The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [80]
In the early morning hours, the countryside becoming shadowy with the first beginning light, Leo stopped at one of the coffee-and-snack bars the Americans had set up on the Autobahn. He took the professor in with him, and they sat at a long wooden table. Along it some GI truck drivers were sleeping, their heads pillowed on their arms. They drank their first cup of coffee in silence but when Leo returned with the cups filled a second time and a handful of doughnuts, the professor began to talk, slowly at first, then more quickly, his hands trembling as he hurriedly sipped coffee.
“You don't know yet how a father feels, Leo, a father is helpless, I know all about my son, and he confessed to me something else. When his mother was dying he was on the Russian front, and I managed to get him leave—he was a hero, he had courage, many decorations, but he never came. He wrote that his leave was canceled. Now he told me everything, that he went on through to Paris. That he wanted a good time. He explained to me that he could feel no pity, no love for his mother. And after that was when everything went bad, and he began to do all those terrible things. But,” the professor paused as if bewildered and then more intensely, “but how is that, a son not weep for his mother's death? He was never unnatural, he was like all the other boys, perhaps more handsome, more intelligent. I taught him to be generous, to share his things with his little playmates, to believe in God. We both loved him, his mother and I, we never spoiled him. He was a good son. Now, even now, I can't believe the things he's done, but he confesses, he confessed to me.” The pouched eyes filled with tears. ‘He told me these things, and last night he cried in my arms and said, ‘Poppa, I'm glad to die, I'm glad to die.’ We talked all week about our lives together, and the last night he cried as he used to when a child.” The professor stopped suddenly and Leo realized that his face must be showing the mixture of repulsion and pity that he felt.
The professor began again but now his voice was calm, reasonable, and slightly apologetic as if showing his grief had been the extreme of bad manners. He spoke very slowly. “I go over our life together and try to find out where did it start? I can't find it. I can see nothing. It all happened by itself that he became a monster. It's terrifying to think that. That makes you stop. You called him that, Leo, and it is true. Your son could be such a monster.” The professor smiled to show that this was impersonal, mere theorizing, and this smile was so ghastly in that grief-masked face, the bloodless lips twisted so unnaturally, that Leo had to bow his head over his coffee not to see. And this smile taking all of his strength the old man became more intense. “I say these things to you because you are the victim. My son and I, I, too, we were the ones who did these things to you. What can I say? That it was an accident, as if I drove a car and was careless and ran you down. Without malice. My son caught a terrible fever, as if he lived in a swamp, do you understand that? He must die of this illness, I know that. But I believe he is good in spite of everything, I believe he is good.” The professor began to weep and said loudly, hysterically, “God have pity on him. God have pity on him.”
One of the GIs lifted his head from the table and said, “Pipe down for Chris&ake.” The professor became silent
Leo said, “Sleep a little and then we'll go in, first smoke a cigarette.” When they had finished they both pillowed their heads on their arms and the professor fell asleep immediately, but not Leo.
He raised his head again and stared at the brown-skinned doughnuts scattered on the dirty wooden table. A black pool of coffee in its tin mess kit caught a few golden glints from the weak yellow bulbs in the room. He felt no pity for the old man; he could not. His own suffering rose in his blood as antidote. But he knew now his mother and father's grief on his account, a cruel