The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [37]
He let them dig for a short time more, then he called a halt. “Does anyone here wish to speak?” He gave them a grim smile.
No one answered.
“Okay” The sergeant waved an arm. “Keep digging.’
One of the Germans let his shovel fall. He was young and rosy cheeked. “Please,” he said. “I wish to tell you something.” He walked away from his fellow prisoners into the open space that separated him from the guards.
“Spit it out,” the sergeant said.
The German stood there wordless. He looked back TOt-easily at his fellow prisoners. The sergeant understood. He took the German by the arm and led him over to the jeep. They stood there talking earnestly in low voices, watcfed by prisoners and guards alike. The sergeant listened with his head thrust forward intently, his great body bent over, one arm thrown familiarly over the prisoner's shoulder. Then he nodded. He motioned the informer into the jeep.
The prisoners were loaded onto the three trucks and the caravan moved through the now-deserted forest, the other roads crossing theirs empty of life. In the jeep bringing up the rear the sergeant drove, his long mustaches waving in the breeze. They left the forest, and as they entered the open countryside it was strange to see the familiar land bathed in a different light, the riper and reddish sun of late afternoon.
Turning his head for a moment the sergeant spoke to Mosca. “Your buddy planned this for a long time. But he's out of luck.”
“Where is he?” Mosca asked.
“In town. I know the house.”
The caravan entered the camp, and then the two jeeps swung in a wide arc away from the trucks and raced toward the town. Then close together, as if coupled, they went down the main street, and on the corner on which stood the church, turned right. They halted by a small stone house. Mosca and the sergeant went to the front door. Two of the men in the other jeep moved slowly to the rear of the house. The other men stayed in the jeeps.
The door was opened before they could knock. Fritz stood there before them. He wore old, crumpled blue serge trousers, a white collarless shirt, and a dark jacket. He gave them an uncertain smile. “The rest are upstairs,” he said. “They are afraid to come down.”
“Call them,” the sergeant said. “Go up and tell them they won't be hurt.”
Fritz went to the foot of the stairs and called up in German. “All is in order. Come down. Don't be afraid.”
They heard a door open above them, and the three other prisoners came slowly down the stairs. They were dressed in ragged civilian clothes. On their faces was a sheepish, almost guilty look.
“Go out to the jeeps,” the sergeant said. Then he asked Fritz, ‘Whose house is this?”
Hie German raised his eyes. For the first time he looked at Mosca. “A woman I used to know. Let her go, she did it for—you know—she was lonely. It has nothing to do with the war.”
“Get out there,” the sergeant said.
They all left. The sergeant whistled for the two men behind the house. As the jeeps pulled away, a woman came down the street carrying a large bundle in brown wrapping paper. She saw the prisoners in the jeep, turned, and walked back in the direction from which she had come. The sergeant gave Mosca a sour grin. “Goddamn women,” he said.
On a lonely stretch of road nearly halfway back to camp the sergeant's lead jeep pulled to the side and stopped. The other jeep halted dose behind. On one side of the road was a rough stony pasture leading into the dark line of the forest two hundred yards away.
“Gct those men out of the jeeps,” the sergeant said. They all dismounted and stood awkwardly, ill at ease in the deserted road. The sergeant stood for, some moments, deep in thought. He felt his mustaches and said, “A couple of you guys can bring these krauts back to camp. Empty the tools out of that trailer and bring it back.” He pointed to Fritz. “You stay here.”
“I'll go back,” Mosca said quickly.
The sergeant looked him up and down, slowly, with insolent contempt. “Listen, you son of a bitch, you're staying here. If it wasn't