Tommy saw a wild look in Bedford's eyes.
"Verboten? " He spoke in a high-pitched drawl, his lip pulled back in a sneer.
"Well, guess what, fella? Fuck you."
Bedford stepped briskly to the side of the German, ignoring the weapon.
In a single, graceful, and smooth motion, he cocked back his arm, and like a shortstop fielding a grounder deep in the hole, he threw a loaf of bread over the top of the barbed-wire fence. The loaf spun in the air, cartwheeling through the sky, arcing like a tracer round until it landed directly in the midst of the Russian prisoners.
The column of Russians seemed to explode. Without leaving their formation, they all pivoted, facing the American camp. Their arms were raised instantly in entreaty, and their deep voices pierced through the May afternoon.
"Brot! Brot!" they shouted over and over again.
The German Feldwebel thumbed back the hammer of his pistol, making a clicking sound that Tommy heard above the entreaties of the Russians.
The other guards chambered rounds as well. But they all stood in place, none making a move either toward Bedford or the column of Russians.
Bedford turned to the Feldwebel and said, "Why don't y'all just relax, buddy. You can kill 'em all tomorrow. But today, at least, they're gonna get to eat." He grinned wildly, and tossed another loaf over the fence, then a third. The Feldwebel stared hard at Bedford for a moment, as if internally debating whether he should fire, then shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. He slowly returned his pistol to its holster.
By this time dozens of other kriegies had emerged from the huts, their arms laden with the hard loaves of German bread.
Men started to line the fence, and within minutes a rain of bread cascaded down upon the Russian prisoners, who without breaking formation gathered up each morsel. Tommy saw Bedford launch his final loaf, then stand back, arms folded, smiling widely.
The Germans allowed the scene to continue.
After a few moments. Tommy noticed a single loaf of bread that didn't quite have the distance. Short-armed was the baseball term for a throw that was destined to land shy of its target. This loaf fell to the earth a dozen feet away from the column of men. In the same instant, he saw a small, rabbit like Russian soldier on the edge of the lines of men spot the loaf.
The man seemed to hesitate, taking note that no other prisoner had broken formation to retrieve the precious bread. At that second. Tommy could suddenly imagine the man's mind, calculating, assessing his chances. Bread was life. Leaving formation could be death. A danger.
A risk. But a great prize.
He wanted to shout out to the man: "No! It's not worth it!" but he could not remember the Russian, "Nyet! " And in that hesitation, the soldier abruptly darted from the column of men, bent over, his outstretched arms reaching for the short loaf.
He did not make it.
A single, ragged burst from a machine pistol pierced the air, shattering the cries of the prisoners. The Russian soldier pitched forward, sprawling a few feet away from the precious loaf. He twitched once, his back arcing in agony, a dark bloodstain spreading into the dust around him, then lay still.
The column of prisoners seemed to shudder along its length. But instead of shouts of outrage, the Russians grew instantly silent. It was a quiet laced with hatred and fury.
The German guard who'd fired slowly walked up to the body and nudged it with his boot. He worked the bolt on his weapon, ejecting the spent clip, replacing it with a new load.
Then he gestured sharply at two men from the column, who slowly stepped out, crossed the short distance, and bent down to pick up the body.
Both men slowly made the sign of the cross over their hearts, but one of the men, his eyes lifted toward the German guard, reached out and seized the deadly loaf of bread. The Russian soldier had a snarl plastered across his face, like some cornered animal turned at bay, a wolverine or a badger, ready to defend itself with whatever tooth and claw it had left in its tattered arsenal. Then the prisoners grasped the body, lifting it to their shoulders like some gory prize. They returned to the line of men, but only after staring harshly at the murderous guard for several long instants.
Tommy Hart was afraid the Germans might open up on the entire column, and he quickly looked around for someplace to take cover.
"Raus!" the German commanded. There was a touch of nervousness in his voice. The lines of men reluctantly struggled back into rough formation and slowly started forward again.
But from deep within the column, a single anonymous voice surged upward in a slow, sad song. Deep, resonant, the strange foreign words drifted into the air above the line of prisoners, rising above the muffled, shuffling sound of their feet. None of the Germans made any immediate effort to halt the song and it continued, its words perhaps incomprehensible to Tommy but its meaning apparent. The singing finally faded away, as the column disappeared into the distant line of fir trees.
"Hey, Fritz," he whispered, though he knew the answer.
"What was he singing?"
"It was a song of thanks," Fritz Number One quietly responded.
"And a song of freedom."
The ferret shook his head.
"It will likely be his last song," he said.
"The singer will not come alive from the forest."
Then he pointed Tommy toward the gate, where Vincent Bedford remained standing. The Mississippian was also watching the Russians until they passed from sight. His smile had slid from his face, and Bedford lifted his right hand and touched the brim of his cap. A small salute.
"I did not think," Fritz Number One muttered, as he hurriedly motioned for the gate guard to open up, "that our friend Trader Vic was a man of such bravery. It was foolhardy to risk his life for some Russian that is going to die maybe today, maybe tomorrow. But soon. But it was very brave."
Tommy nodded. He thought much the same. But he was even more surprised to learn that Fritz Number One knew Vincent Bedford's camp nickname.
As the gate to the South Compound swung shut behind him. Tommy caught a glimpse of Lincoln Scott. The black flier was standing in the distance, on the edge of the deadline, staring out to where the Russians had entered the thick dark line of trees. As always, Lincoln Scott stood alone.
Shortly before the Germans turned off the electricity for the night, Tommy slid into his bunk in Hut 101. He perched a work on civil procedure on his upraised knees, but found himself unable to absorb the dry prose of the textbook. The case synopsis seemed dull and unimaginative, and he found his mind wandering to the courtroom in Flemington and the trial that had been held there. He recalled what Phillip Pryce had said about hatred forming the undercurrent to the legal proceedings, and thought there had to be a way to turn that rage around. He thought the best lawyer finds a way to harness whatever external force is directed at his client and take advantage of it.