Mila 18 - Leon Uris [23]
And they discovered that they had as many things in common as they once believed had kept them apart. They shared a mutual love of music and books and theater. On occasion he would admit he enjoyed dancing with her.
Gabriela did not strain herself for acceptance among his friends but entered part of his strange world and found those closest to him took to her with sincerity.
His trips around Poland and his leaves from the army always brought him home to days and nights of love-making which never wearied or slackened in intensity.
Only two years ago, Gabriela thought. Only two years since I met my Andrei. She watched from the bridge as the last commuter train left for Praga, then walked north again in pursuit of Andrei and Christopher de Monti.
Chapter Seven
FUKIER’S ANCIENT WINE CELLAR in the Old Town was submerged in noises and smoke and smells. The immense casks leaked age-old wines, which blended with the smells of ales and cheeses. The voices of rowdy bohemians were somewhat buffered by thousands of bottles lining the walls. Amid the uproar, a trio of gypsy musicians inched their way from table to table.
The gypsies stopped and hovered over the table, determined to entertain Andrei and Chris. Andrei emptied his mug, belched, and put a coin on the table. The violinist snatched it and downbeated the accordionist and an unwashed tamborine-rattling female vocalist.
“Jesus Christ,” Christopher de Monti mumbled, “Jesus Christ. Even the gypsies play Chopin.”
“Chopin is a national hero. Chopin gives us courage!”
“Oh balls! He was a tubercular little wart shacked up with a cigar-smoking French whore who cashed in on Polish misery.”
“Is that nice?”
The waitress fought her way to their table, slung down a pair of plates, a loaf of dark rye bread, and a small ham, along with more vodka.
The gypsies played “O Sole Mio.”
“Christ, that’s worse than Chopin,” Chris said.
Andrei gulped down a half pint of vodka and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“Let us not digress from our conversation,” he said. “The Germans attack, we will counterattack, naturally. My steed, Batory, and I will be the first two into Berlin.”
Chris weaved and focused on the ham. He raised his fork, aimed, and plunged it deeply. “This is Poland,” he announced. He picked up a knife and cut the ham in two. “One slice goes to Germany. ’Nother slice goes to Russia. No more Poland. All gone. Andrei, tell them goddamn gypsies to blow. So anyhow, all your goddamn poets will write tired sonnets about the good old days when the noblemen kicked the piss out of the peasants and the peasants kicked the piss out of the Jews. Then! Some half-assed piano player will play benefit concerts to the Poles in Chicago. All Chopin concerts. And in a hundred years everybody will say—Jesus Christ, let’s put Poland back together—we’re sick of hearing Chopin concerts. And in a hundred and two years, the Russians and Germans will start up again.”
Andrei belched again. Chris tried to continue his lecture, but his elbow kept slipping from the table each time he tried to point to Russian Poland. The violin cried. And when a gypsy violin cried in Fukier’s, men cried too. “Chris, my dear friend,” sniffed Andrei, “take my sister away from that no-good bastard Bronski.”
Chris hung his head. “Don’t mention a lady’s name in a bar, sir. Goddamn broad.”
Andrei’s sympathetic hand fell on Christ’s shoulder. “Damned broad,” he agreed.
Andrei emptied, then refilled his mug. “Hitler’s bluffing.”
“Hell he is.”
“He’s scared of our counterattack.”
“Counterattack, my butt.” Chris’s fist struck the table. He spread it clean, shoving bottles and plates and glasses into one corner. “This table is Poland.”
“I thought the ham was Poland.”
“The ham is Poland A. This is Poland B. See the table, stupid? See how nice and flat it is? Perfect for tanks.