Mila 18 - Leon Uris [81]
Chris held his tongue. He knew that Poppa didn’t give a damn about the Italian people working, and Chris felt that fascism would lead them to destruction.
“You are my son and you will do as you are ordered!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Chris said. “I am going to be a journalist.”
Alphonse struck Chris across the face ... then again ... and again and again. The boy stood rigid but unflinching. And then his father began to cry. “Since you were a baby, all I have wanted is for my son. My Christopher—a nobleman—to take over our great traditions—to live to see you as an officer in the Italian army bringing us back our glory—all I wanted is for you, Chris.”
What traditions? Those poor bastards slaving in Poppa’s olive groves? Whoring all over Europe in ten-thousand-dollar cars? Sitting at the Casino, a portrait of decadence? Trying to resurrect a ghost of ancient Rome which would take them on a path to hell?
Chris was sad because he loved his Poppa so.
“Chris ... Chris ... my bambino,” the old man pleaded.
“I am sorry, Poppa, that I cannot be the son you want.”
Even in anguish there was that deep stubborn pride. “Get out of my house and never come back!”
Chris was a brilliant student in journalism at Columbia. He wrote many letters to Poppa, but they were all returned unopened. He knew the deep pain he had caused his father and he hated himself for it, but he knew that he could not live as an instrument of a thing he hated. He was cut off without a cent.
In his junior year things brightened with an athletic scholarship. He was a first-rate forward on the varsity basketball team and highly successful in the new, experimental one-hand shots.
And Flora? She had taken a dumping in the stock market, but Chris didn’t want a thing from her, anyhow. Christmas passed without so much as a greeting from her. She did not like to have Chris around at all these days because he served as a reminder that she was turning ripe fast. She had lovers almost as young as her son.
Eileen Burns was a commercial-art major as vibrant as Chris was quiet. She was completely taken by the lean, handsome right forward on the basketball team and his grimish ways.
Perhaps Chris was far more intense about Eileen than a college romance would have implied, but with her all his lonely years and frustrations seemed to pour out. There had been other girls before. He was fifteen when he started with the daughter of one of Poppa’s housekeepers.
But with Eileen he could talk about things he only remembered speaking about to instructors in private schools a long time ago. It was different, because Eileen became a part of his hopes. He could say, “I want to be a great journalist—it’s a wonderful way to serve mankind.” And Eileen understood—she understood so well.
In his senior year Chris met Oscar Pecora. Oscar was standing by the window in his room when he came in from basketball practice late one evening. Pecora was a strange-looking little fellow. Stiff Hoover collar, four-in-hand cravat, bowler hat, pin-striped suit. He had the stamp of a European all over him.
“I hope you will forgive me,” Pecora said in Italian. “Your door was open.”
Chris looked at him for a while. Ten to one he was from the Italian Legation. “If you’re here to ask me to join the Student Fascist League, don’t waste either of our time.”
Pecora opened his wallet neatly and snapped a card to Chris, OSCAR PECORA: INTERNATIONAL DIRECTOR, SWISS NEWS AGENCY, GENEVA.
Chris flung the dirty laundry off one of the room’s two chairs. “Sit down, sir.”
“You are familiar with Swiss News?”
“Yes, sir.” He knew it was a small agency with one of the very best reputations for journalistic standards in the world.
“I shall get right to the point. We are expanding our operations in America. We will need an extra man for overloaded work in our New York and Washington bureaus. If you are familiar with Swiss News you know we select our