The guards wouldn’t, either.… That thought also flickered and blew out. To try to escape, Joaquin would have needed more resolution than he owned right this minute. He imagined running this way and that, trying to find a gap in the perimeter. Imagining was easy. Doing wouldn’t be. Even telling his rosary beads took as much as he had in him.
Guards came into the prisoners’ enclosure to take away men who’d been killed or wounded. They didn’t seem to treat the injured Nationalists any worse than stretcher-bearers and medics who fought for Marshal Sanjurjo would have. Seeing that, Joaquin decided the Republicans weren’t just fattening him for the slaughter, so to speak.
He got another surprise a few days later: the International who’d captured him came to see how he was doing. He wouldn’t have known the man by sight, not when the ill-fated raid came off in the middle of the night. But the fellow’s slow, bad Spanish and the timbre of his voice were familiar. “Here I am!” Joaquin called from his side of the wire.
“Bueno.” The International—the American, the Jew, he’d said he was—nodded back. “They treat you all right?”
Joaquin considered. “Not too bad. Could be worse.” Lord knew that was true. They might have decided to see how many small chunks they could tear off him before he died. He’d feared they would do exactly that. And they still might, if he annoyed them enough.
“Here. Catch.” The International tossed an almost-full pack of Gitanes over the barbed wire. Joaquin grabbed it eagerly. He could smoke some of the harsh cigarettes and trade the rest for … well, for anything you could get here. On this side of the wire, cigarettes were as good as pesetas, maybe better.
“Muchas gracias,” he said. “You didn’t have to do this. You must be a gentleman.”
To his amazement, he saw he’d flustered the fellow from the other side. The Jew was ordinary, or a little homelier than that: short, kind of pudgy, with a big nose and not a whole lot of chin. “I don’t want to be a gentleman,” he said. “I don’t want anybody to be a gentleman. Everybody ought to be equal, sí?”
“Then how does anyone decide what needs doing?” Joaquin asked. “Once he does decide, how does he get them to go along?”
“Ah!” The International leaned forward till he almost pricked that formidable nose on the barbed wire’s fangs. “Here’s how …” Like an airplane climbing from a runway, the talk took off from there.
MIKE CARROLL EYED CHAIM WEINBERG in mingled amusement and scorn. “You came here to fight the fucking Fascists, man. You didn’t come here to convert ’em.”
“Bite me,” Chaim answered. “The more of those guys we win over, the better.”
“You know what Mencken said about that kind of shit,” Mike persisted. He quoted with relish: “‘I detest converts almost as much as I do missionaries.’”
Chaim didn’t want to listen, especially since Mike hardly ever read anything that didn’t follow the Party line. Why now? “Who cares what a reactionary says?”
“He may be a reactionary, but he’s a damn fine writer.” The other American sounded a little defensive, or more than a little.
“For an enemy of the people.” Chaim trotted out the heavy artillery.
Mike breathed heavily through his nose. “Okay. Fine. Have it your way. But if you’re back at that camp blabbing about dialectical materialism when you’re supposed to be up here fighting, Brigadier Kossuth’ll skin you alive. He’ll call it desertion, not conversion.”
He was right, which didn’t make Chaim any happier with him. If anything, Chaim only got angrier. “Hey, you know better than that. When did I ever miss action?”
“That time just after you got here, over near the Ebro.”
“Oh, give me a break! I was down with dysentery, for cryin’ out loud. You never got a case of the galloping shits?”
“Not to where I couldn’t grab my rifle.”
“Terrific,” Chaim said. “Grab it and shove it up your ass—bayonet first.” He was ready for a brawl. Mike was bigger than he was, and looked to have more muscles, but all that mattered only so much. Land a guy one in the pit of the stomach or in the nuts and all the muscles in the world wouldn’t do him a goddamn bit of good.
But instead of pissing off the other American, Chaim made him laugh. “All right, already,” Carroll said, as if he were a Landsman himself. “But watch yourself, okay? You really are making like this one Nationalist is more important than the rest of the struggle.”
“Nah,” Chaim said, even if Mike was right, or nearly right, again. He’d come to see the effort to reeducate Joaquin as a representation of the larger fight against Fascism. He realized that, just because he saw it that way, other people wouldn’t necessarily do the same thing. Some of those other people were officers who could tell him what to do and land him in hot water if he didn’t do it or if he wasn’t around to do it.
“What do you see in the guy, anyhow?” Mike pressed. “He’s nothing but a dumb kid off the farm. If he came from the States, he’d be a hayseed from Arkansas or Oklahoma or somewhere like that. He’d be a hardshell Baptist, too, instead of a Catholic.”
Chaim’s knowledge of Arkansas and Oklahoma was purely theoretical. So was his knowledge of the differences between one brand of Christianity and another. Catholics went to fancier churches, and their bishops dressed the way rabbis would if rabbis were crazy faggots. What more did you need to know?
(Thinking of rabbis reminded him of his brief fling with starting a shul. Just as Kossuth had predicted, he hadn’t stuck with it. Now he had this new cause instead. Always something, but never the same thing for very long.)
Besides, he was sick of soldiering. He’d seen enough, done enough, lived through enough, to have its measure. If the Internationals needed someone with a rifle to get up on a firing step and shoot at Sanjurjo’s men, the Republican equivalent of a fellow like Joaquin Delgadillo would do. Chaim had discovered the joys of … well, of preaching. If it was a smaller moment than the one St. Paul had on the road to Damascus, the difference was of degree, not of kind.
He might have preached better with more fluent Spanish. But he might not have. He had to keep his ideas simple and direct, because he couldn’t say anything fancy or highfalutin. Even staying simple, he fumbled for words and verb endings. Joaquin—and, soon, other Nationalist prisoners who’d started listening to him for no better reason than to pass the time of day—threw him a line whenever he needed one. If anything, that made him more effective. His audience was, and felt itself to be, part of the show.
And changing minds—winning converts—turned out not to be that hard, no matter how little H. L. Mencken might have cared for the process. Chaim had a solid grounding in the doctrines of Marx and Lenin. The men to whom he preached seemed to have no ideology at all.
“Well, why did you keep fighting for Sanjurjo, then?” he asked a Spaniard who wore a patch over his right eye socket. He knew the fellow would have fought with desperate courage, too. The Nationalists might serve a vile cause, but they served it bravely.
“Why, Señor?” A Spanish shrug was less comic, more resigned, than its French equivalent. “I was in the army. We had an enemy. What else was there to do but fight?”
“You were oppressed, in other words. That’s why you fought,” Chaim said. No matter how lousy his Spanish as a whole was, he knew words like oppressed. “How do you get rid of oppression?” He answered his own question: “You have to struggle against it, not for it.”
“But how, Señor?” the soldier asked. “If we didn’t do what our officers told us, they would have shot us. And if we tried to come across the line, chances are you Republicans would have shot us. It is a bad bargain.”
It was a bad bargain. The natives on the two sides hated each other too much for it to be anything else. Their higher-ups did, anyhow. Ordinary soldiers sometimes had a more sympathetic understanding for the poor sorry bastards who filled out the ranks on the other side. Sometimes.
“Officers who oppress can have accidents,�
�� Chaim said. “Officers who oppress ought to have accidents. They deserve them.”
The Nationalists listened to him without surprise. Things like that had happened in every army since the Egyptians went to war against the Assyrians. Anybody who made his own men despise him needed eyes in the back of his head. Even those weren’t always enough to save him.
“Your real problem was, you never wondered if Sanjurjo’s officers had the right to give you orders,” Chaim said. “Who set them over you? God?” He smiled crookedly. “They want you to think so.”
“Who makes officers for the Republicans?” Joaquin asked.
“Mostly, the men choose them. We do in the Abraham Lincoln Battalion,” Chaim answered. “Just about all the Spanish Republican units do the same thing.” He told the truth—for the most part. Sometimes the Party wanted certain men in certain slots … but the will of the Party was the will of the people. Wasn’t it?
The Nationalist prisoners muttered among themselves. Finally, one of them asked, “But what if these men make bad leaders?”
“Then we get new ones,” Chaim replied. “What if your officers make bad leaders?” None of the prisoners tried to give him an answer. He and they all knew what the answer was. If a Nationalist officer made a bad leader, his men were stuck with him. Most armies worked that way. Chaim pressed the advantage: “You see how much better the Republican way is?”
They didn’t say no. They weren’t in an ideal position to say no, but Chaim didn’t let that worry him.
Neither did his own superiors. As Mike had prophesied, he got a summons from Brigadier Kossuth. The Magyar eyed him impassively. “So,” he said. “Now you are a propagandist instead of a soldier?”
“No. And a soldier,” Chaim said, wondering how much trouble he was in.
Kossuth’s lizardy tongue flicked in and out. “Soldiers we can always find,” he observed. “Propagandists are harder to come by. Do you want to go on reeducating the Nationalist prisoners? That might be useful.”
By which he could only mean You’d better want to go on reeducating them. Since Chaim did, he answered, “If that would help the Republic, sure I’ll do it.”
“Good. We understand each other.” Kossuth was dry as usual. Chaim wondered what would have happened to him had he said he’d rather stay at the front. Nothing he would have enjoyed: he was sure of that. The brigadier seemed surprised to find him still standing there. “Dismissed,” he said, and Chaim beat it. Moscow or Barcelona might replace Kossuth, but an ordinary lug could only obey him. Maybe Chaim wasn’t so different from the Nationalists who needed reeducating after all.
Chapter 17
“Moscow speaking,” the radio said importantly.
Sergei Yaroslavsky yawned as he listened. He was drinking a glass of strong, sweet tea and smoking a cigarette, but it was still six in the morning. Had he had any choice, he would have stayed rolled in his blanket.
A thick slab of roast pork, glistening with fat at the edges, sat on the tin plate in front of him. Had he had any choice, he wouldn’t have picked something like that for breakfast. It would fill him up better than black bread; he couldn’t deny that. But it would also make him want to go back to sleep … wouldn’t it?
He sawed away with knife and fork. Methodically, he chewed and swallowed. As soon as he got up in the air, he wouldn’t be sleepy any more. He was sure of that. Sleep and terror blended like vodka and castor oil.
Several flyers were fortifying their tea with healthy shots of vodka: the ration was a hundred grams a day. Others were swigging the vodka and ignoring the tea. Sergei preferred not to do that. You might be bolder in the cockpit once you’d got outside with some antifreeze, but you’d surely be slower. Against German fighter planes, against skilled, sober German pilots, slower wasn’t a good idea.
“The liberation of Poland from the clutches of the semifascist Smigly-Ridz clique and their Nazi henchmen continues to gather momentum,” the newscaster declared. “Advances on a broad front accelerate. Polish soldiers surrender in growing numbers, recognizing the hopelessness of their cause and the justice behind the Red Army’s struggle against the lawless hyenas who have led them to destruction.”
“He doesn’t say anything about the fucking Germans surrendering,” remarked a pilot who was knocking back vodka as if afraid it would be outlawed tomorrow—not likely, not in the hard-drinking Soviet Union.
“Hush,” three people said at the same time. The only good thing about fighting Germans was that there weren’t many of them in Poland. As Sergei had seen in Czechoslovakia, the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe were dauntingly good at what they did.
The brief byplay made him miss the newsman’s latest recital of towns taken and towns bombed from the air. The voice on the radio might have been broadcasting a football match. If he was, he was definitely the home team’s announcer. If you listened to him, you had to believe the Red Army and Air Force could do no wrong.
Then he switched to a match in a different league: “The Fascist occupation of Denmark appears to be all but unchallenged. The Danes have chosen not even to fight. If they hope for mercy from the Nazi jackals, they are doomed to disappointment. Combat does continue in Norway. England and France claim to be flooding men into the country to help the Norwegians resist the Hitlerite jackals. Oslo and the south, however, seem already to be in German hands. Whether counterattacks can be effective remains to be seen. The Fascists claim to have inflicted heavy losses on the Royal Navy.”
He talked about the fighting in France. There wasn’t much. Then, at last, with the air of a prim matron discussing the facts of life, he talked about the war in the Far East. He kept going on about how heavy the fighting there was.
Across the table from Sergei, Anastas Mouradian raised an eyebrow. Yaroslavsky nodded back. They didn’t mean to speak; speaking would have endangered them. But heavy fighting was never good news.
Sure enough, the broadcaster went on, “High-ranking officers in the combat zone are no longer completely certain that Vladivostok’s resistance against the Japanese brigands can continue indefinitely.”
Vladivostok would fall. That was what he meant. He didn’t want to come right out and say so—and who could blame him? With the Trans-Siberian Railway cut, the Japanese were nipping off the USSR’s main window on the Pacific. The only word for that was disaster.
Not everybody would be able to understand exactly what the newsreader meant. Most people, very likely, would think Vladivostok could still hold out for a long time, even if not forever. But why mention that it might fall if you weren’t getting ready to admit that it would fall, or even that it had fallen?
He wanted to sigh with relief when the announcer shifted to the over-fulfillment of the steel quota and then gave forth with the gory details of a train collision down in the Ukraine. “One of the engineers is suspected of being drunk on the job,” the newsreader said portentously. “The General Secretary of the Communist Party of the USSR finds this most unfortunate.”
The fellow said no more about that, nor did he need to. If Stalin didn’t like it … Well, anything could happen after that. Sergei had thought a program of prohibition impossible in his homeland. The Tsars had tried one during the last war, and it failed miserably—Russians drank like swine. But if Stalin wanted to do the same thing, who would stop him? Nobody.
The pilots who’d already started drinking drank faster than ever. Maybe the stuff really would be outlawed tomorrow. Maybe … but Sergei still wouldn’t believe it till he saw it.
“Molodetschna,” Colonel Borisov said. “We hit Molodetschna again. We have to keep the Nazis from getting through and getting away.”
Anastas Mouradian raised a hand. Frowning, the squadron commander nodded his way. “Comrade Colonel, is it not likely that as many Germans as could get through the miserable place have already done it?” the Armenian asked.
It was more than likely: it was as near certain as made no difference. They’d been pounding Molodetschna since the war widened. T
oo many SB-2s had gone down in flames to Bf-109s and the heavy concentration of antiaircraft guns around the place. They’d watched panzers and infantry units entrain and head elsewhere. Colonel Borisov had flown over Molodetschna. He knew what was and wasn’t going on there, too—or he should have.
But he also knew something else. “I have my orders, Mouradian,” he said heavily. “We have our orders. We will carry them out. Is that clear?”
“I serve the Soviet Union!” Mouradian said. That was always the right answer.
Ivan Kuchkov also knew about the new orders. Maybe he’d had a separate briefing from someone less exalted than the squadron leader. Or maybe, being a sergeant, he’d found out about them before Borisov or any of the other officers. He wasn’t worried about coming out with what he thought of things, either: “Only way the cunts don’t fucking murder us is if they don’t care about the place any more.”
Sergei set a hand on his shoulder. “It’s nice, the way you try to cheer us up,” he said. The squat, muscular bombardier eyed him suspiciously. The Chimp was a stranger to irony, and a hostile stranger at that.
The SB-2 lumbered into the air. Sergei remembered how proud of his “fighting bomber” he’d been while serving as a “volunteer” in Czechoslovakia. Against the biplane fighters they’d seen in Spain, SB-2s were fine. Against the deadly German Messerschmitts … well, they lumbered.
Through the engines’ din, Mouradian said, “What if the Red Army’s already taken Molodetschna? Are we supposed to bomb our own men?”
There was an interesting question. It all but defined Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. You could get shot for dropping bombs on your own side. But you could also get shot—you could very easily get shot—for not following orders. “Let’s see what it looks like,” Sergei said, and left it there. If he didn’t have to make up his mind right now, he wouldn’t.
The War That Came Early: West and East Page 30