The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [35]
“It could be worse,” the German said; “it's peaceful here.” Mosca nodded. He liked the German though he never took the trouble to remember his real name. They were friendly, but it was impossible to forget the relation-ship of the conqueror and conquered. Even now Mosca held his carbine in his hand as a symbol. There was never a bullet in the chamber and sometimes he forgot to put a magazine in its slot
The German was in one of his depressed moods. Suddenly he began to pour out a flooding speech in his native tongue which Mosca understood imperfectly.
“Isn't it queer that you stand here, seeing that we do not move as we wish? What a duty for human beings. And how we kill each other and hurt each other. And for what? Tell me, if Germany had kept Africa and France, would I personally have earned another penny thereby? Me, myself, do I help myself if Germany conquers the world?
Even if we win, I win only a uniform for the rest of my life. When we were children how it used to thrill us to read of our country's golden age, how France or Germany or Spain ruled Europe and the world. They build statues to men who give death to millions of their fellows. How is this? We hate each other, we kill each other. I could understand if we gained something. If afterward they said, ‘Here, here is an extra piece of land we took from the French, everyone gets a little piece of cake.’ And you, we already know you are the winners. And do you think you will win anything?”
In the warm sun the other prisoners rolled on their backs, slept in the cool grass. Mosca listened only half understanding, vaguely displeased, not reached. The German spoke as one of the vanquished, without authority. He had walked the streets of Paris and Prague, the cities in Scandinavia, with cheerful pride; a sense of justice came only behind barbed wire.
For the first time the German put his hand on Mosca's arm. “My friend,” he said, “people like you and me meet face to face and kill each other. Our enemies are behind us.” He let his hand fall. “Our enemies are behind us,” he repeated bitterly, “and commit the crimes for which we die.”
But most of the time the German was cheerful. He had shown Mosca a picture of his wife and two children, and a picture of himself taken with comrades outside the factory in which they had worked. And he would talk about women.
“Aha,” the German would say with an almost wistful zest. “When I was in Italy,” or “When I was in France, the women they were wonderful. I must admit it, I like them better than German women, let the Fiihrer say what he likes. Women never let politics interfere with more important things. It's been that way through the centuries.” His blue eyes twinkled in the lined, old-young face. Tm always sorry we did not get to America. Those beautiful jprls with the long legs, like marzipan the color. Really unbelievable. I remember them from your movies and magazines. Yes it is too bad.”
And Mosca playing the game would say, “They wouldn't even look at you krautheads.”
The German would shake his head slowly but with decision. “Women are hardheaded,” he would say. “Do you think they starve because they should notjuse their bodies with the enemy. In these things women think clearly. They have more fundamental values. Ahf yes, occupation duty in New York would have been wonderful.”
Mosca and the German would grin at each other and then Mosca would say, “Get the rest of the Fritzes to work.”
On the final evening, when the recall whistle blew, the prisoners milled together quickly from all over the clearing in which they were working, and the trucks were loaded in a few minutes. The drivers started their motors.
Mosca almost fell for the ruse. Mechanically his eyes looked for Fritz. Still unsuspecting, he took a few steps toward the nearest of the three vehicles and then seeing the strained look on some of the prisoners’ faces sensed immediately what had happened.
He ran to the beginning of the dirt road and signaled the drivers out of the cabs of their trucks. As he ran he worked the bolt of the carbine,