The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [104]
Goldstein knew that he should turn around and go back to his letter, but he made a feeble attempt to justify himself. "Oh, I drink," he said. "I like a little sociable drink once in a while, before meals or at a party. . ." He trailed off. A part of his mind had known with a certain bitter understanding that he was in trouble the moment Wilson called him, but that had served only to send random disconnected warnings which he was incapable of obeying.
Wilson looked angry. "Goldstein, you're chicken, that's what you are." Out of his superiority and well-being, he felt a condescending annoyance at anyone who was too stupid to appreciate the chance he had given Goldstein.
"Aaah, go write your letter," Red bellowed. He was in an ugly mood, and Goldstein's expression of humiliation and bewilderment offended him. He felt contempt that Goldstein could not hide his feelings; more, he had had a bitter amused knowledge from the moment Wilson had offered Goldstein a drink. He had known exactly what would happen and it gave him an ironic pleasure. Deep inside him he was feeling a trace of sympathy for Goldstein, but he smothered it. "A man ain't worth a damn if he can't even take care of himself," Red muttered.
Goldstein turned around abruptly and walked away. The circle of men who were drinking drew closer, and there was an almost tangible bond between them now. They opened the third canteen.
"It was jus' a mistake," Wilson said, "to try an' be nice to him."
Martinez nodded. "Man pay for liquor, drink it. No free drinks."
Goldstein tried to become absorbed in his letter again. But he found it impossible to write. He kept brooding over what the men had said and what he had answered, and he kept wishing that he had given the replies he was thinking of now. Why do they give me all this aggravation? he wondered, and for a moment felt like weeping. He picked up his letter and read it through again, not quite able to concentrate on the words. After the war he was planning to open a welding shop, and he and his wife had been discussing it in letters ever since he had been overseas. Just before Wilson had called him, Goldstein had not been writing. He had held his pencil in his hand, and he had thought with excitement and joy of what it would be like with a shop of his own, becoming an established man in the community. He had not been daydreaming about the shop; he had the place picked out, and he had figured very nicely how much money he and his wife would save if the war lasted one year or at most two -- he was very optimistic about its ending soon -- he had even calculated how much they could save if he were to make corporal or sergeant.
It was the only pleasure he had since he had left the States. At night in his tent he would lie awake and plan for his future, or think of his son, or try to imagine where his wife would be at that moment. And sometimes, if he decided that she would be visiting her relatives, he would attempt to create their conversation, and would shake with suppressed glee as he remembered the family jokes.
But now he could not bury himself in those thoughts. As soon as he would try to hear the light cheerful sound of his wife's voice, he would become conscious of the bawdy laughter of the men who were still drinking at his left. Once his eyes filled with tears and he shook his head angrily. Why did they hate him so? he asked himself. He had tried so hard to be a good soldier. He had never fallen out on a hike, he was as strong as any of them, and he worked harder than most of them. He had never fired his gun once when he was on guard, no matter how tempted he had been, but no one ever noticed that. Croft never recognized his worth.
They were just a bunch of Anti-Semiten, he told himself. That was all the goyim knew, to run around with loose women, and get drunk like pigs. Deeply buried was his envy that he had never had many women and did not know the easy loud companionship of drink. He was tired of hoping to make friends with them; they didn't want to get along with him, they hated