Chapter 75

Van's reunion with Lionel and their sister the next day was joyous. Lionel kidded Van for being so gullible. Van took it in good humor but reminded his brother that he was lucky that the Nazis had been at least as gullible. Lionel replied that fooling them was easy. People who would believe in Hitler would believe in anything.

He just wished that he had been fooling at the beginning. It took seeing firsthand what life was like in Hitler's Reich to change his profiteering plans. "It wasn't just the woman who saw her husband beaten senseless and dragged off to a concentration camp in front of her eyes. It wasn't just that she's had no word since about whether he's alive or dead, although those things were part of it. Even more, it was the fear in the eyes of every Jew I met of something like that happening to them or their loved ones. All of them were afraid that my offer to pay them a fair price in such a way that the fascists couldn't get a hold of the money was some kind of trick. It can't have been easy for the ones who accepted my offer to take that chance, but they couldn't have been more desperate."

Van asked if Lionel still believed after his experiences in the Reich that America should stay neutral in the struggle against Hitler and his fellow fascists. Lionel admitted somberly that they were a major problem. He still didn't think that they were a problem America needed to be involved with beyond giving aid and shelter to their victims. However, he could understand why Van and his fellow antifascists would think differently.

He just wished that his fellow East Coast patricians in the State Department would stop using every petty bureaucratic excuse to keep German and Austrian Jews from immigrating to America. Every year only a quarter of all visa applications from them were approved. Jane changed the subject by showing us the latest photos of her children and said hesitantly that she hoped that Van and I would soon have some of our own.

Buoyed by our reconciliation with Lionel, Van and I spent the rest of our week in New York having a glorious time. We walked in Central Park and visited the Metropolitan Museum. We even attended the premiere of Abe Lincoln in Illinois at the Plymouth Theater, produced by the newly formed Playwrights' Company and starring Canada's Raymond Massey in the title role. It was a very moving play, but not exactly an escape from worry and trouble. Van and I were left regretting the scarcity of leaders of Lincoln's calibre in a world "half slave and half free."

Lionel's business partner, Andrew Vale, knew the comic playwright S.N. Behrman, one of the founders of the Playwrights Company, who was generous enough to arrange tickets. Van and I had the pleasure of meeting him afterwards. He was a kind and charming man who expressed tremendous admiration for Van's service with the International Brigades. However, he did wonder if it was possible for his kind of sophisticated comedy to continue to exist in a world growing increasingly more brutal.

Van assured him that laughter was needed now more than ever. There were times in Spain when laughter was all that he and his comrades had to keep them sane. Nor was that all it did. Laughter doesn't just help you to forget your troubles. Sometimes, when they seem too great to bear, it can give you the strength to face them by making them seem a little less gigantic.

Van was less pensive the next day when he suggested that we take a picnic lunch to the Battery. The sunshine and fresh air raised his spirits even though the first nip of winter was starting to turn the bracing cool of the fall air into something far more biting. After putting the remains of our lunch back into the hamper for later disposal, we walked to the water's edge and looked out over New York Harbor.

The brisk wind ruffled my skirt and Van had to push his hat more firmly onto his head in order to keep it from being blown away. Draping one arm around my shoulder, he pointed across the water with the other. In the middle distance, the Statue of Liberty rose dignified and majestic above gray-green lines of restless waves dotted with flecks of spume. The glare of the sunlight off red, white, and yellow panels made it seem as though her uplifted torch was actually alight with a distant but fierce flame. "There's a sight to make the heart beat faster."

"Should I be jealous?" I was in a mischievous mood. "I hope I don't have a rival."

Van grinned. "No need. I only admire Lady Liberty from afar."

"So, I don't need to sue her for alienation of affection," I teased.

"She wouldn't fit inside a courtroom anyway. Besides, you and no one else are the woman I love."

I didn't say anything. My lips were too busy being kissed. After the kissing stopped, far too soon in my opinion, Van tightened his embrace and I nestled comfortably against him.

We stood for a moment without speaking. We listened to the cries of the gulls and gazed at the sweep of the harbor as it stretched away to the Jersey Shore. Always, Van's gaze was drawn back to the Statue of Liberty. So was mine more than once. I was the one who broke the congenial silence between us.

"She is magnificent," I admitted.

"She is," Van agreed. "Lady Liberty may not be the warm, loving, adorable flesh and blood woman you are, but the promise she symbolizes is truly beautiful."

"What promise is that?"

"The promise this country makes to every visitor, every immigrant, and every citizen. The promise of a second chance. Here, you can put your wrongs and mistakes and regrets behind you. You can make a better life."

The next day, Van and I visited the nightclubs on 52nd St. to gorge our hungry ears on jazz. Count Basie was playing at the Famous Door and John Kirby's sextet at the Onyx Club. Both were in fine swinging form. Afterwards, we went up to Harlem to a new club called Minton's Playhouse. John Hammond had arranged for us to watch and listen to an all-night jam session. We returned to the apartment at 4:00 in the morning, too keyed up with excitement to sleep.

Grace Mainwaring to Sally Henry Oct. 19, 1938

… Mother almost scared the life out of me last night by calling up and telling me that my roadster had been sideswiped after Henry borrowed it for a date. I was relieved to learn that he and Rebecca were in the Regent watching a movie at the time of the hit and run. The rear fender was hopelessly mangled, but I would rather lose a piece of chrome and steel than my nephew or his girlfriend.

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

On the day before Van was to leave, we rented a car and drove up through Long Island. We stopped for lunch at the family home of Gavin Palmer, an old college friend of Van's with whom he had kept in touch over the years. Gavin and his wife Mary were very gracious and hospitable. Hearing him and Van reminisce about their Yale days was an eye opener.

Van hadn't mentioned that he was on the varsity rowing team. Gavin still couldn't believe how close the 1921 Yale/Harvard race was. Neither could Van. He admitted that Harvard was relentless. He and his crewmates only held on to win by giving it everything they had. Gavin obviously still looked up to Van. "Some big men on campus let it all go to their heads-the attention, their family names, their fathers' money. They think they can get away with anything no matter how hurtful or dishonest. Not Van. He's been an upstanding person for as long as I've known him."

Van couldn't have been more uncomfortable. "I really don't deserve that compliment."

Gavin shrugged. "So, you sneaked off to a few speakeasies to listen to jazz. Drank a little bootleg scotch. Who didn't back then? No one's perfect."

"I'll drink to that," interjected Mary brightly. Gavin agreed that it was a great suggestion, so we raised our glasses. The Palmers had to leave for a supper with Gavin's parents, but they were kind enough to give the gatekeeper orders to let us out after we had spent the rest of the afternoon on their beach. We were there for longer than we intended.

Afternoon shaded into twilight. As Van and I lay on a blanket gazing at the eastern horizon, twilight gently gave way to a vast Atlantic night in which it would have been impossible to tell where the sky ended and the ocean began if it hadn't been for the shimmering of the water under the pale beams of the waning crescent moon. The stars were dazzling in their sweep and glitter.

"I've never seen such a beautiful moon and stars," I admitted to Van. "How many people do you think are standing under their light wishing for love?"

Van shrugged. "Thousands. Millions. Who knows? I don't have to wish." He turned and enfolded me in a gentle embrace. "All the light and love I'll ever need in this world is right here in my arms."

The moon and the stars blurred as he drew me closer and kissed me. Later, as I lay beside my husband I looked out toward and beyond the shoreline again. The ocean, the sky and the stars seemed endless and ageless. For a moment, in the depths of my heart, I could not help but believe that there was no tomorrow morning. We would never have to say goodbye to each other. We would be together, like this, forever.

Next Week: Henry's hero. Youth and fervor.