t going to build that new house. You’ve got an investment in this town, Joe, a real one. Your friends, Isabel’s friends, your daughters’ friends. You think you won’t miss your town and your home and your friends, but you will. After thirty, it’s hard for a man to pull up roots and move somewhere else, into unknown territory. I know. I still think of myself as living in Pittsburgh, that’s why I go back there as often as I can.
“But, that’s the emotional side. There’s a more practical one. The machine tool shops in Ohio, though excellent, are still small concerns. Even if you invest in one of them, and are a partner, or an officer, it’ll be years before you’ll be making any real money. You’ve said you don’t care, and that Isabel doesn’t care, either. You think that now. Later, you’ll care like hell. You’re under forty, still, but you’re not what is meant by a really young man. It needs enthusiasm to begin all over again in a new place, among strangers.
“Now, I’m not going to pretend to think that you’ll fail. You won’t. You’ll just begin to remember the money you’ll money, yet! Believe me, I know it.” For some reason he have lost by leaving us. Joe, you haven’t begun to make glanced at the framed calendar on the wall: May 5, 1915. “I can almost guarantee that your salary would be double in less than two years—double what it is now. Do you have the right to throw up such a future for independence, when you know what that independence will eventually cost you, and what it’ll cost your family?”
Jochen did not answer him; he was staring at his cigar. Brinkwell shrugged, good-humoredly. “I haven’t mentioned the fact that I need you, Joe, need you like hell. You know what the men in Pittsburgh think about you. Why, sometimes I’ve been afraid they’d give you my job, if I didn’t watch out!” He laughed. “We. need you here. You’re worth anything to us.”
“Even without the Wittmann Machine Tool Company,” said Jochen.
“Even without the Wittmann Machine Tool Company,” repeated Brinkwell. “Our machine tools are every bit as good as your brother’s, or, at least, they serve their purpose, which is all that has mattered, and is going to matter. I’m not asking you to stay because of anything I might think you can do for us, with your brother’s company. But you know that.”
“Yes,” said Jochen, somberly. “I know it.” He moved uneasily in his chair. “I can’t stay, Roger. I can’t. I’ve got to be in something for myself. That’s all there is to it. I’m glad that you want me to stay. It—it’s given me even more confidence in myself.”
Brinkwell said, softly: “You don’t think that if you went into one of those concerns in Ohio, they wouldn’t be making tools for—shall we say—friends?” He began to laugh. “We’re neutral, Joe. We sell to anybody who has the money to pay, and who can cart off our goods. The machine tool companies will be just as neutral. Or did you think they wouldn’t be?”
Jochen said simply: “I don’t know. It’s just that I think we shouldn’t be supplying anybody with anything. The Amalgamated, for instance, isn’t selling to either England or Germany, but only to neutral countries.” Now he flushed again, and said violently: “And if England keeps on boarding our vessels, and confiscating our goods, and hoisting our flag over her damned ships—well, I think we should knock hell out of her! If Germany did that to us only once, we’d be right in, shooting! Sure, some of our seamen have been killed, when they’ve been working on British ships, but that was their own fault; they oughtn’t to have been on those ships in the first place. Oh, I know!” he cried. “It’s all figured out. And that’s another reason I’m leaving.” His eyes, inflamed now, could not conceal his hatred.
So, thought Brinkwell, you’re a Dutchman, after all. Scratch a German’s hide and you’ll find the pork underneath. But he smiled soothingly.
“Joe, you’re a sensible man, aren’t you? And you’ve said you were an American, and had no concern with anything that was German. All you have to do is to remember that.”
Jochen stood up. He pointed to a paper on Brinkwell’s desk. “There’s my resignation, Roger. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to do it.” He paused. “And Roger—I don’t want you to think, even for a minute, that anything I’ve found out here will ever be told by me, to anybody.”
Roger shrugged again. “Oh, that wouldn’t matter, Joe. Not in the least. You see, there’re so many in Washington who do know. They just haven’t let Mr. Wilson in on the secret.” He stood up, and moved actively to the calendar. He lifted the pages, scrutinized them, nodded as if satisfied. He came back to his desk, and looked up at Jochen.
“Joe, if you go now, everyone will think it has something to do with the delaying of the marriage of our children. You don’t want people to laugh at you. You want to leave on June first That isn’t fair to me. Why don’t you stay until September first? In the meantime, if you want to, you can be getting in touch with those Ohio concerns, while drawing your salary. It might be months before you find out just where you want to go. Months without any income. That isn’t intelligent, and you know it. And, if you remain here until September you’ll have had time to think it all over, and to have come to some considered, instead of impulsive, decision.”
“It isn’t impulsive,” said Jochen, stubbornly. But he was thinking. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll stay till September, if you really want me. I suppose it isn’t the right thing to leave as abruptly as I intended. Just consider that my resignation takes place on the first of September.”
“Good!” exclaimed Brinkwell. He stood up, smiling delightedly, and held out his hand.
Jochen looked at that small, neat hand. He looked at Brinkwell’s face, affable, friendly. He took the extended hand and shook it briefly.
All German ships of all German lines in New York had been empty of prospective passengers for many, many months. All German ships were either in the shelter of their home ports, in Germany, or idle in neutral ports. But British lines calmly rode the seas, majestic and placid.
The Cunard Line advertised sailings of its proudest liner, the Lusitania, on various dates in May, 1915. Directly under this advertisement in the New York newspapers appeared a warning from the Imperial German Embassy in Washington: “Travellers intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that, in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or of any of her allies, are liable to destruction in those waters and that travellers sailing do so at their own risk.”
On May 7, 1915, the Lusitania, unprotected by any British convoy, was sunk off the coast of Ireland by a submarine, and 1,198 men, women, and children lost their lives. There was also lost a considerable amount of “contraband,” which lay in the vast hold of the ship.