The Parsifal Pursuit Page 4

  “No. Absolutely not,” Cockran said, his voice firm. He knew what came next. Someone would quote Justice Holmes‘ opinion in the Carrie Buck case holding compulsory sterilization laws constitutional as if that justified a denial of due process in this case. Cockran intended to strike first and attack the weak record on which eight old men in black robes had destroyed, in the name of the state, the child-bearing ability of a normal, healthy young woman.

  “With all due respect, the Supreme Court ruled on an incomplete record and poorly-defended case. The short-comings of the defense in that case should have no bearing on the lower court‘s denial of due process in this case because––”

  “On the contrary,” the presiding judge said and cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. Cockran forced himself to take a deep breath and keep his Irish temper in check. So much for striking first. He could do nothing but wait.

  No Man‘s Land was better. There, you could shoot people.

  “The appellant in that case, Carrie Buck, was an imbecile, like her mother before her,” the presiding judge said as he reached for his reading glasses. “She gave birth to yet another imbecile. Mr. Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes explained exactly why she was a public menace:We have seen more than once that the public welfare may call upon the best citizens for their lives. It would be strange if it could not call upon those who already sap the strength of the State for these lesser sacrifices, often not felt to be such by those concerned, in order to prevent our being swamped with incompetence. It is better for all the world if, instead of waiting to execute degenerate offspring for crime, or to let them starve for their imbecility, society can prevent those who are manifestly unfit from continuing their kind. Three generations of imbeciles are enough.

  “Hear, hear,” croaked the bald judge beside him. The one young judge remained silent.

  There it was. Rarely a sterilization case went by without someone repeating that ignorant passage from an aging jurist long past his prime. Cockran especially despised the comparison of sterilization laws to drafting men to fight and die overseas in Europe. Men shouldn’t be forced to do that either, you damned fools, he thought. Didn’t the 13th Amendment abolish slavery?

  The presiding judge continued. “Mandatory sterilization can only be illegal when performed against the will of the patient. Who then is to consent or decide for the appellant whether it is best for her to have this operation? She cannot determine the matter for herself because she has a congenital mental defect. Tell us, Mr. Cockran, how could an imbecile like Carrie Buck make a decision for herself?”

  Cockran stayed with his strategy. Hit the facts. “Like all the other decisions she made every day of her life before the state threatened to take away her reproductive ability. The central fact that Justice Holmes ignored about Carrie Buck is that she was no imbecile. Carrie performed well in school. Her teachers said that her schoolwork was ‘very good.‘ Carrie Buck was declared an imbecile based on the hearsay accusations of another family who had motive to do so and a doctor from the institution that sought to sterilize her. Yet Justice Holmes accepted this classification at face value, and ignored overwhelming evidence to the contrary.”

  “Counselor,” said the young judge in a soft voice. “It is my understanding that Miss Buck was considered a social deviant and that was the reason for her classification as an imbecile.” The other judges watched their younger colleague, though it was difficult to read them. They didn‘t appear happy, that much was clear. “It seems this is also the case with your client, Miss Dill. If so, is there some reason this girl does not deserve to be so classified.?”

  “Yes, your honor. There is no record evidence or scientific basis to warrant doing so. The State of New York considers Judy Dill to be a ‘social deviant‘ only because she was seduced by a wealthy boy who told her he loved her. Now she is pregnant out of wedlock with his child. His family, not surprisingly, calls her a prostitute and a social deviant and demands she be classified as such, just like Carrie Buck. But like Carrie Buck, she has a job and supports herself. Human beings make choices in their lives, irrespective of their ancestry. Everyone makes bad decisions. Even Supreme Court justices are not immune to moments of human fallacy especially as they age, yet we do not insist on their sterilization for feeble-mindedness.”

  Cockran was met with silence, but the young judge actually smiled. Cockran suppressed a smile in response, and decided to push the envelope even more. Now it was time to attack the sheer arrogance of the law itself. “Laws become lawless when they do not know where to stop, and only the courts may send the sort of message that stops them. There are men in Europe and here as well who call themselves scientists and claim that persons of Jewish or Gypsy ancestry have higher rates of birth defects and deformities. If you cannot see fit to stop the madness of this law, what is to prevent the State from passing a law that requires the sterilization of entire races of people deemed inferior?”

  Cockran saw immediately that this was a bad ploy. At least one of the older judges actually thought this was a good idea, judging by his expression, but Cockran pressed on, “This is a country that values liberty at the price of all other values. It is the primary value. No value is well-earned that sacrifices liberty. If there be intellectuals who wish to treat human beings as horses, let them do it in Europe where the power and authority of the state are valued above the rights of individuals. We must never allow that to happen here. America was forged in the flame of individual liberty, a flame we must forever keep burning bright.”

  Cockran tried not to think about the possibility of an adverse decision as he walked back to counsel‘s table, sat down and gathered his papers. He didn‘t like to lose. Ever. But he had done his best and soon it would be out of his hands. The judges followed their inquisition of him by lobbing softballs at the government‘s lawyer––they even finished his sentences for him in a few instances. They gave Cockran his five minutes of rebuttal, but they no longer responded with questions. It was like talking to a man late for a train––he might nod his head as you spoke, but he didn‘t hear a word you said. Still, he had hopes that the younger judge might rule in his favor. A dissenting opinion wouldn‘t help Judy Dill, but it would do more than the courts had done so far to stem the tide of eugenics which, with forced sterilization laws, had produced nearly 50,000 victims.

  But as he turned to leave the court room, Cockran was no longer thinking about what he couldn‘t control. Instead, he had turned his mind to Mattie, still hoping she was one of the late arrivals to the argument. To his disappointment, she wasn‘t among the spectators gathering to leave. Cockran was making his way through the crowd when a voice stopped him.

  “I must congratulate you, Mr. Cockran.” It was a deep strong voice which came from behind him. Cockran turned around and instead of the man he expected to see, he saw a stunning blonde goddess, tall with fair skin, deep blue eyes and curves to turn the head of any man.

  “Excuse me?” Cockran said to the goddess.

  “Congratulations,” the voice said again and Cockran realized the voice belonged to a big, broad-chested man standing next to the goddess. In his late forties, his thinning brown hair was carefully barbered and his bullying six foot four frame stretched the seams of his Brooks Brothers suit. He looked like the sort of man who had played football for Yale or Harvard at one point in his life. And Cockran knew him.

  “You gave an eloquent and stirring argument,” the man said, looking down at Cockran, “but I‘m afraid the court is against you. You‘re going to lose.”

  “It‘s not over yet,” Cockran said. “We‘ve met before, haven‘t we?”

  “Yes, once or twice,” he said. “Wesley Waterman, President of International Calculating Equipment.” He stuck out a big hand. Cockran shook it. “I‘m also president of the American Eugenics Society.”

  “I see.” Cockran said but couldn‘t keep his eyes off the stunning woman in front of him.

  Waterman noticed and frowned. “I‘m sorry, Mr.
Cockran, have you met my wife Ingrid?”

  Cockran was surprised that he was gesturing to the goddess. Ingrid extended her hand, “No, we‘ve not. It‘s a pleasure, Mr. Cockran.”

  “Please, call me Bourke,” he said taking her hand briefly, noting for the first time that she was wearing a tailored gray flannel dress.

  “I‘m Ingrid,” she said and smiled. It was a beautiful smile.

  “She was born in Connecticut,” Waterman said, “but pure third generation Swedish ancestry. Remarkable. She represents all that the science of eugenics is trying to promote.”

  Ingrid‘s face had remained impassive while Waterman recited her genetic credentials. “I admired your argument today,” she said. “Truly.” She smiled again. It was still beautiful.

  “Yes, your devotion to protecting the unfit is admirable,” Waterman said quickly, “but it is misplaced. And futile. The law and the courts stand against you.”

  Cockran turned back to Waterman. “Even if there were any science supporting eugenics, it still wouldn‘t make sterilization right. Or moral.”

  “Oh, but we do have science on our side,” Waterman said. “Darwin has clearly demonstrated the law of evolution which favors the strong over the weak.”

  “Darwin identified a law of nature,” Cockran said calmly. “Not a law of man. He never argued that nature required help in the form of a state-sponsored war against the weak.”

  “Ah, but nature takes care of animals because they lack one basic human frailty.” Waterman paused, then smiled. “Compassion, Mr. Cockran. Animals lack compassion. We care so much about our fellow man that we keep alive the moron whom nature intended to starve. That moron passes on his seed––or worse, violates a virtuous woman. In the long run, it threatens the very quality of our human race. Why, take my wife Ingrid, for instance…”

  I‘d like to, Cockran thought, as Waterman launched into a description of his wife‘s Nordic features. He looked over to Ingrid who rolled her eyes. Cockran knew little about Ingrid but he knew there was gossip about Waterman‘s first wife. He had put her in a sanitarium and been named the guardian of her person and her inherited millions right before he divorced her.

  “Just look at her cheek bones,” Waterman was saying. “Exquisitely sculpted…”

  Ingrid leaned closer to Cockran. “As you can imagine, my husband is also an active member of the ABA,” she said, her voice low and pleasant.

  Cockran frowned at the non sequitur. “No, I wasn‘t aware your husband was a lawyer.”

  Ingrid Waterman laughed. It was a clear, unaffected laugh, as pleasant and melodious as church bells on a clear, cold Sunday morning. “Not the bar association, Mr. Cockran, the American Breeders Association. And I don‘t mean livestock.”

  “Oh, I see,” Cockran said, uncertain as to where she was taking their conversation.

  “Yes, Wesley has high hopes I‘ll take the blue ribbon this summer at the annual convention of the ABA. The ‘Fecund Females––Nordic Extraction‘ classification. Who knows? Maybe I‘ll even take ‘Best in Show‘,” she said with perfect deadpan sincerity.

  Cockran played along. “I wish you good luck. You certainly look like a ‘Best in Show‘.”

  Waterman frowned, narrowing his eyes at the fun the two of them were making of him but his wife ignored him and upped the ante. “You‘re very kind, but blue ribbons do more for Wesley than for me. I‘ve often suggested that a public mating of the ‘Best in Show‘ virile male and fecund female—all in the interests of science, of course––would be a more tangible award.”

  Cockran stifled a laugh and rewarded her with a broad smile as Waterman spoke in a tight voice. “You shouldn‘t poke fun, my dear, at such a serious subject as improving the genetic qualities of the human race.”

  He turned back to Cockran. “Her lack of gravity aside, she has all the physical qualities of a superior human being, with a superior intellect to match––the kind of human beings you only find in Nordic, Aryan stock. Every moron, every whore, every criminal, every misfit we allow to breed is a threat to the future of mankind. Purifying humanity will take time but we have no choice. Remember, Rome wasn‘t built in a day.”

  Waterman turned to his wife. “Come, Ingrid. I must return to the office. I still have much work to do before our charity affair this evening.”

  “I may pass on that, Wesley. My genetic superiority notwithstanding, I am feeling a bit under the weather.”

  “As you wish, my dear,” Waterman said and looked at Cockran. “Mr. Cockran, I congratulate you once again. I hope someday you come to see things my way. Good day.”

  “Good day,” Cockran said. “Oh, and one more thing Mr. Waterman?”

  “What‘s that?

  “Aryans didn‘t build Rome. They burned it to the ground.”

  6.

  The Spear of Destiny

  The Belmont Mansion

  Sands Point, Long Island

  Monday, 25 May 1931

  MATTIE listened to Hearst as they walked up from the beach. “Winston told me it involved an expedition to locate something called ‘the Spear of Destiny.‘ He said you would know what he was talking about. Seems it may be missing from a museum in Vienna and Winston is raising capital to mount an expedition to retrieve it. Said you would understand.”

  Mattie‘s pulse quickened. She understood perfectly. It meant everything to her late father, Winston‘s closest political friend in Parliament back in 1904 after Churchill bolted the Conservative party and joined her father‘s Liberals. The Spear of Destiny missing? Mattie knew she‘d never make it to court now. But what could a girl do? It was her father‘s life-long obsession, after all. “Tell me more,” Mattie said.

  “Not much more to tell. Some professor-type has Winston convinced that the Spear in the museum is a fake and the real one is hidden somewhere in the Alps,” Hearst said.

  “The Alps? Where?”

  “In Austria. That‘s where the expedition comes in. They aren‘t sure exactly where so it may take some time to locate it. They figure a proper expedition may cost upwards of £20,000. Winston says he‘s persuaded an industrialist friend of his, Sir Archibald Hampton, to put up half the cost. For the other half, we would have exclusive worldwide rights on the photos and the story,” Hearst said as he looked down at her. “Do you think we should? Is it that big a story?”

  “If it‘s true, Chief, it really is,” Mattie answered and gave him the short course on the history of the Spear she had learned from her father. Constantine, Charlemagne, Frederick the Great. Bloodthirsty believers all who held the Spear before them as they waged war without quarter.

  “So, this means you would be interested in covering the story yourself?”

  Mattie hesitated. Of course she was interested. How could she not be? She looked at her watch. Cockran was only minutes away from his oral argument and she was going to miss it. Worse, later today, she would have to tell him they wouldn‘t be sailing together to Europe as planned.

  But Venice? No, she couldn‘t blow that off too, especially not after their fight last night. They both had been looking forward to Venice. Still, things like this were her father‘s lifelong obsession and now his daughter was being offered the real-life equivalent of a grail quest. Could she really pass it up? She sighed. Yes, she could. She loved her father and missed him still. But she had chosen Cockran. He was the man in her life now and she loved him. He came first. She had compromised on Hitler to please Hearst. She would not compromise on Venice.

  “How soon would the expedition have to begin? After Hitler, I‘ve got some interviews in Berlin with international arms dealers. Then it‘s two weeks in Venice with Bourke.”

  “Fine with me. Take your time. Just bring me back a good story with lots of photographs.”

  Well, that was easy, Mattie thought as Hearst escorted her to Cockran‘s big Packard town car and bade her farewell. Cockran‘s chauffeur Jimmy opened the door for her and, as Mattie sank back in the tufted leather upholstery, she reali
zed she was one happy girl. Her father had once told her that happiness was a simple and uncomplicated matter requiring only three things. Someone to love. Something interesting to do. And something to look forward to. Mattie smiled. She had all three. The someone she loved would be disappointed but she knew exactly how to make it up to Cockran later.

  7.

  A Problem with the Kaiser

  The Plaza Hotel

  New York City

  Monday, 25 May 1931

  KURT von Sturm liked the Oak Bar at the Plaza. The dark wood, the smoky atmosphere. In fact, Sturm liked America. It was only his second visit and it was a different America than the one which had captivated him during the summer of 1929. This America was still prosperous, of course, but there were unemployed men living in shacks in Central Park who had not been there previously. It was such a large country, however, that he found it difficult to believe that the economic bad times would last as long here as they had in Germany.

  Sturm‘s eyes carefully roamed the room after he had taken a corner table, looking for enemies where there should have been none. And there weren‘t. But old habits were hard to break and Sturm had no intention of starting now.

  Assassins lived longer that way.

  Sturm glanced up as the waiter brought him a crystal tumbler of Bell‘s 12 year old scotch. Prohibition was on its last legs yet a drink in New York had never been hard to come by. He drank sparingly but his mission in America was complete so he raised his glass in a silent toast before he spoke in German to his companion, “I return to Germany tomorrow on the Graf. How did you fare on your recent visit to Holland?”

  Anton Dressler, a white-haired Swiss banker in his late 60s, short in stature but with a trim body and a long patrician face, frowned and drained the last of his cognac. “Not so well, my young friend. But I do not wish to discuss so sensitive a subject here. Walk with me to my apartment. We‘ll discuss it on the way.” Dressler leaned in close and whispered “We have a problem with the Kaiser.”