Kovacs' War: A World War One Novel

Author

PART I 1914

1 There’s Going to be a War

New York City, Monday, June 29, 1914

There’s going to be war, Kovacs, said Gallagher, his large frame a silhouette in the window as he looked down on Vesey Street.

Peter Kovacs sat in Gallagher’s high-ceilinged office. The room was glaring from the light pouring in through the four tall windows behind his boss.

I don’t think so, said Peter, suspecting what his boss was leading up to. The papers were full of the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand the day before. The Austro-Hungarian Empire isn’t prepared to fight. They’ll figure out another way to get retribution from the Serbs.

When has that ever stopped anyone before? Gallagher came around his worn desk, sat on its corner and stared down at Peter sitting in one of the hard, wooden arm chairs. The editor’s commanding presence had the effect of an oppressive blanket. His creased face was hard, unforgiving, his chin firmly set, and his eyes penetrating. The Austrians are already in Bosnia and Herzegovina. The Archduke’s assassination gives them an excuse to gobble up more of the Balkans.

Peter shook his head and then repeated what he had known from having been in Belgrade. The Austrians know Russia will support Serbia if fighting were to break out. They won’t take the risk.

That’s why I want you over there, the editor said, unconvinced. "When war breaks out, the Post will have correspondents in all the important capitals."

No one’s going to start a war; there’s too much at stake, Peter said, trying to hide his interest.

Every country has a wish list. The Russians want the Bosporus, the French want to retrieve Alsace-Lorraine, and the Germans have been looking for an excuse to take another bite out of France ever since 1870.

You already have Bruce Livermore in Paris.

Gallagher snorted. "He’s good for reviewing the Folies Bergère. You’re my war correspondent."

Peter shifted uneasily in his chair, knowing what was coming next. Anyone can do it. It’s just like reporting a baseball game.

Gallagher laughed this time. No one reports a war the way you do, Peter. From the first time I laid eyes on your copy from Cuba, I knew you were our kind of writer. The tension you described in Peking in 1899 was absolutely breathtaking. In Cape Town in ’02 you outdid Churchill. Panama in ’03. Sevastopol in ’05. How you ever wrangled your way onto that Russian ship was a work of genius, and how you got rescued by the Japanese when they sank it at Tsushima made that war very personal for our readers. But most of all, Kovacs, you reveal the human side of war, the suffering and the tragedy as if your own mother were lying there, bleeding to death. People tend to glorify war. This paper hasn’t changed our policy; our readers need to learn the realities of the violence as only you can tell it.

His boss was working him over. The rascal must have prepared this little speech in advance. Nevertheless, it tickled his vanity to have Gallagher patronizing him like this. "What about my stories on the home front, the relatives of the Titanic victims? And you said you were impressed with my coverage of that family in Hoboken who lost five children in a house fire last winter. You need me here, and I deserve a raise, don’t you think?" Now he was pulling Gallagher’s leg.

The editor went back around his desk. His swivel chair creaked as he lowered his ponderous frame into it opposite Peter. That meant business; the fun part was over. Peter studied Gallagher’s large, craggy face while he went through the routine of filling his pipe with Granger and lighting it, making popping noises with his lips as he sucked in. Peter enjoyed the aroma of the tobacco smoke, but didn’t partake in the habit because he didn’t like the biting taste. Finally Gallagher spoke: I want you to go to Vienna, Kovacs.

Peter shook his head. It’s different now. I have a family. Was there some way Gallagher could force him to break his promise to Carrie? She was always nervous about his going abroad. He had to avoid showing his mixed feelings here and make Gallagher’s job too easy. On one side were Carrie and their four children. On the other was the lure of foreign places and his chance to expose the evils of another war.

It’ll be a short war. You’ll be back before your wife knows you’re gone.

Gallagher had a way of cutting to the quick. Peter didn’t want to admit he had made Carrie a promise to stay closer to home after the Second Balkan War. Instead, he said, Send Yates. He’s good.

His boss’s face turned hard, a sign that the foolishness was over. I’m sending him to Berlin, and don’t suggest O’Hara for Vienna. I’m shipping him off to St. Petersburg.

Gallagher’s answer revealed that he knew European entanglements didn’t allow one country to simply punish another without everyone else getting involved. Being the excellent editor that he was, he had coverage of the European situation mapped out. Peter studied his boss’s determined face. The man wasn’t one to take no for an answer. Their relationship went back sixteen years. It had been a positive one for the most part. Gallagher usually gave him more latitude and support than his tough reputation with other reporters revealed. He remembered how, during the Boxer Rebellion, the shoe was on the other foot; it had been he who had pushed for an assignment abroad. Just how much leeway he would be allowed here was unclear; his job might be on the block. Gallagher had fired people for opposing him too adamantly. I’d rather not go, sir, he lied. He had always had an interest in mountainous Austria, and now he expected the country to be electric with the assassination of their crown prince. He braced himself for Gallagher’s loud response.

Instead, his editor stood and paced back and forth in front of the windows, puffing on his pipe and trailing a cloud of blue smoke. He stopped and ran his free hand through his thinning gray hair. I had a telephone call from Colonel House this morning. It was a rather strange conversation.

"You mean the Colonel House?"

He nodded. That’s the one, and he was calling from the White House. I’ve met him twice, but he isn’t in the habit of calling me just to pass the time of day. I think he wanted to know who I was sending to Europe to cover the rising tension over there, but didn’t ask directly. He kept beating around the bush until I mentioned your name. Then he wanted to know when and where you were going. As soon as he found out, he signed off. Why is he interested in you?

I have no idea. I’ve never met the man.

Gallagher sat again. His face remained stony. Without removing his eyes from Peter’s, he reached for an envelope from one of the piles of paper, handed it across his desk and withdrew his pipe from his mouth. In a voice that left no doubt about the finality of his intent, he said, "Here’s your ticket, and itinerary, Kovacs. Elliott Perkins is working out the details. You’re sailing aboard the Mauritania on Friday."

2 Peter’s Promise

Weehawken, New Jersey, later that same day

A flutter of anxiety swept through Carrie the moment Peter entered the dining room. She sensed a subtle change in him. Something had happened; he was different from when he had left the house that morning. He was the same man she had known for 16 years, slightly above-average height, boyishly handsome even at 39, with a serious expression and that perpetual lock of brown hair that slipped down over his forehead. But she had learned to tell when something was bothering him. She stood, leaving her post by the dining room window where she watched the children at play in the back yard. He waited while she put down her knitting. Some things were different: His arms were tense. It was as if she were kissing a telephone pole. His hazel eyes were focused on her intently as if he expected her to answer a question. No, it was more as if he had been away for a long time and was familiarizing himself with her face again.

What is it, Peter?

Gallagher wants me to go to Vienna.

Now she became tense. Is it the assassination?

He nodded. It looks like there might be a war between Austro-Hungary and Serbia.

What did you tell him? She took a deep breath and held it.

I told him I didn’t want to go. I have a wife and family.

She realized that wasn’t the end of it and exhaled slowly . . . And he still wants you to go? What did he say?

"He handed me a ticket. He expects me to leave Friday on the Mauritania."

Why didn’t you . . . She wasn’t able to ask him why he hadn’t handed the ticket back to his editor. She had met the forceful Mr. Gallagher several times over the years. Peter had often related stories of their conversations; Mr. Gallagher was a man who expected to get his way. Can’t he send someone else?

He’s sending others to various capitals in case war breaks out.

What will happen when you tell him you’re not going?

He shrugged. I don’t know. He might assign me to the obituaries. She remembered his telling her that he got his start at the Yonkers Statesman at the age of nineteen writing obituaries and wedding announcements.

She felt the tears welling up. I don’t want you to go.

Yes, I know, dear. He put his arms around her.

The telephone pole again. She felt the presence of the promise Peter had made to turn down foreign assignments a year ago; he had probably forgotten. She wasn’t about to use that. You don’t want to go, do you?

His eyes glanced off to the side as he shook his head. This whole thing may blow over in a few days.

She pushed away. He does want to go! Peter didn’t lie often, and it was usually about little things like reacting to the dress she had chosen or about something she had cooked and had put in too much salt.

What are you going to do, Peter?

"I can always get a job somewhere else, I suppose, if it comes to that. I can write for the Jersey Journal or the Hudson Dispatch."

She laughed. He was poking fun at her. "That’s ridiculous. You’d be snapped up by the Journal, the World or the Times in a minute." She knew he loved working for Mr. Gallagher in spite of the man’s authoritative ways. But being alone with the children for a long period of time presented a fearsome prospect. She didn’t look forward to the challenge. Mother lived in New Rochelle, of course, but Mother would want to run things her way, if she wanted to help at all. There was always a risk when one went abroad; he might be going to dangerous places. She had read enough in the Times and Evening Post to know that there was the possibility of war. And she knew he wasn’t one to sit in general headquarters and wait for reports. She heard the voices of three of the children playing in the back yard and glanced automatically in their direction. It would be awfully hard to manage the children alone.

Yes, I know. What if we hired someone to help you with them?

There was a smidgen of humor here in his not mentioning her mother; he knew how Mother was with children. But he was thinking of going! They’d miss you, Peter. They need a father around, especially Robert.

All indicators are that it will be a short war, if there is one. Serbia can’t hold out against Austria.

What about your novel? She was pathetically grasping at straws. His first book, The Counterfeit Correspondent, an account of his experiences in the Spanish-American War, had been published, but the novel he was writing now was merely a story he worked on in his spare time.

He shrugged. It can wait until I get back.

He routinely commented on the odors of supper cooking. Tonight it was corned beef and cabbage, one of his favorites, with an aroma he always noticed, but he said nothing. She watched his face as he looked out the window, but he didn’t ask where Martha was. Muffin, as they called her, had gone in for her nap late and was still in her crib.

Change your clothes. I’ll call the children in and get dinner on the table. She headed for the kitchen with her mind spinning like a merry-go-round out of control.

During dinner she watched Peter at the opposite end of the table in between shoveling spoonfuls of mashed carrots into Muffin in her high chair and taking a bite of corned beef for herself. She expected him to say something to the children about leaving them, but he remained silent. Emily and Dossie chattered back and forth, and Robert shoved his cabbage around his plate. Peter focused on his dinner and avoided her eyes.

Everyone except Muffin helped clear the table. The routine in the kitchen was always the same: Peter and the children dried the dishes as Carrie washed. This evening the children chatted with her while their father only contributed monosyllables. Usually Peter played a game with the children, but tonight she noticed that he went straight to his desk while she changed Muffin into her nightie.

After the children were in bed, she and Peter often talked, reviewing the events of the day and settling any minor issues that hung in the air. When first married they had promised each other to resolve differences that hung over them before going to bed. But tonight Peter went to bed first, and when she put down her book and came into the bedroom, she was disappointed to see that he was already asleep. It was too late to tell him what she had to say.

3 The Decision

Tuesday June 30, 1914

Peter awoke first, quietly dressed, and left the house. He had slept poorly and still had to resolve in his own mind what he had to do. The clear, quiet, morning was in contrast to the turmoil in his head. The sun was already up and making him squint as he walked down Eldorado Place toward the Palisades. It was going to be another hot July day. Weehawken was one of the best spots along the Hudson to observe the New York City skyline. He crossed over to the monument commemorating the Burr-Hamilton duel, one of his favorite places to stand and clear his mind as he watched the tugs push ships and barges along the river. Below him he saw the 42nd Street ferry shuttling its way to the New Jersey side. Later he would ride it to work once he had composed the appropriate words to be said to Gallagher.

He breathed in deeply; the air smelled clean and fresh from up here. Down by the ferry landing the salt smell was combined with smoke and oil fumes. Shading his eyes, he gazed across the river at the New York skyline, a favorite morning event as he mentally organized his work for the day. As he did each morning, he singled out the new Woolworth Building, 51 stories tall, then the Metropolitan Life tower and the Singer Building, the three standing impressively above all the others.

But today his mind was on Carrie. He turned from the river and stared at the monument without really seeing it. She obviously didn’t want him to go to Europe. He didn’t blame her. Taking care of four children was a tiring job, and she’d have no relief with him gone. There was the promise he had made to turn down foreign assignments after Robert had turned four in 1913. The boy had become a handful. And then came the surprise; Muffin arrived in January. Within a few months Muffin would be saying her first words. The thought of leaving the children as well as Carrie for any length of time drew at his heartstrings. And they needed him more than he needed them, especially Carrie and Robert. At present the children were healthy. When any one of them fell sick, then Carrie’s task became much tougher. When his mother-in-law chose to have her chauffer drive her over from New Rochelle, she was more of a headache than a help.

For months he had been quietly chafing for a foreign assignment. In 1912 he had traveled to Nicaragua with the Marines, then to the First Balkan War immediately after, and to the Second Balkan War in 1913. After that flurry of activity, Carrie insisted he stay home, and he had promised her to turn down foreign assignments from then on. For the past year he hadn’t been out of the country. But Vienna was a city he’d wanted to visit again, and the adventure of reporting a war was tempting him.

The danger of his entering a war zone was something to consider if a war did flare up. Sitting in Vienna and reporting the war from hearsay, even though he knew some correspondents did that, was out of the question. To him the most important part of reporting a war meant writing about the men fighting it. Their morale, living conditions and safety were more important to their families at home than general headquarters decisions and statistics. But Carrie and the children depended upon his remaining safe as well as his being close by every day.

He reluctantly admitted to himself what he had to do. There was too much at stake. He had a wonderful family that was like a warm blanket to him, and that was worlds more important that seeing Vienna again or reporting a war. Let Gallagher assign someone else. If the boss fired him, then so be it. He took one more look back across the river at the steamers lined up at the docks, one of which might have carried him to Europe. Turning away, he was conscious of the shrill toot of the ferry as it left the Jersey side for its return trip to Manhattan. While crossing the street he waved to Mr. Hellmann as he opened his delicatessen for the day. He hurried up Eldorado Place to relieve Carrie of her worry.

The houses were close together, and he went down the alley to the back yard. A ball lying neglected on the lawn reminded him it was one of the reasons they had bought this house: it gave the children a place to play. When he opened the back door, the strong fragrance of frying bacon assailed his nostrils. Carrie stood at the stove, her back to him. To his surprise, she was singing. Muffin was in her highchair happily waving her spoon at him. Emily and Dorothy were at the table chattering as usual, and Robert, still in his pajamas, was standing in the doorway rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Carrie turned, wearing an apron, using a pot holder to grasp the frying pan, and never looking more beautiful as she smiled at him. He would remember this scene forever.

Carrie, I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to Austria.

You have to go, she said, waving her free hand dismissively. Forget what I said yesterday. It’s your job. No one does it better than you, and you love it. Glancing at the children she added with a smile, We’ll be all right while you’re gone.

4 The Colonel House Mystery

That same afternoon Peter heard a faint snuffling sound and looked through the doorway of Carrie’s tiny second-floor sewing room. His wife was sitting at her sewing machine facing the window, but she had stopped sewing. Carrie held a handkerchief to the lower part of her face, and her body jerked convulsively.

Carrie, I don’t have to go.

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and shook her head. No, it’s all right. I’m not changing my mind, dear; I want you to go. It’s just that I’ll miss you so much. She stood, and they held each other silently. He was conscious of her shapely figure which had hardly changed even after delivering four children. She hadn’t mentioned his promise to remain home, and that made him feel guiltier than if she had used it as a weapon, especially because he wanted to go.

I’ll miss you, too, he said as he brushed back her dark blonde hair and kissed a tear on her cheek.

Just then there was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs; the children were coming up, sounding like a minor stampede, and their parents stepped apart.

Carrie put her index finger to her lips as Robbie and the girls approached. You’ll wake Muffin.

Later in the afternoon Peter was sitting in his morris chair reading the Evening Post. The Austro-Hungarian Council of Ministers was debating in secret. Speculations abounded on what demands the Austro-Hungarian Empire might make of Serbia in restitution for the assassination of Crown Prince Ferdinand. War was a strong possibility, but if Serbia complied with whatever ultimatum was given them, peace might prevail. If that happened, he’d be home within three or four weeks.

Pa, do you really have to go away? asked Emily. Can’t you stay at home with us?

Emily’s question drew his attention back to the living room. He expected this kind of question from sweet Emily, named after his mother. She had many of his mother’s traits except for her light blonde hair, which as she grew older might darken a bit like Carrie’s. Emily was down to earth, serious, said what was on her mind, and behaved very maturely for nine years old. It was Carrie who had generously suggested that Emily be named after his mother. Emily stood close by his chair with her arm on his shoulder, her face drawn down in sadness, sincerely, without a trace of theatrics like seven-year-old Dossie might display.

He put aside the Post and drew Emily into his lap and hugged her. How much longer, he thought, would she want to be held like a child; even at the age of nine she was becoming a little lady too fast. Yes, my dear. It’s my job. I get paid for going abroad to report about what’s happening over there. The money I earn is needed to buy food and clothes for you and the rest of the family. He hoped this simple answer was sufficient. All the other issues about the likelihood of war, about his mixed feelings, about Gallagher’s orders, or the possibility of staying home and taking a job on another paper, were best left unsaid.

Emily remained quiet for a moment, thinking over his answer. I don’t want you to go, Pa.

I know, Gum Drop. He gave her a squeeze and added, I’ll miss you terribly.

Can we go with you?

No. It’s too far away, and too expensive. Besides, I need you to stay here and help Mama take care of Dossie, Robert and Muffin.

And go to school.

Yes, and go to school in September. Fifth grade!

When will you be back? she asked.

I don’t know, Honey. Maybe within three weeks unless the trouble lasts longer. I have to write about what is happening over there for the readers of our newspaper. I’ll return home by Thanksgiving for sure. That seemed like an awful long time in the future, even to him. Her frown told him she wasn’t satisfied with his answers.

Why can’t some man over there write you a letter and tell you what’s happening? Then you put it into the paper. She occasionally read parts of his column or news articles that he showed her.

Because my boss, Mr. Gallagher, wants me to go there and get the truth.

Wouldn’t the man tell the truth?

Well, yes, but only from his point of view.

She frowned again. What is ‘point of view’?

"If Robert tells Mama he wants a cookie because he’s hungry, that’s his point of view. If Mama tells him he can’t have one because it’s almost suppertime, and it would spoil his appetite, that’s her point of view. Mr. Gallagher wants me to report everyone’s point of view."

Emily laughed. Cookies wouldn’t spoil Robbie’s appetite. She slipped off his lap. Will you read to me, please?

Yes, Honey. Get our book. They were reading Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland for the second time. As soon as he started to read, Dossie joined Emily on his lap followed by Robert which resulted in much shifting and maneuvering for all three children to crowd together.

Alice had just found the bottle labeled Drink Me when Carrie called them to supper.

After the dinner dishes had been dried, he sat on the floor and played jackstraws with Dossie and Robert while Emily read and Carrie put Muffin in her crib.

Dossie looked up at him, appealingly with large, attractive eyes. Papa, when you come back, will you bring me a present? They had been discussing his trip at dinner. Dossie was Emily’s adaptation of ‘Dorothy’ that she had made at the age of two and a half shortly after her sister had been born. The name had stuck with the family. At the age of seven Dossie was too saucy and manipulative for his tastes.

I won’t promise because I don’t know what I’ll be able to find where I am going, but I’ll try to bring back something for everybody.

Bring me back a pony, said Robert.

After the children were in bed, Carrie asked, Which side will you support?

Side? I’m not picking sides, answered Peter. Any side is wrong that wants to settle the killing of one man by starting a war which may result in the killing of hundreds of men. I’m merely going to try to help our readers understand how terrible war is.

You have Hungarian, blood, she reminded him. Don’t you suppose that there are Austro-Hungarians who believe there are reasons for war that your readers should learn about?

He didn’t care to be reminded of Papa who had come from Hungary and had lived in Yonkers ever since. Peter pictured his father sitting at his kitchen table with his nearly-empty bottle of whiskey and an empty glass. If there are people who think they have reasons for going to war, I’ll write about their ideas, but I’ll make the point that there are better ways to solve their problems than by killing one another.

What are you going to tell Mr. Gallagher?

Well, he’s not going to ship me off on Friday without agreeing to a substantial raise. I’ll have to negotiate with him.

I thought Mr. Gallagher didn’t negotiate.

He doesn’t. I’ll have to do a little convincing if he wants me to go. A strange thing happened that I may be able to use to our advantage. Colonel House, President Wilson’s close advisor telephoned Gallagher and wanted to know where he was sending me.

Oh, Peter. Why you? I hope they’re not putting you in danger.

There’s no danger, and there’s no war yet. They’re not going to send me someplace I don’t want to go. He wished he hadn’t mentioned Colonel House. Carrie didn’t need anything more to worry about.

5 The Skirmish

New York City, Wednesday July 1, 1914

The next morning Peter entered Mr. Gallagher’s office, prepared for a skirmish.

I’ve decided not to go to Vienna, he said as soon as the salutations were out of the way.

Well, change your mind fast, Kovacs. You’re going.

I can’t afford it. Peter saw the redness rising up Gallagher’s face as his boss came around his desk. We have four children. If I leave for any length of time, Carrie will need a nursemaid for the baby or at least a housekeeper.

We’ll make sure Mrs. Kovacs gets your salary. Your travel expenses will be paid directly to you.

They were now standing toe-to-toe and had been through similar routines every time Peter had traveled away from New York for the Evening Post.

Peter shook his head. It’s not enough. I’d be reporting on the war, if there is one, and writing my column as well. I should be getting double the salary for double the work.

That’ll happen when the earth splits in half. Five percent increase.

Peter had already figured out that five percent amounted to three dollars and seventy-five cents a week. He held out his hand. It’s been nice working for you, Mr. Gallagher.

Gallagher reached out. What? Wait! You didn’t say anything about quitting, Kovacs. All right, ten percent for the time you’re overseas.

Peter was enjoying this. Remember what you said the other day, Mr. Gallagher? You said no one reports a war the way I do. You told me my work was absolutely breathtaking. You said I outdid Churchill, that my work was that of a genius, my writing made the news come alive for our readers. And you said I report the human side of war like only I can tell it. Fifty percent increase if you expect me to go abroad.

Gallagher waved his arms. That was the other day. I lost my head, dammit. This is now. He paused, staring down at Peter. All right, fifteen percent.

"I said fifty, not fifteen."

Sixteen and that’s my final offer. Gallagher moved even closer; they were inches apart.

Thirty percent, first-class accommodations when I travel, and a column when I have time to write one, said Peter, looking up at him. I can get a job on any newspaper in New York and stay home.

You’re a pain in the ass, Kovacs! Gallagher shouted. Sixteen percent and first-class accommodations.

Twenty-five. He suspected he was close to Gallagher’s limit. As far as he knew, he was already the Post’s highest paid reporter. What will Colonel House say to the president if I don’t go because you won’t pay what the other New York papers will pay? He was bluffing. He had no idea what Colonel House had to do with his going to Europe.

Twenty percent increase, dammit, first-class accommodations, a daily dispatch and a column from you every week without fail.

Done. Please check on Perkins to make sure he follows through, Sir. You know how cheap he is.

Yeah, said the editor, lowering his voice. He’s forced to be stingy with guys like you around. Perkins, the company comptroller, was Gallagher’s son in law, a man Peter suspected his boss didn’t like that much.

They shook hands. Peter headed for the door.

Oh, Kovacs.

Peter turned. He was half-way out the door. Yes?

I’d have gone as high as twenty-five percent if you’d held out.

Peter nodded. I’d have gone with five percent if you hadn’t folded. He waved and then closed the door as he departed.

6 Mrs. Bishop Takes Over

Weehawken, that same day

When Peter arrived home, Carrie was in a dither.

I did something I know you’ll dislike, she said.

What did you do?

I telephoned Mother and told her you were leaving for Vienna Friday and said you’d be gone a long time if war breaks out.

I’ll bet she had some choice things to say about me, he said with a grimace.

Not really. She was surprisingly calm. She suggested we close up this house and that the children and I move in with her.

How did you respond? he asked, feeling a twinge of unease.

I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and I need her help. I agreed that we would stay at her house while you were in Europe.

Well, now you won’t have to, he said excitedly. He told her about his raise and their ability to hire a nursemaid. He saw that Carrie was still unsettled.

She shook her head. Mother is expecting us. She’ll have a fit if I tell her she’s being replaced by a nursemaid. Right this minute she’s out buying a set of furniture for a room she’ll make into Muffin’s nursery.

He wondered how Carrie had escaped the manipulative tendencies of her mother and her sister Madelayne. He felt as if the floor were falling away beneath him. He was aware of the advantages of Annabelle Bishop’s large house, her servants and the broad lawns which ran down to Long Island Sound. But Weehawken was home to him despite the house being smaller and on a street where the homes had only an alley in between; it was theirs, and it had a back yard where the children were able to play. It wasn’t like the third floor apartment in Yonkers where he had grown up. You know what her next step will be.

What is that? she asked, looking as if she didn’t really want to know.

She’ll want us to sell this house, and then she’ll have total control of our lives. Remember what it was like when we told her we were getting married? That was almost eleven years ago. Mrs. Bishop had bought the large house in New Rochelle with plans for the newlyweds to move in with her. Then as a compromise she had offered to purchase a house near hers for them. Peter had refused. A major part of the issue had been the money Mrs. Bishop had used to purchase the property. It was money her deceased husband, Carrie’s step-father, Royal Bishop, had made as a war profiteer during the Spanish-American War. Peter had exposed the profiteers in his writing including Bishop and his own uncle, Clayton Archer. Carrie had been in agreement with Peter; she had served as a Red Cross nurse and had seen first hand how corners had been cut and millions made resulting in the severe discomfort for the troops in Cuba. Peter’s exposé had caused enough friction in the Bishop family for their marriage to be postponed until after her step-father had died.

Carrie shook her head. I’m not looking forward to living with Mother even for a short time; she’s too controlling. If I can find a way to change her mind, I will. If there’s no way out, we’ll move back here as soon as you return home. I promise.

Peter felt powerless as he imagined the controlling tentacles of his mother-in-law slowly encircling his family.

7 Bon Voyage

Friday July 3, 1914

The day of departure had arrived too soon and not soon enough. The last three days had been filled with preparations. Peter entrusted Carrie with his check book, bank book and account records of money earned and spent. While he had assembled his travel documents and money, she had washed, ironed and packed his clothes. Peter was afraid Carrie might change her mind before he left and was almost hoping that she would.

He wrote to his father in Yonkers and told him of his assignment and that Carrie had money to send him monthly. He disliked sending money he knew his father used mainly for the purchase of whiskey. Only last week he had received a note from Janos’ landlord complaining the rent was two months overdue. Peter had paid the bill, believing Mama would have wanted it that way.

Mrs. Bishop had insisted that her chauffer drive them to the pier, but she arrived a half-hour late, making both Carrie and Peter fidgety. They had braced themselves for Mother to be in a foul mood, but she was all peaches and cream, believing, Peter suspected, that she was about to be in charge. Peter enviously ran his hand over the shiny black fender of her 1914 Cadillac limousine standing in front of their house while the chauffer stacked his luggage on the rack. This automobile cost nearly five times the Model T he had considered buying. All except Robert climbed inside. The boy pleaded to sit in an outside seat to the left of the chauffer. My man will return later to bring the family belongings to New Rochelle, Mrs. Bishop announced.

The street in front of the pier was crowded with private cars and taxis disgorging travelers and their luggage. Peter and Carrie had agreed before arrival not to go aboard with Peter since they were so late, triggering protests from the children who wanted to see the interior of the ship. Once on the pier everyone was awestruck by the huge, steel side of the Mauritania towering above them. It had started to drizzle. Peter hardly heard the others over the shouting crowd, the squeal of winches, and the growl of trucks. Dossie held her nose to avoid the smell of coal smoke, oil fumes and foul water.

Suddenly Perkins, the Post’s comptroller, appeared through the crowd. I have two envelopes from Mr. Gallagher, one for you and one for Livermore in Paris. The boss said for you to remind Livermore to stop dwelling on the scurrilous lives of their politicians and find out whether or not France is going to war. Bon voyage.

This is my wife, Carrie.

Perkins tipped his hat and shook her hand. We met once before when you visited the office, Mrs. Kovacs.

Yes, I remember, she said.

Peter noticed that Perkins held Carrie’s hand a little too long as he wondered why Gallagher didn’t send a cable to Livermore rather than the hand-delivered envelope, but accepted both envelopes and thanked Perkins. He stuffed the envelopes in an inside pocket and turned toward his family.

He had hugged and kissed Carrie and the children at home, but did so again for one last hurried and painful moment before ascending the gangplank. He saw with regret the tears in Carrie’s eyes. Dossie was pouting, still wanting to go aboard. Mrs. Bishop hung back, smiling faintly, no doubt knowing that she was about to have her daughter and grandchildren under her control, Peter thought unhappily. It was obvious why her daughter Madelayne had turned out the way she did, and strange how Carrie had turned out to be so sweetly different.

He climbed to the main deck and edged his way to the railing to search below for his family among the crowd of well-wishers. They looked so small and forlorn. Carrie was holding Muffin while Emily stood close by on one side and Dossie on the other. Robert was jumping up and down beside Mrs. Bishop who was attempting to hold him still. Carrie waved at him with her free hand and was smiling bravely. His heart raced, and it became difficult to resist the temptation to run down the gangplank and return home with them. Then he realized it was too late anyway; the last gangplank was being hoisted aboard.

Carrie and the girls were shouting to him, but it was impossible to make out what they were saying. Robert was still squirming to separate himself from his grandmother’s grasp. Mrs. Bishop’s hat was askew, and by the look on her face, she was already irritated by her overactive grandson. He saw Carrie glance at her mother’s attempt at containing their son and then look up at him with a smile and a theatrical wink that relayed a thousand words; Mrs. Bishop would not tolerate having them in her home for long. God bless Robert, he thought. His mother-in-law hadn’t won yet.

Just then the ship’s whistle emitted an ear-shattering, low-throated, mournful blast that startled nearly everyone. For Peter it was a dark and foreboding announcement. Muffin, who had been asleep, began crying, and Robert had broken away from Mrs. Bishop. Everyone else was waving as the tugs started to slowly push the huge ship into the Hudson River.

8 André

Aboard the Mauritania, Saturday, July 4-10, 1914

This trip will change your life—or end it, said André Alverov.

Peter had met Alverov at a late lunch in the Verandah Café at the after end of the Mauritania. He had awakened late and took his time about getting up and ready for the first day at sea. Coffee and toast had been delivered to his stateroom, and he spent the remainder of the morning writing. He started separate letters to Carrie and each of the children, even to Muffin, knowing Carrie planned to read all of his letters aloud. Later he intended to start his first column, but found it difficult to develop a theme from inside the stateroom with only a porthole for perspective, and worked on his novel instead. He suddenly realized he was hungry and found his way to the stern of the ship and the Verandah Café.

Evidently other passengers also preferred a late, open-air lunch. The head waiter was finding it difficult to locate an empty table when a man seated alone raised his hand and indicated an empty chair. The gentleman filled his own chair completely and seemed to be tall as well as wide. His full, jowly face and more than ample sandy moustache that matched his thinning head of hair gave Peter the impression of a salesman between jobs. Supporting that image was his worn and rumpled plaid suit.

The name’s Alverov, André Alverov, he said as he waved Peter to the chair opposite without getting up.

Peter Kovacs, Peter replied. Thank you for sharing your table.

The restaurant, open to the fresh summer air, enabled its patrons to view the broad expanse of ocean behind the ship. Its churning wake drew a straight white line in the dark blue-green water. While the air had a slight chill, the weather was clear and too perfect to miss lunch outside. Among potted palms a string trio played chamber music.

I would have preferred a beautiful lady if one had come along, said Alverov, but it seems that all of them are already occupied. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Where are you from, if I may ask?

New York, or actually my family and I live across the Hudson in New Jersey.

I’m from Canada, but travel a lot and feel at home just about everywhere. He handed a menu across the table to Peter. I haven’t ordered yet. Are you on a business trip?

Peter thought the man was being a little bit too inquisitive, but didn’t mind; he had nothing to hide. "Well, I guess that’s what it is. I’m a reporter for the New York Evening Post, and I’ve been assigned to Vienna to see what kind of trouble they’re getting themselves into."

Alverov nodded. A lot of trouble, I think. There’ll be a war for sure.

I’m hoping not, said Peter. Wars don’t seem to settle things.

A waiter took their orders.

I thought that reporters welcomed wars, said Alverov after the waiter had left. After all, it’s your bread and butter. Wars sell newspapers.

From my point of view, a journalist’s job is to expose war for what it really is. There’s no glory, no heroism, only men under severe hardships doing what they must in the face of extreme adversity to fulfill the wishes of powerful leaders. I’ve seen enough of war, said Peter, shaking his head dismissively. Men die or get horribly wounded, and no argument is worth that. Although it’s my job to tell the public what war is like, there are better ways to sell newspapers.

Ah, but men are willing to die for their country, for the glory and honor of it. War is a noble undertaking, pitting the bravery of its soldiers against a deadly enemy.

"Young men have been ingrained with the belief that they may achieve glory and honor by risking their lives for their country—by older men who have nothing to lose but other peoples’ sons while they get rich, said Peter evenly. He had been looking toward a quiet lunch alone, and wished he had waited for an empty table. He decided to soften his position a little to prevent further argument. I suppose war is necessary sometimes to defend one’s country against attack, but it doesn’t seem as if the situation between Austria and Serbia warrants further bloodshed."

Well, I can see how your point of view applies to the emperors of Europe who are always looking for more power and more territory. In this particular instance Austria is licking her chops over nibbling off another slice of the Balkans. The only trouble is, Russia won’t let them get away with it.

So you think there’ll be war, observed Peter.

Alverov was confident. Oh, yes. One of these countries will underestimate the threats or desires of the other, and they’ll start shooting soon. It was then that he said, Wait and see. This trip will change your life—or end it.

They were interrupted by the waiter bringing their lunches. Peter was grateful for the silence while they both ate. Peter hadn’t eaten except for the toast and coffee much earlier. When they finished their ice cream, Peter thanked Alverov for his hospitality and hurried away. He thought that Alverov was overstating the European situation. As to how a war might change his life, he had gone through that in Cuba. His foolishly murderous intentions toward his cousin had mellowed, and the Spanish-American War had helped him to mature both as a man and as a writer during that short experience in 1898.

In his stateroom Peter reopened the envelope Perkins had handed him on the pier. There were vouchers for hotels and rail transportation to Vienna. But the unusual document was a To whom it may concern letter on White House stationery signed by Colonel House. The letter identified Peter Kovacs as Special Representative of the President of the United States with the authority to travel and obtain information on matters of international concern. And then there was this final sentence: Please give all possible consideration to Mr. Kovacs in his quest. It was signed, Colonel Edward M. House, Presidential Advisor on Foreign Affairs. It was common knowledge that the Texan wasn’t a colonel, but that mattered little; he was in President Wilson’s inner circle. But House’s relationship with the president, as far as Peter knew, was strictly informal, and the title after his name may be something House had made up to impress readers of the letter.

Peter paced back and forth in his stateroom, puzzled by the letter. There had been no inquiry into his willingness to participate, nor were there instructions on exactly what the White House expected him to do. Possibly Mr. Gallagher was a better friend of Colonel House than he let on, and this letter was merely the Colonel returning a favor to Gallagher with or without President Wilson’s knowledge. He decided that the letter wasn’t as important as it looked and folded it back into its envelope, wondering if he’d ever use it. He then turned to the book on the Balkans he had brought with him for background information he might use later.

The next morning Peter ate an early breakfast in the sparsely occupied dining room and then decided to walk the deck for exercise before returning to his writing. His right arm twinged as it sometimes did, the result of Spanish shrapnel; it must be the damp ocean air, he thought. Along the promenade deck less than half of the deck chairs were occupied at this hour. The air was clear and stimulating, the sun bright, and the ocean waves a cerulean blue. He enjoyed exploring the ship. The Mauritania at 36,000 tons was larger and more luxurious than the ships he had sailed on before. Mr. Gallagher was living up to his agreement to provide him with first-class accommodations. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by someone calling his name.

Kovacs! Hey there, good morning! It was Alverov sitting on the edge of a deck chair with a large cigar in his hand. Sit down and enjoy the view. He was wearing white trousers and a white turtleneck sweater over his considerable paunch.

Peter wanted to continue his walk but forced himself to be polite. I’ll stop for a minute, Mr. Alverov; I’m in the middle of my morning constitutional.

Nothing like exercise to stimulate the mind, said Alverov, and by the by, please call me André.

Thank you, André, and you can call me Peter. Having someone to talk with wasn’t such a bad thing when sailing alone, he thought as he lowered himself into the adjacent deck chair. The morning was too beautiful to be difficult about little things.

Did you see this morning’s wireless bulletin?

No, said Peter, feeling foolish for forgetting to pick up a copy in the dining room.

Austria is preparing an ultimatum to send to Serbia. They’ll probably make some unreasonable demands that the Serbs can’t stomach.

Well, at least they’re writing and not shooting.

The problem is, Kaiser Wilhelm has given Austria carte blanche to do as they please. It’s only a matter of time. Austria’s Foreign Minister Berchtold is warlike and greedy. If it weren’t for Hungary’s Tizza reining him in, they’d probably be shooting already.

Well, everyone predicts that if there is war, it’ll be a short one.

Don’t count on it, Peter, said Alverov, leaning toward him. If one country starts shooting, all of Europe will collapse into war like a house of cards. The problem is all these defense pacts the European countries get themselves involved in. George Washington was way ahead of his time when he warned America to avoid entangling alliances.

You seem to be well acquainted with the situation.

"Well, I read a lot. I’m a professor of European History at Charlesbourg College, and I write a little, too. I’m on my way to Vienna as well, by the way. I do some free-lance writing among other things, historical stuff mostly, and I’m on the staff of a little rag in Quebec, the Northern Lights, ever hear of it?"

Can’t say that I have, said Peter, mildly surprised. He never would have guessed that Alverov was a professor and a writer.

Suddenly Alverov jumped up and addressed two ladies in morning attire who were passing by. Good morning, ladies, he said as he doffed his cap with one hand while holding his cigar behind him with the other. It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?

Yes, sir, it is, said the taller one. Peter guessed the two women were in their early twenties.

I’d like you to meet my friend, Mr. Kovacs. Peter, this is Miss Thompson and Miss Holmes.

Peter stood and nodded. Good morning. Alverov must have met them the day before. Both ladies were attractive, especially Miss Holmes, the shorter one.

We were just about to continue our morning constitutional, said André. Mind if we join you?

We’re heading back to our stateroom, Mr. Alverov, said Miss Thompson, who was almost as tall as the two men. Perhaps we’ll see you again at dinner. Nice to have met you, Mr.—ah . . . She started to move away.

Kovacs, Peter responded, but the two ladies were already several steps along the deck.

André studied their departing figures while puffing on his cigar before lowering himself into the complaining deck chair. Oh, well, we’ll see them again at dinner. We happen to be at the same table. You’ll have to join us, Peter. I’ll arrange it; there’s one empty place setting. Then later we can take the ladies dancing.

Peter was about to object but then thought of the people at his table the previous evening. They had talked exclusively about Wall Street finance as if he hadn’t been present. It had been a boring dinner. My pleasure, Mr. Alverov, but I’ll pass on the dancing.

Call me André, please. Well, perhaps you can help me out by accompanying Miss Holmes. A threesome was rather awkward last evening.

I think I’ll complete my walk, André. Perhaps I’ll see you at lunch.

Two o’clock at the Verandah Café. I’ve reserved a table.

Peter walked away, irritated a little by the other man’s controlling manner. Alverov had an over-active interest in the ladies, it seemed, but there was another characteristic that held his interest: André Alverov said he was Canadian, but he spoke with a touch of an Eastern European accent that might have gone unnoticed if his own father hadn’t been Hungarian. Alverov seemed to be well informed on the international situation, better, at least, than he was. There had been little time to expand upon his rather casual knowledge of Serbian developments of the past year. Gallagher had been keeping him too involved with domestic events the last twelve months.

At lunch in the Café, André told Peter that he had made the arrangements for him to sit at his table at dinner.

As they walked into the first-class dining room that evening they found Misses Thompson and Holmes about to be seated. The ladies were fashionably dressed in evening gowns of glossy satin, Miss Holmes in cream white layered with lace, and Miss Thompson in light blue with ruffles. Peter thought that Miss Holmes was very likely the prettiest woman in the room. She seemed to be slightly annoyed as André pushed his way into a seat between the two young ladies. Miss Thompson, in whom André seemed to be particularly interested, was attractive as well except for her longish nose. She appeared to be slightly older than Miss Holmes.

Also at the table were four other people, the Vandergoffs and another couple whose names he missed the first time around. Observing the Vandergoffs, their expensive evening clothes and Mrs. Vandergoff’s attractive jewelry, made him wonder if he were in for another evening of stocks and bonds. Peter was left with the only other seat between Mrs. Vandergoff and the other lady whom he later learned was Mrs. Jackson. He was soon pleased to discover that both Vandergoffs were entertaining conversationalists who gracefully included everyone in the discussion. Although dressed in evening attire, the Jacksons appeared to be rather plain and subdued in contrast to the Vandergoffs.

Peter was satisfied to have others do most of the talking until André turned everyone’s attention toward him. Mr. Kovacs, you know, is a nationally known correspondent, said André. He played an active role in the Spanish-American War and wrote an exposé of war profiteering and government mismanagement after the war was over. Later he reported on the Boer War, the Boxer Rebellion and the Russo-Japanese War. It seemed to Peter that Alverov was trying to impress the others with his fund of knowledge rather than inform his listeners. The younger ladies didn’t seem to be impressed; they must have been in grammar school during those years. He wondered how André had found out so much about him and why he had taken the trouble. It was unlikely that he had obtained this information aboard the ship. It seemed that it was a very odd coincidence that Alverov knew so much about him.

Was that your book that I read? asked Mrs. Vandergoff, About a correspondent in Cuba?

"Yes, The Counterfeit Correspondent," affirmed Peter, pleased that someone had read his work recounting his experiences in the Spanish-American War.

Do you think there will be war in Europe? asked Mr. Vandergoff.

Before Peter was able to answer, Miss Thompson interrupted. Goodness, I hope not, she said. Leslie and I are on holiday and don’t want to have it interrupted by a silly old war.

We’re on vacation, too, said Mrs. Jackson. The conversation then evolved into a discussion of the countries the vacationers were going to visit.

After the cherries flambé André mentioned that he was going to the ballroom after dinner. Everyone appeared to have the same intentions, and Peter decided to go along since that was better than going back to his room alone.

The first dance was a waltz, and Peter asked Miss Holmes to dance with him. She was an excellent dancer, but her mind must have been somewhere else; she kept looking about as if searching for someone, almost to the point of rudeness. At the end of the dance, a young man came up to them and asked Miss Holmes for the next dance. She was suddenly all smiles, and it appeared as if she had met this gentleman sometime during the day. Peter went back to where the Jacksons were sitting and joined them. Later he danced with Mrs. Jackson who giggled the entire time, and then with Mrs. Vandergoff whom he found to be a good dancer and an amusing chatterbox.

Miss Holmes didn’t return, and rather than dance or sit with the Jacksons and watch others dance, Peter excused himself and returned to his stateroom. He wrote a few lines in each of the letters he had already started and then turned to his novel. He became so engrossed in his writing that he wasn’t aware of the time until just before midnight. He then slipped between the covers and picked up his book on the Balkans, expecting it to be sleep inducing.

He stayed close to his stateroom the next day and ordered his lunch from room service. As a result, he accomplished a lot on his novel, but by evening he looked forward to seeing the others in the first class dining room.

That evening the talk centered on the prospect of war. Alverov dominated the discussion again and lectured the others at the table with the reasons why war was imminent. Only Mr. Vandergoff politely interrupted with opposing views.

War might interfere with our travel plans, said Mr. Jackson at last.

We plan to sail home from Naples in two weeks, explained his wife.

You’ll be safe enough, said André, just so long as you stay away from Serbia.

You’ll be out of Europe before anyone can get mobilized, said Peter, trying to sound reassuring.

The discussion continued until dessert, and then the conversation turned to the evening’s events. Everyone planned to attend the dance again. Peter went along reluctantly, wishing Carrie were there with him to enjoy the voyage.

Although Peter danced once each with Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Vandergoff, he never had a chance to ask Miss Holmes again. Mr. Pierce had swooped down on her quickly, and Peter saw them only once or twice in the distance during the time that he stayed in the ballroom. Peter observed that André danced almost exclusively with Miss Thompson. Before the evening was half over, he decided to go back to his stateroom and write a little bit before going to bed as he had the night before.

The next two days were spent much as the first three had gone. The only exception was that they were now in the Gulf Stream, and the air was warmer. Peter spent much of his time writing in a deck chair.

On their last morning at sea Peter picked up a copy of the wireless bulletin in the dining room and sat down beside André Alverov. He wondered if Austria-Hungary was still demanding retribution from Serbia for the killing of the arch-duke. The bulletin announced that the Austrians were at the point of sending their ultimatum to Serbia.

I’m predicting that their demands will be impossible to meet, said André. Austria will attack the Serbs. It won’t be long now. I hope we can get there before the shooting starts.

Peter didn’t look forward to traveling all the way to Vienna with this man, but avoiding him would be awkward.

That afternoon