They faced each other, wheezing, neither able to speak.
“Let me finish this meal you fixed for me,” Joe said at last.
“Won’t you say? You won’t tell me? You do know what it is, yourself; you understand and you just go on eating, pretending you don’t have any idea what I mean.” She let go of his ears; they had been twisted until they were now bright red.
“Empty talk,” Joe said. “It doesn’t matter. Like the radio, what you said of it. You know the old brownshirt term for people who spin philosophy?
Eierkopf
. Egghead. Because the big double-domed empty heads break so easily…in the street brawls.”
“If you feel like that about me,” Juliana said, “why don’t you go on? What are you staying here for?”
His enigmatic grimace chilled her.
I wish I had never let him come with me, she thought. And now it’s too late; I know I can’t get rid of him—he’s too strong.
Something terrible is happening, she thought. Coming out of him. And I seem to be helping it.
“What’s the matter?” He reached out, chucked her beneath the chin, stroked her neck, put his fingers under her shirt and pressed her shoulders affectionately. “A mood. Your problem—I’ll analyze you free.”
“They’ll call you a Jew analyst.” She smiled feebly. “Do you want to wind up in an oven?”
“You’re scared of men. Right?”
“I don’t know.”
“It was possible to tell last night. Only because I—” He cut his sentence off. “Because I took special care to notice your wants.”
“Because you’ve gone to bed with so many girls,” Juliana said, “that’s what you started to say.”
“But I know I’m right. Listen; I’ll never hurt you, Juliana. On my mother’s body— I give you my word. I’ll be specially considerate, and if you want to make an issue out of my experience—I’ll give you the advantage of that. You’ll lose your jitters; I can relax you and improve you, in not very much time, either. You’ve just had bad luck.”
She nodded, cheered a bit. But she still felt cold and sad, and she still did not know quite why.
To begin his day, Mr. Nobusuke Tagomi took a moment to be alone. He sat in his office in the Nippon Times Building and contemplated.
Already, before he had left his house to come to his office, he had received Ito’s report on Mr. Baynes. There was no doubt in the young student’s mind; Mr. Baynes was not a Swede. Mr. Baynes was most certainly a German national.
But Ito’s ability to handle Germanic languages had never impressed either the Trade Missions or the Tokkoka, the Japanese secret police. The fool possibly has sniffed out nothing to speak of, Mr. Tagomi thought to himself. Maladroit enthusiasm, combined with romantic doctrines. Detect, always with suspicion.
Anyhow, the conference with Mr. Baynes and the elderly individual from the Home Islands would begin soon, in due course, whatever national Mr. Baynes was. And Mr. Tagomi liked the man. That was, he decided, conceivably the basic talent of the man highly placed—such as himself. To know a good man when he met him. Intuition about people. Cut through all ceremony and outward form. Penetrate to the heart.
The heart, locked within two yin lines of black passion. Strangled, sometimes, and yet, even then, the light of yang, the flicker at the center. I like him, Mr. Tagomi said to himself. German or Swede. I hope the zaracaine helped his headache. Must recall to inquire, first off the bat.
His desk intercom buzzed.
“No,” he said brusquely into it. “No discussion. This is moment for Inner Truth. Introversion.”
From the tiny speaker Mr. Ramsey’s voice: “Sir, news has just come from the press service below. The Reichs Chancellor is dead. Martin Bormann.” Ramsey’s voice popped off. Silence.
Mr. Tagomi thought, Cancel all business for today. He rose from his desk and paced rapidly back and forth, pressing his hands together. Let me see. Dispatch at once formal note to Reichs Consul. Minor item; subordinate can accomplish. Deep sorrow, etc. All Japan joins with German people in this sad hour. Then? Become vitally receptive. Must be in position to receive information from Tokyo instantly.
Pressing the intercom button he said, “Mr. Ramsey, be sure we are through to Tokyo. Tell the switchboard girls, be alert. Must not miss communication.”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Ramsey said.
“I will be in my office from now on. Thwart all routine matters. Turn back any and all callers whose business is customary.”
“Sir?”
“My hands must be free in case sudden activity is needed.”
“Yes sir.”
Half an hour later, at nine, a message arrived from the highest-ranking Imperial Government official on the West Coast, the Japanese Ambassador to the Pacific States of America, the Honorable Baron L. B. Kaelemakule. The Foreign Office had called an extraordinary session at the embassy building on Sutter Street, and each Trade Mission was to send a highly placed personage to attend. In this case, it meant Mr. Tagomi himself.
There was no time to change clothes. Mr. Tagomi hurried to the express elevator, descended to the ground floor, and a moment later was on his way by Mission limousine, a black 1940 Cadillac driven by an experienced uniformed Chinese chauffeur.
At the embassy building he found other dignitaries’ cars parked roundabout, a dozen in all. Highly placed worthies, some of whom he knew, some of whom were strangers to him, could be seen ascending the wide steps of the embassy building, filing on inside. Mr. Tagomi’s chauffeur held the door open, and he stepped out quickly, gripping his briefcase, it was empty, because he had no papers to bring—but it was essential to avoid appearance of being mere spectator. He strode up the steps in a manner suggesting a vital role in the happenings, although actually he had not even been told what this meeting would cover.
Small knots of personages had gathered; murmured discussions in the lobby. Mr. Tagomi joined several individuals whom he knew, nodding his head and looking—with them—solemn.
An embassy employee appeared presently and directed them into a large hall. Chairs set up, folding type. All persons filed in, seated themselves silently except for coughing and shuffling. Talk had ceased.
Toward the front a gentleman with handful of papers, making way up to slightly raised table. Striped pants: representative from Foreign Office.
Bit of confusion. Other personages, discussing in low tones; heads bowed together.
“Sirs,” the Foreign Office person said in loud, commanding voice. All eyes fixed then on him. “As you know, the Reichskanzler is now confirmed as dead. Official statement from Berlin. This meeting, which will not last long—you will soon be able to go back to your offices—is for purposes of informing you of our evaluation of several contending factions in German political life who can now be expected to step forth and engage in no-holds-barred disputation for spot evacuated by Herr Bormann.
“Briefly, the notables. The foremost, Hermann Goring. Bear with familiar details, please.
“The Fat One, so-called, due to body, originally courageous air ace in First World War, founded Gestapo and held post in Prussian Government of vast power. One of the most ruthless early Nazis, yet later sybaritic excesses gave rise to misguiding picture of amiable wine-tippling disposition which our government urges you to reject. This man although said to be unhealthy, possibly even morbidly so in terms of appetites, resembles more the self-gratifying ancient Roman Caesars whose power grew rather than abated as age progressed. Lurid picture of this person in toga with pet lions, owning immense castle filled with trophies and art objects, is no doubt accurate. Freight trains of stolen valuables made way to his private estates over military needs in wartime. Our evaluation: this man craves enormous power, and is capable of obtaining it. Most self-indulgent of all Nazis, and is in sharp contrast to late H. Himmler, who lived in personal want at low salary. Herr Goring representative of spoils mentality, using power as means of acquiring personal wealth. Primitive mentality, even vulgar, but quite intelligent man, possibly most intelligent of all Nazi chiefs. Object of his drives: self-glorification in ancient emperor fashion.
“Next. Herr J. Goebbels. Suffered polio in youth. Originally Catholic. Brilliant orator, writer, flexible and fanatic mind, witty, urbane, cosmopolitan. Much active with ladies. Elegant. Educated. Highly capable. Does much work; almost frenzied managerial drive. Is said never to rest. Much-respected personage. Can be charming, but is said to have rabid streak unmatched by other Nazis. Ideological orientation suggesting medieval Jesuitic viewpoint exacerbated by post-Romantic Germanic nihilism. Considered sole authentic intellectual of the Partei. Had ambitions to be playwright in youth. Few friends. Not liked by subordinates, but nevertheless highly polished product of many best elements in European culture. Not self-gratification is underlying ambition, but power for its use purely. Organizational attitude in classic Prussian State sense.
“Herr R. Heydrich.”
The Foreign Office official paused, glanced up and around at them all. Then resumed.
“Much younger individual than above, who helped original Revolution in 1932. Career man with elite SS. Subordinate of H. Himmler, may have played role in Himmler’s not yet fully explained death in 1948. Officially eliminated other contestants within police apparatus such as A. Eichmann, W. Schellenberg, et al. This man said to be feared by many Partei people. Responsible for controlling Wehrmacht elements after close of hostilities in famous clash between police and army which led to reorganization of governmental apparatus, out of all this the NSDAP emerging victor. Supported M. Bormann throughout. Product of elite training and yet anterior to so-called SS Castle system. Said to be devoid of affective mentality in traditional sense. Enigmatic in terms of drive. Possibly may be said to have view of society which holds human struggle to be series of games; peculiar quasi-scientific detachment found also in certain technological circles. Not party to ideological disputes. Summation: can be called most modern in mentality; post-enlightenment type, dispensing with so-called necessary illusions such as belief in God, etc. Meaning of this so-called realistic mentality cannot be fathomed by social scientists in Tokyo, so this man must be considered a question mark. However, notice of resemblance to deterioration of affectivity in pathological schizophrenia should be made.”
Mr. Tagomi felt ill as he listened.
“Baldur von Schirach. Former head of Hitler Youth. Considered idealist. Personally attractive in appearance, but considered not highly experienced or competent. Sincere believer in goals of Partei. Took responsibility for draining Mediterranean and reclaiming of huge areas of farmland. Also mitigated vicious policies of racial extermination in Slavic lands in early ’fifties. Pled case directly to German people for remnant of Slavic peoples to exist on reservation-like closed regions in Heartland area. Called for end of certain forms of mercy killings and medical experimentation, but failed here.
“Doctor Seyss-Inquart. Former Austrian Nazi, now in charge of Reich colonial areas, responsible for colonial policies. Possibly most hated man in Reich territory. Said to have instigated most if not all repressive measures dealing with conquered peoples. Worked with Rosenberg for ideological victories of most alarming grandiose type, such as attempt to sterilize entire Russian population remaining after close of hostilities. No facts for certain on this, but considered to be one of several responsible for decision to make holocaust of African continent thus creating genocide conditions for Negro population. Possibly closest in temperament to original Fuhrer, A. Hitler.”
The Foreign Office spokesman ceased his dry, slow recitation.
Mr. Tagomi thought, I think I am going mad.
I have to get out of here; I am having an attack. My body is throwing up things or spurting them out—I am dying. He scrambled to his feet, pushed down the aisle past other chairs and people. He could hardly see. Get to lavatory. He ran up the aisle.
Several heads turned. Saw him. Humiliation. Sick at important meeting. Lost place. He ran on, through the open door held by embassy employee.
At once the panic ceased. His gaze ceased to swim; he saw objects once more. Stable floor, walls.
Attack of vertigo. Middle-ear malfunction, no doubt.
He thought, Diencephalon, ancient brainstem, acting up.
Some organic momentary breakdown.
Think along reassuring lines. Recall order of world. What to draw on? Religion? He thought,
Now a gavotte perform sedately. Capital both, capital both, you’ve caught it nicely. This is the style of thing precisely
. Small form of recognizable world, Gondoliers. G.&S. He shut his eyes, imagined the D’Oyly Carte Company as he had seen them on their tour after the war. The finite, finite world…
An embassy employee, at his elbow, saying, “Sir, can I give you assistance?”
Mr. Tagomi bowed, “I am recovered.”
The other’s face, calm, considerate. No derision. They are all laughing at me, possibly? Mr. Tagomi thought. Down underneath?
There is evil! It’s actual like cement.
I can’t believe it. I can’t stand it. Evil is not a view. He wandered about the lobby, hearing the traffic on Sutter Street, the Foreign Office spokesman addressing the meeting. All our religion is wrong. What’ll I do? he asked himself. He went to the front door of the embassy; an employee opened it, and Mr. Tagomi walked down the steps to the path. The parked cars. His own. Chauffeurs standing.