The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [42]
After the introductions Gordon rested in one of the armchairs, not listening to the usual small talk his wife made. He felt almost painfully the alien atmosphere of the requisitioned home, living with belongings which had no memories, no associations, not knowing who had picked out the pictures on the wall, the furniture scattered through the rooms, who had played the piano which rested against the far wall. But these feelings were traitorous to his intellect and not new. He had felt it most keenly on his visit home to his parents before he entered the Army. In that home, surrounded by furniture from ancestors long dead, as he kissed the diy cheeks of his mother and father, cheeks dried out and tough by the vigorous northern climate, he had known that he would never go back, as others would not, the young people who had gone to war and to the factories; and that this land, glacial in its stark and wintry beauty, would be inhabited only by old people, their hair white as the snow which covered the bony hills. And in his bedroom the large picture of Marx that his mother had thought was just a painting. How proud he had been of his cleverness and a little contemptuous of her ignorance. It was probably still hanging there.
His wife had prepared drinks, weak ones, since whisky was rationed and since she sometimes used it to trade on the black market. Gordon asked Leo, “Wasn't it in your camp that some prisoners were killed by an Allied air raid?”
“Yes,” Leo answered, “I remember. We did not resent it, believe me.”
“I read that Thalman, the Communist leader, was killed in that raid. Did you know him?” For once Gordon's voice had lost its calmness. There was a vibrant note in it.
“That was a curious thing,” Leo said. “Thalman was brought to the camp two days after the raid in which he was supposed to have been killed. Then he was taken away in a short time. We heard about Ae anfiotraeeineni of his death; of course it was a joke among us.”
Gordon took a deep breath. “Did you meet him?”.
“No,” Leo said. “I remember because many of the kapos, the trusties, were Communists. They were the first ones sent to the camps and naturally they had the good jobs. Anyway, I heard that they had managed to secure some delicacies and even liquor and planned to welcome Thalman with a secret banquet. But it never came off. He was always under special guard.”
Gordon was nodding his head with a solemn, sad pride. He said to his wife with quiet anger, “You see who were the real enemies of f asdsm?”
Leo said with irritation, “The Communists were not bargains. One, a kapo, had great pleasure beating old men to death. He did many other things I cannot say before your wife.”
Gordon became so angry that it showed on his usually well-controlled face, and his wife said to Mosca, “Why don't jou come over for dinner some night with your girl. And Leo, too.” They settled details, giving Gordon time to recover. Suddenly Gordon said to Leo, “I don't believe the man was a Communist. He may have been at one time. But he was either a renegade or an impostor.”
At this Ann and Leo burst out laughing, but Mosca turned his sharp, dark face toward Gordon and said, “The guy was in camp for a long time. Don't you know what that means, lor Christ's sake?”
And Leo said almost comfortingly, “Yes, he was one of the oldest inmates.”
In a room above them a baby began to cry, and Gordon went upstairs and brought down a great big healthy boy who looked much larger than his six months. Gordon changed the diaper, proudly showing off his skill.
“He's better than I am,” Ann Middleton said, “and he enjoys doing it which I'm sure I don't.”
“Why don't you fellows spend the evening here instead of going on to the club?” Gordon asked.
“Yes,” Ann said, “please do.”
“We can stay a little while,” Mosca said, “but we have to meet Eddie Cassin at the club about tea o'clock. He went to the opera.”
Ann Middleton sniffed. “I'll bet He's at the opera.’
“And besides,” Mosca said,