AT LILY’S INSISTENCE, HARRY made his preparations quickly. No delays, no procrastinations. Yet when the morning came for his departure, he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his family. The memory of his cruelty to Jeremy and harshness with the other children tortured him. He prayed that his intolerance would leave no lasting scars. If he did nothing else in his life, he promised himself, from now on he was going to be a loving, patient, and doting father.
He was brought out of his reverie when Jeremy said, “Daddy, can I carry your suitcases out to the car?”
He looked down at the small handsome face. “Sure—come on, kids. We’ll do it together.”
It was painful to kiss them good-bye and then watch them wave from the platform, Lily standing like a fortress while the children clung to her.
“Take off those frowns and smile at Daddy, boys,” she directed, “and Melissa, throw Daddy a kiss.”
She started wailing, “Dada, Dada!” and stretched her hands toward the train.
The boys tried valiantly to smile. Daddy was going away for a long time, Mama had said so.
A tear rolled down Jeremy’s cheek and Lily put her arm around him. He was the sensitive one. “Darling, Daddy’s coming back. Throw him a kiss.”
He did so, and Harry saw it through gathering tears. Now, as the train rolled out into the distance and picked up speed, they grew smaller and then were lost from sight.
An enormous stab of loneliness assailed Harry; he felt as though he were abandoning them.
Yet this period of exile was so important. It was his last chance to become a writer. So much was riding on it. The only comfort he had was knowing that Lily did have the remainder of the little nest egg to draw on. But what it meant was that they were putting all their eggs in one basket—in Harry. If he didn’t make it, then what? He shuddered to think.
In spite of his guilty feelings and fear of inadequacy, he felt a strange sense of rising excitement at the prospect of New York. As the train neared Grand Central Terminal, another feeling superseded all his conflicting thoughts. He was a stranger, alone and alien in the very place where he had been born. After having been all but disowned by his family, he no longer felt that he had a home or roots.
He had seen his parents only a few times in the last six years. Once for the naming ceremony of each of the four children. But it was always stiff, formal, and awkward. Had it not been for the children, he doubted that they would have even met.
He allowed no hint of his longing to be revealed, but in his heart of hearts he kept hoping that they would embrace him as their son. Wouldn’t one think that they would admire him, if for no other reason than that he had never turned to them for any kind of financial assistance?
Hearing the screech of brakes as the train came to a halt, he came back to the moment. But it wasn’t until he walked off the train and into the swirling crowds that his spirits rose.
He picked up his suitcase and strode buoyantly out of the station into the July sun. He had planned to save the money and walk to the Y, but the noonday heat and the distance led him to the extravagance of hailing a cab.
Arriving at the 92nd Street Y, he looked around in dismay. Although the aroma of chlorine and Lysol permeated the atmosphere, the place certainly did not give one the impression of being anything but moderately sanitary. He missed the homey charm of Lily’s antiques and bright chintzes. And the heat. God, it was stifling! He had forgotten how humid and sticky July in New York City could be. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. He willed himself to remember those winters on the farm when the snow spread out like a soft fleecy blanket….
That night he had dinner at a small café on the corner of 87th and Lexington, which he remembered from his student days. How strange it was—he had been richer then than he was now as a grown man. He had had a generous allowance; his Stutz Bearcat was always parked in front of Delmonico’s, where Benjamin Kohle’s son was always given a good table.
“What will you have, sir?” asked the waitress.
Harry was grateful to her for interrupting his train of thought.
A half-hour later he stood on the curb outside, feeling the hot night embrace him. He turned and began walking. After a while, he realized that he was on Fifth Avenue, aware of an urgent desire to see his old home, just to touch something real and familiar out of his past. It was strange, he was a grown man with a family of his own, yet he still had a great longing for the roots of his own childhood, to feel a sense of belonging.
His steps slowed as he came to the Frick mansion and he stopped in front of the wrought-iron railing enclosing the gardens. Smiling slightly, he recalled how more than once as a small boy he had been chased out of those gardens.
Then he walked up the broad stone stairs to the Kohles’ and rang the bell. Life was a barter, he thought. The day he had first brought Lily here, he had forfeited his right to a privileged life. The door was opened by the butler, Collins, who had been with the family for more years than anyone could remember.
“Mr. Harry,” he said formally, without visible surprise. “Good evening.”
“Thank you, Collins. You look as spry as ever.”
The butler’s face remained impassive. He was well aware of Benjamin Kohle’s attitude toward his youngest son. “Your parents are out for the evening, Mr. Harry. I will inform them that you called.”
Harry had no intention of stopping if everyone was out, but he was taken aback by Collins’s attitude. The butler had no intention of inviting him in. Was it so clear, even to the servants, that he was persona non grata?
Looking past Collins through the door, he glimpsed the wide circular staircase. It looked exactly the same and suddenly he remembered long-forgotten images of the past. One day he had slid all the way down, only to be reprimanded by Elise as she watched him with fright.
“No message,” he said curtly. “Good night.”
Standing in the doorway of his tiny room at the Y, Harry took a look around. Then, suddenly, he slammed his fist against the door frame. God damn it, he would succeed! By the time his novel was published, not only Lily but all the Kohles would be proud of him.
The next morning, Harry awoke galvanized with a new strength. Wasting no time, he dressed quickly, went to the cafeteria and wolfed down a roll and a cup of coffee. His eagerness spurring him on, he hurried over to Third Avenue to buy a secondhand typewriter. He had left the old black Royal at the farm. Not only was it cumbersome to transport, but after years of pounding, it was on its last legs. He and Lily had agreed that Harry needed a new machine.
The first pawnshop he passed sported a Royal in the window. It looked to be in pretty good condition and Harry tried the door, but it was still locked. He had to wait until nine when the proprietor, Mr. Garfinkel, arrived to open up. “What can I do for you, young man?” he asked.
“How much is the black Royal in the window?”
“For you, I’ll make it thirty.”
Harry smiled. Garfinkel would have sold it to anyone for that price. “I’ll give you fifteen.”
“Eighteen I wouldn’t take.”
“Eighteen and that’s it, Mr. Garfinkel.”
He thought he had driven a hard bargain, but when he peeled off the precious bills from the small roll in his pocket, he wasn’t quite so amused. That two hundred dollars had to last until Christmas. He wasn’t going to ask Lily for a dime more, even if it meant starving. He hated the idea of her picking fruit for hours in the hot sun and then standing over a steaming kettle in the little kitchen, making jelly to sell to Swanson’s general store down the road.
Fueled with resolve to get to work, he went back to the Y to set up his typewriter, and pulled his partially finished manuscript out of his suitcase. He suspected that most of what was written would have to be redone, but for the time being he was going to push on with the story.
He rolled the first piece of paper into the machine, nervously feeling his sweaty palms. The prospect was so overwhelming that his breathing became labored. He had never felt quite like this before, but unmistakably he felt that at last he was about to come face to face with his destiny.
Swallowing hard, he poised his index fingers over the “f” and the “j.” Next to him lay the yellowed manuscript that had lived in his mind and haunted his thoughts for so many years.
He thought he knew his story, understood his characters so well, but suddenly in this instant, for the first time, he realized that he was not at all the same person as the boy who had started this novel as a freshman at Columbia years before. No longer was he a callow youth, but a man greatly matured by life. He looked down at the first page, where the date read “February 27, 1926” … such a long time ago. His fingers trembled as he experienced mingled feelings of trepidation and daring. Harry felt it was like the pause at the crest of the roller coaster just before it begins to gather speed for the long plunge. His breathing was staccato as he struck the keys.
July 22, 1939 Second Draft
THE WARS OF ARCHIE SANGER
by
Harry Kohle
Chapter One
Archie lay looking up at the cloudless sky, aware of an immense silence after the screaming fury of the cannons, the acrid scent of smoke still burning his nostrils. Then, somewhere in the distance, he heard a single mournful dove … or was it the sound of God weeping?
Taking a deep breath, Harry plunged himself into the nineteenth century. His fingers touched the keys, images of tired, hungry men in blue trudging down hot southern roads materialized before his eyes. Soon he was with them, breathing the choking red dust.
He had begun. The conflicts that tore Archie Sanger’s soul were the same that had plagued man since Cain and Abel, the same that raged in the Kohle household. As a writer and as a man, Harry Kohle understood that. He was writing about a different time, a war fought on the battlefield rather than in a peaceful New York brownstone, but Harry realized the new passion he brought to his work was fueled by the strife in his own family.
It wasn’t until the moonlight touched a corner of his desk that he knew that he had worked without stopping for twelve straight hours. He got up and stretched. In spite of the stiffness in his joints he felt exhilarated. He had written forty pages, pages he really believed in. He would have liked to share his elation with Lily, but they had agreed that there would be no unnecessary phone calls.
As the weeks passed, Harry developed a hardworking routine which was mirrored by Lily’s own hectic schedule at the farm. Missing Harry as she did, Lily was happy her days were so busy, because at night, lying alone on her bed, she was filled with longings. She remembered only the good times, when she and Harry had been newly married, before the children were born, before all of the misunderstandings. When Harry had gotten on that train, she had felt not just the sadness of parting, but the misery from her youth, of being deserted—even though she knew that Harry, unlike her parents, really loved her. But despite her bravery, the responsibility of providing for the family proved an incredibly heavy burden. The physical strain of working and caring for the children was bearable; she was young and strong. But many times she feared that she had taken on more financial responsibility than she was capable of handling. For the first time, she realized the extent of the pressures Harry felt. Since he had always paid the bills, she had had no idea how quickly the money flowed out the door. Her complacent reliance on their nest egg now seemed ludicrous. If her jams, jellies, and handiwork didn’t sell, they would soon be penniless. Once, when she had failed to add enough pectin to the raspberry jelly and it had boiled down into a rubbery mess, she had actually sat down on the kitchen floor and cried.
Even more worrisome than the money situation was her increasing inability to control the children. Jeremy was a good little boy, but Randy was stubborn as a mule, and Drew was a wild Indian, always into mischief. Melissa was the worst of all, for she was given to loud tantrums when she didn’t get her own way. Vainly, Lily tried to reason with them, not realizing that they simply needed a firm “No!”
Terrified of repeating her parents’ mistakes, Lily had decided early on that the only thing children needed was unconditional love. In time, everything would fall in line; they would obey, she thought vaguely, because they loved her.
But in Harry’s absence she realized that there might be more to raising children than that. As they ran rings around her, she found herself longing for a firm hand.
One evening when Randolph called from the city she was so pleased at the prospect of his company she almost burst into tears.
“Can you come up for the weekend?” she asked eagerly.
“I’d love to. How is my little godson?”
“Just fine—he’ll be so thrilled to hear that you’re coming. And the others, too, of course.”
When the big Packard pulled up in front of the farmhouse, the back seat was filled with the gifts Randolph’s secretary had selected at F.A.O. Schwartz—teddy bears, roller skates, and best of all, a new football.
As the children ran out into the field to toss it around, Randolph went into the house with Lily, where they sat down over freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee cake.
“Did you make this?” he asked in surprise. “It’s fabulous.”
“Of course I made it.”
“You never cease to amaze me,” he commented, shaking his head. “Isn’t Harry going to have a piece? Or is he sleeping in today? I don’t hear the usual clatter of typewriter keys.”
“Well.” She drew a deep breath. “Harry’s not here.”
“Oh?”
“I guess I didn’t tell you. He’s in New York, working.”
“Working? At what?”
“He’s going to stay at the Y for a few months while he finishes his novel.”
Looking at her searchingly, he asked, “Lily, is there something you’re not telling me? Have you and Harry separated?”
“Of course not!” she answered indignantly.
“Come on, Lily—since when does a married man with four kids move out? Can’t he do his writing here?”
“It’s the kids. They just make so much noise he can’t concentrate. It’s not the right atmosphere.”
“And he’s getting it at the Y? That’s a lovely atmosphere, I’m sure. Pardon my asking, but what are you and he using for money while he’s gone?”
“I’m working, Randolph.”
By the time she had finished describing her various projects, Randolph was open-mouthed with astonishment. “Good Lord, Lily, you have got to be joking!”
“No, I’m not—I’ve been making a good profit. In fact, I’ve already started taking orders for Christmas aprons and pinafores.”
“I’m not going to stand by and see you struggle this way. How much do you figure it takes to support you and the kids for a year?”
“I don’t care to talk about it, Randolph.”
“Lily, this is ridiculous. I have more money than I’m ever going to be able to spend, and I’m a bachelor with no obligations. Can’t you let me help you out? Call it a loan, if you will.”
“We prefer to make our own way, Randolph. Harry’s pride would never allow him to accept help—why, he will barely accept mine.”
“Don’t tell him, then.”
“That’s out of the question.”
Sighing, he gave up. “All right, if that’s the way you really feel. But I want you to know that if you ever need anything for any reason, I’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, covering his hand with her own. “You’re such a good friend, Randolph. Just about the only one I have. I don’t know what I would have done without you all these years.”
Randolph smiled and kissed her. In the beginning, he had been terribly hurt that Lily had gotten married without so much as a telephone call. He had really felt that Harry was the wrong husband for her, but when he had seen how happy she was, how much they loved one another, he had forgiven her. Loving his cousin as he did, he felt that she was entitled to the man of her choice.
Over the years, his friendship for Harry and Lily had grown, but there was an even stronger motive for his visits: little Randy. Resigned to the fact that he could never have children, he believed this nephew had been sent by God as a kind of compensation. This was the son he would never have—and to his secret joy, Randy adored him. The little boy even resembled the Goodhues, in both looks and stature. If Randolph had fathered him, Randy could not have looked more like him. Before the boy was two years old, Randolph had told Lily of his intention to make the boy his heir. If Charles Goodhue had known, he would have spun in his grave. He had disowned Lily for marrying a Jew. And now her son would one day inherit the entire fortune.
As for Lily, she had never cared about the money. She had always adored Randolph and was grateful he cared so much for her and her children.