Herman Wouk: The Winds of War

“Oh, yes. A Jew’s Jesus . That thing. Some club sent it. Did you ever read it?”

“I read it twice. It’s excellent.” Henry scanned his son’s letter in yellow lamplight. “Well. This business is kind of far along.”

“She does sound attractive,” Rhoda said. “But he’s had other nine-day wonders.”

Commander Henry tossed the letter on the coffee table and poured more brandy for himself. “I’ll read it through later. Longest letter he’s ever written. Is there anything important in it?”

“He wants to stay on in Italy.”

“Indeed? How does he propose to live?”

“He has some kind of research job with Dr. Jastrow. The girl works there, too. He thinks he can get by on what he earns, plus the few dollars from my mother’s trust.”

“Really?” Henry peered at her. “If Byron Henry is talking about supporting himself, that’s the biggest news about him since you had him.” He drank his coffee and brandy, and stood up, retrieving the letter with a swipe of his hand.

“Now don’t take on, Pug. Byron’s a strange fish, but there’s a lot of brains underneath.”

“I have some work to do.”

Henry went to his den and smoked a cigar, reading Byron’s letter twice through with care. The den was a converted maid’s room. On the ground floor a large handsome study looked out on the garden through French windows. That room in theory was his. It was so attractive that Rhoda sometimes liked to receive visitors there, and was given to nagging at her husband when he left papers and books around. After a few months of this Henry had put bookshelves, a cot, and a tiny secondhand desk in the narrow maid’s room, had moved into it, and was content enough with this small space. He had done with less in a destroyer cabin.

When the cigar was burned out, Henry went to his old portable typewriter. With his hands on the keys he paused, contemplating three pictures in a leather frame on the desk: Warren, in uniform and bristle-headed, a stern boyish candidate for flag rank; Madeline, at seventeen much, much younger than she seemed now; Byron, in the center, with the defiant large mouth, the half-closed analytic eyes, the thick full hair, the somewhat sloping face peculiarly mingling softness and obstinate will. Byron owed his looks to neither parent. He was his strange self.

Dear Briny:

Your mother and I have your long letter. I intend to take it seriously. Your mother prefers to pooh-pooh it, but I don’t think you’ve written such a letter before, or described a girl in quite such terms. I’m glad you’re well, and gainfully employed. That’s good news. I never could take that fine arts business seriously.

Now about Natalie Jastrow. In this miserable day and age, especially with what is going on in Germany, I have to start by protesting that I have nothing against Jewish people. I’ve encountered them very little, since few of them enter the Navy. In my Academy class there were four, which was very unusual back in 1911. One of them has stayed the course, Hank Goldfarb, and he is a damned good officer.

Here in Washington there is quite a bit of prejudice against Jews. They’ve made themselves felt in business lately, doing somewhat too well. The other day one of your mother’s friends told me a joke. I wasn’t amused, possibly because of my own Glasgow great-grandfather. The three shortest books in the Library of Congress are A History of Scotch Charities , Virginity in France , and A Study of Jewish Business Ethics . Ha ha ha. This may be a far cry from Hitler’s propaganda, but the person who told me this joke is a fine lawyer and a good Christian.

You’d better give some hard thought to the long pull that a marriage is. I know I’m jumping the gun, but now is the time to reflect, before you’re too involved. Never, never forget one thing. The girl you marry, and the woman you must make a life with, are two different people .

Women have a way of living in the present. Before marriage she’s out to win you. Afterward you’re just one of the many factors in her life. In a way you’re secondary, because she has you, whereas everything else is in flux — children, household, new clothes, social ties. If these other factors are disagreeable to her, she will make you unhappy. In a marriage with a girl like Natalie Jastrow, the other factors would all tend to bother her perpetually; from the mixed-breed children to the tiny social slights. These might get to be like the Chinese water-drop torture. If so, you’d both gradually grow bitter and miserable, and by then you’d be tied together by children. This could end up as hell on earth.

Now I’m just telling you what I think. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, or stupid, and out of touch. It doesn’t matter to me that this girl is Jewish, though there would be grave questions about the children’s faith, since I feel you’re a pretty good Christian, somewhat more so than Warren at the moment. I’m impressed by what you say about her brains, which her being the niece of Aaron Jastrow sure bears out. A Jew’s Jesus is a remarkable work. If I thought she could make you happy and give you some direction in life I’d welcome her, and take pleasure in personally punching in the nose anybody who upset her. But I think this might become a second career for me.

Now, I’m reconciled to letting you go your own way. You know that. It’s hard for me to write a letter like this. I feel like a fool, elaborating the obvious, expressing truths that I find distasteful, and above all intruding on your personal feelings. But that’s okay. You sent us your letter. I take it to mean that you wanted an answer. This is the best I can do. If you want to write me off as a bigot, that’s all right with me.

I’ll show this letter to your mother, who will no doubt disapprove of it, so I’ll be forwarding it without her endorsement. Maybe she’ll add something of her own.

Warren is home. He has put in for flight training and may get it.

Love,

Rhoda liked to sleep late, but her husband woke her the following morning at eight o’clock, handing her his letter to Byron and a cup of hot coffee. She sat up with grouchy abrupt gestures, read the letter through as she sipped, and passed it back to him without a word.

“Do you want to add anything?”

“No.” Her face was set. She had worked her eyebrows a bit over Pug’s passage on women and marriage.

“Don’t you approve of it?”

“Letters like that don’t change things,” Rhoda said with deep sure female contempt.

“Shouldn’t I send it?”

“I don’t care.”

He put the envelope in his breast pocket. “I see Admiral Preble at ten o’clock this morning. Have you any second thoughts?”

“Pug, will you please do exactly as you choose?” Rhoda said in a pained bored tone. She sank down into the bedclothes as he left.

The Chief of Naval Operations did not appear surprised when Pug said he would take the post. At dawn Henry had awakened with an overmastering sense that he could not duck the assignment, and with this, he had stopped thinking about it. Preble told him to get ready in a hurry. His orders to Berlin were already cut.

Byron Henry’s encounter with Natalie Jastrow two months earlier had been much in character. He had drifted into it.

Unlike his father, Byron had always been directionless. Growing-up, he had dodged the Sea Scouts, Severn Academy, and anything else pointing to a naval career. Yet he had no ideas for any other career. His marks were usually poor, and he developed early a remarkable capacity for doing absolutely nothing. In fits of resolve he had shown himself able to win a few A’s, or put together a radio set that worked, or rescue an old car from a junkyard and make it run, or repair a collapsed oil heater. In this knack for machinery he took after his father and grandfather.