Mila 18 - Leon Uris [11]
Paul offered Chris a seat, then returned to his desk and loaded his pipe. “I’ve been listening to the news,” he said. “I hear you got with the old man.”
“Seems strange keeping this position with the clock running out.”
“Both Russia and Germany have pushed us around for centuries. There’s actually little to choose between them. Well, the hell with it Chris, we’ve missed you. How have you been?”
“Running.”
Much of the tension in Chris had eased. The warm welcome, the small talk. Either Paul was totally ignorant or expedient. Or he was playing some sort of game with great skill. Whatever it was, Paul did not want an ugly scene, and that was a relief.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Paul said abruptly. “Been called up. More than likely I’ll be stationed with the surgeon general’s staff in Krakow—paper work. Been so long since I practiced medicine, I begged off line duty for the sake of the army. Works out well, they need administrative help.”
Chris was both glad and sorry at the pronouncement. Nagging thoughts buzzed around inside him. “See here, Paul,” he wanted to say, “Deborah and I love each other very much. It’s nothing we planned ... just happened. I want you to give her her freedom.”
The words never found their way beyond nagging thoughts. How can you say to a man who is leaving for war, “I want your wife. Incidentally, have a nice time at the front?”
Why did Paul Bronski have to be such a decent sort? That’s what made it so damned lousy. Bronski was a wonderful person. And any desire Chris had to create a scene suddenly melted.
“Chris, you and I haven’t known each other tremendously long as some friendships go. You know how it is. With some people you work with them all your life—like myself and Dr. Koenig—and never really know them. Another man can walk into a room and in ten minutes you become friends—real friends. I think you and I are that kind.”
“I hope so, Paul.”
“I’ve been a very lucky man. In addition to my position and my family, my father left me a considerable estate which I have been able to enlarge.” Paul slid the brown envelope across the desk.
“If something should happen to me ...” he continued.
“Oh, come now.”
“Good friends don’t have to make small talk, Chris. Poland doesn’t have a chance, does it?”
“No—not really.”
“Even if I do get through, which I certainly anticipate, they’re going to make it hard on us. With your connections and freedom of movement and with the possibility of an occupied Poland, you are in the best position of anyone I know to convert my estate into Swiss or American holdings.”
Chris took the envelope and nodded.
“You’ll find everything in order.”
“I’ll take care of it right away. I have a friend leaving for Bern next week. He can be trusted. Any preference in investments?”
“German munitions seem like a good bet.”
They both laughed.
“My bank is good and conservative. They’ll know the answers,” Chris said.
“Good. Well ... you hold all my fortunes. One more thing. If anything should happen to me, I know you will see to it that Deborah and the children are taken out of Poland.”
Chris’s mouth went dry. All the rest of it was what one friend does for another. But this seemed as though he were willing Deborah to him. Chris looked into Paul’s implacable eyes. Revealing, yet not revealing. If he really knew, he had carried it quietly. He had veiled the pain it must have caused. But isn’t this the way Paul Bronski would do things? He was a gentle man as well as a shrewd man. Wouldn’t he have thought it out and already forgiven both Deborah and him? Or maybe Chris was overdramatizing everything. Perhaps Paul did feel their friendship deep enough to ask this.
Nothing Paul said or did gave the slightest clue to what was really behind his expression.
Chris folded the envelope and put it in his inside pocket Deborah entered with two glasses of sherry for herself and Paul and a martini for Chris.
“You two look so grim.”
“Chris was explaining the meaning of the news to me, dear.”
“Rachael is playing the piano. Come on into the parlor.”
They stood around the piano, Paul obviously