The Hunt

“That he was my best friend? He was. He was one of those people who make life a little sweeter for you, who care about you.”

He stopped and took a deep breath, trying to control the hurt. He began to babble, about Rudman and Jenny and that summer in Paris. About von Meister and Conrad Weil and the dirty little hunchback, Vierhaus. About friendship and betrayal and the dumb things we sometimes do and never undo.

“I’m not sure I ever told him how really good I thought he was. Used to kid him all the time . . . fact is, he had more guts than anybody I ever knew. Just kept . . . going back for more. It had to happen sooner or later. Ironic, isn’t it? He probably wrote more about what’s really going on in Germany than anyone alive and a goddamn German plane kills him in Spain.”

He paused for a moment and took several deep breaths.

“Can I keep this?” Keegan asked, holding up the cable.

Beerbohm nodded.

“I don’t feel very sociable right now,” Keegan said.

Keegan sat for a long time staring off toward the front of the bar. His chest hurt and his throat hurt. Faced with the sudden death of his friend, he wished desperately for just five minutes to tell Bert how much his friendship had really meant to him. How much he had missed him these last few years. How much he admired his talent and courage and insight. How much he had learned about love and devotion from him and from Jenny.

Too late. Too late for anything. He folded the cable several times and stuck it in his pocket. “I’m sorry, pal,” he said to nobody. “I’m so sorry.”

Finally he got up, walked across to Fifth Avenue and up past St. Patrick’s. Then he crossed over to Third Avenue and wandered back down, thinking about his two best friends. Beerbohm was right, he wanted to hurt somebody, to get even. But who was there to hurt? He picked up the News at a corner stand. Bob Considine’s story was on the front page.

“Listen to this, buddy,” it began, “for it comes from a guy whose palms are still wet, whose throat is dry and whose jaw is still agape from the utter shock of watching Joe Louis knock out Max Schmeling

Christ, he thought, what am I doing reading about a prizefight? He threw the paper in a trash can and went back to the Rose, seeking the security of his back booth. But the joy of the crowd was more than he could handle and he went up to his apartment. He got a bottle of champagne from the walk-in refrigerator, took three tulip glasses from the cabinet, went into the living room and took a scrapbook from the bookcase. He sat down on the sofa, popped the cork and poured three glasses. Keegan clinked his glass against theirs.

“Salud,” he said.

He had started the scrapbook when Rudman went to Ethiopia, carefully pasting each dispatch in its pages. He had planned to give it to Bert as a peace offering when he finally returned from the wars. He started turning the pages, stopping occasionally to reread a particularly poignant or significant story.

Mussolini Invades Ethiopia;

Bombers Attack Civilians

by

Bert Rudman

ADOWA, ETHIOPIA, Oct. 3, 1935. The barefoot tribes of Haile Selassie, Lion of Judah, Emperor of Ethiopia, direct descendant of the kings of the Ras Tafari, and Prince of the ancient tribes of the Nile, were attacked today by the tanks, bombers and booted legions of Benito Mussolini, the barber turned Dictator of Italy. In what may very well be an Apocalyptic vision of modern warfare, bombs and incendiaries shrieked down from the night sky on helpless civilians. In the chaos that followed, great fires swept the city and the confused and wounded raced through the blazing city like mice in a maze

And less than six months later

Ethiopia Falls in Italy’s

Slaughter of the Innocents

by

Bert Rudman

ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA, Feb. 2, 1936. The Lion of Judah has been caged and tamed by the Roman Legions of Dictator Mussolini. But in winning this victory, Italy has fouled its own house .

By the summer of 1936, the civil war in Spain had become a reality and Rudman was in the thick of it, where he would stay almost continuously until he died.

Death Rains on Spain’s Capital

As Fascists Declare War

by

Bert Rudman

MADRID, SPAIN, July 22, 1936. Spain finally erupted into Civil War last night as the Fascist Rebels of General Francisco Franco attacked this stronghold of the Loyalist . .

Innocents Die by Thousands in

Brutal Fascist Reprisal Raid

by