THE ALIEN

She was a pretty little thing,

Round-headed, bronze-haired and trim

As a yacht.

And when she married a handsome, polished Prussian

( Before the war was ours )

Her friends all said

She'd made no mistake.

He had much money, and he was n't arrogant —

To her.

Their baby came —

Big and blue-eyed,

Solemn and serious,

With his father's arrogance in the small.

She knew how wonderful a child he was

And said so.

The husband knew it, too —

Because the child looked like him,

And they were happy

Until the Nation roused itself,

Stretched and yawned

And got into the hellish game of kill.

Then the man,

Who had been almost human,

Dropped his mask,

And uncovered his ragged soul.

Having no sense of right or wrong —

No spiritual standards for measurements;

Feeding upon that same egotism

That swept his country

Into the depths of hate —

He sneered and laughed

At her pale patriotism

And the country that inspired it.

There was no open break between them,

For a child's small hands

Clung to both and kept them close.

Shutting her eyes to all else

Save that she was his wife,

She played her part well.

His work — his bluff at work, instead —

Was something big and important

( Always he looked the importance )

That had to do with ships —

Ships that idled at their docks to-day

Because they were interned.

And there was always money —

More money than she had ever known,—

Which he lavished — on himself

And his desires.

Not that he gave her nothing,

For he did....

They lived in a big hotel,

And the child had everything it should have

And much it should not.

She, too, was cared for well,

After his wants were satisfied.

Then —

The silent blow fell.

Secret service men called upon him,

And next day he was taken away

To a detention camp

For alien enemies.

Interned like the anchor-chafing ships

That once had flown his flag!

The woman, up in arms, dinned at officials

Until ( so easy-going and so slow to learn )

They told her what he had done.

That night she stared long at their child, asleep,

And at its father's picture,

On her dresser....

Did the wife-courage that transcends

All other kinds of bravery

Keep her awake for hours,

Planning, scheming, thinking?

A week later she and the child —

A blue-eyed, self-assertive mite —

Were at the camp,

She carrying it ( the nurse was left behind )

And the passports that allowed her to see him

One hour, with a guard five yards away.

Some of his polite impudence was gone,

Yet he threw back his head and shoulders

And shrugged as his wife and boy came in.

“Always late,” said he, after a perfunctory kiss,

“You — and your country!”

She stared long at him, holding the child close,

Her own round, bronze head bowed.

Then, with a swift glance at the guard

Thoughtfully chewing a straw and looking

At the city of shacks,

She spoke.

“Did you know, Karl,” she whispered,

“That my brother was on that transport —

My only brother — a soldier — my only blood?

If it had gone down — that transport — been sunk —”

“Well?” said he. That was all.

“My brother — my only — Karl!”

“Well?” said he again. “What of it?”

Then — her little head lifted, her eyes gone mad —

“This!” she said. “Rather than give

Life to another human scorpion like you —

Man in form only!— Lower than the floor of hell itself;

Rather than have my blood mingle with

The foul poison that is yours,

To make a child of ours —

This: I give him back to you —

And recall my love — all of my love!”

Again he shrugged his shoulders,

Yawned — and saw, too late.

Swift as the eagle that drives a lamb to death

She whipped a hat-pin from her dainty hat,

Drove it with steady aim

Into the baby's heart

And handed back to the gulping man

All that was left of what had once meant joy —

A dead baby with red bubbles on its lips!