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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (Nov. 10, 1942)
PACE And We Will Be Safe Together By DUNCAN WIMPRESS "A/TARTHA’S fingers loosenec ■*" "*• ami let the pen drop tc the heavy sheet of “best" sta tionery. Her eyes raised slowly unseeingly, until she was gazing out through the wide front win dow at Maple street’s quiet peace fulness. A boy pumped hurried ly by on an ancient bike, one lit leg rolled to clear the chain. A pup sniffed inquisitively along the front fence glanced about for a more interesting subject and finding none, trotted on quest of new worlds. Two high school girls giggled their way down the other side of the shady street. But Martha saw none of this. Martha had more important things to think about. This let ter, for instance. Her gaze re turned to the paper before her. Her lips moved as she read what she’d written. “Dearest Hans, I don’t exact ly know how to begin this let ter. I never thought I would! have to write one like it, but I do. . .” Slowly, her eyes still glassy ■with reminiscence, she tore the letter once across the middle and dropped it into a wastebas %' t at her side,, already half filled with similar sheets. How could she do such a thing to Hans? How could she hurt him so when, for as long as she could remember, he’d been the boy who’d meant everything to her? But still, there was John. Dear, tall, dark, ugly John. How different from stocky, blond Hans he was . . . and yet, how much alike! Listlessly, she pulled another sheet of paper across in front of her and began to write. “Dearest Hans . . .” Hans . . . Hans, the boy who’d given her courage in that dark hour when their Dutch Jiomeland had been overrun with the vermin of the Man. Hans, who had come home from fighting over the front to ^ssure her that everything would ^,3 all right. Hans, who, when Holland had fallen, had taken her out of the grim tragedy of it all and arranged her trip to Ameri ca. She remembered her arrival and how kind the McLeans had been to her from the very first. How they had taken her right in to the family, overcome her shy ness and brought her home to this small, secure, middle-west ern town. Hans had not come over with her. He had gone on to England to continue fighting. He’d been there until just last week. Until the day she’d re ceived the telegram. She could see that wire as if it were lying on the desk before her. “Arrived Toronto today. Re £irn in three weeks. Please.come up and we’ll be married'. All my love. Hans.” She remembered how the but terflies had played in her stom ach when she’d read the mes age. “Come up and we'll be married.” That was because Hans didn’t know she’d met John. Hans didn’t know she didn’t love him any more. And now she had to tell him. JOHN wore a uniform too, some times. A white uniform with ^•old wings on his chest. But PFohn was only a reserve. He had no reason to go to war. The Unit ed States was helping in other ways than fighting, but she would never actually enter the war. She was too big and steady . . . and safe, John would be able to stay with her always and kep 1 her and protect her. 1 She’d met John at the country club dance last month. He was so tall and had such an engaging grin that she’d liked him at once and when he’d suggested going, out the next evening, she’d ac cepted. Neither one had suspect ed what it would lead to. It was a week later they had discov ered they were in love and it was then that she’d told John about Hans. “There’s something you should know, John,” she’d murmured against his solid, capable shoul der. “Hush,” his whisper was soft. “Moments like these don’t hap pen very often and it’s bad luck to disurb one.” Martha had raised her head and looked him full in the face. “There’s another man,” she’d said abruptly. The spell had snapped like an over-taught rubber band. John had stiffened. She re membered how the crimson had mounted along his neck and ears. “Why didn’t you tell me before this? You know it wasn’t fair to let things go on. You shouldn't have done it’!’ His voice was harsh from shock. “I’m only telling you now be cause I want to be honest. I think you should know about him. But before I go on, I want you to know that I love you more than anything or anybody in this world.” Martha was al most crying as she continued. “Hans and I have intended to be married for years and years. It was one of those family-arranged affairs. He’s a Dutch flyer. He’s fighting with the British now. Hans was the one who got me out of the old country and saved my life. I wanted you to know about him. I thought you should. He’s one of the finest men I’ve ever known, but I don’t love him. I have the deepest re spect and admiration for him, but not love . . . Now if you still want me, I’m yours.” Her head went down as she finished and a tear slid slowly to her hands, folded in her lap. “Want you?” John’s voice was again soft and intimate. “Dar ling, what has happened to you in the past is your business. I only know you're going to have a wonderful future . . . safe with me.” And so she’d promised and now she had to tell Hans. TTER eyes rested on the two neatly written words. ‘‘Dear est Hans. . The doorbell sharply violated the heavy silence. Martha start ed and then went quickly to the door. A messenger boy smiled, handed her a telegram, gazed past her into the house inquisi tively and, with a wave of a hand, was gone. Martha turned and walked slowly back to the writing desk, the telegram held up before her with both hands. She sank into her chair and without removing her eyes from the envelope, took up a letter opener and slowly slit the flap. “My squadron’s ordered back to duty in four days. Come at once and marry me gefore I go. All of us anxiously awaiting your arrival. Please fly . . . and hurry. Love, Hans.” Martha gasped and read the message through again. Four days. That meant she would have to leave tonight if she was to get there soon enough for them to have any time to gether after the marriage. And then Hans would leave again for England. Perhaps never to re turn. And she would be left alone . . . alone and perhaps a widow. Martha shuddered convulsive ly. Why should she go? She knew she loved John. He was kind and good and he loved her. It would be easier for Hans if she simply told him. Why make a farce of the whole thing? She simply wouldn’t be able to stand the uneasiness of a life with Hans. About all things she want ed security . . . safety . . . and John meant just that. She crossed quickly to the ’Phone and dialed John’s num ber. “J|ohn? I’ve just received a telegram from Hans. Could you come over at once?” # * Hi TOHN seemed to fill the room " 'as he entered unannounced and came to her. “What’s wrong, darling? Has Pbantam .... The sea is not for us, Who love so well tlje hill; The driftwood and the dunes Forebode us none but ill, When by their very hush The mountain peaks will call, And for the pounding sea, We shall not hear at all. Yet I am terrified For fear the phantom sea May cast a wondrous charm To snare the soul in me That I might never walk On wooded hills again When spruce and tamarack Are hung with autumn rain. •—By Claudine Biggs something happened to him?” Honest anxiety sounded in’ his voice. He didn’t know this man . . . this rival, but he felt a sin cere respect for what Hans was doing and for what he stood. Silently, Martha handed him the telegram. As he read, his lips tightened. ‘‘You’ll go, of course.” His tone was more a command than a question. ‘You owe it to him.” “But, John, I don’t love him. It wouldn’t be fair to any of us. It could never be an honest mar riage.” “You owe it to him.” The sen tence was definite . . . final. Martha bowed her head. “I’ll phone him tonight • • . long distance.” John turned and without a word left the room. As he passed through the door, he glanced back at Martha and there was something new in his eyes . . . something shining and true . . . respect for the right thing . . . honestly done. 46TTELLO, Hans? Is that ■Tl you?” “Yes, yes, of course it’s me! How are you, dear? Did you get my telegram?” She could see him now. Solidly planted before the ’phone . . . his eyes calm and smiling . . . his blond hair tousled and uncombed. . . . a dirty Jacket slung around his shoulders with a torn sleeve hanging carelessly down one side . . . grease on his broad, honest face. “Yes, I got it.” This was it. This was the time to tell him about John. But she was so far away. It was all so impersonal. She braced herself against the back of the chair and spoke quickly. “I’ve met a man down here with whom I’ve fallen in love. He’s Fisticuffs in the Nineties JOHN THE GREAT: The Times and Life of a Remarkable American, John L. Sullivan, by Donald Barr Chidsey. Dou bleday Doran. $3. This is the story of one of the greatest pugilists of all time; it is a detailed description of his life; but it is more than that, it is a lusty picture of the energetic eighties and the gay nineties. Many threads are woven into this narrative; hew, for instance, Richard Kyle Fox brought into being nation-wide .interest in sports, and forced sports pages in newspapers into existence through the medium of the Po lice Gazette. Mr. Chidsey does net mince his words; he is not afraid to tell both sides of the picture. Some times the scenes he paints are not too pretty; but always one has a feeling that he knows what he is talking about; the wealth of detail is convincing. He tells of the meteoric rise of the Police Gazette, and how Fox must have chuckled when he re ceived this note from “Sempron ius,” Texas: “Have been on the move so much lately that I have not re ceived the Police Gazette regu larly. Please sent me a copy here and oblige, Jesse James.” With the great fighter we travel to London, hobnob with royalty, frequent bars, fight many a round with such men els James J. Corbett, Paddy Ryan, and Joe Goss. The thing that is bewildering about the whole book is that one wonders all the way through how such a dull, quarrelsome bully could have been the idol of his day. Mr. Chidsey paints him as being drunk most of the time. He was a spendthrift. He was not well educated. Yet he is better remembered today than many of his famous contemporaries. His name was heard everywhere. Kings and presidents were glad to shake his hand'. He was “the great Jawn L.” John P. Marquand, in an illum inating little introduction, ex plains in part the reasons for this hero-worship. First, says Marquand, “Mr. Sul livan said frequently and pro fanely, drunk or sober, that he could lick any so-an-so in the world. Others have made this same remark before and since, but Mr. Sullivan was different from most of the others; he was always ready to try it, and usual ly he could do it. . Furthermore, he continues, he was always ready to stand drinks on the house, he was a handsome physical monument, and he was generous with his huge income. But at the root of it all, says Mr. Marquand, he satisfied a need for hero-worship, was an ideal for wishful thinkers. He was symbolic of the times, a unique piece of Americana.-—C.G. Literary page staff: Editor: Carol Greening' Contributors: Claudine Biggs Duncan Wimpress-., in the naval reserve but is a ci vilian now. He says I must mar ry you. I’m still very fond of you. I will marry you if you want. I will fly up tonight if that’s what you want.” Her voice was a rapid monotone. It was like that of a child who has learned a poem by heart for the Christmas play and wants to get it said as soon as possible. She stopped for breath. The man at the other end was silent. “Hans, are you still there?” “Yes, I’m still here.” The voice was quiet . . . almost a whisper. “Do you love him very much, Martha? Are you sure?” “Yes, Hans, I do. I know what I'm doing to you, but I wanted to be honest. I’ll come if you want me.” “No, Martha. You’d better not. I was planning to have you re turn to England with me after we were married. I've passage booked on the ‘Leander’ for you, but I can cancel it. It might not have been safe anyway. I’m fly ing back this week. Please write and tell me about him. I’ll always love you, Martha. I hope you’ll be very happy. I . .. I ’d better go now. I’d rather like to be alone. Goodbye and good luck.” The line clicked dead. Martha, her tear-blinded eyes open wide, slowly replaced the receiver. Her hand dropped to her lap. Lean, brown fingers reached over and took the hand carefully. She looked up. John stod ver her, tears in his eyes, too. Neither said a word. Soundlessly, he sank down beside her and she went into his arms as a wandering child coming home. # * # JT was three weeks later Mar tha heard the announcement. She was sitting with John in the front room of their Hawaiian honeymoon cottage. They’d been there just a week. Mary had been playing cards, John, reading, but now they just relaxed in the large chair, silently content in each other’s company. Safety and security radiated through the dimness. The radio played softly from the comer. Suddenly the music stopped and an announcer spoke quickly in that breathless, news-flash manner. “The United States navy to night announced the sinking of two ships in a trans-Atlantic con voy bound through the stormy seas to England. The British de stroyer ‘Whitelash’ and the pas senger-freighter ‘Leander’ were both sent to the bottom. Several survivers were picked up from the ‘Whitelash,’ but the ‘Leander’ went down with all hands and passengers.” (Continued from page seven)