A Matter of Conviction

Seven

When he got home that afternoon, there was company waiting in the living room.

Karin met him at the door and said, “John and Fred are here. I don’t think it’s a social visit.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. They have the look of men who’ve discovered goldenrod in their neighbor’s lawn.”

“No kiss for the returning warrior?” he said.

“Why, certainly.”

She kissed him briefly, and he said, “I’ll see you later. Where’s Jennie?”

“She’s having dinner at one of her friends’. She’ll be gone until eleven or so.”

“It bodes well,” Hank said.

“Does it? I haven’t been asked yet.”

“I don’t believe in asking my women. I just drag them into my cave by the hair.”

“If I were you, I’d go talk to the Committee for the Preservation of Green Lawns in Inwood first.”

“I intend to do that right now. Did you mix some Martinis?”

“I did.”

“Good. I’d like one.”

“They’re on the bar. I’d join you, but someone around here has to get dinner going.”

“Chill some wine,” he said.

“My, my,” Karin answered. “What brings on the sudden romanticism?”

“The very sight of you, my dove,” he said, and he winked and went into the living room.

“Well, well,” he said, “this is a surprise. John, Fred, how are you?”

Both men rose as he entered the room. John McNalley was in his early thirties, a tall sinewy man with prematurely gray hair. He worked for a chemical research plant in Yonkers. Fred Pierce was an advertising man, art director for a firm which specialized in photographic layouts. In contrast to McNalley, he was short and rotund, with the sloppy look of an artist living on the Left Bank. They shook hands with Hank, and then McNalley said, “Home from the wars, eh?”

“Busy day,” Hank said. “Busy day. Either of you care for a Martini? I’m going to have one.”

Pierce looked as if he were about to accept, but McNalley promptly said, “No,” for both of them. Hank went to the bar, picked up the pitcher there, held the swizzle stick to its lip and poured a hefty Martini into his glass. He plucked two olives from the open jar on the bar top and dropped them into the glass.

“Here’s luck,” he said.

“Drink hearty,” Pierce said, and then he glanced at McNalley as if wondering whether he had his approval to speak.

Hank loosened his tie and sat down. “What can I do for you, fellas?” he said. “Donation for the P.T.A.? Little League? What is it this time?”

“Well, nothing very serious,” McNalley said.

“Just a little friendly visit, that’s all,” Pierce said, glancing again at McNalley.

“Well, it’s always good to see you,” Hank said, and he watched them over the rim of his glass, wondering why they were here, suspecting at once that this was not “just a little friendly visit.”

“Good for neighbors to get together every now and then,” McNalley said.

“Especially in a neighborhood like this one,” Pierce said. “Where everybody knows everybody else. Where the people have been living on the same street for years. It’s a good neighborhood, Hank.”

“It certainly is,” Hank replied. He was, in truth, not overly fond of Inwood. But as a prosecutor for New York County, he was required to maintain residence within the county. They had thought of moving to Greenwich Village when he’d first got the job, but Karin had rightfully insisted that Inwood would provide a more countrified environment for Jennie, who was, at the time, only five and a half years old. Still, he had never really felt any deep-rooted ties with the community.

“We’d like to keep it good,” McNalley said.

“That’s a reasonable hope,” Hank answered, sipping at the Martini. He felt rather good. He’d felt this way ever since his talk with Mary. He was hoping these two rather forlorn-looking neighbors of his would go home for dinner so that he could go kiss his wife.

Out of a clear blue sky, Pierce said, “How would you like your daughter marrying one of those Puerto Ricans?”

Hank blinked. “What? What did you say?”

“Now, just a minute, Fred,” McNalley said. “I thought we agreed that I would do the—”

“I’m sorry, John. Only, we were talking about the neighbor—”

“I know what we were talking about. Boy, you’re about as subtle as a locomotive!”

“Well, I’m sorry if I—”

“Oh, just keep quiet and let me explain this to Hank. You’re going to give him the wrong idea, for God’s sake.”

“The wrong idea about what, John?” Hank asked.

“About the neighborhood. And the city.”

“Why, I think this is a nice neighborhood,” Hank said. “And a nice city.”

“Sure you do,” McNalley said.

“See, I told you he’d agree with us,” Pierce said.

“About what?” Hank asked.

“About keeping the neighborhood good. And the city.”

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” Hank said.

“Well, then let’s discuss it a little, Hank,” McNalley said. “Now you know that Fred and I and all the rest of our neighbors are not prejudiced people. We’re—”

“Of course not,” Hank said.

“Of course not. We’re normal American citizens who happen to believe that all men are created equal and that everyone’s entitled to his place in the sun. Am I right, Fred?”

“Absolutely,” Pierce said.

“Sure,” McNalley agreed. “And we don’t happen to believe there’s any such thing as a second-class citizen. But we do feel that certain elements in this city would be better suited to a rural rather than an urban culture. You can’t expect to take people who are used to cutting sugar cane and fishing, you can’t just take these people and throw them into the middle of the biggest city in the world and hope they’ll make an amicable adjustment to civilization. These elements—”

“Which elements?” Hank said.

“Well, Hank, I don’t have to bandy words with you, because I’m sure we see eye to eye and I know you won’t mistake me for a man with prejudices. I’m talking about the Puerto Ricans.”

“I see,” Hank said.

“Who are a fine people, that’s for sure. I understand there’s a very low crime rate on the island of Puerto Rico itself, and that it’s as safe to walk around down there as it would be in a hospital nursery. But down there isn’t up here. And it isn’t safe to walk around in Spanish Harlem, and there is a very high crime rate in Spanish sections, and those sections are spreading all over the city. And pretty soon it won’t be safe to walk anywhere without being afraid of getting knifed. And that goes for Inwood, too.”

“I see,” Hank said.

“Now obviously, we can’t tell these damn people where they should live. They’re American citizens — just like you and me, Hank, just like you and me — and they’re free men who are entitled to their place in the sun, and I wouldn’t deny it to them. But it seems, to me they should be taught that they can’t simply come into a civilized city and turn it into a jungle suitable only for jungle animals. I’m thinking of my wife and kids, Hank, and I guess you ought to be thinking of that lovely little daughter of yours because I sure as hell wouldn’t want her getting raped by some farmer from Puerto Rico some night.”

“I see,” Hank said.

“Which brings us to why we’re here. Now, none of us on this street condones murder, that’s for damn sure, and I hope you realize we’re all law-abiding citizens who are anxious to see justice done. But nobody goes into the jungle — and I know that particular word is overused these days — but nonetheless nobody goes into the jungle and hangs a hunter for having killed a dangerous tiger. Nobody would ever think of doing a thing like that, Hank.”

“I see,” Hank said.

“Okay, so we have these three young white boys who happen to be strolling in Spanish Harlem — which you’ll agree is a part of the jungle — and this jungle animal comes at them with a knife and...”

“Just hold it a minute, John,” Hank said.

“...it only seems reasonable to— Huh?”

“I hope I’m misunderstanding you so far. I hope I’m not getting the impression that you came in here in an attempt to tell me how to try the Rafael Morrez case.”

“We wouldn’t do a thing like that, Hank, and you know it.”

“Then why did you come in here?”

“To ask you whether you’re seriously going to try to inflict the death penalty on these three white boys who — in self-defense — would not allow this Puerto Rican—”

“This Puerto Rican was as white as you are, John.”

“All right, have your little joke,” McNalley said, “but we happen to think this is serious. And we’re your neighbors.”

“Admittedly. So?”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to prosecute for first-degree murder as charged in the indictment handed down by the grand jury.”

“You’re going to try to hang these boys?”

“I’m going to try to convict them.”

“Why?”

“Because I believe they’re guilty.”

“And do you realize what this will mean?”

“What will it mean, John?”

“It’ll mean that every damn Puerto Rican in this city will think he can get away with murder! That’s what it’ll mean!”

“Haven’t you got your facts a little mixed up? It’s the Puerto Rican who was killed.”

“He came at them with a knife! Are you trying to tell me that decent citizens should be penalized for protecting their own lives? Or their property? For God’s sake, Hank, you’re opening the door for anarchy! You’re paving the way for jungle animals to take over the civilized world!”

“There’s an inscription outside the Criminal Courts Building downtown, John, at the south entrance hall. It says—”

“Oh, don’t quote inscrip—”

“It says, ‘Where law ends, there tyranny begins.’”

“What’s that got to do with what we’re discussing?”

“You’re talking about the civilized world. Law is the civilized world. Without law, we’ve got tyranny, and anarchy, and jungle animals. And you’re asking me to suspend law in favor of—”

“I’m not asking you to suspend anything! I’m asking you for justice.”

“What kind of justice?”

“There’s only one kind of justice,” McNalley said.

“Exactly. And she’s blind, and she doesn’t know the difference between a dead Puerto Rican and a dead native of this city. She knows only that the law has been broken.”

“How would you like your daughter marrying one of those Puerto Ricans?” Pierce said.

“Oh, nuts,” Hank answered.

“Well, how would you?”

“Stop worrying so damn much about the superiority of your sexual prowess. I imagine Puerto Rican men copulate much the same way that you do, no better, no worse. I doubt if we’re in any particular danger of losing our women to the alien hordes!”

“There’s no sense talking to him, John,” Pierce said. “There’s just no sense.”

“You can do what you want to,” McNalley said ominously. “I just want to tell you, Hank, that the opinion of this neighborhood—”

“The hell with the opinion of this neighborhood,” Hank said, rising, slamming down his glass. “And the hell with the opinion of the newspapers, which happens to be contrary to the opinion held by this neighborhood. I’m riding this particular jackass, and I don’t want to wind up in the river.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ll prosecute this case exactly as I want to, without any hints or advice from anybody! Is that clear enough?”

“It couldn’t be clearer. Come on, Fred.”

Without another word, both men stalked out of the house. Karin came in from the kitchen.

“Wow!” she said.

“Yeah. I’m going to have another Martini. You want one?”

“Yes.” She shook her head. “I had no idea... Have the newspapers been giving you trouble, too?”

“I saw a reporter this afternoon. Karin, there’s something you should know.”

“What’s that?”

He handed her the drink. “The mother of one of the boys — Mary Di Pace — is the girl... the girl I...”

“The girl you loved?”

“Yes.” He paused. “The newspapers will try to make something of it. I thought you should know.”

She watched him as he raised his glass. His hand was shaking. He downed the drink quickly and then poured another.

“I won’t even read the stories,” she said.

He shrugged and then wiped a hand over his face. Outside, the sky was beginning to darken with sudden summer rain clouds. He walked to the big picture window. Aimlessly, he said, “Rain coming.”

“Yes.”

She could see his face, could see the beginning of a tic at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t let them bother you,” she said. “McNalley or Pierce or any of the others. Just do your job.”

“Yes,” he said, and he nodded.

In the distance, lightning flashed across the sky, followed instantly by the low rumble of thunder. He turned to her.

“Karin?”

“Yes?”

“Could — could we go upstairs?”

“Yes, darling,” she said. She took his hand and led him to the steps. She could feel tension surging like electricity through his fingers. A lightning bolt crashed closer, and she felt him start unconsciously, wince when the thunder bellowed its near answer. He pulled her to him suddenly, fiercely. Standing on the step below her, he pressed his face to her bosom. His body was stiff, his jaws clamped together, the trembling visible.

“I need you,” he said. “Karin, I need you so much.”

She did not answer. She took his hand and led him to their bedroom and she could remember the first time he’d said those words to her, so long ago, the first time she began to know a little about the man she loved so much. They had driven out of Berlin on a Friday afternoon, a weekend pass tucked into the pocket of his blouse, the jeep bouncing along bomb-pitted roads under a sky as bright as blue enamel. He looked very handsome in his captain’s tunic, the twin silver bars gleaming on his shoulders, his eyes reflecting the blue of the flawless sky. They had found an inn a hundred kilometers from the city, the familiar Zimmer sign hanging out front. He had joked about the word on the drive to the inn, thinking it amazing that this family named Zimmer had managed to corner the market on all the hotels in Germany. They’d eaten dinner alone in the small dining room while the proprietor hovered over them, pouring from a bottle of French wine he’d managed to save from “the good days.” They’d gone up to the room then, and he’d begun unpacking his small bag while she undressed. He was taking out his pajamas when she whispered, “Hank.”

He turned to her. She stood naked, one arm crossed over her breasts, the other arm extended.

“Give me the top,” she said. “I want to wear your pajama top.” There was a curious look in her eyes. He went to her, sensing that it was very important that he give her the pajama top. Her eyes made it an important thing. He handed it to her, and she put it on and then hugged her arms across her body.

“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s very nice. I knew it would be nice.” She reached up to put her arms around his neck, shorter now without her high-heeled pumps, looking very small and very vulnerable in the overlarge pajama top. “May I kiss you, please?” she asked.

“What for?”

“To thank you.”

“What for?”

“For finding me. For taking me away from Berlin this weekend. For lending me your pajama top.”

“Karin...”

“Are you very tired?” she asked, a slight smile on her mouth.

“Tired?”

“After all that driving,” she said.

“No, I’m not.”

“I thought you might be tired,” she said.

“No,” he answered, returning the smile, “I’m not tired at all,” and she kissed him.

She could not remember afterward how many times she awakened him during the night. She could not sleep at all. Lying in the circle of his arms, she was sure this was not real, this untouched inn hung with medieval gables, leaded windows that had not been shattered by bombs, clean white sheets, and Hank beside her with a three-day pass, no rush to the base in the morning, this could not be real. In the darkness of the ancient room, the fat mattress cradling them, embracing them, the windows open, the town silent and still except for the occasional rumble of an airplane droning toward Berlin, she lay wide awake, her eyes saucer-wide, a small smile of childish disbelief on her mouth.

She woke him the first time to ask, “Are you real?”

He blinked at her in the darkness. “Yes,” he said sleepily. “I’m real.”

“Why don’t you make love to me?” she said.

“Now?”

“Can you think of a better time?”

“Yes. Tomorrow morning.”

“That’s a good time,” she agreed. “But now is a good time, too.”

She lay awake afterwards, thinking, He’s had a very tiring drive in a jeep, he must be exhausted, I mustn’t demand too much of him, but I want to touch him, I want him to be awake, I want to know that he is real, I want hours and hours and hours of him, I never want to leave this bed, I want to stay in this bed for the whole three days, I love his pajama top.

“Hank?”

“Mmmm?”

“I love your pajama top.”

“Mmmm.”

“You’ll never be able to wear it again without thinking of me.”

“Mmm.”

“Will you?”

“No. Won’t.”

“Do you want to sleep?”

“Don’t you?”

“I want to talk. Hank, we can sleep all day tomorrow. We have three whole days together. Can we talk?”

“All right.”

“Isn’t Mr. Vettiger nice?”

“The proprietor? Yes. Adorable.”

“Are you very sleepy?”

“No, no, notatall.”

“Do you think he knows we’re not married?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not very talkative.”

“I’m listening.”

“I think he knows,” she said.

“I don’t think he cares,” Hank answered.

“He likes us. We’re a wonderful couple.”

“Mmm.”

“You looked so handsome today.”

“Go to sleep,” he said.

“I’ll wake you later.”

“All right.”

“You’ll know you’re being awakened.”

“Will I?”

“Yes. You’ll know,”

“Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“I’m too excited. I love you too much. We’ve got three days together, Hank. Oh, I’m so happy, I’m so damn happy!” She chuckled and then caught herself. “I mustn’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Laugh on Friday, cry on Sunday,” she said. “Don’t you know that expression?”

“This is Saturday,” Hank said. “It’s past midnight.”

“Yes, but it’s really Friday,” Karin said adamantly.

“That’s not logical. It’s not even sensible.”

“Laugh on Friday, cry on Sunday. I don’t want to cry on Sunday.”

“This is Saturday. You can laugh all you want.”

“When I was a little girl, all I did was wet my pants and cry. That’s what my father said, anyway. He used to call me ‘Benässen und Weinen.’”

“What’s that?”

“It means ‘Wet and cry.’”

“It’s a good name. I’ll call you that from now on.”

“Don’t you dare! Go to sleep. I’ll wake you later.”

“You twisted my arm,” he said.

He was asleep again almost instantly. She listened to his heavy breathing and she thought again, He’s so tired, I should let him sleep. She got out of bed and walked to the dresser where he’d put his cigarettes and his billfold and his dog tags. She shook a cigarette free from the pack, lighted it, and then went to stand at the window, looking out over the fields, silvery white in the moonlight. The floor was cold. She stood by the window for just a little while, one arm folded across his pajama top, the other moving to her face each time she sucked in on the cigarette.

She put out the cigarette then and went back to the bed. “You’re so warm,” she said. He grunted in his sleep and she grinned delightedly and thought, He really is. He’s the warmest human being I know. He’s always so warm. His feet are never cold. How does he keep his feet so warm?

“Warm my feet,” she said, and he grunted again, and she stifled a laugh.

I mustn’t laugh. It’s really Friday, no matter what he says, it won’t be Saturday until I wake up in the morning, why are men so ridiculous about time? She lay in bed with a smile on her face, holding his hand between her own, clutching his hand to her bosom. In a little while she fell asleep, the smile still on her mouth.

She heard the shower going, and she opened her eyes. She could not have been asleep for more than a few hours; there was bright sunlight streaming around the edges of the leaded casements. He began singing in the bathroom, quite suddenly and quite awfully, and she grinned and stretched and pushed her blond head deeper into the pillow, feeling very luxuriant and very loved and also very tired.

Well, he sings in the shower, she thought. She was pleased, even though he sang terribly. She pulled the covers to her throat, feeling that she looked very impish and pure and clean without make-up, and probably very horrible. When he sees me, he’ll run out of the room screaming. Maybe I ought to get up and put on some lipstick. The singing stopped, and then the sound of the water. The bathroom door opened. He had wrapped the towel around his waist and he headed for the dresser now, apparently going for a comb. He had not dried himself very thoroughly. There were droplets of water clinging to his shoulders; his face and hair no were still wet, the hair clinging to his forehead. He moved totally unaware of her, stepping into a narrow wedge of sunlight, his eyes suddenly flashing very blue. She watched him, the broad shoulders and the narrow waist, the pathetic droplets of water clinging to him, the damp hair flattened against his forehead, his face glistening wet, the blue eyes captured by sunlight. She watched him silently, seeing the man as he moved toward the dresser, thinking, This is the man unawares, this is the man I love.

She made a small sound.

He turned, mildly surprised, his eyebrows quirking upward, his mouth beginning a smile. “Oh, are you awake?”

She could not answer for a moment. She loved him so much in that instant that she could not speak. She nodded and kept watching him.

“You look nice,” she said at last, inadequately.

He went to the bed, knelt by it, took her face in his hands and kissed her. “You look lovely,” he said.

“Oh, ja, ja, ja. I’ll bet.”

“Oh, ja, ja, ja. You’d win.”

“I look horrible. I’m a horror.”

“You’re the most beautiful horror I’ve ever seen.”

She ducked her head into the pillow. “Don’t look at me, please. I have no lipstick on.”

“The better to kiss you, my love,” he said, and he turned her face to him, capturing it in his hands again. His mouth was reaching for hers when they heard the airplanes. He lifted his head. The noise of the planes filled the sky, and then the small room. His eyes turned toward the window. A squadron of planes, Karin thought, heading for Berlin, and then she noticed that he was trembling and she was filled with instant alarm.

“What is it?” she said.

“Nothing.”

She sat up and gripped his arms. “What is it, Hank? You’re shaking. You’re—”

“Nothing. Nothing. I... I...”

He got off the bed and walked to the dresser. He lighted a cigarette quickly and then went to the window, following the progression of the squadron across the sky.

“Transports,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said softly. “The war is over, Hank.”

“In Germany it is,” he said. He took a hasty drag at his cigarette. She watched him for a moment and then threw back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed and went to stand alongside him at the window. The planes were out of sight now. Only their distant hum could be heard in the sky.

“What is it?” she said firmly. “Tell me, Hank.”

He nodded bleakly. “I’m flying on Monday. That’s why I got the weekend. I’m taking some brass to...”

“Where?”

He hesitated.

“Where?”

“One of the islands in the Pacific.” He squashed out his cigarette.

“Will there be... shooting?”

“Possibly.”

They were silent.

“But you aren’t sure?” she said.

“Half the island is still held by the Japanese,” he said. “There’ll be shooting. And planes probably.”

“Why did they pick you?” she said angrily. “It isn’t fair!”

He did not answer her. She faced him, looking up at him, and she said, very softly, “You’ll be all right, Hank.”

“Sure.”

“You will, darling. Whether they shoot or not, you’ll be all right. You’ll come back to Berlin. You have to, you see. I love you very much, and I couldn’t bear losing you.”

And suddenly he pulled her to him, and she could feel tension surging through his body like a sentient force.

“I need you,” he whispered. “I need you, Karin. Karin, I need you so much. I need you so much.”

And now even the sound of the planes was gone.