WAKING EACH MORNING IN a hospital bed, in a ward full of enlisted men, Erich was thrown back to his first weeks in the Navy, in boot camp, where he always woke up one minute before reveille only to lie very still in his bunk, dreading the moment when the lights went on and the shouting began, the start of a whole new day of humiliation. He would lie alone in the winter dark, wishing he could stay still one second longer, wishing he had awakened a second sooner so he could have one more second of peace. In those long, brief seconds, Erich often wondered why he had gone to so much trouble to enlist and subject himself to so much misery.
Lying very still in the hospital, day after day, was like that anxious minute of peace before the authorities enter the barracks and shout you out of bed.
After the bone was set and his wound sewn up, the anesthetic wore off. All that remained was a leg encased to the hip in plaster and a dread of unknown consequences. The exhilaration had vanished and Erich was stunned by what he had done. His fourteen hours with Fayette now seemed like a moment of temporary insanity. He seemed to have been hypnotized by the man. Erich’s feelings about it changed from day to day, from hour to hour. Sometimes he was angry with Fayette; sometimes he was grateful to him. An effort of thought was required to prevent Erich from dismissing what had happened as insane, unnecessary or wrong. Once you commit yourself, it never ends. You cannot stop thinking. The gunshot had not really broken the distance between Erich’s conscience and self.
It was being in the dark about the future that filled Erich with doubts about what he had done, and being utterly alone. There was no word from Mason, no visit by the FBI or police. He was in a Navy hospital, not a prison hospital, and the doctors knew Erich only as a gunshot wound and shattered femur. The world became closed and foreign a few feet beyond his bed. Worst of all, there was no news of Hank Fayette. Hank had disappeared into an unknown as opaque as government. Watching Hank bind his leg had been the last Erich had seen of him, before he lost consciousness.
The other men in the ward were the survivors of ships torpedoed or shelled by the Germans. There were shrapnel wounds, burns and missing limbs. A simple gunshot wound was a rarity here, although Erich’s wound had other complications. The man in the bed beside him, in traction with a broken back, was frequently visited by shipmates from other wards. They sat around him in bathrobes and pajamas, telling each other over and over what had happened to each of them when their ship went down. Erich ached to tell someone his story, but realized he couldn’t, not yet. His story, if used properly, might be his and Hank’s last, best hope. When he recognized there was something he could do, Erich’s storm of doubt lifted.
On the fifth day, an orderly came to Erich with a wheelchair and said he was taking him to the porch for some fresh air. Erich asked to be wheeled instead to the hospital library. While the orderly flirted with the pretty librarian, Erich went through every newspaper from the past five days. He found it, not in the paper the day after it happened, but in today’s paper. And not in the news but the obituaries. It promised more than anything Erich had hoped for. Thomas Blair Rice III, son of parents about whom there was more to say than there was about him, died on July 6. In his home.
“I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in you, Erich.”
The following afternoon Commander Mason finally came to the hospital, bringing a bottle of rum, which was confiscated at the door. He sat in a chair beside Erich’s bed, in full view of the entire ward, as if he and Erich had nothing to hide from the others.
“I trusted you, Erich. Completely. And you did what you did. You spoiled it for everyone.”
“Where’s Hank Fayette?” said Erich.
“Hank? Oh…” Mason looked into his eyebrows as though trying to remember. “I think Hank’s on Governor’s Island. In the brig. How’s your leg?”
“How come I’m not in the brig?”
“What for? Insubordination? Absent without leave? Neither of these seemed to warrant bars for a man shot in the leg.”
“What about murder?”
Mason looked straight at Erich and calmly smiled. “What murder?”
“Rice.”
“Rice didn’t die.”
“I saw him die,” said Erich. And he let go with what he knew. “Thomas Blair Rice, who died in his home. Two days after he was killed.”
Mason flinched, stared hard at Erich, then stood up. “Nurse!” he shouted. “Bring us a wheelchair. I’m taking this patient out on the grounds.”
Erich did not smile or say a word while the orderly lifted him into the wicker-seated chair and propped his heavy leg out. Mason stood by, impatiently fingering the cap in his hands. He dismissed the orderly and wheeled his subordinate through the ward to the porch and down the ramp to the graveled path.
It was hot on the treeless lawn: the other ambulatory cases remained under the porch that ran the length of the one-story hospital. Beyond the sunburned lawn were the cranes and canted gray smokestacks of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Beyond that was the low jagged ridge of Manhattan.
Erich rode the bumping chair, holding on to the arms with both hands. “Died in his home. Isn’t that a euphemism for suicide?”
“You can’t believe everything you read in the papers,” Mason grumbled behind him. “We tried to keep it out of the papers. The boy’s family was apparently too important for there not to be some kind of mention.”
“How did you convince the police and press it was suicide? Did you actually plant the body in Rice’s apartment?”
“We’re not criminal masterminds, Erich. All that was required was a little paperwork, our own mortician and a closed-coffin funeral. Which was yesterday.”
“What about the witnesses?”
“There was only the theater’s projectionist. He had no idea who Rice was, of course, but we explained this was an espionage case and none of it could be made public. He understood perfectly. He’s a veteran and a member of the American Ordnance Association. He can be trusted.”
“And the girl?”
“What girl?”
“There was a girl with the projectionist.”
“No. Sullivan cleared the theater thoroughly and said there was only the projectionist in the booth. His assistant had gone out to watch a rally in Times Square. Perhaps you hallucinated the girl.”
Erich was certain he had seen a girl, but she had nothing to do with his case.
The wheelchair stopped and turned. Mason pulled it up beside a park bench, where he sat down, took a deep breath and pulled out his cigarettes. “I’m sorry you saw that newspaper, Erich. Damn the Times. I had hoped to convince you Rice didn’t die. You did pass out at the end. So…” He lit his cigarette, drew on it and wearily exhaled. “You understand, we’ve done all this to protect you and Hank.”
Erich almost laughed. “No, sir. You’ve done it to protect yourselves. Because you can’t secretly court-martial a man for murdering a civilian. You have to try him publicly. And you’re afraid of what would be made public if Hank and I testified.”
Mason frowned. “Leave it to a foreigner to know more about his new land than the native. Yes. We can change murder into suicide but we can’t try a murderer in private. Silly, isn’t it?”
“What do you intend to do with us?”
“There are highly damaging charges against you, Erich. You’re an accomplice to murder, for one. You’ll sign a confession. Which we’ll sit on. So long as you keep your mouth shut about what happened, that confession will remain sealed in your file with the FBI. You’ll be transferred out of New York, of course, but we’re keeping you in the Navy. You’ll be easier for us to watch, at least for the duration. But for the rest of your life, Erich, there’ll be a confession in Washington to be used against you the minute this story becomes public.”
None of it surprised Erich. He had imagined several schemes to keep him silent, including this one. “And Hank Fayette?”
“Hank will be institutionalized. As planned. He’s very lucky. He assumes he’ll be sent to the electric chair, almost wants to be sent there. He confessed to everything, claimed full responsibility for the murder. He even claimed you were there only to try to stop him. Is that true?”
“No.” Seeing where everything stood, Erich could tell other truths. “Fayette isn’t mentally defective or retarded, you know. He’s just innocent. Or was.”
“Yes? I’ve wondered that about Hank, now and then. Well, the proper cranial surgery will fix that, whatever the truth is. But you deliberately took part in the murder? What was it like? I ask out of professional curiosity.”
Erich made his move. “What if I told you I won’t sign anything unless you make the same arrangement with Hank?”
Mason looked mildly surprised. “Release Hank, hoping he’ll remain silent out of his own self-interest? I’d say that was a very foolish impulse, Erich.”
“Fayette has no more to gain than I do by telling his story.”
“But Hank’s not rational the way you are, Erich. This way, you have only your own silence to worry about. That way, you have Hank’s to worry about, too. If we released Hank, and he talked, sometime in the near or distant future, both of you would be charged. You’d lose the secret protecting you from prosecution. You want to make yourself hostage to this man’s silence for the rest of your life?”
“Yes,” said Erich. “I trust Hank Fayette that much. And he’ll be my hostage. For the rest of his life.”
Mason leaned back and studied Erich. “Then Sullivan was right about you? That you’ve become…you and Hank are lovers?”
“No. Not that it matters, but we’re not. Do two men have to be lovers to care what happens to each other?”
“Not at all. Only this is an extreme case. You’re talking marriage for life.”
“We’re bound together for life anyway. In my conscience.”
“Of course,” said Mason. “Guilt. The root of so much unhappiness. People do the damnedest things out of guilt.” Another sigh, then, “What if I come back in a week and see if you still want to insist on that condition?”
“It took me this long to make my stand,” said Erich, “a week or a month isn’t going to change me.”
“No. I don’t think it will.” Mason tossed his cigarette down and ground it with his heel. “All right, then. I’ll have to speak to both Sullivan and the rear admiral about this. If they refuse and it’s not a bluff, it means humiliation for us and prison for you.”
“It’s not a bluff, Commander.”
“No. I realize that. We also have to see what Hank’s response is.”
“Can I talk to Hank?”
“No. The rear admiral’s given in to Sullivan on that. You are not to see each other, for fear you’ll conspire against us in some way. I suspect it’s just Sullivan’s way of punishing you. He really does think you’re boyfriends.” Mason stood up, positioned himself behind the chair and began to push. “Uh, I’m sorry about your leg. That was awfully clumsy of Sullivan.”
Mason wheeled Erich back to the porch, then called for an orderly to take the patient back to his bed.
“Goodbye, Erich. I’ll get back to you in a day or so.” Mason walked around the building to the parking lot in his usual undefeated, un-naval gait.
He did not return for three days. During that time, Erich’s only doubts were about Hank. Mason had said Hank seemed to look forward to dying. Was it right to deny him that death? Erich thought it was. Hank would learn to live with the killing.
It was raining the day Commander Mason came back, and they couldn’t go outside. Mason asked for a room with a table. They were given an examining room with tiled walls and a metal table. Mason turned on the light and set two pieces of paper in front of Erich.
“I think you’re a fool. Sullivan thinks you’re a deviate and the rear admiral, oddly enough, thinks you’re a most stubborn but principled young man. But they’ve agreed to your conditions. All you have to do is sign the agreement and your confession.”
The agreement was simple enough, words to the effect that any charges for actions committed on July 3 and July 4, 1942, were waived so long as Erich did not make those actions public. The agreement was in triplicate, each copy already signed by Rear Admiral Whyte.
The confession, typed on a single sheet of Navy letterhead, was equally simple and to the point. There were only the dates and the charges: insubordination, dereliction of duties, aiding and abetting the murder of one Thomas Blair Rice III. It was explained that all evidence of that murder had been suppressed due to the wartime emergency.
“A bureau lawyer drew these up,” Mason explained, “so it’s all very legally illegal. The confession’s vague but enough to bring you to trial, where the details would come out. The agreement’s just a scrap of paper. Useless in court but it makes the rear admiral happy.”
“How do I know you offered Fayette the same deal?”
“I have this to show you. And this.” Mason laid two more sheets of paper on the table. One was a confession similar to Hank’s, confessing to the murder of Rice in the first or second degree. The signature on it was as plain and legible as a name written by a child. Erich was realizing he had never seen Hank’s signature, when he noticed the other sheet of paper, covered with the same grade school script:
Dear Eric,
I am writing you to show you this is me.
I think I should die for killing the spy. He kills Juke and I kill him and the law kills me. An eye for an eye. It is what I owe Juke.
I did not want to get you in this. I thank you for getting in. The best way I can thank you is to stay alive. If I am dead it will be more easy for them to kill you “by accidunt.” If there are two of us know what happened it will be more hard for them to kill us both. I will stay alive and silent.
Good luck and thank you. Maybe we see each other in or after the war.
Love, Henry Fayette
P.S. To prove you this is me. I am sorry about the night in your room. I did not understand. I was glad you are not the same.
Erich was disappointed to find no trace of Hank’s voice in the note. But then Hank wasn’t a very literate man. It was natural his writing would be stilted and not part of him. Erich had forgotten about their failed attempt at sex. So much had happened since then.
“I read it,” said Mason. “I must say, he’s even more paranoid than you. As if Uncle Sam could arrange an accidental murder or two. You both seem to compensate for your trust in each other by distrusting everybody else.”
Erich could not answer except by asking his next question. “How do I know you won’t send Hank to an asylum, despite this confession?”
“You don’t. You’ll have to trust the rear admiral’s unimaginative streak of decency. And me. Through all of this, Erich, have I ever lied to you?”
It was Erich’s turn to be surprised. “No. At least not that I know of.”
“I haven’t. I’ve treated you as an equal, used you as an audience. And it’s more interesting watching an intelligent man respond to the truth than it is to lie to him.”
“You just enjoy playing God,” Erich said. But that accusation was also a very good reason to believe Mason was telling him the truth.
“I do. It’s a fascinating experience,” Mason admitted. “Will you sign?”
Erich signed, first the agreement, then the confession.
Mason signed his own name on the witness line, then put Erich’s papers and Hank’s confession into his briefcase. “You can keep Hank’s note.”
“Can I meet with Hank? For a few minutes, that’s all I ask.” Erich wanted to tell Hank he should not feel responsible for Juke’s death, or so responsible only his own death could atone for it. If Hank had died, would Erich feel like that?
“No. The rear admiral wants Hank shipped out as quickly as possible. They’re keeping him in the Navy, too. He’s being sent to the Pacific. You’ll be given destroyer duty in the Atlantic once your leg has healed. The rear admiral isn’t conscious of it, but I believe he secretly hopes one or both of you will be killed in action before this war is over. No accidents, mind you. Just fate.”
The idea was too brutal to be faked. It put to rest any suspicions awakened by their refusal to let Erich see Hank.
“Well, Erich. It’s been interesting knowing you.” Mason snapped the briefcase shut and locked it. “I’d love to speak to you five or ten years from now, when you have a little distance on this folly. If I don’t see you in court before then.”
“You won’t. Unless we lose the war and the next government opens the files.”
“We won’t lose the war. Americans never lose,” said Mason. “Although Hank’s premature execution of our spy certainly won’t speed things along.”
And that was the final reason why they gave in to Erich and Hank. Their confidence in victory was so strong they couldn’t really believe Hank and Erich had done them irreparable harm. They could afford to be decent. Now that he had won, Erich wondered if they were right to be so confident.
“Goodbye, Erich.” Mason held out his hand.
Erich hesitated, then picked up Hank’s note, carefully folded it and slipped it into the pocket of his robe.
Mason lowered his hand. There was no look of displeasure over Erich’s refusal to shake it. “Good luck, Mr. Zeitlin. You’ll need it.” And Commander Mason parked his cap on the back of his head, picked up his umbrella and the briefcase full of confessions, and departed.
Erich sat alone in the examining room. Rain beat against the window. It was over. It seemed to be completely over. He imagined the war over and he and Hank, out of uniform, meeting together in the ruins and explaining themselves to each other. If they were still alive.