The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [91]
Watching the archers bend the bowstrings awkwardly and the flight of the freed arrows, he remembered an older GI in a farmhouse behind the lines, the farm being used to show a movie for troops in reserve. Kindling wood packed high served for seats, and this old GI, he must have been close to forty, Mosca thought, had held one of three French 4rids, a six-year-old boy, between his knees and carefully combed the unruly tangled hair, parting it neatly on the side, fluffing up the front into a wave. Then he had combed the hair of the other two children, one girl and another boy, holding them in turn between his knees, combing carefully with gentle and expert strokes, turning them around to get the part right. When the old GI had finished he gave each of the children a bar of chocolate, picked up his rifle where it rested against the wall, and held it between his knees.
Feeling it important, sitting now in green grass spotted with baby carriages, he forced Ins mind to go back and remember the colored GI who had thrown great cans of pineapple juice out of his truck as he sped by the weary troops toiling from the beach toward the sound of heavy guns, a reminder to prepare, as the sound of church beds on Sunday stirs the soul to readiness, growing louder and louder as they approached, acquiring resonance, the sound of guns becoming denser, the crack of small arms like minor chords; and before the final entry, the final act of entry when they went into a ritual of mind and body almost as if entering a church—and then his mind stopped and went back to the sweet tinny coolness of the pineapple juice, the pause in the road, the passing of the can from mouth to mouth. And from this road to a road bathed in moonlight, a French village of small stone houses, blacked out, but against which were parked clearly visible trucks, jeeps, and monstrous gun carriers. At die end of the street a tank was covered with the newly washed clothing, spread to dry by moonlight.
The twang of a bowstring and its arrow's thud seemed to awaken and stir a chilly evening breeze. Hella looked up from her book and Mosca pushed himself to his feet “Do you want something before we go?” Mosca asked.
“No,” Hella said, ‘Tm so full. And Tm afraid my tooth is beginning to hurt again.” Mosca saw a small blue lump along her jaw.
•TO tell Eddie to get you to the dentist at the air base.” They gathered their things together from the chair mid grass, piled them into the carriage. The baby was still asleep. They walked off the grounds to the streetcar stop. When the car came Mosca stretched his long arms and lifted the small carriage onto the rear platform.
The baby began to ay and Hella picked him up mid held him. The conductor waited for fare and Mosca said in German, “We are Americans.” The conductor looked Mosca up and down but did not protest
After a few stops two WACs climbed aboard. One of them noticed the child in Hella's arms and said to the other, “Isn't that a cute German baby?”
The other WAC leaned over to look and said several times, loudly, “Oh, it's a lovely baby,” and looking up to Hella's face to see if she understood, said, “Schon, schon.’
Hella smiled and looked at Mosca, but he made no sign. One of the WACs took a bar of chocolate out of her purse and as they came to a stop she quickly put it on the baby's body. Before Hella could protest they were both out of the car and walking away’
Mosca had been amused at first, but for some reason he was angry now. He took the bar of chocolate and flung it into the street
When they had left the Strassenbahn and were walking home, Hella said, “Don't be so upset because they took us for Germans.”
But it was more than that. He had been frightened, as if. they were really Germans, and had to accept charity, humiliation as one of the conquered. “Well be out of here soon,” he said. “I'll talk to Eddie tomorrow about speeding up the papers.” He felt for the first