When Baatz came back about twenty minutes later, he might have had a thunderstorm hanging from his wobbly jowls. He didn’t come up to Adam Pfaff and admit that the new Gefreiter told the truth. That would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, which meant it was as far beyond Baatz’s ken as the mountains on the back side of the moon.
Since the corporal couldn’t take it out on the man who’d made him embarrass himself, he took it out on everybody else. He screamed at Willi, who’d heard him call Pfaff a liar when the replacement wasn’t. Because Willi had heard all that, he endured the Sturm und Drang with a smile on his face. That only pissed Awful Arno off worse. He couldn’t stick Willi with extra fatigues: the privilege the pip on Willi’s left sleeve gave him. And so Baatz screamed some more. Anybody who could draw extra duty did. Willi’s smile got wider.
“You have that fat clown’s number, by God,” Pfaff said, nothing but admiration in his voice, when Awful Arno finally went away. “How long have you been stuck under him?”
“Since before the shooting started,” Willi answered mournfully.
“Oh, you poor, miserable son of a bitch,” Pfaff said. Willi nodded; he thought of himself the same way. The other Gefreiter went on, “I bet he doesn’t like your rifle, either.”
Willi carried an ancient, beat-up Mauser. It shot pretty well, but it was ugly as Siamese-twin hippos. He’d had the fine sniper’s rifle, but…“I was going to get out from under him. Swear to Jesus, I was. Then the sharpshooter who was training me got his head blown off, and I went back to ordinary duty. Arno made sure of that, and that I didn’t get to keep my nice piece. He said it would shoot too slow with the downturned bolt, y’know? Thank you very much, Corporal Baatz.”
“I’m glad you said he was good in the field. Otherwise…” Pfaff stopped right there. One more word could have landed him in trouble. Willi’d had those thoughts about Baatz himself. He’d never quite done anything about them-Awful Arno wouldn’t be here for Pfaff to discover and admire if he had. But he’d had them. Oh, yes. He would have bet a year’s pay against a sack of sheepshit there wasn’t one single guy in the whole goddamn company who hadn’t.
Chapter 19
“Weinberg! Hey, Weinberg!” The call was urgent, even imperative.
“Yeah? Nu? What’s up??Que paso? ” Chaim answered, wondering who the hell needed him and for what. He thought he knew the voice of every Yank and Spaniard in the Abe Lincoln Battalion. Whoever was taking his name in vain, he’d never met the guy before.
And he found out, because the fellow (a Spaniard) said, “You’re wanted in Madrid. Pronto. ” Chaim might know all the Abe Lincolns, but he damn well didn’t know every one of the couple of million people left in Madrid.
“Wanted? By who?”
“The cops,” put in one of the guys he did know.
“Funny, Hank, funny like a dose of the clap. Har-de-har-har. See? I’m laughing my ass off.” Chaim switched from English to Spanish to ask his question again: “Who wants me?”
“Why, the Party, of course.” The messenger seemed amazed he would need to ask about anything that obvious.
Patiently, he tried again: “The whole Party, or somebody in particular?”
Maybe he screwed up the grammar worse than usual, so the messenger didn’t get it. Or maybe he owned more patience than the Madrileno, because the man just repeated, “Pronto.”
“All right, already. I’m coming,” Chaim said with no great enthusiasm. He wanted to stay with his buddies. The Communist Party cared no more for what he wanted than for any other individual’s desires. But he wasn’t exactly brokenhearted about going back to the capital. With a little luck, he’d be able to see La Martellita after the apparatchik who’d pulled his card out of a box got done with him.
His blunt, pudgy features softened. “Magdalena,” he whispered under his breath. That was her real name, Magdalena Flores. She’d been desperately hung over the next morning. She barely remembered making love with him while she was drunk. But he tended to her so well-aspirins, strong coffee, the hair of the dog, a very little mild but greasy food-that he convinced her he cared about her along with wanting her sweetly curved body. It wasn’t quite that the road to her heart ran through her stomach, but it also wasn’t very far removed from that. She’d let him back into her bed when she was sober. What more could any man not a fairy want?
And so he followed the messenger south through the zigzagging communications trenches. By the time they came out into the open, they were too far behind the line to need to worry about snipers. The messenger took charge of his own bicycle and another one reserved for Chaim. They pedaled into Madrid. No manana here; pronto meant what it said.
To call Chaim’s bike a piece of junk would have given it too much credit. “If this were a horse, I’d shoot it,” he said.
“You can walk if you want to. Still a few kilometers to go, though,” the messenger answered. Chaim shut up.
People on foot, people on other bikes, people on donkeys and horses, people on animal-drawn wagons and carriages, even a few people in cars: afternoon traffic in Madrid. Everyone who had a horn blew it. Everyone who didn’t shouted or whistled instead. It made New York City seem not just sedate but sedated. Foul language and obscene gestures were all part of the show.
Chaim wasn’t much surprised when the messenger led him to the building where La Martellita worked. He was summoned on Party business, and this was Party headquarters. But when the fellow said, “Report to room 371,” he blinked. That was her office.
Why had she pulled him out of the line? Was she going to put him back on propaganda duty with Nationalist prisoners? He thought-in fact, he was sure-she didn’t believe his ideology was pure enough to let him do that. Maybe one of her bosses had overruled her, and she was going to read him the riot act before she let him tell the POWs what a gang of fat, exploiting slobs their former bosses were.
That made more sense than anything else he could come up with. Which didn’t mean it was right, of course. One way or another, he’d find out in a couple of minutes.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor (which would have been reckoned the fourth floor in the USA). The building had an elevator, and it worked. No one used it. It required an operator, and the Party had decided positions like that demeaned the proletarians who had to fill them.
La Martellita looked up from her paperwork when he walked into her cramped little room. Emotions chased one another across her face too fast to let him sort them out. All she said was, “Close the door, por favor. ”
Close it he did. Had she summoned him so she could fool around right here, and on company time? The mere idea was enough to heat his blood. “What is it, my pretty one, my sweet one, my little dove?” he asked as he stepped toward her. Compliments sounded so much more, well, complimentary in Spanish.
Then he stopped in his tracks, as he would have when he saw a sign with skull and crossbones that warned of a minefield ahead. He recognized her expression now, all right: raw, red rage. “You goddamn stinking son of a bitch, I’m going to have a baby!” she screeched. So much for the closed door.
“Oof!” he said, as if someone had punched him in the pit of the stomach. Whatever he’d been expecting, that wasn’t it. He wondered why not. The next time they used a safe would be the first. Condoms were hard to get here; despite the Republic’s progressive social policies, Spain remained a Catholic country.
“What are you going to do about it?” La Martellita demanded.
“Seems to me I already did what I do,” Chaim said. If looks could kill, they would have dragged him out of the little office by his feet after the one she gave him. Helplessly, he spread his hands. “Babies are a chance you take, you know.” He made pregnancy sound like a social disease. Well, wasn’t it the ultimate social disease? Without it, there wouldn’t be any society.