She held up a gleaming mirabelle, shiny pale yellow in its coat of syrup and to please her he opened his mouth to receive it She smiled at him and the smile made him put his hand on her face, in love and protection, for in this valley of ruins his daughter seemed like a plant growing, inhuman, her eyes blank, the smile a muscular spasm.
The morning air was cold, autumn had weakened the strength of the rising sun and changed the color of the earth, turned the rubble gray and patched it with dead brown grass.
Yergen said gently, “Giselle, come now, I must take you home, I must go to work.” The child let the can of mirabelles slip from her hand, the heavy syrup spilled out, clotted over bits of stone and brick. She began to cry.
Yergen lifted her up from the great stone she sat on and held her, pressed her head against his neck. “TU be home early tonight, don't fret. And I'll have a present, something to wear.” But he knew she would continue to cry until he carried her up the church steps to their apartment in the steeple.
Framed against the pale sky, Yergen saw a man coming over a hill of ruins and then disappear and then come over another little hill, always coming toward him, coming out of the sun's light. Yergen put the girl down and she clung to his legs. The figure came over the last little rolling hill. Yergen was surprised to see that the man was Mosca.
He was wearing his officer greens with the white civilian patch. In the morning sunlight his dark skin had a grayish tinge and lines of tiredness in his face that cut the features away from each other, making each distinct in its own right.
“I been looking all over for you,” Mosca said. Yergen stroked his daughter's head. Neither looked directly at Mosca. Yergen felt a little strange that they could be found so easily. Mosca seemed to sense this. “Your housekeeper, she told me you usually come over this way mornings.”
Daylight was now at full strength. Yergen could hear the clanging of the Strassenbahn. He asked slowly, mistrustfully, “Why do you want to see me?”
On one of the slopes surrounding them there was a shifting and falling of rubble, a tiny landslide that sent a small cloud of dust toward the sky. Mosca shifted his feet, he could feel them sinking in the treacherous ground. He said, “I need some morphine or codeine and some penicillin for Hella. You know about that tooth. She's become really ill.” He paused awkwardly. “I need it today, the morphine, she's in very bad pain. I'll pay anything you say.”
Yergen picked up his daughter and began to walk over the ruins. Mosca walked beside him. “That will be very hard to do,” Yergen said, but everything had already clicked together in his mind. At one stroke he would come three months closer to Switzerland. “The price will be terribly high.”
Mosca stopped, and though the morning sun had no fire Yergen saw that the sweat was pouring off his face, and Yergen saw in that face an enormous relief.
“Christ,” Mosca said, “I was scared you couldn't swing it. I don't care what I pay, you can steal me blind. Just get the stuff tonight.”
They were standing now on the last hill and before them was that part of the city not completely destroyed, with the church Yergen lived in. “Come to me at midnight,” Yergen said. “Don't come in the evening, my daughter will be alone and she is very ill, she must not be frightened,” He waited for Mosca to make an expression of sympathy and felt an angry bitterness when none came. This American so concerned about his mistress, why didn't he take her to America and safety? And the fact that Mosca could do for someone he loved what he could not do for his daughter increased the bitterness in Yergen. He said almost spitefully, “If you come before midnight, I won't help you.”
Mosca stood on top of the hill and watched Yergen sliding down it, the child cradled in his arms. He called after him, “Don't forget, pay anything to get the stuff.” Yergen turned and nodded, the child's face in his arms staring directly upward to the autumn sky.
twenty
Eddie Cassia and Mosca left the Civilian Personnel Building, walked through the gray autumn twilight toward the hangars and the take-off strip.
“Another guy leaving the old gang,” Eddie Cassin said, “First Middleton, Leo, now Wolf. I guess you'll be next, Walter.’
Mosca didn't answer. They were walking against the stream of workers leaving the base, German laborers and mechanics moving toward the guarded exits. Suddenly the ground began to shake and they could hear the roar of powerful engines. Rounding a corner of the Administration Building, they came upon the great, silvery plane.
The late afternoon sun was far away across the sky Mosca and Eddie waited, smoking cigarettes. Finally they saw the jeep come past the hangars and onto the field. They started down the ramp toward the plane and reached it the moment the jeep swung around its finned tail and came to a stop.
Wolf, Ursula, and Ursula's father got out of the jeep, the father unloading the heavy Val-paeks at once. Wolf gave his friends a huge, joyful grin.
“It's damn nice of you guys to see me off,” he said and shook their hands, then introduced them to the father. They knew Ursula lie propellers blasted great gusts of air that almost blew the words away. The father went close to the airplane, ran his hands over the gray skin, then prowled around it like a hungry animal.
Eddie Cassin said jokingly to Wolf, “He going to stow away?”
And Wolf laughed and said, “He couldn't stow away on the Queen EUwbeth”
Ursula had not understood. She watched with quick darting eyes the luggage being carried aboard the plane, then put her hand on Wolfs arm.
Wolf extended his hand again to Mosca and Eddie and said, “Well, so long, you guys. It's been a pleasure, no kidding. When you get to the States, look me up. Eddie, you got my address.”
“Sure thing,” Eddie said coolly.
Wolf looked into Mosca's eyes and said, “Good luck, Walter. I'm sorry that deal didn't go through, but now maybe I think you're right.”
Mosca smiled and said, “Good luck, Wolf.”
Wolf hesitated. Then he said, “One last piece of advice. Don't wait too long to get out of here, Walter. Get back to the States as soon as you can. That's all I can say.”
Mosca smiled again and said, “Thanks, Wolf, I wiU.”
The father came waddling around the nose of the plane. He came close to Wolf, arms extended. “Wolfgang, Wolfgang,” he cried out emotionally, “you will not forget me here, Wolfgang?” He was close to tears. Wolf patted his shoulder and the fat old man embraced him. “You are like a son to me,” the old man said, “I will miss you.”
Mosca could see that Wolf was annoyed, bored, and anxious to be off. The father took Ursula into his arms. He was sobbing now. “Ursula, my daughter, my little daughter, you're the only one I have, you won't forget your old father, you won't leave him all alone in this terrible land, eh? My little Ursula would not do such a thing?”
His daughter kissed him and murmured comfortingly, “Papa, don't take on so, you will come, too, as soon as I can make the papers. Please don't take on so.”
Wolf had a tight little smile on his face. He touched Ursula on the shoulder and said in German, “It is time.”
The fat old man let out a wail, “Ursula, Ursula.” But now the girl, herself overwrought, with guilty anger at this unseemly grief for her good fortune, tore herself away and ran up the steps into the plane.
Wolf took the old man's hand. “You've upset her. Now I promise. You will leave here. You will spend the rest of your days in America with your daughter and your grandchildren. Here is my hand on it.”
The old man nodded his head, “You are good, Wolfgang, you are very good.”
Wolf gave Eddie and Mosca an embarrassed half-salute, then quickly went up the steps into the plane.
Through one of the windows Ursula's face appeared grimacing a farewell through dirt-streaked glass to her father. He burst into tears again and waved a great white handkerchief to her in return. The engines roared into sound again. Ground-crew men wheeled the mobile stairs away. The great silvery plane began to move s
lowly, pushing itself along the ground. It made a slow, seemingly wing-dragging turn and rolled away faster and faster until reluctantly, as if fighting some malignant power, it parted itself from the earth and flew toward the dark autumn sky.
Mosca watched the plane until it disappeared. Then he heard Eddie saying, “Mission accomplished, a successful man leaves Europe.” There was only a faint note of bitterness in his voice.
The three of them stood silently staring at the sky, their shadows blending into one great shadow as the sun escaped the autumn clouds before it fell below the horizon. Mosca looked at the old man who would never see his daughter again, who would never leave this continent That great meat-creased face stared dumbly into empty sky, as if searching for some hope or promise and then the small slitted eyes rested on Mosca, the voice thick with hate and despair, said, “Ach, my friends, it is gone from us.”
Mosca dipped the linen rag into the hot pan of water and after wringing it out, applied the steaming cloth to Hella's face. She lay on the sofa, tears of pain in her eyes, the swollen flesh pulling the nose out of line and twisting the side of her mouth, making a grotesque distortion of the left eye. In the armchair near the foot of the sofa Frau Saunders held the baby, tilting the nippled bottle so that the infant could feed more easily.
As he kept changing compresses, Mosca spoke to Hella softly, soothingly. “We'll keep this up a couple of days and everything will be okay, just hold still now.” They had been sitting so all afternoon and the swelling had gone down a little. The baby in Frau Saunders's arms began to cry and Hella sat up on the sofa and reached for him. She pushed the compress away and said to Mosca, “I can't any more.” She took the baby from Frau Saunders. She put the good side of her face against the infant's head and crooned softly, “Poor little baby, your mother can't look after you.” And then with fumbling hands she began to change the wet diapers, Frau Saunders helping her.
Mosca watched. He saw that the continual pain and lack of sleep for the last week had drained her of strength. The German hospital doctors had said her case was not serious enough to warrant penicillin. His only hope was that Yergen would have the drug} for him at midnight, tonight. The last two nights Yergen had disappointed him.
Hella finished dressing the baby and Mosca took the child from her. He cradled the infant in his arms and watched Hella try to smile at him as she lay back on the sofa. As he watched he saw the tears of pain start to her eyes, and she turned her head away from him. He could hear the small, uncontrollable whimpers.
Mosca stood it as long as he could then he put the child back in the carriage. “I'm going to see if Yergen has the medicine,” he said. It was a long way to midnight but the hell with it. He might catch Yergen home. It was near eight, the German suppertime. He leaned over to kiss Hella and she put up her hand to touch his face. “Ill be back as soon as I can.”
The Kurfiirsten Allee was chilled with the first cold of winter and in the darkness he could hear the falling leaves sifting along the ground to become lost in the rums of the city. He caught a Strqssenbahn to the church in which Yergen lived. The side entrance was open, and he ran up the steps to the steeple. Standing a step below the door which was cut into the wall he knocked as hard as he could. He waited, there was no answer, no sound behind the door. He tried a variation of knocks, hoping that by some chance he would hit on Yergen's signal and the child would open the door and he could question her. But for some reason he did not call out. He waited again for some moments and then he heard a curious animal-like sound, monotonous, on one level shrilling tone and realized that the child behind the door was crying and would in her terror never open the door. He went down the stairs and waited outside the church for Yergen.
He waited for a long time. He wind became colder and the night darker, the rustling of the trees and falling leaves louder and more sibilant. As he stood there waiting there grew in him a sense of certain and terrible disaster. He tried to remain still but suddenly was walking away from the church and down Kurfiirsten Allee.
As soon as he had left the church and walked a few minutes the fear left him. Then the thought of watching helplessly the tears and pain he would be sure to see made him stop. All the strain and tension, the humiliations and refusals of the past week, the turning away by Dr. Adlock, the rebuke by the adjutant, the dismissal by the German hospital doctors, and his inability to fight back in any way against them—all this overwhelmed him. He wanted a drink, three or four drinks, so bad that he was surprised. He had never needed liquor. But now, without hesitating any longer, he turned and started walking toward the avenue that led to the Officers’ Club. He felt for one moment a sense of shame that he was not going home. It was a quiet night at the club. There were some officers at the bar, but no music or dancing and only a few women. Mosca had three shots of whisky very quick. It worked like magic. He could feel the tension flow out of his body, the fear, and he saw everything in-correct proportion, that Hella had only a bad tooth and that the people who seemed such implacable enemies were only obeying laws imposed by others.
One of the officers at the bar said to him, “Your friend Eddie is upstairs shooting crap.” Mosca nodded acknowledgment and another officer said with a grin, “Your other buddy is up there too, the adjutant He's celebrating making major.”
“I gotta have a drink on that,” Mosca said and they laughed. Mosca unbuttoned his jacket and lit a cigar and had a few more drinks. He felt warm and sure that things would turn out all right. Hell, it was only a toothache, and he knew Hella was extra-sensitive to pain. It was funny how she had courage in everything except physical pain, he thought. She was a real coward about that Not coward; he felt a sudden rush of anger at himself that he thought of such a word in connection with her. But she cried easy. And now some of the warmness left him. In the inside pocket of his open jacket he caught a flash of white and remembered that a few days ago Hella had written her first letter to his mother and he had forgotten to mail it His mother had written asking for a letter and pictures of the baby. Mosca left the bar and dropped the letter in the mailbox in the hall. He hesitated for a moment, somewhere in his mind was a faint warning not to go up, but the whisky clouded over it. He wait upstairs to the game room.
Eddie was at a corner of the table, in one hand a small sheaf of dollar scrip bills. The adjutant was opposite him and there was something strange about the adjutant. Hie ingenuous face was flushed and twisted into an expression of slyness. Mosca felt a sense of shock. Christ, the guy was loaded. For one moment he thought of turning and going out. But then curiosity made him go to the dice table. He thought, Lets see if the bastard gets human on a drunk.
Eddie asked, “How's your girl?”
Mosca said, “All right.” A waiter came upstairs and into the room with a tray of drinks.
The game was slow—relaxation, not gambling. Mosca liked it that way tonight. He made small bets, talking casually to Eddie.
The adjutant was the only one playing with gusto. He tried everything to goad the players into higher action. When his turn came to shoot he laid down thirty dollars. Only ten was faded. He offered bets in various fashions, but the players, seemingly out of perversity, refused to become excited and continued to bet in one- or five-dollar amounts.
Mosca felt a little guilty. He thought,/could leave and go home and see how Hella is and then go to Yergen. But in another hour the club would close for the night. He decided to stay.
Hie adjutant, looking now for any kind of excitement and giving up hope of finding it in the game, said to Mosca, “I hear you had your Frauldn out to the base for some free medical treatment. You should know better than that, Walter.” It was the first time he had ever used Mosca's given name.
One of the officers said, “For Christ sake, relax, don't talk shop in the club.’
And in that moment Mosca knew why he had stayed, why he had come to the club. He tried to make himself leave now, tried to make his body move away from the table, tried to take his hands off the gr
een felt. But the cruel satisfaction rose in his body and flooded over his mind and reason. All the humiliations and defeats of the past week poisoned his blood, the vessels of his brain. He thought, All right, you son of a bitch, all right, all right. But he kept his voice casual, saying, “I just thought the Doc might help.” Making it sound a little nervous. He'd eaten shit all week, just this little more won't hurt
Things like that don't happen where I'm running things,” the adjutant said. “And when it does, and I find out, it's usually somebody's ass. And I usually find out.
‘Tm not a prick,” the adjutant went on in a serious tone. “I believe in fair play. But if he treated your Fraiilein all the GIs would start bringing their clapped-up Frallleins to the base for shots. Can't have that.” The adjutant's ingenuous face had a boyish, happy smile. He raked his glass and took a long drink.
Mosca stared at the dice, at the green doth on the table. Eddie was saying something but the words were jumbled up. He made an effort and looked up. He said quietly, “TH shoot the two bucks there.”
The adjutant put his glass on the window sill behind him, then threw a ten-dollar bill on the table. “I got you,” he said.
Mosca picked up the bill and threw it back at die adjutant. “Don't you fade me.” He said it in a cold, deliberate voice. One of the other officers threw some money down and Mosca rolled the dice.
“You're pretty touchy about that Fr&uldn” the adjutant said. He was in a good humor, did not sense any of the tension around him. “Maybe you think those Frduleins have a pure, disinterested love for your homely mugs. If it were up to me I wouldn't let any of you chumps marry here.”
Mosca let the dice drop onto the table. In an almost indifferent, casual voice he asked, “That why you held up my papers, you sneaky bastard?”
TTie adjutant smiled with real delight. ‘Til have to deny that and ask where you got your information.” He said this with his coldly formal, official manner, in it a note of menace and command.