“All laws you now obey you will continue to follow until we tell you what is different.
“There will be no naked dancing by women in public places.
“All tobacco and beverages of alcohol are forbidden unless bought from our own stores which will be ready very shortly.
“No person will buy more than two pairs of shoes in each year. Our people need shoes.
“Our security police will be obeyed at all times and no one will speak against them.”
It was definite this time. Hewlitt clearly saw him stop and take a fresh grip on himself. Not because he was tired, clearly he wasn’t; but the pause was unmistakable.
“Beginning very shortly, all people known as Jews will be barred from public office, from teaching, and from certain other places we will designate.”
An electric shock, unseen but violent, paralyzed the room. Images of Adolf Hitler and the horrors of the Third Reich seemed to burst into being. Hewlitt stared at Zalinsky, but this time no emotion whatever could be read on his broad features.
The administrator picked up his papers and left the stage. Hewlitt did not know his own emotions; he had not had time to respond to any as he looked quickly about him. The press people were leaving as rapidly as possible, but they were not speaking to each other; it was more of an emergency evacuation with every man for himself.
Hewlitt swallowed hard and tried to find reality. He had known within himself that something drastic was bound to happen, but he had never dreamed of this. The first clear and coherent thought which came to him was in the form of a question: he wondered if black-haired Barbara Stoneham was Jewish.
He walked back to his office slowly, trying to think — to sort things out in his mind. The questions which confused him were not moral or ethical; he was concerned as to what would happen next — and after that. He walked into his office hardly aware that his phone was ringing.
He picked it up mechanically and said, “Yes?”
A female, mature voice he did not know wasted no time. “Mr. Hewlitt, did you arrange this press conference?”
“Yes.”
“Then will you come over to first aid right away, please.” That was all.
On the table in the small medical facility a man was lying on his back. He was breathing steadily and deeply, his eyes were open, but his mind seemed to have left his body. An efficient-looking middle-aged nurse Hewlitt had never seen before spoke to him without bothering with formalities. “I think you’d better call his paper, Mr. Hewlitt, or his home, and get some help. He’s in shock. No danger, but he should be moved from here as soon as possible.”
“Who is he?” Hewlitt asked.
A man in the room, whom Hewlitt had been aware of but had not looked at directly, answered the question. “Sol Horowitz of UPI. He’s had a bad heart for years.” He stopped, looked at Hewlitt, and realized that he was not one of the enemy. But his voice was still bitter when he spoke. “He was in Dachau when the Army came through and rescued him. All the rest of his family died there.”
6
After the incredible news of defeat, which was still disbelieved in many parts of the country where the reality had not yet sunk in, the impact of Zalinsky’s announcement was dulled. It was extensively reported by every form of the news media, but it did not arouse a great reaction. In the minds of millions of Americans the impossible and unthinkable had already taken place; after that nothing that followed in the wake very much mattered. The national illusion of being and having the best of everything had been broken, and that calamity totally overshadowed everything else.
As Hewlitt rode home that night he discussed the matter openly with Frank. The idea of listening devices everywhere was beginning to wear thin, plus which the subject did not compromise the fledgling underground organization in any way. Hewlitt was having thoughts about that too. All that he had to go on was Bob Landers’ statement that such a thing existed, but he could very well have put it that way in order to generate at least some initial enthusiasm within his own little group — to build “morale.” It could very well be that later on Landers would have formed other little groups and thus might have brought his “organization” into actual being.
“You’re in the White House,” Frank said. “Can’t you do something about it? Not much, maybe, but something.”
Hewlitt shifted the subject to a safer tack. “Frank, I’ve been as confused as everybody else. Right now I haven’t a clear idea of what I ought to do. I don’t want to clear out of here, even the way things are. I don’t know where I’d go.”
“Switzerland is supposed to be a pretty nice place. And they keep out of wars and that sort of thing.”
“Yes, but we can’t all go there. We just kept out of a war, and lost it by default.”
“I carry Senator Fitzhugh every now and then,” Frank offered as he edged his way into a traffic circle. “He still thinks that we did the right thing. He told me that at least we can live with our consciences.”
“And with our enemies. I don’t imagine that he likes that too much.”
Frank dropped his voice to the confidential level. “I’ll tell you something about that: he thinks that he’s going to fix everything in a few days. He knows all the higher-ups overseas face to face, and he’s confident that he can be a one-man peace mission to put things back the way they were, more or less. Then he’s gonna run for President.”
“He hasn’t a hope in hell,” Hewlitt said.
“He thinks he can do it.” Frank took the cab around a corner. “Where do you get all this?” Hewlitt asked.
“I carry a lot of people. And you’d be surprised what they tell taxi drivers. Ask my advice and everything. This afternoon I had a young girl in trouble. She just got in and asked me to take her where she could get a safe abortion.”
“What did you do?”
Frank half-turned until he could partially look over his shoulder. “In your business there’s a lot of things you can’t talk about. On some things I keep my mouth shut too.”
Hewlitt appreciated that; if a few others had had the same attitude, it might have made an appreciable difference.
As he read the detailed reports of Zalinsky’s announcement for the second time, Marc Orberg found it difficult to contain his elation. His life, at that point, satisfied him enormously until it seemed to him that he had nothing more to ask of God or man.
Everything, absolutely everything, was the way he wanted it now. He looked about him simply in order to savor the great success that was his, success that his enemies despised, which made it sweeter still. The entire penthouse suite was strikingly decorated in crimson, black, and stark white. Great dramatic globules of color carved the walls into a Brobdingnagian jigsaw puzzle. The vastly oversized, ultrasoft lounge davenport displayed its black and white zebra stripes at tfie focal point of the room; scattered around it were huge, almost shapeless upholstered chairs done in dead black and a white imitation of angora fur. The carpeting, laid over a triple pad, was the most brilliant red the manufacturer had been able to achieve; the pile was more than an inch and a half thick.
Opposite the entrance doorway the wild ballet of colors gave way to white once more in order to provide a background for a display on the wall of the famous Marc Orberg album covers. Mixed in the pattern, like brass rings awaiting the patrons of a merry-go-round, were six gold-colored records made in metal; symbols of a sale of one million copies or more. In a corner of the ceiling a small spotlight illuminated the display with an artful circle of light.