If there were fall rains in the Far East, they didn’t bother Japan. The Japs went on pounding China. They finished occupying French Indochina. That made Winston Churchill fuss, because it brought their bombers within range of the British colonies farther south and west.
Joe Steele called Japan almost as many names as Hitler was calling the USA. The Japs paid hardly more attention than America did. As winter neared, General Tojo finally sent Foreign Minister Kurusu to Washington to see if the two countries could work something out.
Kurusu knew what he wanted. He wanted Japanese assets in America unfrozen. And he wanted the United States to start selling his country raw materials again. Joe Steele asked him whether Japan would clear out of China if the USA did that.
Unlike the talks with Churchill, Charlie didn’t get invited to these. He wasn’t broken-hearted. He had nothing to say about Japan or to the Japanese. He heard about what was going on from Vince Scriabin.
“That slant-eye flat-out said they wouldn’t pull back,” Scriabin reported. “He said America held an empire and Russia had one and England had one, and now it was Japan’s turn to take one if she was strong enough-and she was. He thinks he’s as good as a white man, is what he thinks.” By the way Scriabin rolled his eyes, that was an opinion he didn’t share.
“Yeah, Japan’s strong enough, as long as they get our scrap metal and our oil,” Charlie said. “But what happens when they run out of oil?”
“Everything they’ve got with a motor in it grinds to a stop, that’s what.” Scriabin sounded as if he was looking forward to it. “From what the War Department brass says, they’ll have trouble lasting a year on their own.”
Charlie had heard the same thing. He didn’t let on; the dumber you acted, the more interesting things other people said to you and around you. “How long has it been now since the President slapped that embargo on them?” he asked. Again, he knew the answer, but this way the Hammer could feel superior for a little while.
“Just about five months,” Scriabin said. “So they’ve got to be feeling the pinch already. That stupid Kurusu will be singing a different tune the next time he comes here, I promise you.”
“He sure will.” Charlie had about as much trouble taking Orientals seriously as Scriabin did. He liked Chinese food, though he’d never found a place in Washington he enjoyed as much as Hop Sing’s back in the Village. That was as far as it went. He no more thought Asians deserved to put themselves on an equal footing with whites than the Hammer did. The idea seemed too silly for words. So did a lot of Orientals, come to that.
* * *
One chilly Sunday morning, Charlie and Esther and Sarah went out to breakfast at a waffle place not far from their apartment. Esther had the waffles, and cut up some for Sarah. Charlie got pancakes and a side of bacon. One slice went to his daughter. Sarah made it disappear.
After they got home, he read the papers and goofed around and eventually turned on the Redskins-Eagles game on the radio. If the Redskins won, they’d finish third in the Eastern Division with a 6–5 mark. If they lost, they’d finish third at 5–6. The Eagles, the team behind them, had only two wins all year. Charlie figured their chance of breaking.500 was pretty good.
In spite of their crappy record, the Eagles took the early lead. The Redskins had the ball when the signal cut out for a moment. Before Charlie could do more than start to turn his head toward the radio, it came back. “We interrupt this broadcast for a special news flash!” said a different announcer, one who had to be back at the radio station’s headquarters. “The White House reports that Japanese planes have bombed the American naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, in an unprovoked attack. Casualties are believed to be heavy. That is all that is known at this time. We now return you to our regularly scheduled program.” The football game came back on.
“Oh, God!” Esther exclaimed.
“Couldn’t put it better myself,” Charlie said. The Redskins had picked up another first down while the bulletin ran, but he didn’t care any more. He wondered how long it would be before he could care again about something as silly as a game of football or baseball. He grabbed his shoes and put them on. “I better get over to the White House right now.”
The telephone rang. Esther picked it up. “Hello?” she said, and then, “Yes, he’s here.” She thrust the phone at Charlie, mouthing Mikoian.
He nodded. “Hello, Stas,” he said.
“You need to come over right now,” Mikoian said without preamble.
“I was already on my way. I just heard the news flash,” Charlie said. “All hell must be breaking loose.”
Stas Mikoian’s chuckle was perfect gallows. “It’s nowhere near that quiet. We haven’t announced it yet, but the Japs have attacked in the Philippines, too. Doesn’t look good there, either.”
“Happy day!” Charlie exclaimed.
“Now that you mention it,” Mikoian said, “no.”
“Right,” Charlie said. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.” He hung up. Then he called for a taxi. He didn’t want to waste forty-five minutes standing on the corner waiting for a bus. They didn’t run as often as usual on Sundays. He kissed Esther and Sarah-who, luckily, couldn’t have cared less about Pearl Harbor-and hurried down to the street.
“The Japs’ve gone crazy,” was what the cabby greeted him with.
“I’ve heard,” Charlie said. “Take me to the White House. Step on it.” He hadn’t wasted time putting on a tie. His brown checked jacket didn’t go with his gray pants. It was the one he’d pulled out of the closet, that was all.
But his voice must have carried the snap of authority, because the driver said, “You got it, Mister.” He touched the patent-leather bill of his cap in an almost-salute as the Chevy shot away from the curb.
Charlie gave him a buck and didn’t wait for change, though the fare was only sixty cents. Reporters stood on the White House lawn, waiting and hoping for more news. When they spotted Charlie, they converged on him like ants going after a forgotten picnic sandwich. He fended them off with both hands. “I don’t know any more than you guys do,” he said. “I was listening to the football game with my wife and little girl. I had Sunday off, or I thought I did. Soon as I heard the bulletin, I figured I’d better come in.”
Some of them wrote that down. White House speechwriter Charlie Sullivan was somebody who made news, not somebody who reported it. Charlie knew that was true, but it still struck him as crazy.
He got through the crowd and into the White House. Vince Scriabin said, “We have a Cabinet meeting set for half past eight. Some Senators and Congressmen will join in at nine.”
“Okay,” Charlie answered. His guess was that most of the decisions would get made before the meeting convened. Except perhaps for Andy Wyszynski, Joe Steele’s Cabinet members were there to tell the lesser folk under them what to do, not to shape policy. Joe Steele figured that shaping policy was his bailiwick, no one else’s.
“We’ll declare war on Japan, of course,” Scriabin said. “The boss will need to make a speech in front of Congress before they ratify the declaration. You may want to start thinking about that.”
“Gotcha,” Charlie said. In fact, he’d already started thinking about that. But showing up Scriabin in any way, small or large, was one of the dumber things anybody in the White House could do. Like him or not, the unpleasant little man was Joe Steele’s right hand and a couple of fingers of the left. Charlie asked, “Do we know any more than we’ve told the radio and the papers?”
“Not much,” Scriabin answered. “It’s bad in Hawaii, and it’s not good in the Philippines. Oh, and I just now heard that the Japs have started bombing the English in Malaya, and Japanese troops have crossed the Malayan border from Siam. They’re going all out.”
“Misery loves company,” Charlie said. Scriabin’s mouth twisted, though his mustache made the motion hard to see. It came closer to a smile than Charlie had expected.