 This is Words at War. This is my story in the story of an unfamiliar sound. It is the story of many people, some great and some insignificant as the world measures people, only a few of whom can be presented here. People like these. I am a wealthy man. I have taken much and given little. I am part of the story. I am a priest. I have taken little and given much. Yet men have cheated me. I am a businessman turned drunkard. Cheated, they've even taken my self-respect. Me? I have tortured men and killed men. That is my way, that is my life. And I am part of the story. Those are the people. This is the sound. Strange to your ears, the sound of tears dropping into a cup. But why? You find no strangeness in the song of a bird in a metal cage. Both are unnatural, true. But both are the doings of men. And for the sake of his eternal greed and his eternal vanity, man has eternally done unnatural things. I am the weeping wood. And I have made men kill. I have made men torture and be tortured. And I have brought joy to the heart of a child. Men travel on wheels swiftly and silently because of me. I speak with the voice of a woman because for me, men have lied and cheated and worked and fought. Because of my tears, men have suffered and become poor. And men have prospered and become rich. Not a strange set of circumstances when you know me. For my tears are the source of a substance men call rubber. The National Broadcasting Company, in cooperation with the Council on Books in War Time, presents the 39th in this Words at War series. Tonight we offer a dramatic impression of Vicky Baum's documentary novel, The Weeping Wood. Henry! Yes? Father and Selmas! Who called? Yes, Senor Turnbull. Maybe you didn't recognise me just now in the Peter Provincial's chamber. You must pardon me, Senor Turnbull, at my age. The eyes, you know. Ah, you live in the jungle too much, Father and Selmas. Do you realise yourself how long it's been since you were last here in Paras? Yes. Since the epidemic of 1738. 1738? Yes. That's a good seven years, Father. I wonder how you do it. You should visit us oftener. He's not in Paras, Senor. Ah, it could be. And if I had my way, it would be. But I'm only the overseer of a sugar plantation. My only voice in the church is a few gold pieces a year. Which, by the way, I can ill afford. Oh, come now, my son. Shall I go to the Parter Provincial and tell him you want your money back? But the shoes, Father and Selmas. The wonderful elastic shoes. What did the painted provincial say so ungraciously when you offered us a gift? The wonderful elastic shoes. If I remember correctly, he said, get them out of this room. They stink. Ah, his very words. Well, the Parter Provincial has trouble with his gallstones. And at such times you can never hear him say yes to anything. But he is one of the great men of our society. Listen, Father. You should not have gone to him about this elastic gum of yours. You should have talked to me first. I'm a merchant too. Such a thing is against our rules. But Father, you said there's enough of this elastic gum in the forests of the Amazons to make all the shoes you want, isn't there? Yes. And some of the engines know how to treat it. Oh, yes. There is probably more in other parts of South America. Aye, I've seen the toys, the balls, and syringes made by some of the engines. But it never occurred to me. Well, anyway, it wouldn't have cost anything to make those elastic shoes, would it? Well, each day. Well, one could work one's slaves and give the Indians beads and things. I do not understand what you want from me, senior. Ah, you will. The problem is to make the Indians work. Now, you know how lazy they are. Well, the matter is not in my hand anymore. And besides, senior Turnbull, you do not need me. Listen to me, Father Anselmus. I want to try to make these shoes an article of export, as you yourself suggested. I want to send them to Lisbon and create such a fashion with them that every lady and gentleman at Court will wear them. I want your Indians to make me a magnificent pair of shoes for the Queen, Gilt, and Ornate. And I'll send them to Lisbon where I have good friends. Until now, my son, I did not realize you had been drinking. But how clearly the thoughts come, Father. Listen, these shoe stretch, we can make them tight as a skin. Every lady will want to wear them because they'll make their boots seem small. No, my gum elastic is for science, not for vanity. But we can make riding boots of this gum, and men will take them off without swearing. And that should please you, Father. And God in heaven too. And in Scotland, mercy in Scotland, where it rains 364 days a year, we can make these shoes so common that the Scotsman won't understand how they ever lived without them. I think I shall take my leave now. No, no, you can't. I cannot see that you need me for your transactions. If you think you can earn money with this gum for yourself or for the crown, why don't you do so? All you have to do is to train your own Indians. And now I will go. Wait! Now at least let me buy those elastic shoes of course they're rather hideous and they're not worth very much as you very well know. These shoes are not for sale, my son. Father, I must have them. You don't understand. Oh yes, I understand. But they are not for sale. You shall have them as a gift, foolish man. I lost millions. I lost millions because I didn't do it. Oh, so sorry. So sorry, George. That's all right, Mr. Bancroft. How did you lose millions? Who said I lost my millions? You did, just now. I did not. I never lost my millions because I never made them. I am a failure. I'm a failure because I didn't do it. Didn't do what? Listen to this. Just published yesterday. June 15th, 1844. To all whom it may concern, we, known that I, Charles Goodyear, have invented certain new and useful improvements in the manner of preparing fabrics of cow shawkeye or gum elastic or indie rubber. And I do hereby declare that the following is a full and exact description of... Well, what does it mean, Mr. Bancroft? He's taken out a patent. That's what it means. Then he goes on and says, Did what? Oh, no, you don't understand. I put a lot of money in rubber back in 1836 and 37 because everybody said, how wonderful. Everybody said, we'll be waterproof. We'll have rubber shoes and rubber boots and rubber pants and rubber coats and rubber hats. Yeah. When the summer came and the fishermen had to peel themselves out of their rubber pants and ladies had to scrape the sticky rubber off their shoes. Hey, what did you do with my rubbers? I haven't seen your rubbers, Mr. Bancroft. Oh, yes, no, they were right here. You have to find them because they're the new kind. Charlie Goodyear gave me those rubbers right after we found out that you could fix rubber so it wouldn't stick. Cost me millions. Have you ever realized that million? I'm very sorry, sir. Don't be sorry. Give me another glass of old metaphor. Don't you think it's about time you were getting home to your wife, Mr. Bancroft? My wife? You know, she hates me. No, of course she's not. But she does. They talk about a gold rush. Don't tell me about a gold rush. There's a rubber rush on right now, and I could have been in it. That's what my wife tells me at breakfast, dinner, and supper. Why didn't you loan Goodyear the money? Why didn't you? Well, it's enough to make any man drink more than is good for his body and soul. Closing time, sir. Closing time? Well, I want my rubbers and another drink. Then I'll have to go to the Bible meeting. No more, Mr. Bancroft. Bar is closed. I want my rubbers. I want my beautiful rubbers. Goodyear gave them rubbers to me, and I will not be the victim of a safe journey. Any trouble here, George? Oh, good evening, Constable. I didn't see you come in. Mr. Bancroft here is... Yes, I know. Has the cire Bancroft too well? I'm on my way to the Bible meeting. You're on your way to the station house with me. Didn't I tell you you'd end up there again for long? Oh, listen, I am friend Daniel Webster, and I'll complain about you in Congress, Constable. Sure, sure. Just go ahead and complain. Oh, I'm a great sinner, brother. Great sinner I am. So you are, brother, and liquor did it. No sinner of the kind. Rubber. Men have been made by rubber, cheated by rubber, and ruined by rubber. As with gold and precious stones and oil, wars have been fought for rubber. To those who wanted rubber, men have sold themselves into slavery, sold themselves for a few coins. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, twenty-five, thirty, mille-rays. There you are, Ambrosio. Oh, thank you, senior. Thank you. No need for thanks. You are just very lucky. Go now, have a good time, and a few days you will go up the river with the others. But do I have anything to sign? My name on some paper for all this morning? No, no, Ambrosio, you are a men of honor. So am I. Written words are not needed between men of honor. Are they? That was how Ambrosio D'Costa sold himself for twelve bitty years and became a peon in a surf like thousands of other workers whom drought and hunger in their own provinces had driven into the cruel arms of the rubber gatherers. Yes, men have faced slavery for my sake and death, and they have risked their lives for the tears of the weeping wood. Ambrosio, what is it Englishman? I would have died out there in the jungle if you hadn't found me. Your wife nursed me out of my fever. You've shared your food, everything with me. Here, take this money. What would I do with it Englishman? We have no use for money. On the Amazon you cannot pay with money and you cannot buy anything with money. No, senior, the only currency on the Amazon is these. Rubber. And of it there is never enough. How long have you been in this jungle Ambrosio? Oh, twelve years. Because always the rubber we gather is never quite enough to pay for the food and the things we need. But someday, who knows. Ambrosio, you gave me back my life. I can do no less than the same for you. And I will do it if you'll go with me. You and your family. Go with you. I do not understand. Let me tell you who I am and why I'm here in Brazil. My name is Henry Wickham. I'm, I don't know the word in Portuguese, a botanist. A man who knows about plants and things. And I represent the Crown of England. I've come here to Brazil to take rubber seeds back to my country. Ambrosio in a few days, a steamer will wait for me in the rubber seeds at the mouth of the river. I've chartered this boat and there'll be room for you and your family if you want to go. If I want to go. What for do people want rubber seeds in your country, Englishman? To plant them, of course. Oh, plant them. Who ever heard of planting rubber seeds? And I was told that there is no son in your country, senor. And not even enough water to drown a cow. Well, never mind that now, Ambrosio. Do you stay or go with me? Do I go with you? May the Virgin bless you, you and your little rubber seeds. This is my story, for I am the weeping wood. My tears are not for the dead millionaires of the industrial valley in Akron, Ohio. Not for Father Anselmus, who was cheated. Nor for Turnbull, the greedy Scotsman. Nor for Hezekiah Bancroft, the drunkard. Nor for Ambrosio De Costa, the self-made slave. Nor for Henry Wickham, the fortune hunter. It is 1915. In the big cities of the world, the automobile has arrived. Gentlemen and goggles and ladies and dusters with chic veils tied under their chins are driving them at a great speed. Sometimes even more than 10 miles an hour. Rubber is king, and there's a stampede. For the weeping wood weeps gold. But my tears are for an Indian dying alone in a jungle in Peru. And he's only one of many thousands killed in the madness of the rubber rush. Not yet quite dead, he hopes he will die quickly. He's in much pain. Sirete, Sirete, I have pains. Much pain. This morning they came. They tied him to a tree, soaked rags around his legs, and made a fire of dry leaves under his feet, burning them into charred black stumps. And while he was burning, they beat him with the butts of their windchesters in a manner which is not to be described. And so he dies. And as he dies, he thinks. When I am dead and the pains are gone, I shall travel to the happy forests and hunt with my father again, as I did when a child. I was a man, and I had a wife, and we were fat and lazy and happy in the forest. And the white men, the Blancos, came. They came to visit every house in our part of the forest. They gave us wonderful big knives and small knives, and they gave us big mirrors in which we can see ourselves as in deep black water. And they gave beautiful beads to our wives. The Blancos bring us a friendly message from their great master who owns the forests. He owns the rivers also. He invites my nation to visit him at a place called La Chorrera. There he will give us more presents, and he will make a great feast for us. He will give us guns, and we shall be his guests and his children. The great master's only request is that we should bring him robber, march robber. We are happy to do this little thing for the great master, and soon we are on the trail with our families. We are going now to La Chorrera. We do not see the change in the Blancos. It's gone a long way when suddenly they use the lashes. We do not rest here. Amigo Blanco, what do you want? There is one back there who fought this. He is old. He cannot travel so fast with his load. An old one, eh? Which one? That one there? That is the one, senor. I will go and help him. Now wait. Now go and pick up the rubber he has dropped in Carriott. In addition to your own. My... All of you, keep moving. Hurry along. My... We did not cry out with the pain of the whips, or even when they tortured and killed us through the months that followed. Because they were so impatient for rubber and more rubber, they tortured and killed us, those Blancos. I will not tell you what became of my wife and my sister. Oh, there is no time for I am dying. And the flies and the vultures, they too are impatient. September 4th, 1876. My dear mother, happy the day you sent me to become one of the king's gardeners at Q. And lucky am I to be able to write you this glorious news after only a little more than a year at my work. Don't be shocked, mother, but I am being sent to Ceylon. Ceylon, what an enchanting name. Well, I must tell you how it all came about. You will remember my writing you a few months ago about that polite scoundrel Henry Wickham. It was he who brought the rubber seeds here from Brazil. Seventy thousand of them, a whole boatload. And it was I who cursed them first and nursed them later. I'm becoming quite sharp with my pen, am I not, mother? Well, no matter. It seems that this Henry Wickham whom I still detest heartily has been more than generous in praise of my work to the chief of all the king's gardeners, Dr. Hooker. And so old whiskers, as we call them, have settled on me to take the delicate young rubber plants down to Ceylon. Mother, there's a great plan afoot of which I can say little now. But before long it may be that the world will not depend any longer on the wild uncultivated rubber of Brazil. Before long there may be great rubber plantations all through the tropical east, wherever the British flag waves. Ceylon, Malaya, Sumatra, even Java. Before long England may control the bulk of the world's rubber supply. Well, mother, I shall write in a few days just as soon as I know my sailing date until then a kiss from your excited son, Daniel Chalmers. Oh, dear, dear, dear. Listen to this letter, will come, just arrived. October the 15th, 1877. Dr. Joseph D. Hooker, director and so on. Sir, I'm very sorry to have to inform you that Mr. Daniel H. Chalmers of the Henrietta Goda Plantation died on October the 12th at noon cause of death's imminent fevers, uremia, exhaustion. I am respectfully yours, John R. Baker, medical officer, and I'd like to go to Godin's Kampaha Ceylon. Let's say, Wickham, this damned rubber of yours is going to keep on killing people even after we've got it civilized. Japan, 1941. Japan, 1941. That's all. No need here for screaming shells or diving airplanes for the ugly rattler machine gun fire or the cries of dying men. You can hear them in your hearts. Southwestward from Japan are gold and tin and oil and rubber. Japan came, Japan saw, Japan conquered. Yes, the orderly forests of the weeping wood with tears controlled by those who cared for them still stand. Though most of those who spent their lives in the rubber plantations, Malaya and Jarvan, Sumatra and the Philippines do not. By screaming shell, by rifle and machine gun fire, by torture and prison camp atrocity, many were killed. One who escaped with a Dutchman, a Hollander named Piet Gutschens. Piet... Ken and Margriet, do not ask me, please. This is not the setting to tell that story. For I cannot bring into a handsome New York apartment the horrible things that happened back there. There was death and destruction, but I did not destroy my trees before they came. But you should have. That was the order to destroy them. But I could not do that. No. But when it is over, I'm going back to Sumatra. And you are coming with me, Ken. Oh, no, he's not Piet, not my husband. Oh, I meant that you should come also, Margriet. No, we won't go back, Piet. We both got our work cut out for us here. I've got a great many plans. Margriet's going on with her work in Butanex. Butanex? Oh, it's got a dozen names, you know. Butadine, Buna, Ameripole, Chemigum. It's a synthetic rubber, Piet, that's all. You believe in this artificial rubber, Margriet? Believe in it? We're doing it, darling. We're going to have a different kind of rubber for every purpose. To me, it is an unnatural thing, this synthetic rubber. Mine should not try to duplicate a thing which is made by God. Oh, Piet, if God didn't want us to do it, we never would have got anywhere. And you can. Are you for this thing? Not on your life. I've got other ideas. You are rivals, mine and wife. Why not? We're both looking for the same thing, Piet. We're in the midst of a war. And we haven't got any rubber because Japan walked in and took it, or most of it. Because you couldn't destroy it. Margriet. If rubber didn't cause this war, it could be the cause of another one. Margriet, with her experiments and synthetics, is one of those trying to find enough rubber to supply the whole world. And you can. How about a drink, Piet? Thank you. All right, you, Margriet? Yes, dear. Oh, yeah. You know, I've been wondering... Huh? I've been wondering if... Thank you. Working on a rubber plantation was worth everything we went through together in the old days. Here you are. Oh, thanks. Oh, no. Definitely not. Oh, to you, my friends. Thanks, Piet. And, um, what have you decided to do now? Now? Work on a rubber plantation. I knew it. I knew it the moment I received your cable from Brazil. What the devil is Ken Morton doing in Brazil, I asked myself. He isn't rubber again, up to his ears. As surely as my name is Pete Gritchins, I thought. And correctly. But there are no plantations in Brazil, are there? Only experimental ones, but there will be. Or what brings this change? Our government and their government are working on it together. It's a great project. A rubber from Brazil? A plantation? And Ken will do it if anyone can. You Americans are funny people. You seem such gambler, such crazy fellows, at least to us sober, thick-skinned Dutchmen. Ah, but you are shrewd. You have more foresight than you would ever admit. Still, the scheme of bringing rubber back to this part of the world doesn't hold water when you look at it with the eyes of a realist. Pete, don't you believe this business about South Americans being lazy? I've got an idea that people all over the world like to work, if you give them the right conditions and something worth working for. Oh, but sure. I know, you're going to call this whole project imperialism, too. Ken's too much of an idealist to march under any such standard, Pete. You know what the Indians call rubber when they first discovered it, Pete? The weeping wood. Well, it's been weeping ever since. There are people who've had to do with it. Ah, yes. The reform comes now, eh? Once you can reach and inspect every deepest jungle and forest within a few hours, and we can with planes, there will be no more remote, uncontrolled territories where rubber gatherers can be terrorized and exploited. Oh, come out of the clouds, Ken. Is this only a dream? Maybe. Probably it is only a dream, yet. But I'll tell you a great secret, Pete. The secret of these United States. First, there's always a dream. Sometimes a fantastic dream. Sometimes a dream that's downright ridiculous. Sometimes a dream that's pretty brave. And afterwards, there are always the men who make such dreams come true. But mind you, the dream has to be there first. And that's what makes this crazy country what it is. And if you don't know this secret, you can never understand us crazy Americans. The Weeping Wood. And this was my story without an ending. Perhaps the ending lies within men's dreams. But the truth is this, that the finer dreams of man are the true will of God. You've been listening to a dramatic impression of Vicki Baum's documentary novel, The Weeping Wood, presented as the 39th program in NBC's Words at War series.