Unpunished

by William Peter Grasso

  Joe could hardly conceal his surprise. Here I am, convinced she’s trying to seduce me… and she wants to talk academics! Am I reading her all wrong? Or is that what gets her hot and bothered? Is she just like Alice Pasternak, the MIT co-ed who would actually get aroused by anything to do with Quantum Mechanics? Her face would flush, her voice become breathless. One guy swore she actually achieved orgasm during a discussion of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. Oh, what the hell…

  He began earnestly. “My thesis is on binary mathematics as applied to electronic data processing.” He then eagerly threw himself into describing his life’s work to a fellow academic. Such opportunities had become nonexistent once in uniform. It felt simply wonderful. He tried to push aside, without success, the thought that all this might be foreplay.

  “Binary math,” she gushed. Ones and zeroes.”

  “Yeah. You know about it?”

  “Joseph, economists are quite well grounded in mathematics.” Then she added, very matter-of-factly, any hint of arousal absent from her voice, “My thesis was on business models for a post-depression Europe. I guess I’ll be revising it to post-war Europe once all this is over. Things have certainly changed a bit.”

  “How far were you from finishing your doctorate when you left London, Pola?”

  “About three years.”

  “That’s about what I had left on mine when I joined up…maybe a little less. It’s funny, but I could have gotten a deferment for the work we were doing at MIT.”

  “And you didn’t take it! Like I said about deference to authority! But an MIT man! I am very impressed.”

  No, Joe thought, it was not about deference to authority. He just did not feel that sitting in Cambridge playing with binary logic was properly “doing his bit” for the war effort. He was a healthy, able-bodied male; he wanted to be in uniform, to see the war first-hand. Have I seen all I needed to see? In just three missions?

  Joe continued the spirited explanation of his academic work: the possibilities of electronic data storage, computation, and decision making. How the information could be processed and transmitted in split seconds, inhibited at present only by the cumbersome hardware of the vacuum tube computer. Such devices were colossally expensive, filled whole buildings, and required huge cooling systems: thousands of vacuum tubes generated enormous amounts of heat. He predicted that someday smaller, more practical, computers would change the way we lived. He was soaring.

  She followed his every word. It was not a bluff; she really understood the principles and the logic. The questions she occasionally interrupted with were intelligent and informed. They had inched closer to each other during this exchange. Their eyes were locked; he was sure they were on the verge of embrace. He felt the guilt, though dulled somewhat by the wine, begin to rise again.

  “Pola…we’re both married.”

  “Am I? Tell me, Joseph, where is my husband? I certainly don’t know.” Then she smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll send you back to your wife in good order.”

  “But what about you, Pola? Your job? Your career? What if someone found out?”

  “Joseph, I grew up in Malmö. This is a small town and I certainly know my way around. You realize this is not my apartment, don’t you?”

  “No! I just assumed…”

  “You didn’t notice me clattering around in the kitchen, trying to find things?”

  “No…”

  “You silly sod! So provincial! This apartment belongs to a friend…a journalist…who is temporarily in Stockholm. She and I went to university together. My apartment is too near to my family. Heaven forbid I get seen with some strange man…an American, yet!”

  He had no chance to respond. She straddled him quickly and seized his mouth with hers. Exciting as her actions were, he did not want to do this for so many reasons—being able to look his wife in the eye when he got home was only the first. Despite her nonchalant attitude toward her own marital vows, was it not wrong—a sin against the Ninth Commandment, in fact—to sleep with another man’s wife? No doubt, as the de facto commander of Lady M’s crew, he would have to occasionally stand up to Pola as an advocate for his men. How would that work with a woman—a married woman—he was screwing? The boys would surely sense it. And if Pilcher found out—if he ever bothered to show his face—what devious use would he make of it?

  But her kisses worked their chemical magic; his body now responded eagerly, totally. His opaque guilt was punctured in a thousand places, yielding the dimly lit rationalization that made their coupling inevitable: She’s just lonely. Hell, I’m lonely, too.

  One final protest rose in his throat. “I don’t have any condoms.”

  “Yes, we do,” she replied.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pola MacLeish was right: it was possible to encounter other interned air crewmen on the streets of Malmö. Leonard Pilcher was having just such an encounter while eating lunch, alone, in a small café. This clown did not look much like an American airman, though, Pilcher thought. More like Jesus Christ, badly in need of a haircut and a shave.

  “Excuse me, brother…aren’t you a G.I.?” the Christ figure asked, in an accent of the American South. Tennessee, maybe Georgia, Pilcher surmised.

  “What’s it to you, you fucking bum? You looking for a handout?”

  The patrons who understood English turned briefly and scowled. These American airmen lounging in their country were all either ill-mannered or insane.

  “No need for foul language, brother. You’re from the Northeast? Pennsylvania, perhaps?”

  “And you’re a fucking redneck cracker.”

  Jesus gave a soft laugh: “Why must we label each other? We’re all God’s children.”

  “Look, pal, I don’t know what your game is, and I don’t fucking care. Nice meeting you. Now fuck off.”

  “But brother, we may have much in common. Did you come to be in Sweden because you saw the light…that warfare is a tool of the devil?”

  “You mean am I a fucking yellow deserter, like you? They’ll shoot you, you idiot. You’ll need a better story than that.”

  “I am a soldier in the Lord’s army now.”

  “Swell…I wish you luck. See you at your firing squad, numbnuts.”

  “Fear not the vengeance of men.”

  “Oh, believe me, brother…I don’t. Not for a goddamn minute. Now get the fuck out of here.”

  “Please, brother…tell me your name.”

  “If that will get rid of you, fine. Pilcher. Leonard. Captain. Serial number 33204617.

  “I am called Brother Thomas. I hope we meet again.”

  The looney toon was gone. Pilcher returned to his coffee and cake, surmising that if the Army did not shoot Brother Thomas outright, they’d lock him up in the Section 8 bin forever.

  His solitude was short-lived. Another man now towered over him. He spoke English, too, but with a thick German accent.

  “Excuse me, sir, but did I understand you to say your name is Leonard Pilcher?”

  Pilcher’s surliness, so easily dispensed just a moment ago, evaporated. Apprehension flowed in its place. He glanced at the imposing figure hovering above him and answered, “Yeah…that’s my name, pal. What about it?”

  “Son of the American Max Pilcher?”

  He was afraid to answer that question. Rich men like his father made lots of enemies, even on the other side of the world. Maybe this Aryan giant was looking for revenge for one of those crushing maneuvers that his father joked so easily about, maneuvers that eradicated someone’s fortune or stole their dreams. He felt cornered, devoid—for the moment—of the control over others that accompanied wealth and power. But he put on an act of false bravado.

  “Who the fuck wants to know?”

  “My name is Johann Lichtblau. My family has been doing business with your family for years…or at least until your country declared war on mine. We had the pleasure of your father’s company at dinner, perhaps five years ago…when the world was much dif
ferent. Your father spoke of you. I believe you were at university then.”

  “Yeah…Yale. Dad sure gets around, don’t he?”

  “What a delightful coincidence this is! Your father is, indeed, a great man. But we may have even more in common.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You are an airman, no?”

  “I’m a pilot…an aircraft commander,” Pilcher replied, his surly superiority returning for a moment.

  “I, too, am a pilot. I am an Oberst in the Luftwaffe. Bad fortune…perhaps not unlike yours…has caused my temporary detainment in this country.”

  The last thing in the world Leonard Pilcher expected was to be passing time with a German military officer. The whole point of this exercise had been to get away from his superior officers, who were trying to get him killed, and the Germans, who were more than willing to do it. He felt the knot tightening in his stomach. His fork clattered to the table, as if holding it in his hands might be seen as a provocation.

  “Oberst…that’s like a colonel?” Pilcher mumbled.

  “I believe that is correct. But you are uncomfortable. I assure you, there is no reason to be. We are not adversaries here. The Swedes enjoy their fantasy that they are not at war. Why should we not enjoy it, too? There is no reason two men like us…men of means…cannot enjoy each other’s company.”

  Men of means. Leonard Pilcher liked the sound of that. Maybe this Lichtblau was okay after all, even if he was a fucking Kraut.

  “May I join you?” Lichtblau asked. “Perhaps there is much we can discuss.”

  “Sure…why not?”

  But to Leonard Pilcher’s surprise, the German took the seat next to him rather than opposite at the small table. And he thought it a little strange when the Luftwaffe colonel wrapped one huge arm around his shoulders and stroked his thigh with the other, proclaiming, “We will be great friends, Leonard. Ja?”

  Then the German leaned in and whispered, “I don’t suppose you could lend me a few kronor until payday?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The noise jarred Fred O’Hara from sleep. That rhythmic rustling sound, in the nighttime silence of the barn, was maddening. He had heard it every night they had slept in this barn; he could not ignore it anymore. It was not the wind; it was not some animal. It was coming from the pile of straw Lou DiNapoli used for his bed; it was getting louder and faster. Soon it would stop suddenly, just like all the times before.

  Louie has got to be the most prolific masturbator on the planet, O’Hara surmised. The way he saw it, these wops had such a need to spill their seed—an almost clinical search for reassurance that their genitals still worked on a daily basis—it overpowered the shame and guilt that kept most other men from regularly playing with themselves.

  That shame and guilt had definitely had its effect on Fred O’Hara. Like all little boys, he had tried it when those first stirrings of puberty arrived, but he could not shake the notion that the spirits of dead people—his grandparents, aunts, uncles, even his little sister who died at age three—were watching and judging harshly from some heavenly perch. God never came into it; he figured that if God knew everything, he’d know that little boys were too enthralled and too weak to resist these autoerotic urges. But his dead relatives—that was something different. They certainly were not all-knowing—or all-forgiving. He vividly remembered Uncle Seamus castigating a son for needing eyeglasses at the age of 11, a failing surely the result of self-abuse.

  O’Hara could not imagine grown men, like his father, masturbating. Hell, his father could not have possibly wasted any of his seed; it must have taken prodigious amounts to impregnate his mother 13 times. His poor mother—by the time she was 40, she looked 60. It seemed she was with child all of her adult life. He imagined her sitting at the enormous dining room table, rubbing her ever-swollen belly and staring blankly into space while she sipped a cup of whiskey-laced coffee and smoked a cigarette, too drained to face the world. Three of his siblings had actually entered this world on that battered and rickety table.

  Tonight’s performance came to its abrupt end. Louie’s climax was silent as always, only evident by the sudden absence of the rhythmic rustling in the darkness. Fully awake now, Fred O’Hara spoke the question occupying his mind: “What do you think about when you’re doing it, Louie?”

  “Doing what?”

  “You know…jerking off.”

  Lou was silent for a moment. He was not sure whether he felt embarrassed to be caught or annoyed his privacy was being invaded. Maybe a little of both. But he covered it with masculine bluster: “You gotta think about one girl…just fixate on that thing about her that sets you off. Maybe it’s the way her ass looks in a tight skirt, or the curve of her tits under a silk blouse. You gotta focus…if you let your mind wander around, it don’t work…you’ll rub the skin right off your dick and never get no release.”

  “Who were you thinking about just now?”

  “Who do you think? Helga! Can’t get that teasing little tart out of my mind. Can you? I live for when she brings us our meals.”

  “No, I guess you’re right. She does have a way about her, even though she’s about ten years old.”

  “Get outta here! She’s fifteen!”

  “Yeah, right…twelve at most.”

  “Pretty good tits for a twelve-year-old, don’t you think, Freddy?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t chase jailbait.”

  “Bullshit. She’s got a pussy, you chase it.”

  Fred had to laugh at Louie’s visceral outlook on life as he steered the conversation back to practical matters. “We’re just lucky she was born in Milwaukee and speaks such good English. A lot easier than dealing with her grandfather or that fucking monster dog of his. I still can’t understand her parents sending her back to the old country, though, to ‘share in the glory of the Reich’ or some bullshit. They must be some kind of fucked-up Nazis…”

  “Or maybe they just couldn’t afford kids anymore,” DiNapoli offered. “The fucking Depression, you know.”

  “You think we can trust her, Lou? We sure could use a little help.”

  “I dunno, Freddy. You think she wouldn’t flash her tits and ass at some soldats, too? Maybe she’s working with them…just setting us up.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. All I know is we gotta make our move soon. Now that I can walk pretty good again.”

  “I don’t know…you still limp. I’ll bet you can’t run very fast.”

  “I can move as fast as I need to. I think the time has come, my friend. Let’s go for it, Louie.”

  Helga was ecstatic, clapping her hands and twirling like a ballerina. She was taking great delight in her newly appointed role as co-conspirator. Their plan to steal an airplane and fly to safety sounded so exciting, so bold, so American. She’d be glad to help them plan their escape, delightedly kissing O’Hara and DiNapoli on the cheek as she removed the remains of their breakfast and hurried to the farmhouse, promising to return soon with the map they so desperately needed. The Americans hoped a map was the only thing with which she would return. It would be a crying shame to survive all this time as fugitives in Nazi Germany, to be undone by misplaced faith in a seductive child. But it was a gamble they felt they had to take. They had no one else to trust.

  Helga returned shortly with a road map. On it, she had noted the farm’s location. Fred and Lou were startled to see that they were only a few miles from where they surmised they had bailed out of The Lady M, in the farm country to the south of Flensburg. Smack-dab in the middle of the Bundesländer Schleswig-Holstein: occupied Denmark to the north, the Baltic to the east, the North Sea to the west—and the rest of Germany to the south. Almost a month’s time and all this motion, on foot, trucks, and trains; they must have been going in circles. They were still several hundred miles from the American and British lines to the southwest, even assuming that significant advances had been made by those armies in the past month.

  “You know how to read a map?�
� O’Hara asked the girl skeptically.

  “Of course. We bicycle everywhere…sometimes great distances. No petrol for automobiles, you see. You can’t afford to make a wrong turn. Too much wasted time and effort.”

  “Can you show us where the airfields are, Helga?” O’Hara inquired as the three hunched over the map.

  “Yes. There are at least four I have seen that are close to here. This one here”—she pointed to a spot on the map—“is quite large, with many soldaten. I don’t think you want to go there. The others”—she pointed three times—“are smaller, with not so many soldaten.”

  “Are there lots of aircraft at the smaller ones?” DiNapoli inquired.

  With a look that made Louie feel like he was the child here, Helga replied, “Of course, silly. That’s why they call them aerodromes.”

  “Hey, be nice to him,” O’Hara said. “Louie’s got a little crush on you.”

  If looks could kill, Lou DiNapoli had just murdered Fred O’Hara.

  Helga intercepted DiNapoli’s deadly look and returned a look of her own, one that melted his heart. “That’s so sweet,” she said softly. Then she kissed him full on the lips. The kiss startled Lou momentarily. He reached for her but she backed away, leaving just a shy smile in her wake.

  An impish smile crossed O’Hara’s face as he said, “I guess you’re gonna be extra noisy tonight.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Lieutenant.”

  Helga ignored their sparring. “So when do we leave?” she asked.

  “What do you mean we, Helga? You can’t come. It’s too dangerous,” O’Hara replied.

  “It’s not dangerous for me at all, Lieutenant. If we get caught, I’ll tell them you kidnapped me…forced me to help you escape…probably raped me, too. I’ll cry…make a big scene…thank them for saving me…”

  “Whoa, little girl!” O’Hara laughed, although he found all this not very funny. “With friends like you, who needs enemies?”