Armageddon In Retrospect - Kurt Vonnegut [23]
“How is it?” asked Coleman hopefully, looking at the yellow, purple, pink, and orange crayons in Kniptash’s left hand.
“Wonderful. What flavor you like? Lemon? Grape? Strawberry?” He threw the crayons on the ground, and spit the green one after them.
It was lunch hour again, and Kleinhans was sitting with his back to his wards, staring thoughtfully out at the splintered Dresden skyline. Two white tufts protruded from his ears.
“You know what would go good, now?” said Donnini.
“A hot fudge sundae, with nuts and marshmallow topping,” said Coleman promptly.
“And cherries,” said Kniptash.
“Spiedini alla Romana!” whispered Donnini, his eyes closed.
Kniptash and Coleman whipped out their notebooks.
Donnini kissed his fingertips. “Skewered chopped beef, Roman style,” he said. “Take a pound of chopped beef, two eggs, three tablespoons of Romano cheese, and—”
“For how many?” demanded Kniptash.
“Six normal human beings, or half a pig.”
“What’s this stuff look like?” asked Coleman.
“Well, it’s a lot of stuff strung together on a skewer.” Donnini saw Kleinhans remove an ear plug and return it almost instantly. “It’s kind of hard to describe.” He scratched his head, and his gaze landed on the crayons. He picked up the yellow one, and began to sketch. He became interested in the project, and, with the other crayons, added the subtler shadings and highlights, and finally, for background, a checkered tablecloth. He handed it to Coleman.
“Mmmmmmmm,” said Coleman, shaking his head and licking his lips.
“Boy!” said Kniptash admiringly. “The little bastards practically jump out at you, don’t they!”
Coleman held out his notebook eagerly. The page it was opened to was headed, straightforwardly, “CAKES.” “Could you draw a Lady Baltimore cake? You know, white with cherries on top?”
Obligingly, Donnini tried, and met with heartening success. It was a fine-looking cake, and, for an added flourish, he sketched in pink icing script on top: “Welcome home Private Coleman!”
“Draw me a stack of pancakes—twelve of ’em,” urged Kniptash. “That’s what I said, Lady—twelve!” Donnini shook his head disapprovingly, but began to rough in the composition.
“I’m going to show mine to Kleinhans,” said Coleman happily, holding his Lady Baltimore cake at arm’s length.
“Now the fudge on top,” said Kniptash, breathing down Donnini’s neck.
“Ach! Mensch!” cried Corporal Kleinhans, and Coleman’s notebook fluttered like a wounded bird into the tangle of wreckage next door. “The lunch hour is over!” He strode over to Donnini and Kniptash, and snatched their notebooks from them. He stuffed the books into his breast pocket. “Now we draw pretty pictures! Back to work, do you understand?” With a flourish, he fastened a fantastically long bayonet on to his rifle. “Go! Los!”
“What the hell got into him?” said Kniptash.
“All I did was show him a picture of a cake and he blows his stack,” complained Coleman. “Nazi,” he said under his breath.
Donnini slipped the crayons into his pocket, and scrambled out of the way of Kleinhans’ terrible swift sword.
“The Articles of the Geneva Convention say privates must work for their keep. Work!” said Corporal Kleinhans. He kept them sweating and grunting all afternoon. He barked an order the instant any of the three showed an inclination to speak. “You! Donnini! Here, pick up this bowl of spaghetti,” he said, indicating a huge boulder with the tip of his toe. He strode over to a pair of twelve-by-twelve rafters lying across the street. “Kniptash and Coleman, my boys,” he crooned, clapping his hands, “here are those chocolate éclairs you’ve been dreaming about. One for each of you.” He placed his face an inch from Coleman’s. “With whipped cream,” he whispered.
It was a genuinely glum crew that shambled into the prison enclosure that evening. Before, Donnini, Kniptash, and Coleman had made a point of half limping in, as though beaten down by terribly hard labor and unrelenting discipline. Kleinhans, in turn, had made a fine spectacle, snapping at