The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [52]
Mosca got out of the jeep. “TU take a look,” he said. It was very cold and he turned up the collar of his jacket He walked around the corner and seeing no children, continued to walk until he was in the rear of the Glocke Building.
Serenely perched on a great hill of rubble, looking down on half the great city that lay in ruins before them, were two small boys. They were wrapped in coats reaching to their shoes and on their heads were caps that came down almost over their ears. Through their bare hands they strained the loose dirt out of the rubble they scooped up, and then threw stones and fragments of brick out across the prairie and valley of ruins below them; throwing at nothing in particular and not hard enough to lose balance on top of the hill.
“Here,” Mosca called in German, “do you two want to earn some chocolate?”
The children looked down at him gravely, judging him, recognizing him as one of the enemy, despite his civilian clothes, and slid down the hill, not afraid. They followed him, leaving their vast, silent, empty playground, clasping each other's hand when they came into the busy square before the Glocke.
The corporal was out of the jeep, waiting for them. He slipped a plate into his camera and adjusted the range finder. When he was set he said to Mosca, “Okay, tell them what to do.” The corporal could speak no German.
“Pick up those cigarettes butts,” Mosca told the boys, “Now look up so that man can take your picture.” They bent obediently but their long, peaked caps shadowed their faces.
“Push their caps back,” the corporal said. Mosca did so, exposing two grinning gnomelike faces to the camera.
“Those butts are too small,” the corporal said. “They won't show up.” Mosca took out some whole cigarettes and threw them into the gutter.
The corporal had made a few shots but was not satisfied. He was preparing for another when Mosca felt someone's hand on his arm and he was spun around.
Before him were the two policewomen, the one who had spun him around nearly as tall as he, her hand still on his arm. He gave her a push that was nearly a blow, feeling the soft breast beneath the rough, blue wool of her uniform. She staggered back, her hand falling away from his arm, then said defensively, “That is not allowed here.” She turned to the boys and said in a warning voice, “You two leave here instantly.”
Mosca grabbed the children by their coats. “Stay here,” he said. He turned on the two women, his lean, dark face ugly and vicious with anger. “Do you see that uniform?” pointing to the corporal. He held out his hand. “Give me your identification.” The two women began to stutter explanations, that it was their job to keep the children away, keep diem from begging. A German man going by stopped, the boys edged away from the quarrel, and the man said something to than in an angry, scolding voice which frightened them, and they began to nm. Mosca caught them again as the corporal let out a warning shout The man began to walk away quickly to get to the throng of fellow Germans waiting on the comer for a streetcar. Mosca ran down the street after him and when the German heard the pounding feet he turned around, his eyes blinking with fright.
‘TMd you tell those children to leave?” Mosca shouted at him.
The German said quietly, apologetically, “I did not understand. I thought they were begging!.”
“Give me your identity pass,” Mosca said. He held out his hand. The German, trembling with nervousness and shock, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the usual enormous wallet stuffed with papers. He fumbled unseeingly, trying to watch Mosca at the same time until Mosca took the papers out of his hand and found the blue card himself.
Mosca handed the wallet back. “Come to the police station in the morning for your pass,” he said, and turned to walk back to the jeep.
Across the street, on the other side of the square, he saw in the failing November