4
During the summer of 1939 many embassies called their staffs home. Maurice Raynal wrote Jonas a letter from Paris, saying he would not be returning to La Escuela for the fall term. His father had been called home and was serving as first officer aboard a French cruiser.
Jonas wrote Maurice that he would not return to the school either. His mother and stepfather and grandfather had anticipated what would happen: that the school would lose three-quarters of its European students and would replace them with students who would not have been admitted before, from Latin American nations. It would make the school provincial — exactly what they did not want. His family had enrolled him in a school in the United States, Culver Military Academy in Indiana. Maurice should write him there, he said.
Jonas never heard from or of Maurice Raynal again.
Culver Military Academy was a difficult school, and not one that he liked. He was lonely there. The climate was cold. The norteamericanos were cold. He found it difficult to make friends. He learned to introduce himself simply as Jonas Cord, a name that sounded yanqui and saved him from the contempt most of the boys felt for Mexicans. A few knew the name Jonas Cord. They did not guess, fortunately, that he was an illegitimate son. He wore a uniform and learned to stand at attention and march. He did well academically. If he won any reputation at all, it was for his marksmanship. He won medals on the rifle range. Even so, he did not like Culver and did not enjoy his three years there.
The school had, just the same, a major impact on his life. His English became more American. He studied more of science and mathematics, less of languages, and so made up a deficiency in his education. He acquired a lasting distaste for military organization and discipline, yet a credential in them that would serve him well.
He learned that the relationship he'd had with Maurice was held in sneering abhorrence by Americans, who made crude jokes about it in foul language.
He graduated in June 1943. His mother and grandfather traveled all the way from Mexico to be present. On their way home on the train, his mother beamed as she announced what would be next in his life.
"We are very pleased, son. You have been admitted to Harvard!" Then her smile faded. "Of course ... Next year you will be of the age when every young American can be called to military service."
5
In the fall of 1942, Cambridge, Massachusetts, was an austere place. Most of the upperclassmen were gone. The few who remained had obvious physical infirmities. Jonas had no basis for comparison, but he sensed that two things were missing from Harvard College that year: first, the effervescence of youth and optimism, and, second, a confident sense of permanence that must have been traditional.
Instead, the college was gloomy and tentative. The institution and everyone associated with it were feeling their way, confident that Harvard would endure, yet not quite sure how, confident they would personally survive the war, while conscious that not all of them would.
His classes were not difficult. He was enrolled in an English class, which was really a class in English literature; a mathematics class, where the subject was calculus; a class in the history of Europe beginning with the Renaissance; a class in French, advanced; and a philosophy class, in which the entire first semester was devoted to the study of Plato's Republic. Except for the last, his courses covered nothing he had not studied before. When he took his first exams, the college decided it had a prodigy.
He was also required to take a class in physical education, and in order to avoid the strange American games of football and basketball, he concentrated on swimming and learned to play tennis. His coaches were pleased, though they knew they would have him for only one year.
The swimming coach had great difficulty finding boys willing to compete in the butterfly. It was, guys said, a "hairshirt" way to swim. To Jonas, who had first learned to swim at Culver, all the competitive strokes but freestyle seemed unnatural, no one any more so than any other. When the coach asked him to swim the butterfly, he agreed. Within a few weeks he was the freshman butterfly man. He won the intramural competition, then won a war-diminished inter-mural competition. He sent his blue ribbons to Cordoba.
He received two letters a week from his mother, one a month from his grandfather, an occasional letter from his stepfather, and one occasionally from his half brothers and sisters, usually writing together. He wrote to his mother in English, the other letters in Spanish. His roommate marveled over his ability to write easily in two languages. In truth, Jonas could have written in French or German almost as easily.
6
His roommate's name was Jerome Rabin, a Jew from Brooklyn and the first Jew he had ever met. Jerry was in the same situation as Jonas. He would be draft-eligible early in 1944.
They talked about it. "I'm going to apply for a naval officer's commission," said Jerry. "What they call the ninety-day-wonder program. Ninety days after I enlist I'll be an ensign. But, say, do you have to go at all? You're Mexican."
"I am a citizen of the United States," Jonas said soberly. "My father is a citizen, which makes me a citizen. It is important to me to keep my citizenship."
"They can't take it away from you," said Jerry.
"But I don't want to be known later in life as one who evaded his military obligation. That could become a great impediment."
"You've thought this through," Jerry remarked dryly.
"And discussed it with my mother and my stepfather and my grandfather."
"With your father?"
"I've never met him."
"I'm sorry," said Jerry. "I shouldn't have asked. I didn't mean to pry."
"I am not offended."
"Well — Let's change the subject," said Jerry. "Since both of us will be going away next year, we have only this year to get our wicks dipped."
"I ... don't understand."
Jerry Rabin grinned. He was a lighthearted boy who would later confide to Jonas that when they first met he found his roommate formidably solemn. He was not as tall as Jonas and was slight of build. His features were delicate. Girls envied his dark eyes. He had a Mediterranean complexion.
He opened a drawer in one of the two small desks in the room and pulled out a quart bottle and two small glasses. He poured and handed one glass to Jonas. "A shot of rye," he said. "It will put us in a better mood to plan our campaign."
Jonas sipped cautiously. It was his first taste of distilled spirits. He had drunk wine with dinner since he was ten years old, but his stepfather and grandfather had never invited him to share in their after-dinner brandy — nor, for that matter, to smoke cigars with them. The rye whiskey tasted terrible. He swallowed it with difficulty.
"Your English is perfect," said Jerry. "Apparently, though, somebody neglected to tell you a few words. Do you know what 'fuck' means?"
Jonas nodded. "Yes." His attention was focused on the rye remaining in his glass. He did not want to seem unappreciative; neither did he want Jerry to guess this was his first taste of whiskey.
"Have you ever done it?"
"No."
"Well, neither have I, and wouldn't it be a tragedy if we went off to war, maybe even got killed, and hadn't ever done it? That's why we've got to plan a campaign to get girls up to this room. And, incidentally, getting your wick dipped is a politer way of saying fuck. We have all kinds of ways to avoid using the word. Don't ever use it. You'll shock the eyeteeth out of people. We say" — he raised his voice a register and spoke through pursed lips — "we say, 'have sexual intercourse.' We say, 'make love.' We say, 'go to bed.' Or we say, 'get our rocks off.' Anything to avoid saying 'fuck.' "
Jonas grinned. "I've been denied an essential element of my education," he said — although it wasn't true, because he had heard much talk of this kind at Culver. He tipped his glass and finished his drink. "I will be grateful to you for more instruction."
Jerry refilled their shot glasses. "What's between our legs is a penis. Isn't that a terrible word? Guys call it 'cock' or 'peter' or 'dick.' What girls hav
e is a vagina, another terrible clinical word. Guys call it a 'cunt,' chiefly. But don't ever use any of these words, the polite ones or the other ones, to girls. They'll go ga-ga. In fact, don't talk about these things at all. Except to guys."
Jonas laughed. "We have all these funny words and can't use them."
"Anyway," said Jerry, "we're virgins. I don't know about you, but I intend to remedy that as soon as I can."
"Why didn't you remedy it before?"
"The family. The neighborhood. Why didn't you?"
"The same, I suppose. Actually, I don't even know very many girls."
"Well, tell me, what did you put down on your card as your religion?"
"I wrote nothing. It was optional."
Jerry clapped his hand to his forehead in mock grief. "Why couldn't you have put down Catholic? Then you'd have been invited to a church and a Catholic youth club, where you could have met not only girls but naive girls."
Jonas shrugged. He had begun to learn something of what rye whiskey did to a person.
"Girls, Jonas! Nooky. Poontang. Don't you enjoy seeing their tight little asses twitch when they walk?"
"Well ... I haven't watched ... that much."
"Start watching! Start looking. Look at asses. Look at boobs. Concentrate on the job at hand, which is get our wicks dipped before we have to go into uniform."
7
When Jerry learned that Jonas could not go home for Christmas break — the journey was too far, and wartime restrictions on transportation might have made it impossible — he invited Jonas to come home with him. Jonas accepted the invitation, went home with Jerry Rabin, and lived for two weeks with a Jewish family in Brooklyn. It was a rewarding experience. He even learned a bit of another language: Yiddish.
Neither Jonas nor Jerry had by then gotten his wick dipped. They remained virgins. But at Jerry's prompting Jonas had begun to look more closely at girls: appreciatively, speculatively. Ironically, he looked that way at Jerry's sister, Susan. He noticed the size of her breasts. He studied the way her backside twitched when she walked. He studied that so closely he realized he had to be careful not to be so obvious. Lying in his bed in the guest room, he fantasized a faint knock on the door, then Susan coming in, undressing, slipping into his bed. In real fact, he would not have touched her. She was his friend's sister! But he found the fantasy delicious.
8
Spring break came, and they hadn't hauled their ashes.
It occurred to Jonas that they were too obvious. Girls they met knew what they wanted. The girls didn't want the same thing.
Finally, in April, Jerry succeeded in persuading two girls to visit the dorm room. They were not supposed to be there, so they had to climb up a fire escape, enter the dorm through a window, and slip along the hall to the boys' room — which process alone had discouraged several girls from accepting an invitation.
They were town girls. That is to say, they lived in Cambridge. One was still in high school. The other had graduated and worked as a waitress. Both lived with their parents and had to be home by eleven.
Neither was exquisitely beautiful. Helen was dark-haired, brown-eyed, and chubby. Ruth was blond and thinner. Her face was marred by pimples — only two that evening, but the marks of others remained on her cheeks.
None of these four young people had any doubt why the two girls had come to visit the two boys in their dormitory room. Only two questions remained: Which girl would be intimate with which boy, and what were the terms of this visit?
The two girls, it turned out, expected to be paid five dollars apiece. Jerry shook his head firmly. Maybe two, he said.
Jonas seized Jerry by the sleeve of his gray tweed jacket and shoved him out into the hall. "Listen, goddammit," he said. "Didn't you ever read Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain?"
"What's that got to do with —"
"All their lives the 'pilgrims' had dreamed of going for a boat ride on the Sea of Galilee. When the boatmen asked for eight dollars, they offered four, and the boatmen rowed away. Those 'pilgrims' never did get to sail on the Sea of Galilee. Because of four dollars divided among eight men. I'm going to give one of those girls five dollars and get my wick dipped. I suggest you give five to the other one."
Jonas strode back into the room and handed a five-dollar bill to Helen, the dark, chubby one. For his decisiveness he got his choice. Jerry would later complain of that, but for now he grudgingly counted out five one-dollar bills to Ruth.
Once again decisive, Jonas led Helen to the maroon-plush-upholstered sofa that was the centerpiece of the living room. His eyes shooting annoyance, Jerry took Ruth into the bedroom.
Helen undressed, directly without diffidence or hesitation. When she was naked, she helped Jonas undress. "Y’ know," she said, "I bet this here's your first time."
"Not really," he said.
She lifted his penis in her hand. "Well," she said. "Y' got what it takes, anyway. Y' ready?"
"Sure." He didn't know the term foreplay but had supposed there would be something before the act. But he didn't want her to suppose he didn't know what to do. "Sure. Let's do it."
She opened her purse and took out a Coin-Pak. Stripping the foil off, she pulled out the rubber and stretched it on her fingers. "Not circumcised," she muttered. "Bet y' friend is. Anyway, y' want it skinned back?"
"No."
She rolled the condom onto his erect penis. Then she lay on her back and spread her legs. "C'mon."
It was purely mechanical. Yet the satiation was so complete that it exhausted him. When he was finished and dropped his weight on her hips, Helen tousled his hair and patted his back: the first sign from her of anything like affection. He became conscious that his skin and hers were wet and their sweat was mingling. Their odors mingled. It had not occurred to him until then to kiss her, and she had not offered herself to be kissed, but he kissed her now and felt her tongue coming between his lips and into his mouth.
When Jerry and Ruth came out of the bedroom, Jonas was on his back under Helen, he was in her, and she was moaning quietly as she rotated her hips. His eyes were closed. So were hers. They were not aware that the other couple stood gaping, watching them.
"Well, Jee-zuss Christ!" said Ruth.
10
1
HE RETURNED TO CAMBRIDGE IN THE FALL OF 1943. in February 1944 he registered for the draft, using as his address the dormitory where he had lived the past year with Jerry Rabin. Then he enlisted in the United States Army.
The first thing the army did was give him a new name. The army was no-nonsense about names. Everybody had a first name, a middle initial, and a last name. The sergeant who handled the matter took his first name as Jonas, his middle initial as E. (for Enrique), and his last name as Batista. What "Cord y" meant, he didn't know and didn't care. So far as the United States Army was concerned, Jonas Enrique Raul Cord y Batista was Private Jonas E. Batista.
Within a few days his name was changed even further. The guys in his outfit didn't like the name Jonas. It sounded too much like the guy that was swallowed by the whale, one man said. Or like Judas, which was a jinx. Anyway, he didn't look like a Jonas. They tried calling him Joe, but there were too many Joes. Batista? So, okay, he was Bat. The nickname stuck. Bat. Men called him Bat who had no idea his last name was Batista.
Two weeks after he arrived at Fort Dix he was summoned to the office of a Captain Barker.
"Where you from, Batista?"
"Cambridge, Mass, sir."
"Graduate of Culver."
"Yes, sir."
"Fluent in German. And French."
"Yes, sir."
"Shit, Private. The army's got better things for you to do than basic infantryman. I'm transferring you. The army's got ninety-day wonders, not just the navy."
2
"Captain's looking for you, Lieutenant. He's in the beer hall up the street."
First Lieutenant Jonas E. Batista nodded at Sergeant David Amory and walked off toward the beer hall, a hundred yards up t
he street. He had just finished interrogating three German civilians, without learning anything he needed to report to Captain Grimes. A cold drizzle had been falling all morning, and he walked on slippery cobblestones.
"Hey, Bat." Another lieutenant, named Duffy, came across the street. "Grimes is calling in the platoon leaders."
"Yeah, I just got the word."
"What's up, ya know?"
"Change of orders," said Bat.
"How ya know?"
"Hell, there's always a change of orders."
Duffy was an older man, almost thirty. He was in fact older than Captain Grimes. Bat was the youngest platoon leader in the company. He was the youngest first lieutenant in the battalion. He had six months of combat experience and had suffered a flesh wound in the left armpit in Belgium — wound enough to merit a Purple Heart. He had killed a German soldier — that is, killed him one-on-one, not just by directing platoon fire. Still almost a year short of his twentieth birthday, Bat had acquired the reputation of a tough, effective, aggressive infantry officer.
Inside the beer hall, Captain Grimes sat at one of the heavy oaken tables. Four big steins of beer stood on the table, one for himself and one for each of his three platoon leaders. A map was spread on the table.
"Okay, guys," said the captain. "Everything's changed." He put a finger on the symbol for a village on the Rhine. "That's where we're going. Remagen. The Krauts haven't blown up the Ludendorff Bridge yet. There just might be a chance, just a chance, to capture that bridge before it goes boom. Our orders are to bust ass into Remagen as fast as we can. We're gonna outrun the tank companies, 'cause the roads are shitty. If we run into light resistance, we bypass it if we can. Other infantry companies are moving. Whoever gets to the bridge first gets the honor of going across."
The Raiders Page 12