Mila 18 - Leon Uris [24]
“Pull back!” the Ulan officer cried in horror.
“Pull back, I said. Blunt the first German thrust on the Warta River. Then drop everything in back of the Vistula and make your stand.”
“Back of the Vistula! You dare insinuate we give up Silesia and Warsaw?”
“Hell yes. They’ll take it anyhow. Chopin or no Chopin. If you can hold a Vistula line for three or four months, the British and French will have to start something on the western front.”
“Oh, big strategist, De Monti—big strategist!”
“Just common sense and vodka.”
Gabriela crossed into the cobblestone square of Stare Miasto, the Old Town. It was surrounded on four sides by perfectly preserved five-story medieval houses that formed the showplace of Warsaw. The historical relics of Poland’s glory were preserved in authentic settings. Madam Curie was properly revered in a museum, and shops selling cut glass and national products made it a well-conceived tourist trap as well as a hearthstone of Polish sentiment.
At the far end of the square, Gabriela could hear the noise from Fukier’s. She walked in and looked around.
There they were, Chris and Andrei, their elbows on the table, their hands clasped, Indian wrestling. The mob had gathered around them, placing bets and rooting them on. Christopher de Monti was deceptively powerful, a carryover from his basketball days. It was he who was pressing Andrei’s wrist down slowly. Andrei was humiliated, as befitted a Ulany officer in a contest with a mere mortal. As Chris poured his strength into his hand and pressed downward, a roar went up from the crowd and the odds shifted quickly. Andrei’s face turned first red, then purple with strain, and the veins fairly leaped out of his neck.
Their wrists quivered.
Suddenly the innumerable pints of vodka caught up with Chris. He was unable to make the final pin. Andrei, sensing the weakness of his opponent, called on the reserve strength of a great athlete, and Chris wilted.
Utter silence gripped the mob as Andrei came inching back from the brink of defeat. The sweat rolled down Chris’s face as he tried to fight off the inevitable. He collapsed. Andrei made the kill with such speed and power that Chris was thrown right out of his chair and went sprawling into the spectators.
The Ulan officer stood up, wavering, and raised both arms over his head to receive his deserved accolades, then bent down to help his victim to his feet. Bloody, but unbowed, Chris’s hand lashed out, caught Andrei by the heel of his shiny boot, and sent him crashing to the floor. They both lay on their backs, convulsed with laughter.
“What in the devil are you doing down there!” she demanded.
“Whadda think I’m doing?” Andrei said. “I’m trying to get this drunken slob home.”
“It stinks in here,” Andrei said.
“I told you it was painted. Now be careful and don’t touch anything. It’s still wet.”
Andrei spilled the unconscious Chris on Gabriela’s sofa. He landed with a thud, his legs awry.
“You don’t have to be so rough,” she admonished. She knelt down and unlaced Chris’s shoes. “Take off his coat and tie. He’s so drunk, he’s liable to choke.”
Chris blurted out something about flat tables and Polish hams as Andrei fought him out of his clothing. Gabriela placed a pillow beneath his head, covered him with a blanket, and dimmed the lights.
Andrei hovered over him. “Poor Chris. Do you see the way he and Deborah steal looks at each other? As if they are both going to die of broken hearts. Poor Chris.”
“Get in there,” Gabriela ordered.
He staggered into the bedroom, flopped on the edge of the bed, and held his face in his hands.
“I’ve got to do something about my temper,” he mumbled. Andrei then berated himself roundly, but it was a monotone soliloquy heard only by himself. Gabriela entered with a large mug of steaming black coffee.
Andrei’s head dangled with shame. “I’m a son of a bitch,” he said.
“Oh, shut up and drink this.”
He stole