The Gallery

by John Horne Burns

  — Shut your lousy mouths! a corporal bawled, clanking his helmet and carbine down. Ya interferin with my digestion.

  — O my aching back, the section sergeant said, grinding out of his pack and sitting down next to Moe. Lieutenant, it would be so goddam simple to dispose of those three supermen . . .

  — Ah, forget it, Moe said. The divisional cages must be somewhere around here. Those Krauts have got to be questioned. . . . They won’t bother us much longer.

  But Moe stood up again and walked over to where the three Germans were blubbering by a watering trough. Kurt, the wounded one, lay face down on the pavement near the spilled wine, moaning and jabbering Roosevelt. His chest wound had now put a wheeze into his noise. Moe took another carton of K-ration out of his musette bag and set it down near the three. Then he walked back across the piazza to his noncom, without watching to see what the Kriegies would do. He ate his canned ham and egg and his biscuits and washed them down with water. All around the stone fountain and in the battered church the rest of the platoon were silently finishing off the liberated vino and cognac. Moe watched their throats as they swallowed one bottle after another. From his K-ration carton Moe gave the three cigarettes to his section sergeant, who lit one, stowing away his own. And Moe settled back and stuck a toothpick between his lips.

  — Lieutenant, the section sergeant said, accepting a light for his cigarette, ya look beatup since ya got back from the hospital in Naples. Ya ain’t ate out nobody’s arse except Dimplepuss. Ya ain’t give none of us a bad time. Didya get all the shackin ya wanted?

  — Only once, Moe said. And it wasn’t really shacking. It was in the open air. In the moonlight in a jeep. Looking down at the bay. . . .

  The section sergeant sighed. He blew out a puff from a lesser-known brand of cigarette, such as came in K-rations. He looked at the dust of the road, at the checkered hillsides of Tuscany, at the platoon, which was still drinking or lying down in the piazza with their heads resting on their packs. Their M-i’s were beside them like dwarf stiff bedfellows.

  — When we git to Florence, the section sergeant said, I’m gonna git me a signorina an I’m gonna sweep her off her feet. I hear that the signorinas in Florence are different from the ones in Naples. Who knows, I might marry her? . . .

  Moe took the little cans that now were empty, stuffed them into the rent carton, and shied the whole package over the fountain. It flew into the doorway of the battered vino shop. Then he spied a public urinal just off the piazza.

  — I’m taking a little walk, he said to his sergeant. Keep your eye on Dimplepuss and the three Jerries. It’s just like you said. I don’t like my boys much today.

  With his thumbs in his pistol belt he walked slowly through his sprawling platoon. His boots clacked on the stone flags. Dimplepuss was nursing a cognac bottle and watching the Krauts tear into the box of K-ration. Kurt, the wounded one, had turned on his side, groaning Roosevelt.

  — Characters like you should only drink on pass, Moe said. Dimplepuss looked at him around the bottle, which had its neck in his mouth. He winked at Moe like a cat.

  — I ain’t feedin these bastards.

  — I don’t expect you to.

  Moe walked leisurely out of the piazza and around the corner. It was hemmed with low slant-roofed Tuscan houses. All the windows had been blown out by the barrage. Washing was still hanging in one courtyard. In one house he saw a dinner sitting cold on the table. Through a window he saw a mussed bed and a colored picture of a blond girl. All the inhabitants, Moe knew, were in the hills. He wondered if they’d start coming back this afternoon, now that all was so quiet. He expected to meet a child someplace in this shambles. It had always been so — at Formia, at Cisterna, at Velletri. In empty Italian villages they’d always come upon at least one child, playing unconcernedly as though it had been born out of the rubble. But here there was no life except the cat that had got drunk from licking spilled red wine.

  Moe went to the urinal. From under its porcelain bowl were heraldic streaks like the corona of the sun, violet and yellow; the stains of generations who’d here done their business after leaving the vino shop at midnight. Moe reflected on the relation between your personality and the color of your urine. Thoughtfully he began to button his trousers. Then he heard his men shouting and the crack of a M-1. And he heard the words Nein, nein!

  He took off on the run, still buttoning his fly. He got his revolver into his fist. Back in the piazza all his platoon were on their feet, in a cluster. Some were holding the arms of the two Kriegies. Dimplepuss was standing straddle over Kurt, the wounded one. Moe saw him fire another round into the belly of the outstretched P/W, who kicked up his legs in an answering spasm.

  — Are ya dead yet? Dimplepuss asked calmly. Tot? Tot? Tot? . . . Say ja and be damned!

  — Nein, nein, the German choked. Nein. . . . Gott! Gott!

  — Not yet, huh? Dimplepuss said in a cold scream.

  And he fired again from the rifle he’d got somewhere.

  The Kraut’s legs kicked again and he spun over on his belly. He was still lying between Dimplepuss’ legs. His wounded arm flailed like the wing of a thrush, and he lay still.

  As Moe came racing in, cocking his revolver, the rest of the platoon shambled back to their places with their eyes down and sat again on their packs.

  — You’re all gone! Moe cried sobbingly. And I hoped and prayed you weren’t! Jesus Christ Almighty!

  — This bastard was groanin an I lost my appetite, Dimplepuss said calmly to Moe. He moved the muzzle of the M-1 away from the Kraut’s belly.

  Moe hit him three times in the face, and Dimplepuss went down on the corpse, whose blood welled leisurely forth from three holes in his coveralls.

  — You can go back to the States as an NP! Moe screamed. You’re under arrest. . . . And when you get to New York start shooting off your face to reporters about the sorrows of combat infantrymen!

  Dimplepuss laughed like ripping steel. Two of his buddies lifted him off the body and took charge of him. The three sat together in the nave of the ruined church. His guards lit a cigarette for Dimplepuss, made him put on his helmet to ward off the sun of Tuscany.

  — Lie down and shut up! Moe yelled again at his platoon. See if you can remember that you’re still alive and human beings! . . . Twenty more minutes and then we take off.

  He went back and sat beside his section sergeant, who was scratching the stubble on his chin.

  — That’s the way it is, lieutenant, the sergeant said.

  — Is? Moe said. Are you sure all this is?

  And he noticed that his chest was heaving stabbingly, as though he’d run miles. It was panting from some windedness outside himself.

  Four of the platoon made up a burying party and proceeded to shovel the dead Kraut under in a sandy space off the piazza. The other two Germans sat glumly down and ate the K-ration. They murmured to one another. Then there was the sound of the entrenching tools clawing up the brown sand. One of the platoon took two two-by-fours out of the lumber debris of a smashed kiosk with a fallen sign that read Corriere della Sera. Out of these planks he fashioned a cross which he thrust into the hummock of the new grave. Moe watched for a while. They knew what to do and were doing it like dolls wound up. Then he took a wrinkled and dirty V-mail form and a bitten pencil from his pocket. He proceeded to write a letter to his friend Irving in Brooklyn. It was automatic writing:

  Somewhere in Italy

  27 August, 1944

  Hullo, boy:

  Your little chum is in that state like in nightmares where you’re surprised to find yourself doing things — and yet you do — you think that nothing more terrible can happen to you but it always does — but you don’t mind because you know that pretty soon you’ll wake up — I know the censors will never let you get this letter — but I’m writing it anyhow — gotta talk to somebody who’s outside all this — does that other world exist? — I can’t remember the time when I was a part of it — what I just saw
now seems sorta natural — so I’m scared that I’m accepting it — I wonder if I really exist at all — last night the colonel of our battalion turned an Eyetie family out of their farmhouse — he hadda use it for an OP — but the family didn’t take to the hills like sensible Ginsoes — they just moved into the chicken house — the woman was far gone and she gave birth to her kid at midnight out there among the manure and feed — the kid died and the woman did the same three hours later — then the Ginso father blew his top and spat on our colonel’s feet, which is what I’ve always wanted to do myself — then he ran away into the night crying and cursing — but there was still that dead Ginso woman and her dead kid in the chicken house —

  Then Moe found another sheet of V-mail stationery in his musette bag and continued to write the second sheet. The letters formed under his tight fingers without his thinking:

  #2 Because I’m crazy I can make a distinction in my mind between killing Krauts, of which I’ve done plenty, and doing a lot of the other things that go on in a war — I can’t see this crap about war criminals — we do all right at the game too once we get started — the only thing that’s safe from us is the women — because they play safe and take to the hills as soon as their town becomes a combat zone — so what do we do? — we loot — we call it liberating material — Irv, I’m so sick of signing my John Hancock on the lower left-hand corner of packages that are being mailed home — our officers and GI’s take anything they’ve a mind to out of the houses and mail it home as a souvenir to their folks — pictures — jewelry — money — blankets — anything they can lay their hands on — how in the name of God are these Eyeties supposed to live after we Liberators have passed through? — have we no mercy whatever on these people? — last week we captured a Kraut dump — we looted that too — millions of dollars’ worth of stuff — Lügers — silk stockings — cameras — radios — cognac — they took all that — and the higher the officer’s rank, the bigger his cut — is the world so rich that we can take everything, even though it’s our enemies’? — and my GI’s expected me to sign my name in the lower left-hand corner of the package — meaning that I’d censored it and it was OK to mail back to the States — we’ve all lost our souls — we’re just like everybody else in the world — worse, because we have everything we need — how can we ever get our hands clean again? — how can we ever look anybody in the eye and brag about being Americans? — there’s a rifleman in my platoon that reads and writes poetry — he says: To the pit with us. To the pit with us all — we’re there already — you may get this letter after the war.

  Moe

  In the late afternoon Moe and his platoon were still walking through the countryside of Tuscany. Ahead of them the shelling had resumed. They walked with their heads down, in single files on both shoulders of the road. They could see umbrellas of brown spray opening on the horizon ahead of them. The two remaining Kriegies trudged by themselves. Dimplepuss shuffled along laughing between his guards. They’d passed another of the castles on a hillside like those Moe remembered in the sunny background of Italian paintings. Ahead of them on another hill was another castle. The August sunlight cast some of its towers into shadow. Moe looked at it, then lowered his eyes to the dust his boots were kicking up. He shifted his carbine to the other shoulder. He looked down at his mottled right hand nestling in the carbine sling. His life now appeared to him as a stagger through one Tuscan valley after another, with sunny castles looking down at him from their hilltops with the pity of history. In this same Tuscany there had been beauty and laughter. Once.

  Moe felt someone in the rear file edging up on him. So he turned with a wariness he hadn’t always had. He found one of his corporals close behind his shoulder staring at him with the penetration that people use when they will someone to turn and look at them. This corporal was a blond kid from Wisconsin who used to work in a cheese factory. Moe dropped back so that he was walking to the right of the corporal, both of them on the left side of the road.

  — Maybe ya can explain somethin to me, lieutenant. . . . I . . . keep thinkin of myself like I’m a was . . . not a is. . . . See what I mean, lieutenant? . . . I think about myself an I say: He did this or he thought this way. . . . Right now in fact I can see myself walkin alongside a you like we was both in a movie. . . . See what I mean? Why is that?

  — I guess . . . the present doesn’t exist for us, Moe said. His tongue was pricked by the toothpick in his lips. Or we don’t want to think about it.

  — Well, that would be all right too, the corporal said. Except I can’t think of the future either. . . . It’s all past. Past tense like in grammar in school. Like an old man. An I’m just twenty-one. . . . Christ, lieutenant, I don’t wanna have any memories yet . . . or be one.

  — And I, Moe said slowly, keep thinking of when I was in Napoli two weeks ago. . . . I see it all so clear cut and finished — as though I was reading ancient history.

  — Gee, maybe this is the end for us, lieutenant? the corporal asked almost hopefully. Maybe the war is over and we don’t know it yet?

  — I guess we’re just bogged down in today, Moe said. You know how it is, boy. . . . The moment just seems there, that’s all. . . . You don’t feel you ever lived at any other time but now . . . not yesterday . . . not tomorrow. . . .

  — Well, I don’t understand ya, lieutenant. But I see what ya mean. . . . Say, lieutenant, I keep havin cravins . . . cravins for simple things. But if I could satisfy em, I’d think I was in heaven. . . . Just a bite of a cold apple again . . . or to take an cut a piece a yeller cheese with a sharp knife an watch the peelins . . . or to see my steady lookin at me after I’ve kissed her.

  — I think I understand, Moe said. And I think I see what you mean. . . .

  Moe peered over his shoulder at his platoon and the two Kriegies. He signaled them all to slow down. For they were approaching another curve in the yellow and green Tuscan road. They spread out and scattered and he went on ahead with the section sergeant following at his heels. Ahead was a hamlet of six houses, a demure concentration such as they’d seen a thousand times in Italy from Salerno on up. Smoke was snaking from a chimney in one of the yellow farmhouses. Moe and his sergeant dropped behind a tree.

  — Pretty damn peaceful, the sergeant said. Like Indiana. . . .

  After half an hour of noiseless observation of these six houses, Moe sent a scout ahead, who loped and dropped from tree to tree. The way he held his M-1 as he alternately trotted and took cover made him look like a scissors. Later he came back, calmly walking upright.

  — Hell, lieutenant, they’s nothin but Ginso farmers there. All cookin supper.

  — Too perfect, Moe said. I don’t believe a word of it. And I’m not calling you a liar. Wait here.

  Himself approached the six houses, running and dropping, as the scout had gone the first time. There were seven trees between the turn of the road and the nearest dwelling. Over its door was the sign:

  PODERE DI ANACLETO SPADINI

  With his carbine across his chest in both his hands, Moe stood for a long time before the low oak door. His shadow fell across its threshold. Finally he kicked with his boot three times at the lintel. He heard a voice inside cry out, Avanti. Then the door swung inward. All he saw of the house was the wide main room and fireplace. In front of this sat an old woman sewing. She stared straight at him with unblinking eyes.

  — Buona sera, signora, Moe said politely, himself and his carbine bowing. Io tenente americano . . . avere molti soldati . . . un po’ di vino?

  — Sì, sì, sì, the old lady said, laying down her work and rising slowly. Noi abbiamo molto vino per americani liberatori.

  — Ma . . . niente tedeschi? Moe asked cautiously after a pause, peering about the shadowy room.

  For there were places where the afternoon sunlight didn’t hit. Chairs in shade. A curtained closet. A door leading somewhere. The old lady spread her hands out calmly and supplely and smiled again.

  — No, signor tenente . . . abb
ia fiducia . . . niente tedeschi.

  But still her eyes looked through him. Her glance was the well-wishing of the dead toward the living. Moe, still holding his carbine across his chest, walked silently and quickly up to her. He passed his hand over her face. Those gray gentle eyes didn’t blink.

  — Oh, he said in a gush of relief and pity, you’re blind. . . . You know, you look something like my mother in Brooklyn. . . . Oh excuse me . . . la mia mamma . . . she’s a Jewish lady and you’re Italian . . . same difference, I guess.

  He laughed. He put his hand on her shoulder and gently made her sit down in her place. There was no terror in her eyes, only a shining kindness as though she wished she might focus her blindness on him. But again she bounded up with something of a hospitable bustle. She put out her hands and made to go out of the room. Then she turned and made Moe a low curtsy.

  — Ora vi porto il vino, she said. Quanti soldati avete, signor tenente?

  — There are thirty-seven of us, he said. Trenta e sette. . . . But don’t hurry, ma’am.

  Then she turned from the door and came toward Moe without hesitation, as though she smelled or felt where he stood in front of the settle. She put her arms about his shoulders and kissed him lightly. Her cheek smelled of eggs and linen dried in the Tuscan sun.

  — Figlio mio, she said. Figlio mio. . . .

  — Why, I’d just as soon be your son, he said, sitting in the other chair by the fireplace.

  Then she left him and went into the next room, which, he saw as the door opened under her sure pressure, was the kitchen. He watched her cut the light of the kitchen window, which opened onto a little garden of her own. He watched her take down from a shelf a decanter of ruby wine. He began to relax in his chair and smile to himself; for somehow he felt that he was at home here. He looked down at the dust on his boots, coating even the buckles.

  At this moment there was a burst of firing all around the house. He recognized the splitting bark of American M-1’s. And another sound. In the kitchen as he leaped to his feet he saw the old Tuscan lady fall to the stone floor. The decanter of red wine she was still holding splintered in her hand and hit the pavement before her body did.