Chapter 61

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

I was glad that Luc Gerrard was back in Toronto also. I hadn't had much chance to speak to him the last time with all the hubub surrounding Doris' wedding. He was there to meet with Bob to work out preliminary plans for the next quarter for their mining company, the Conciliation Mining Company. Both were breathing a sigh of relief that they had chartered the company in Quebec because that was where its one mine in operation at its founding was located. Otherwise, the mining law passed by the Quebec Parliament a year ago would have left it unable to acquire mining rights on crown land in the province.

Unfortunately, that wasn't Bob and Luc's only problem. It was still extremely difficult to operate a mining company in Quebec if you weren't willing to pay off the right government officials or make generous contributions to the Union Nationale campaign chest. Taschereau and his Liberals were no models of honesty and good government, but Duplessis was proving to be even worse. It was a good thing that one of the Conciliation Mining Company's prospects in Ontario, a possible gold strike, had proved rich enough to open a mine there a month earlier. The revenue would be more than enough to keep the company from being completely dependent on the Duplessis machine.

Luc was also concerned with the open anti-Semitism and fascist sympathies of Duplessis and his supporters in the Quebec Catholic Church. As a French-Canadian, they embarrassed him. "You would think," he grumbled, "that with all our experience of mistreatment as a minority at the hands of the English-speaking majority, that we might have the decency to remember that our Jewish neighbors are a minority among us. Instead, we harass, discriminate and scream bigotry at them."

"Is there anything that can be done?"

Luc shook his head. "I had some hope when the achat chez nous boycott of Jewish shops and merchants failed because ordinary French-Canadians went right on buying from them. However, the flood of lies and hate from pulpit and politician hasn't lessened in the slightest."

I agreed that his people were behaving pretty badly but reluctantly reminded him that there was no shortage of anti-Semitism among English-speaking Canadians. Luc grimaced. "Isn't it wonderful that our two peoples are able to find common ground?"

For a long moment he said nothing. He stood there looking completely depressed, not even noticing the scotch in his hand. Then he looked at me as though he wished it contained poison. "I talked to my father last week. I tried to tell him that Duplessis and his unofficial publicist Adrian Arcand were dragging Quebec through the sewer, but he wouldn't listen. The worst of it is that he doesn't believe in racial or religious inferiority, just in exploiting belief in them for financial gain. I can hear him now, so calm and self-satisfied. "

At this point, poor Luc looked positively haunted. "This is what he said. 'The bigots always win, and the idealists always lose. The pacifists and Socialists accused me and many of my business colleagues of making inflated profits with the help of corrupt government connections during the Great War. They said we were getting rich from mass slaughter. We were. It didn't matter. We impugned our critics' patriotism. We called them cowards, slackers, and dirty foreigners. We abused and imprisoned them. The great Canadian public ostracized them and cheered us.' I'm sure my face showed the horror I was feeling. He was amused by it. 'You think that's awful,' he said. 'At least we're not America. In the "land of liberty," they hanged or burned their neighbors to death for opposing the war or just because they had black skin. Today thousands of 100% American murderers walk the streets congratulating themselves on their patriotism.'"

I couldn't imagine that Van would have cared for that last comment or felt anything but shame at its truth. I stared at Luc and remembered my father's harsh complaints about fellow businessmen who were awarded overpriced war contracts because they had pull with the Tories. Towards the end of the war, Prime Minister Borden did appoint some honest ministers to government departments who acted to stamp out corruption. However, he did nothing to control the rampant inflation that gave profiteers an excuse to gouge the Canadian public by increasing the prices of their goods and services to obscene levels. "I can't believe that your father actually admitted to profiteering."

"That was how he made money before prohibition drove him into bootlegging," Luc answered bitterly. "He ran a brewery that supplied overpriced beer to half the taverns in Montreal, Toronto, and Quebec. He wasn't even ashamed of his dishonesty. He just told me that both French-Canadians and English-speaking Canadians used his product to toast their own superiority to each other. 'Everyone wants someone to look down on,' he said. 'Harness this drive, and you can build an empire. Stand in its way and you'll be trampled like the fascists are trampling your friends in Spain. The fascists know how to manipulate human weakness. That's why they'll win in the end.'"

Luc looked at me hopelessly. "What if he's right? What do we do?"

Luc may have been on the edge of despair. I was angry. "We stand up even if we have no more chance than a snowflake on red hot steel, even if our only victory is being able to call our souls our own. We stand up and we fight, win or lose, because the kind of world your father and the fascists would make isn't worth living in."

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring July 6, 1938

… If John Hammond thinks that his friend Barney Josephson's plan to start an integrated nightclub in Greenwich Village is solid, that's good enough for me. His judgment when it comes to the music business is absolutely trustworthy. I fully approve of your use of the power of attorney I left you to invest. I have always agreed with John that it's ridiculous that south of 110th Street Negroes aren't allowed to visit jazz clubs as patrons to hear the music they invented. I look forward to visiting Café Society after I return from Spain.

Telling Harry your news reopened our perennial debate over whether the blues or jazz is the better music. He likes jazz, but still thinks that there's nothing like the blues to tell what it means to be a man or a woman or just to make you feel good on a Saturday night. I enjoy good blues, but, as far as I'm concerned, jazz does all that and more. It's the most expressive and flexible music that ever was. Harry and I have agreed that after the war, I will take him to Café Society to hear jazz and he will introduce me to a juke joint he knows in the West Virginia hills where some of the top East Coast bluesmen play.

… Oscar heard from his parents. Their letter was very upbeat. The potato crop will be ready to harvest in two or three weeks. There isn't a sign of streak on the leaves or vines. However, Oscar knows what a constant struggle it is to keep a farm going even in good times. Even with his little brother, Mikael, to help, his parents work hard to plant and bring in a crop.

The middlemen between the farmer and the grocer aren't exactly generous in what they will pay for it. After the railroad and the bank take their cut for freight charges and the mortgage, there isn't much for the farmer to get along on for another year. That's in a good year. In a bad year, he could lose everything, as so many already have since the Depression began. Whether they will be able to pass on the farm to either of their sons is anyone's guess.

From the Journal of Honey Sutton July 11, 1938

… I was so shocked when Del Sutton walked out of the lobby of the New Bedford Inn and into my beauty shop this afternoon that I dropped a curling iron. Fortunately, I hadn't heated it up yet or there would have been a nasty burn mark on the floor. Max is overjoyed to have his brother back after not hearing from him for months. He is even happier to hear that he has been working.

Apparently, he was in the right place at the right time when a road gang member fell ill with food poisoning. He only held the job for a month until the project was completed, but the money he earned was enough to put him back on his feet. Even better, the gang boss gave him the name of a friend of his in Toronto who he thinks can line up some work for him in construction.

Del will be leaving for Toronto in a couple of days. He could just be talking big. I haven't forgotten that the wedding ring I wear is a substitute bought on the sly from the pawnshop the day before the ceremony so that Max would never have to know that Del lost their mother's ring in a poker game.

He does look fit enough to have been exercising though. His almost new secondhand suit also supports his story. I just hope that the blue-green dust on the left jacket cuff isn't cue chalk. The last thing Max needs with two big proposals to come before the school board is for his brother to start turning up in the local pool room. A teacher, and especially a principal, has to be respectable.

The kids were delighted to see Del. Violet and Zack especially were wide-eyed when he told them about some of the people he has met and places he has seen in his travels through Canada. He couldn't believe how much Henry has grown since he last saw him or that we are calling him by his real name now. Luckily, I was able to warn him about the change before he had the chance to call his nephew Fat in public.

He asked after Grace and was sorry to hear that Van had been wounded, but glad that he had recovered and returned to Grace. Learning that Van had gone back to Spain to fight was a real jolt. Del shook his head in disbelief. Then he smiled ruefully. "I don't know if he deserves a medal or a straight-jacket. If someone had given me a second chance with Grace, I wouldn't have risked it on a useless gesture, no matter how noble."

Grace Mainwaring to Sally Henry July 12, 1938

I admit that I was nervous when I heard that Dell Sutton was back in New Bedford. The last time he was here, we hadn't parted on the best of terms. However, actually meeting him again was a pleasant surprise. He seems to have gained some maturity since I last saw him.

Almost his first words were an apology for his behavior then. He admitted that he was wrong to assume that he could just come back to New Bedford and take up where we left off after the way he ignored the letters I wrote to him after his departure. "I hope Van doesn't take you for granted like I did. I hope he appreciates what he has in you."

"Del …"

My former boyfriend obviously heard the cautionary note in my voice. He raised his hand. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to stir up old embers. I just want you to be happy."

I don't know why I decided to confide in Del. Maybe it was just habit from a time when we were close enough to confide everything to each other. "That hasn't been easy, not since Van got on the boat in New York. Still, there are times when I forget and just feel joy in being alive. This weekend at Sunday dinner, Violet was saying that she wants to be a radio broadcaster just like me when she grows up. Who would have thought that anyone would ever look up to me like that?"

Del smiled. "I would have."

I could feel my eyes misting up a little. "Bless you for that." We stood there silent for a few long seconds. Sometimes the thought of Van came back in an instant like a sharp, painfully blinding flash of light, but this time it came back slowly, the sadness of separation blending with the sweetness of memory. "I did forget for a moment, but only for a moment. The anxiety is always waiting."

"I'm sorry," Del sympathized. "That can't be easy."

"It's even worse when Van and his comrades are in battle. My world turns to fear. It stays by my side during the day. It even follows me into sleep."

Del's blue-grey eyes were filled with sympathy. "You really love this guy, don't you?"

"More than I've ever loved anyone, even you, and it took me a long time to get over you."

Del put a gentle hand on my shoulder and smiled tenderly. "You won't have to get over him. He has friends in the Mac-Paps who'll stand by him just like you have friends and family who'll do the same for you."

I thanked him for his concern, and I thank you for yours, Sally. Friends like the two of you really do make a difference. I don't think that I could stand the waiting and the dread alone.

Next Week: False hope. A life made real. Tavern quarrel. Across the Ebro.