The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [110]
Her body was enclosed in a shroud of heavy brown wrapping paper and he could see that underneath there were no clothes. Behind him the nun whispered, “Many wish it so, they need the clothing.”
He had drawn the sheet with arrogant certainty, with faith in die armor he had grown against grief, trusting his memory of the terrible years to shield him now. But he thought, She has enough clothes to be buried in, I can do that for her. And suddenly a thousand enemies came coursing through his blood, the bile rose in his throat, a giant hand cramped the beat of his heart, drowned all light Then without knowing how, he found himself outside the room, leaning against the wall of the corridor.
The nun waited patiently for him. Finally Mosca said to her, “FU bring some proper clothes; will you dress her for me?” The nun made a motion of assent.
He left the hospital and began to walk. He followed the perimeter of the fence. Though it was not yet light he became conscious of the Strassenbahn going by and people passing him in the streets. The curfew had ended. He kept turning into deserted streets but as he entered them people seemed to spring out of the rubbled earth and buried apartments. ITien there was a cold wintry sun and a pale light over the earth and he found himself on the edge of the town, walking into the countryside. The air was very cold. Mosca made himself stop.
He accepted it all now and was not surprised that everything had turned out badly. There was left only a tired hopelessness, and far down in his being a shameful guilt.
He thought of what he must do; bring a dark-colored dress to the hospital for Hella to be buried in, make arrangements for the funeral. Eddie could help him, would arrange everything. He turned back and felt something at his arm. He looked down and saw that he was still carrying the blue gym bag. He was very tired and had a long walk before him so he let it drop in the deep wet grass. He lifted his eyes to the light of the frozen morning sun and started to walk back into the city’
twenty-three
A tiny caravan passed through the huge central gate of black iron, left the hospital grounds and entered the surrounding city. Gray, early morning light shrouded the ruins with ghostly sheets of vapor.
The ambulance carrying Hella's coffin led the way. The jeep, open to the wind, followed slowly behind, Eddie and Mosca hunched down to escape the cold. Frau Saunders, alone in the seat behind them, was wrapped in a brown Army blanket that hid her mourning from the world. Following the jeep came a little Opel car with its wood-burning motor and small smokestack. In it was the minister to whose church Frau Saunders belonged.
The caravan rode against the tide of the world coming to the center of the city, clanging Strassenbahns crammed with workers, olive-drab Army busses; people whose life-rhythm had been broken only by rest and sleep and dreams. The bitter cold of late autumn, the early cold unprepared for and unforeseen, more bitter than the cold of deepest winter, iced the metal jeep and froze the body and mind. Mosca leaned toward Eddie. “You know where the cemetery is?” Eddie nodded. Mosca said emotionlessly, “Let's get there.” Eddie swung the jeep to the left and it shot forward, raced down the broad avenue winding in a slow curve through and out of the city. Then onto a little side road and through an open wooden gate and finally rolling slowly to rest on a small lawn before the long deep rows of tombstones.
They sat in the jeep, waiting. Frau Saunders put the blanket aside. She was dressed in a black coat and veiled hat and wore black stockings. Her face was