Mila 18 - Leon Uris [132]
A roaring truck blotted out further dissertation on the orgy.
Chris again became entranced by the river barges. Horst von Epp was correct. “Right” was the winning side. He sure was with the winner. Five hundred years of Germany? Could be. The trip to the eastern front was the clincher. No matter how dark things had been in Spain, in Poland he always felt that the pendulum would swing back the other way. But would it? A breakthrough in Egypt would put Rommel on an unstoppable path to India. Moscow was digging in for a siege. The frantic preparations in America—too little, too late. He had seen the German power unleash a fury that made the conquest of Poland look like child’s play. Kiev, a half million Russian soldiers trapped. What could stop them?
Chris looked at Von Epp, who was enjoying a cigarette. Orders are orders. A wall of indifference built around him that shut out a struggle of good and evil.
And then ... the thoughts of the massacre outside Kiev seared into his mind. Chris had to make his move. Make it soon. Now ... now ...
And Horst von Epp was his only chance.
Do it, Chris prodded himself, do it—tomorrow may be too late.
“I want to go into the ghetto,” Chris said quickly, fearing his own courage.
“Come now, Chris,” Von Epp said, concealing his delight. “It will put us both in a bad light.” All of Horst von Epp’s patience was beginning to pay off now. Chris had held a card up his sleeve from the beginning. His desire to stay in Warsaw at any cost. His reluctance to join the parties after a reputation as a lothario in other places at other times. Chris wanted something. Von Epp knew that from the start. Now the card was being played with caution.
“I’ve got to see Rosenblum and clean up a lot of odds and ends.”
“If you insist on this ...”
“I insist.”
Von Epp threw up his hands in “defeat.” “All right.” He glanced at his watch. Enough for one day, he thought. He looked for his car, which had trailed them and parked at the foot of the bridge. “Can I drive you into town?”
“I’ll walk. I’ll see you later.”
“Try to change your mind about going into the ghetto.” Horst turned briskly as he started for his car.
“Horst!”
The German turned to see Chris walking grimly toward him, on the brink of a terrible decision.
“Suppose I want to get someone out of the ghetto?”
“Rosenblum?”
“No.”
“A woman?”
“And her children.”
“Who?”
“My grandmother.”
Horst von Epp smiled. Christopher de Monti had played his card. Every man had his price. Von Epp always found it With most, petty bribes ... favors. That was for petty people. Christopher de Monti? Tough. An idealist in the throes of conflict. Blackmail often worked. Almost everyone had dirty tracks they tried to cover. Von Epp found them too.
No matter how tough, how idealistic, how clean, every man had his price. Every man had his blind spot.
“How important is this?” Horst asked.
“Everything,” Chris whispered, culminating the decision, putting himself at the mercy of the German.
“It can be done, I suppose.”
“How?”
“She can sign papers that she isn’t Jewish. We have handy form letters for all occasions, as you know. Marry her, adopt the children. A ten-minute detail. Then send her into Switzerland as the wife of an Italian citizen.”
“When can I pick up my pass for the ghetto?”
“After we settle on the price.”
“Like Faust? My soul to the devil?”
That’s right Chris. It will be steep.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
ANDREI WAITED FOR TWO restless, mood-filled weeks before he could corner the man known to him as Roman, the Warsaw commander of the fledgling underground Home Army.
Time and again Andrei had to stifle his desire to go back into the ghetto with his friends. He drank heavily in the evenings, and when his mind became fuzzed he was filled with remorse. He had been intolerant of Alexander Brandel’s struggle. He had acted wrongly to friends who believed in him.
He thought about everything