The Pledge by Howard Fast Page A

he wrote and rewrote, and tore up much of what he wrote, and at long last he had something over a hundred pages of manuscript that he was satisfied with. At least it was a beginning and proof that eventually he would do what he had set out to do. If not in celebration, at least in relief, Bruce went outside and began to walk. It was mid-November in 1946, a cool, windy day, the best kind of a day in New York City. He felt more relaxed and alive than he had felt in weeks. He wore an old sport jacket of Harris tweed over a sleeveless sweater, and old gray flannels and comfortable shoes. He walked south down Lexington Avenue, easily and swiftly. At Forty-second Street, he responded to thirst and hunger and took himself into an Automat, where he put coffee, fried eggs, and bacon on a tray and found a table for himself.
    A few moments later, a voice said, “If you’re not waiting for someone, I’ll join you.”
    Bruce glanced up to see the broad, smiling, toadlike face of Milton Greenberg. It took a moment to make the connection with the press club in Calcutta, and then he rose and shook hands eagerly.
    â€œI must jay you look happier than the last time I saw you in Calcutta.”
    â€œI feel happier. Sit down.”
    Greenberg had a cup of coffee in his hand.
    â€œGetting something to eat?”
    â€œI’ve eaten,” Greenberg said. “What are you doing on my turf?”
    â€œStill with the Daily News?”
    â€œI been there twenty years.” He set the coffee on the table. “I hear they threw you out of the CBI?”
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œBoychik, it’s a distinction to be thrown out of a whole damn theater. It means you’re on to something nobody else is.”
    â€œOnly the famine. You saw it.”
    â€œI did. I certainly did. I also hear that you put the Trib on hold to write a book.”
    â€œYou’re going to tell me everyone else is writing a book. Anyway, how do you know?”
    â€œWord gets around. And don’t feed me that crap about everyone else writing a book. Lousy books. There hasn’t been a good book out of this war yet.”
    â€œMine can make the same garbage heap. You know, Greenberg, it’s good to see you. You’re something real. I came back by Air Transport, booked right through. It was like closing my eyes in Calcutta and waking up here. At the airport, customs cleared me without waiting, and there was one of those big green Checkers waiting, and an hour later I was in my apartment. Women on the streets walking their babies, clean, neat, beautiful. Summer dresses. High, beautiful tits. Clean streets. No mud, no blood, no guts …” His voice died away.
    â€œI know what you mean,” Greenberg said.
    â€œYou’re real. You bear witness. That’s what I’m trying to do with this book of mine.”
    â€œYou got any of it finished?”
    â€œAbout a hundred pages that I can read without feeling sick.”
    â€œHave you shown it to anyone?”
    â€œNo,” Bruce said quickly. “I can’t. I got this girl I hang out with, and she begs me to let her see it. I can’t.”
    â€œDon’t. Don’t show it to anyone except your publisher. People don’t know a damn thing about writing, and they’ll just give you shit and louse you up. You got a publisher?”
    â€œI thought I might look for an agent — a literary agent.”
    â€œYou could, but I might save you that step and the piece they grab. I know the editor-in-chief at Scandia Press. His name is Mel Bronson, and Scandia is a rich and very respected house, and if you show him a hundred pages and he likes it and he feels you’re on the track, he’ll come across with a very nice advance.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œMaybe twenty, thirty thousand.”
    â€œI could use that very nicely,” Bruce said. “Would it be asking too much if — well, say you called