Mila 18 - Leon Uris [10]
“Alex, do me something. Go to hell,” he said, and slammed the receiver down. The instant he did, he lifted it again and dialed Brandel’s number.
“Andrei?”
“I’ll call you later. Tell the gang I’m anxious to see them.”
“I hope I didn’t break anything up. Have a nice time. Good Shabes.”
Andrei walked to the edge of the bed, where Gabriela sulked. He leaned over and put his lips into her honey hair, and she closed her eyes, reveling in the sensations his touch caused. Andrei went to the window and pulled down the shade, plunging the room into dusk, and he locked the door.
“Don’t be angry, Gaby. I didn’t know about your place. I would have gotten a hotel room. Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry,” she whispered.
They lay beside each other, luxuriating in teasing and touching and whispering.
Suddenly Gabriela broke into a sweat and she was no longer able to control herself. “Oh God, I’ve missed you so!”
And they fought awkwardly and furiously to get out of their clothing.
The phone rang.
This time it went unanswered.
Chapter Five
Journal Entry
I THINK I PICKED the wrong time to call Andrei. Thank goodness his temper goes down as fast as it rises.
I talked to banker friends this evening. Everyone is frantic to convert their securities to American dollars or Swiss and South American bonds. Whole estates are being liquidated.
With the Russian-German alliance a fact, the German propaganda has gone utterly insane with charges of Polish border violations and maltreatment of ethnic Germans.
Meanwhile, why do we keep a deaf ear to England’s and France’s pleadings that we negotiate for help from Russia? Does our General Staff really think we can beat the Germans?
ALEXANDER BRANDEL
Dr. Paul Bronski filled the large brown envelope with a number of legal and financial papers. There was a will, insurance policies, a variety of securities, some cash in large denominations, and a key to his safe-deposit box. Finally a sealed letter. He scrawled the words, “In the event of my death,” and put the letter in with the other papers, wet the flap, and rolled it stuck.
In the dining room, young Rachael Bronski pranced about the table helping the large and rapidly aging Zoshia put the finishing touches on a lush setting. The table was overburdened with heavy silverware and gold-rimmed porcelain.
Rachael touched the flowers in the centerpiece and made them just so.
In his study, Paul Bronski listened to the BBC.
“In an exclusive interview with Polish Marshal Smigly-Rydz, Christopher de Monti of the Swiss News Agency, in a story datelined Warsaw, said that the Polish nation remains as always—no thought of a mutual-aid treaty with the Soviet Union. Later BBC confirmed this seemingly unshakable policy in a news conference with Poland’s Foreign Minister Beck. Poland’s adamance is viewed as bringing war one step closer.”
Deborah, putting the finishing touches on herself, entered the study. Paul placed the envelope face down, turned off the news, and smiled at his wife. In their sixteen years of marriage she had never failed to make herself attractive. No man could ask for a more perfect mate for his career.
“You look lovely,” he said.
“Thank you, dear,” she said. “Paul ... please try to stay out of an argument with Andrei tonight.”
“Andrei makes that difficult at times.”
“Please.”
“You’ve got my assurance. Get your brother’s.”
“I think for the children’s sake—and—well, it should be special tonight.”
The doorbell rang. Rachael answered. “Hello, Chris, come in.”
“You look more like your mother every day.”
Rachael blushed. “Momma and Daddy are in the study. Go on in.”
Paul and Deborah stood and looked at the door as Chris came through. Then Deborah studiously avoided his eyes. “It’s been a long time, Chris,” she said.
He nodded. Paul shook his hand, and for the moment the fear of the first moment of the meeting subsided.
“Would you excuse me?” she said. “I’ve got to see to dinner. I’ll be back with cocktails.