The Dark Arena (26 page)

Wolf stared at the floor shaking his head up and down as if pondering on something he already knew, and then,
remembering the scene at the Officers’ Club when the adjutant had made Mosca back down, he said, “You know, Walter, I can bust this whole thing up, you and Hella. All I have to do is turn in a report at the base and at the Military Police. You're breaking a Military Government law living in a German billet. And there are a couple of other things I could really go to town on.”

To his amazement and anger, Mosca burst out laughing and then said, “Wolf, for Christ's sake, have a can of beer or get the hell out I don't mind playing gangster with you but don't for Christ's sake pull that line. Fm not one of those kraut prisoners you used to scare the shit out of.”

Wolf tried to bring his head up to stare balefully at Mosca, but there was such evident power in the lightly covered body, so much force and confidence in the lean face and thin mouth, the dark serious eyes, that he could only sigh and smile weakly.

“Ah, you son of a bitch,” Wolf said resignedly, “give me a bear.” Adding ruefully, shaking his head, “A five-grand can of beer.” But as he drank he thought of some way to pay Mosca back for the desertion. He saw there was really nothing he could do. If he turned Mosca in to the MPs and then left for the States, that would not help this deal any, there would be no gain and there was always the possibility of retaliation. No, he was well off. He had a small fortune in diamonds and quite a bit of cash. Why invite any remote chance of disaster?

He sighed, sipped at his beer. It was hard to let such a fine opportunity go by. He knew he would never have the nerve to do it alone. Well, he thought, he would scrape together all the cigarettes possible, bargain around the base, buy cheaply and sell high. He might clear a thousand bucks.

Wolf held out his hand to Mosca. “No hard feelings,” he said. He was a little worried now that Mosca might take his former threat seriously, and he didn't want to keep looking around his last few weeks in Germany. ‘Tm sorry about trying to get tough, but losing all that dough-Forget what I said.” They shook hands.

“It's okay,” Mosca said. He walked Wolf to the door
and said to Mm, “Maybe you can do something cm your own.”

When Mosca went into the living-room, both women looked up inquiringly; they had heard the anger in Wolfs loud voice. The baby was no longer crying, was sleeping in his carriage.

“Your friend left so quickly,” Frau Saunders said.

“He just wanted to tell me something,” Mosca said. Then to Hella who was knitting and reading at the same time, “Wolf is getting married soon; he has the papers.”

Hella looked up from her book and said absently, “Yes?” Her thin pale face went back to the book as she murmured, “I hope ours come soon.”

Mosca went into the bedroom for another can of beer and a tin of peanuts. He brought them into the living-room and offered the opened can to the two women. They both took a handful. “Sure you don't need a beer?” They both shook their heads and kept reading.

They all sat, eating peanuts, Mosca drinking beer, the two women reading and Hella knitting. Hella's hair was cut very short for the summer, and the fragile bones of her face were scarcely veiled by the thin curtain of flesh and skin; a tiny blue vein coursed down her cheek to her Ups. The room was filled with the warm, peaceful quietness of a summer evening, a slight cooling breeze came through the open window, ruffling die flowered curtain.

Mosca studied both women. One could be bis mother, the other was actually the mother of his child, and the child in the carriage was his. He sorted all this out in his mind, making it very simple because the beer had made him sleepy. But everything jumbled together.

One day, long ago, he had put on his steel helmet, taken up his rifle, and on ships, in trucks, cm the back of tanks had traveled through North Africa, England, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, to search out the enemy and put him to death. And even now this did not serai wrong, or stupid, or even ironical. It just seemed queer.
A hell of a thing,
he thought,
a hell of a thing.
He was amazed now that he thought of it. He took another handful of peanuts
and almost missed his mouth, some of the nuts trickling to the floor. He felt very sleepy and went to stand by the window, letting the little breeze come through the porous cotton of his T shirt and onto his warm body. He walked unsteadily over to the carriage and stared down at the baby and said solemnly and out loud, “A hell of a thing.”

Both of the women smiled. “I think I'll have to put you to bed,” HeUa said to Mosca. Then to Frau Saunders, “This is the first time he ever really looked at the baby. Don't you believe it, Walter, that you are a father?”

“He'll be better with the second one,” Frau Saunders said.

Mosca kept staring down at the child. It was not ugly now, the wrinkles of the face had been filled out to a clean, white mask. The women were reading again. Mosca went back to the window.

“Don't be so restless,” Hella said, not looking up from her book.

“I'm not restless,” Mosca said. And it #as true. He felt more as if he were exploring the room, really looking at it for the first time. He walked over to the carriage again and watched the baby sleeping. It was getting to look almost human, he thought. Then he said to Hella, “How about us going to the country club tomorrow? We can sit on die lawn with the carriage and I'll bring you hot dogs and ice cream from the PX snack bar. We can hear the band out there, too.”

Hella nodded her head, still reading. Mosca said to Frau Saunders, “How would you like to come with us?”

Frau Saunders looked up and said, “Oh, no, I have some people coming.”

Hella smiled at her. “He really meant it, he wouldn't ask you otherwise. You can eat yourself sick on ice cream.”

“No, really,” Frau Saunders said. She went back to her reading. Mosca realized that she wouldn't go because she was too shy, that she really thought he had asked out of politeness.

“No kidding,” he said.

Frau Saunders smiled. “Bring me back some ice cream,” she said.

Mosca took another beer can from the bedroom; everything was okay, he thought

“While you're feeling so friendly,” Hella said. “I have a favor to ask you. Frau Saunders has an uncle in America and she wants you to send a letter for her through your Army mail.”

“Sure,” Mosca said. It was standard. All the Germans were writing to their relatives in the States hinting for packages.

Frau Saunders said, “Thank you.” And with a wry smile, “We are all very much concerned these days for our dear uncles in America.” Hella and Mosca laughed, Mosca couldn't stop and choked cm a mouthful of beer he had been ready to swallow.

The women had gone back to their reading so Mosca glanced at the copy of
Stars and Stripes
that lay on the table, then said, “Maybe Leo will be back from Hamburg tomorrow and come out to the club with us.”

Hella looked up. “He has been a long” time this trip. I hope nothing has happened to him.”

Mosca went for a fresh can of beer. “You sure you two don't want some?” They both shook their heads. He stood by the window. ‘I guess Leo figured he'd spend the weekend there, see what's doing. Otherwise he should have been back yesterday.”

Hella put her book on the table and said to Frau Saunders, “Finished. It was fine.”

Frau Saunders said, “I have others in the bedroom you haven't read. Go look at them.”

“Not tonight,” Hella said. She went to the window and stood beside Mosca, slipping her arm around his waist, under his T shirt They both stared out into the darkness, letting the tree-scented breeze blow against them. They could smell the vegetable gardens and the river which flowed beyond; the summer night air had only the slightest acrid taint of ruins. The full moon was screened by clouds and all around him in the quiet darkness Mosca could hear German voices and laughter from near-by houses. A radio tuned to a Bremen station was playing soft string music.

He had a sudden longing to go to the Rathskellar or the club, to shoot dice or drink with Eddie and Wolf.

“Oh, you are drinking so much beer,” Hella said. “I hope you can walk to bed.”

Mosca stroked her hair and said, “Don't worry about me, I'm all right”

She leaned against him. “I feel good tonight,” she said. “You-know what I'd like?” She said this softly so that Frau Saunders could not hear.

“What?” Mosca asked, and she smiled at him and reached up to kiss his mouth.

“You're sure it's all right?” he asked, speaking as softly as she. “It's only been a month.” Eddie Cassin had told him he should wait at least two months.

“I'm all right now,” she said, “don't worry about me. I. feel wonderful tonight, like an old family woman, as if we were together, oh, so many years.”

They stood there for a few moments longer, listening to the murmurings of the city and the night and then Mosca turned and said to Frau Saunders, “Good night.” He held the door of the living-room open so that Hella could wheel tiie carriage into the bedroom. When he followed her he checked the hall door to the apartment to make sure that it was locked.

Mosca sat in flie shade thrown by a great, white-painted house, the requisitioned country club. Before him stretched the archery course with its blue- and red-circled targets, beside him Hella sat in a low, comfortable chair. On the wide lawn sat GIs, their wives, and baby carriages.

Over everything hung the peace of late Sunday afternoon. The evening had begun to fall a little quicker than usual, Mosca thought, autumn near, coming earlier this year. Scattered through the green of the lawn were patches of brown, and there was a reddish tinge in the leaves of the great elms that screened the golf course.

He saw Eddie Cassin coming toward them, skirting the archers. Eddie sat on the grass, tapped Hella's foot, and said, “Hello, baby.” Hella smiled down at him and kept reading
Stars and Stripes,
forming the words silently with her lips.

“I got a letter from my wife,” Eddie Cassin said. “She's not coming over.” He was silent for a few moments. “The
final word,” he said, and smiled gravely, the delicate mouth twisting. “She's going to marry her boss. I told you she was screwing for him, Walter. I didn't even know anything then. Just pure intuition. How's that for intuition, Walter?”

Mosca could see that Eddie was well on his way to a big drunk. “What the hell, Eddie, you're not a family man.”

“I could be,” Eddie Cassin said. “I could toy.” He pointed to the cream-colored carriage which sat so prettily on its green carpet of grass, the blue woolen blanket peeping out of it “You're not a family man but you're trying.”

Mosca laughed. “I'm learning,” he said.

They sat in silence for a time. “How about coming to the Rathskellar tonight?” Eddie asked.

“No,” Mosca said. “We got some stuff in the house. Why don't you come over?”

“I have to keep moving.” Eddie got up. “I can't sit around your place all night.” He wandered away, moving between the archers and their targets. ”

Mosca lay back against Hella's legs, raised his face to the weak rays of a dying sun. He had forgotten to ask Eddie about the marriage papers. They were due now.

He thought about going home, about coming into his mother's house with a wife and child. Gloria was married (he smiled at that) so no worry there. But it would be queer going back for good though easier now than before.

Watching the archers bend the bowstrings awkwardly and the flight of the freed arrows, he remembered an older GI in a farmhouse behind the lines, the farm being used to show a movie for troops in reserve. Kindling wood packed high served for seats, and this old GI, he must have been close to forty, Mosca thought, had held one of three French 4rids, a six-year-old boy, between his knees and carefully combed the unruly tangled hair, parting it neatly on the side, fluffing up the front into a wave. Then he had combed the hair of the other two children, one girl and another boy, holding them in turn between his knees, combing carefully with gentle and expert strokes, turning them around to get the part right. When the old GI had finished he gave each of the children a bar of chocolate,
picked up his rifle where it rested against the wall, and held it between his knees.

Feeling it important, sitting now in green grass spotted with baby carriages, he forced Ins mind to go back and remember the colored GI who had thrown great cans of pineapple juice out of his truck as he sped by the weary troops toiling from the beach toward the sound of heavy guns, a reminder to prepare, as the sound of church beds on Sunday stirs the soul to readiness, growing louder and louder as they approached, acquiring resonance, the sound of guns becoming denser, the crack of small arms like minor chords; and before the final entry, the final act of entry when they went into a ritual of mind and body almost as if entering a church—and then his mind stopped and went back to the sweet tinny coolness of the pineapple juice, the pause in the road, the passing of the can from mouth to mouth. And from this road to a road bathed in moonlight, a French village of small stone houses, blacked out, but against which were parked clearly visible trucks, jeeps, and monstrous gun carriers. At die end of the street a tank was covered with the newly washed clothing, spread to dry by moonlight.

The twang of a bowstring and its arrow's thud seemed to awaken and stir a chilly evening breeze. Hella looked up from her book and Mosca pushed himself to his feet “Do you want something before we go?” Mosca asked.

“No,” Hella said, ‘Tm so full. And Tm afraid my tooth is beginning to hurt again.” Mosca saw a small blue lump along her jaw.

•TO tell Eddie to get you to the dentist at the air base.” They gathered their things together from the chair mid grass, piled them into the carriage. The baby was still asleep. They walked off the grounds to the streetcar stop. When the car came Mosca stretched his long arms and lifted the small carriage onto the rear platform.

The baby began to ay and Hella picked him up mid held him. The conductor waited for fare and Mosca said in German, “We are Americans.” The conductor looked Mosca up and down but did not protest