Mila 18 - Leon Uris [87]
Chapter Eleven
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, AFTER Chris awoke from a deep sixteen-hour slumber, he found his way to Oscar Pecora’s study sheepishly.
“Boy, did I hang one on,” he said in an apologetic voice.
“For talent, nearly anything can be forgiven.”
“It has all been a pretty startling lesson, Oscar. I can see why the men in our business turn crass and cynical. We sound the great trumpet and no one hears us. Free men with full bellies don’t want to believe that a black native in Ethiopia concerns them or that the bombing of an open city in Spain is the prelude to the bombing of London.”
“Christopher, you’ve eaten my food, drunk my liquor, and now Madame Pecora is giving you flirtatious glances. I think it is high time you got back to work.”
“Doing what, Oscar? Can I go on being a journalist under these conditions? I have learned now that truth is not truth. Truth is only what people want to believe and nothing more.”
“But you will continue to seek it as a journalist or as a streetcar driver in Geneva. You have lost sight of the fact that there is a world of decent human beings and a lot of them are listening. They depend on the Christopher de Montis to be their eyes. You are not a man to abandon the human race because you have lost a battle. Now, what do you say, Christopher?”
Chris laughed ironically. “When you come right down to it, I’m not much good for anything else. I can’t even operate a streetcar.”
“I’ve called in men from our European bureaus for the past month. We are trying to determine how events will shift. What do you think, Christopher?”
Chris shrugged. “Spain is Italy’s show, mainly. The republican government will fall sooner or later. Franco is it.” Chris looked at the wall map behind Oscar. “Hitler will start up next.”
“Bergman in Berlin thinks so too. How does Warsaw sound to you? We have a small bureau there.”
“If you still want me, why not? One place is as good as another.”
“Settled. You go to Poland. We have a free-lance man we’ve been using off and on. An Ervin Rosenblum.”
“Photographer, too, isn’t he?”
“Yes, a good man. Take him on with you and try him out. Christopher, don’t try anything foolish in Poland. Keep us in business as long as you can there.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve had my fill of playing cops and robbers. It won’t do any more good in Poland than in Spain. Don’t worry, Oscar. All you’ll get are the straight reports.”
Dear Oscar,
Warsaw has been like a tonic. I’m glad one of us had some sense and I thank you. It’s like a little Paris here.
Ervin Rosenblum is a crackajack. I want to keep him on permanently. The bureau is in good shape. The usual government red tape, but nothing earth-shaking. Next week I hope to have a direct phone connection to Geneva. That will speed things up considerably.
Although I’m getting along O.K. in French and English, I’m taking an hour a day of Polish. And—can you believe it?—I’ve taken on the hobby of coach of several of the army basketball teams.
Chris blew a whistle. He talked to Andrei Androfski in French, and Andrei translated into Polish that the basketball practice for the day was over. The members of the newly formed Seventh Ulany Brigade team thanked their coach and trotted from the floor of the Citadel gymnasium.
Andrei, the team captain, worked with Chris for another half hour. He was intrigued by Chris’s wizardry in dribbling and hook shooting. Chris showed him the variations of passing the ball while being guarded and how to fake his pass moving in one direction, flipping the ball in the other.
They sat down drenched with sweat after the brisk workout. Chris wiped his face with a towel and lit a cigarette. “I’m pooped. I haven’t done this in years.”
“Those cigarettes are no good,” Andrei said. “They wind you. Such a wonderful game. I did not realize there were so many fine points to it. But what can I do with these dumb oxen? They have no finesse.”
“They’re coming along fine. By the end of the season they’ll play like the Harlem Globetrotters.”
Chris slapped