The Dark Arena

by Mario Puzo

  Hie chairs were of the hard, folding variety, the tables were equally bare and stern. There were no decorations. The room was full, people jammed together, so that the waiters hi many instances could not serve a table directly and had to ask intervening couples to pass the drinks on. Wolf was known here, and they followed his portly figure to a table near the wall.

  Wolf offered his cigarettes all around and said to the waiter, “Six schnapps.” At the same time he slipped the rest of the cigarettes in the pack into the waiter's hand. ‘The clear stuff.” The waiter bowed and hurried off.

  Frau Meyer turned her blonde head to look at the room.

  “It's not very nice here,” she said.

  Eddie patted her hand. “Baby, this is for people who lost the war.”

  Mosca smiled at Hella, “Not too bad, is it?”

  She shook her head. “It's a change,” she said. “I should see how my fellow Germans enjoy themselves.” Mosca missed the slight guilt in her voice, but Eddie understood and his delicate mouth curved into a smile. One weapon found, he thought, and felt a sudden elation, a sudden passion.

  “There's a good story about this place,” Wolf said. “They had to bribe the Education Officer at Mil Gov to certify it as unfit for any school activities and then bribe the Fine Arts Officer as okay for entertainment purposes. Nobody knows whether it's really safe.” He added, “Not that it matters, it'll be closed up in a couple of days, anyway.”

  “Oh, why?” Hella asked.

  “Wait and see,” Wolf said, smiling with a knowing air.

  Leo said with his usual good humor, “Look at them.” He gestured around the room. “I never saw sadder looking people in my life. And they are paying to have such a bad time?” They all laughed. The waiter brought their drinks.

  Eddie raised his glass. His handsome face settled into a mock seriousness. “Happiness to our two friends, a perfectly matched couple. Look at them. One, a princess so sweet and fair. The other, a scowling brute. She will mend his socks and have his slippers ready each evening and for a reward she will receive some well-chosen hard words and a blow. My friends, this marriage will be perfect It wiH last a hundred years if he doesn't kill her first.” They drank, Mosca and Hella smiling at each other as if they possessed an answer, a secret no one at the table could guess.

  The two couples went out to dance on the small floor before the raised stage at the other end of the room. Wolf and Leo were left alone. Wolf looked around with a practiced eye.

  Cigarette smoke rose over the mass of people to the high, domed ceiling. The patrons were a curious mixture, old couples who had perhaps sold a piece of good furniture and decided on one night out to relieve the dun monotony of their lives; young black-market operators, good friends of American mess sergeants and PX officers, sat at tables with young girls who wore nylon stockings and smelled of perfume; old men who trafficked in diamonds and furs, automobiles and other valuables, sat with girls not richly dressed, sedate mistresses of long standing, a salaried relationship.

  The densely packed room was not noisy, the general conversation not loud in volume. The drinks were ordered at long intervals, and there was no food of any kind in sight. The band tried its best to play American tunes jazz style, the drummer's square head shaking from side to side in a strained but reserved imitation of American performers helpless with inner rhythm.

  Wolf nodded to some people at other tables, black-market operators he had done business with for cigarettes. They had been spotted for Americans as soon as they came in, he thought, and curiously enough more because of the ties they wore than anything else. The other people here were just as well dressed but for some reason the black market could not supply ties, the people here wore dull, ragged pieces of doth for neckwear. Wolf stored this away in his mind. Another way to make an easy dollar.

  The music ended, and everyone went back to the tables. Eddie, flushed with dancing and the contact with Frau Meyer's body, watched Hella intently as she sat down and then leaned over on Mosca's chair, her hand resting on his shoulder. In his mind he saw the hard, white body on a brown Army blanket, spreading, spreading, his face close to her neat and passive head. In a moment he felt sure of his success—how it would happen he did not know—and then the image shattered as from the rose-colored circle of light under which the band played, the only friendly color in the room, came three short, commanding blasts of a trumpet.

  The small hum quieted, the white bright lights dimmed, and the room became cavernous, the high, domed ceiling invisible in the darkness above them.

  On the auditorium stage a Hue of girls came out dancing so badly that when they exited there was not even a polite smattering of applause. They were followed by a juggler and then by acrobats. And then a girl singer with a robust figure and a high, weak voice.

  “Christ,” Mosca said, “let's get the hell out’

  Wolf shook his head. “Wait a bit”

  The audience was still attentive, still expectant. The trumpet gave out another flourish, and the lights dimmed almost to darkness; the stage at the end of the room became a luminous, yellow square, and into it, strolling nonchalantly from the outside darkness of the wings, came a small, dapper man with the full, round, rubberlike face of the born comedian. He was greeted with a storm of applause. He began to talk to the audience conversation” ally, as if there were no barrier between them.

  “I must apologize that part of my famous act cannot be performed tonight. My dog, Frederick, is not to be found anywhere.” He paused, his face sorrowful, and then in simulated anger, “Ifs a shame, really a shame. Ten dogs I have trained and always they disappear. In Berlin—gone. In Dlisseldorf—gone, and now here. Always the same.” A girl came rushing out on the stage. She whispered in his ear. The comedian nodded his head and turned briskly to the audience. “My friends, the management has asked me to announce that meat sandwiches will be available right after this performance.” He winked. “No ration card necessary but at an exorbitant price Of course. Now as I was saying—” He stopped. On his face a look so comical in its wonder, dismay, and then complete understanding shattered the audience into a great wave of laughter. “Frederick, my Frederick,” he shrieked, and rushed off the stage. He came strolling back into the light munching a sandwich. As the laughter subsided he said sadly, “Too late. But he is a good friend to the last. A truly tasty sandwich.” And with an enormous bite he made most of it disappear.

  Waiting for the applause to die, he wiped his mouth and then took a piece of paper from Ins pocket Raising a hand for silence he began, “Today everyone worries about calories. I read here that we need 1300 calories to stay alive and that we get 1S50 calories in the ration established by Military Government No criticism of the authorities intended, but I wish to point out tonight how careful we must be with our extra two hundred calories. Now, a few simple rules,”

  He told all the old jokes about calories but so expertly that one ripple of laughter followed another. He was interrupted by a scantily clad girl who came dancing on the stage and whirled around him. He watched her with a greedy and appraising eye and then from his pockets drew out a carrot, a small head of lettuce, and a handful of green beans. He counted on his fingers and shook his head. Then shrugged and said, “She will take a thousand calories at least”

  The girl pushed against him. He explained to her in pantomime what the trouble was. She reached between her breasts and drew out a small bunch of grapes. He pantomimed; not enough. She started ‘to reach into her shorts, but he, with a look of noble abnegation said loudly, “Please, I couldn't” As the girl exited sadly from the stage he thrust out with his arm and said, “If I had only a hot beefsteak.” The laughter rose to the high-domed ceiling.

  On the stage the comedian's rubbery face was exalted and flushed with the power he held over them. Exuberantly he did quick imitations: Rudolph Hess, drooling, raving insanely, escaping in a plane to England; Goebbels explaining a night put to his wife with the most ridiculous and outrageous lies;
Goering promising that no bombs would ever fall on Berlin as he dived underneath a table to escape the falling debris. When the comedian made his exit there was a tremendous applause. It continued until he reappeared. The audience gasped and was still.

  His hair was combed over his eyes and there was a smudge on his upper lip that could be a short, small mustache. He had screwed up his rubbery face into a startling Hitlerian mask. He stood near the wings, the look on his face half-parody, half-earnest. He radiated power and magnetism. He held the audience with his glance and in a loud voice that rang to the high-domed ceiling asked, “Do you want me back?”

  There was a moment of shocked silence and as he stood there, slowly on that white-floured face appeared the deadly smile of a successful anti-Christ. The audience understood.

  The room exploded. Some men leaped onto chairs and tables and shouted, “Yah, Yah.” The women clapped furiously. Some stomped on the floor with their feet, and others banged tables with their fists” The din filled the room, crashed against the walls, and reverberated against the ceiling.

  Wolf was on his feet looking across the crowd at the stage with a grim smile on his face. Mosca had understood and leaned back in his chair sipping his drink. Frau Meyer was looking down at the table trying to restrain a smile of pleasure. Eddie was asking her, “What goes on, what the hell goes on?”

  Frau Meyer said, “Nothing, nothing.”

  Hella looked at Leo across the table. His face was rigid, but the tic on the left side was out of control. She flushed and unconsciously shook her head from side to side as if to disclaim any responsibility, any share in what was going on. But Leo turned his eyes away from her and stared again at the stage.

  The comedian's rubbery face was normal now and he had brushed his hair back as he bowed. The illusion was gone, and he accepted the applause as if it were his due, given for the pleasure his art afforded.

  The band struck up a tune. Wolf sat down nodding his head as if he understood many things. People moved out to dance. There were many glances at their table. Two young men seated near by had the girls with them almost hysterical with their murmured wit.

  Leo stared down at the table, ‘fading his face twitching. He was angry, with a hurt and helpless despair. He hoped one of the others would suggest leaving.

  Mosca, watching him, understood and said to Wolf and the others, “Let's get out.” As he stood up he saw that one of the young men had turned his chair so that he faced their table and could stare at Leo with an amused grin. The front of his head was bald, his face heavy, the features thick and forceful.

  Mosca said to Wolf with a nod of his head, “Let's take that guy with us.”

  Wolf studied Mosca as if he saw something he had guessed and hoped for. “Okay, I'll use my Intelligence card to get him outside. You got a weapon, just in case?”

  “One of those small Hungarian things,” Mosca said.

  Leo raised his head. “No, I don't want to do anything like that. Let us just leave.”

  Hella took Mosca's arm. “Yes, let's leave,” she said. The others rose. Wolf was shaking his head up and down again as if he understood something. He glanced at Leo with a look of pity and contempt. He saw that Mosca had frowned and shrugged and was on his way out. As Wolf went past the other table he leaned over and put his face close to the young German's and looked into his eyes. “A loud laugh can be very unhealthy, do you understand me?” He flashed his Intelligence card, knowing the German would be able to read it. As he followed the others, he smiled, and no laughter followed their retreat

  They drove back to Mosca's room for a drink. Hella began to prepare bacon sandwiches on the electric plate which stood on a foot locker.

  They all sat around the large, square table, except Eddie who stretched out in the stuffed chair in one corner of the room. Mosca unlocked the white painted wardrobe and took out liquor and cigarettes.

  Eddie from his chair asked, “How do the bastards get away with it?”

  “TTiey won't,” Wolf said. “He's pulled some raw stuff, but tonight he went too far. How do you like the reception he got, though?” Wolf shook his white, heavy face up and down in amused wonder. “These krauts never learn. You'd think that if they just took a walk down the street they'd never want to fight again. But they're rarin’ to go. Just in their blood.” Mosca said jokingly to Leo, “Looks like you'd better make up your mind where you're going, Palestine or the States.” Leo shrugged and sipped his coffee.

  Wolf asked, “Can you go to the States?”

  “Oh, yes,” Leo said. “I can go there.”

  “Then go.” Wolf studied him. “If tonight's any indication, you're too soft for that pioneer stuff.”

  Leo put his hand up to the left side of his face.

  “Leave it lay,” Mosca said.

  “No. Don't misunderstand me, Leo, when I say the trouble with your race has always been that they never fight back. Some people think they're cowards. I think it's a matter of being too civilized. They don't believe in force. Like tonight. If we'd taken that guy outside and knocked him around, it would have helped, in a small way. If you people ever get a country of your own, thank your terrorist organizations. Terror and force are great weapons. Organizations in every country use them and never underestimate their power. I'm surprised you don't know that after what you've been through.”

  Leo said slowly, “Fm not afraid to go to Palestine, and in some ways I know it is my duty. But I think, too, how it will be a hard time. I want now—pleasure. That is the only way I can think of it. And yet I am ashamed that I think this way. But I will go away.”

  “Don't put it off too long,” Wolf said. “These krauts will never change. It's in their blood. You can see it every day.”

  Leo went on as if he had not heard. “As for terror and force, I don't believe. My father was in camp with me; he was a German, by the way, my mother was a Jew. My father was a political prisoner, he went before me.”

  The tic on Leo's face wait into motion again and he put up his hand to hold it still. “He died there but taught me before he died. He told me that one day I would be free and that the most terrible thing that could happen to me was to become like the people who kept us there. I believe him still. It is a little hard, but I believe him still.’

  Wolf shook his head. “I know. I know people like your father.” His voice was expressionless.

  Hella and Frau Meyer passed hot bacon sandwiches around. Leo refused his. “Tin going to bed,” he said. He left and they could hear him in the next room, his radio tuned to a German station playing soft string music.

  Frau Meyer went ova: to Eddie and pushed him playfully. “Stop dreaming,” she said.

  Eddie smiled, his handsome, delicate face soft with a sleepy tenderness. As Hella knelt by the electric plate, he watched her over his glass and thought, It will be in this room, and every piece of furniture stood out clearly as if there were no people there. He was always doing this, his mind always creating scenes with women he had not even approached.

  Wolf munched on his bacon sandwich. “Ifs funny the ideas people get.” His voice lowered. “The men who ran Leo's camp were probably ordinary guys like you and me. Just following orders. During the war when I was in counter-intelligence, we'd get some prisoners, and the major would look at his watch and say, ‘I want such and such information by two o'clock.” We got it.” Wolf accepted a cigar from Mosca and puffed on it. “I got back to the States for a leave before I started on this job and saw some of those war movies. You know, the hero gets tortured but dies of pain before he gives in and talks.” Wolf waved his cigar in exasperation at the memory. “Of course, they can't even hint what's really done.” He paused and looked at Mosca intently. “They're ashamed to admit it A man can't control himself if the right things are done to him. Not one goddamn one.”

  Mosca filled the glasses, everybody was sleepy except Wolf. Frau Meyer sat curled in Eddie's lap, and Hella had stretched out on the couch against the wall opposite the bed.
<
br />   Wolf smiled. ‘U has a special technique. Td never ask a question until I gave ifaem a little punishment first. Like that old gag about the newly married couple. The husband raps her in the mouth as soon as they're alone and says, “That's for nothing, watch what you do.’ Same idea.” He grinned disarmingly, his dead-white face filled with cheerful good humor. “I know what you think, here's a no-good son of a bitch. But somebody has always had to do that kind of work. You can't win wars without it. Believe me, I don't get any of this sadistic kind of pleasure like in the movies. But it's necessary. Hell, I even got a decoration out of it” He added hastily and sincerely, “But, of course, we never were as rough as the Germans.”

  Eddie yawned. “All very interesting, but I think Til go down to my room.”

  Wolf laughed defensively. “I guess it is too late for a lecture.” He let Eddie and Frau Meyer leave before him. He finished his drink and said to Mosca, “Come on downstairs, I want a talk with you.” They went down to the street and sat in Wolfs jeep.

  “All that Eddie thinks of is gash,” Wolf said in an angry contemptuous voice.

  “He was just sleepy,” Mosca said.

  “How come you carry a weapon?” Wolf asked.

  Mosca shrugged. “Used to having one, I guess. And the war isn't over long.”

  Wolf nodded “I don't like to be out at night without one, either.”

  There was another moment of silence, and Mosca moved restlessly.

  Wolf puffed on his cigar. “I wanted to get you alone because I have an idea about making ourselves a pile-of dough. I guess everybody in the occupation has a little hunk of gravy. Now I got a lot of contacts, diamonds for cigarettes, all that kind of stuff. I can fix you up.”

  “Hell,” Mosca said impatiently, “I can't get my hands on that many cigarettes.”

  Wolf hesitated and then went QU. “YOU know, some day you may need a lot of dough. For instance, if they catch Hella in your room it'll be your ass, you'll get sent back to the States.” He held up his hand. “I know, you'll go underground, a lot of guys have done it. But you'll need money. Or, say it came to a pinch, and you had to take her out of Germany. You can get phony papers, but they cost an arm and a leg. And wherever you go, Scandinavia, France, any other place, living comes high. Ever think of it?”