Unpunished

by William Peter Grasso

  “I said I ain’t going. Send someone else in my place.”

  “That is a most altruistic gesture, Captain, but surely you realize it would be most difficult for my government not to honor this request?”

  Pola and Joe exchanged knowing glances. They knew full well Pilcher had no intention of going anywhere as long as this war raged. And, of course, by offering to give up his repatriation slot, he was trying to make himself look like a hero—however falsely—once again. Just like the fairy tale of how he saved his crew from certain death in a mortally wounded airplane.

  “Not your problem, Professor. Just tell them I’m gonna send some lucky boy home instead.”

  “Actually, the Malmö district has available two slots for repatriation,” Steenslund added.

  Pola’s heart sank a little deeper. The odds were getting worse. She spoke up: “The district, you say, sir?”

  “Yes, Pola. Two slots for the entire district. Actually, my dear, the decision how to fill these slots is yours. You are the administrator.”

  Sounds like I still have my job, anyway. Is this some kind of test or does the professor not know…or not care…about me and Joseph? Pola’s brain began to coldly compute the reality of internment, repatriation—and her own desires. Two slots. Roughly 100 American airmen under her jurisdiction, one of them her lover and one who knows their secret—the secret that could devastate her life. The process was complete in an instant. Pola announced her decision: “We must honor the will of the American government, whatever Captain Pilcher’s personal feelings on that matter might be. The choice is obvious…we will repatriate Captain Pilcher and Sergeant Moscone, who needs more care than we can offer him.”

  Joe Gelardi let out his breath but his face remained expressionless. He was not unhappy at all with her decision.

  Pilcher loosed a string of profanity that could be heard well down the hallway. Two policemen rushed in; the professor instructed them to place the captain in custody—forcibly if necessary—and hold him at his present quarters until repatriation arrangements were in place.

  Leonard Pilcher put up quite a fuss, more of a blustery show than actual physical threat, but force was used to subdue him nonetheless. He was quickly handcuffed and dragged away by the policemen.

  At the office door, Pilcher managed to stop the officers’ progress for one moment, turned to Joe and Pola, and screamed, “I’ll get the both of you…you whore bitch and you insubordinate guinea cocksucker! You forget who you’re dealing with!”

  The professor smiled warmly and waved to the raving man in handcuffs being propelled out the door by his police handlers. “Have a wonderful trip, Captain. It was our pleasure having you.”

  Steenslund then turned to Joe Gelardi. “Lieutenant, would you excuse us for a moment?”

  When Joe had left the office, the professor gave Pola a fatherly look and said, “A wise choice, my dear…almost Solomon-like.” He picked up another file from the desk, one labeled PILCHER, LEONARD, CAPTAIN, USAAF. He pulled a handwritten page—a letter—from the file.

  “It seems our Captain Pilcher has made some very unseemly accusations against you and Lieutenant Gelardi.”

  Pola stood silent and rigid, bracing for the blow, her moment of triumph dissolving as quickly as it had emerged.

  “Of course,” the Professor continued, “who can believe anything that despicable young man has to say? I think we’re all well rid of him, no?”

  Just as the wave of relief began to wash over Pola, the professor leaned back in his chair with a sigh and added, “But be very careful, my dear girl…”

  Her deepest fear realized: The professor knew!

  Her only thought as she fled the professor’s office was: That’s it! This thing with Joseph is over! She brushed past Joe, who was waiting outside, and hurried down the hallway.

  He sprinted after her. “Pola, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  She was unable to answer. It was too difficult fighting back the tears. She needed to get out of this building, to feel the cool, crisp air on her face, to take a breath again. The autumn air did the trick. Once on the street, she composed herself and turned to face Joe.

  He looked at her helplessly as he wiped away the one tear that betrayed her: “Oh my God…you got fired…sacked, didn’t you?”

  Pola managed a nervous smile. “No, I still have my job. But it was a very close call… Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

  Pola pulled the bathrobe tighter against the early morning chill as the tea steeped. There had been one more fear deep within her, one she dared not speak and tried with all her might to suppress: Suppose Joseph wanted to leave, to be repatriated? Maybe this was one great roll in the hay while it lasted, but given the chance to leave…back to England…back to MIT…back to his wife…he’d jump at it without a second thought. He always seemed strange—a bit withdrawn—when it was time for them to part. She had allowed herself to think it sadness that the rendezvous was over, never guilt for cheating on his wife or sleeping with another man’s wife.

  But nothing that happened in those two nights since the visit to the professor’s office gave any credence to the thought that Joe Gelardi was unhappy to be staying in Sweden. She had rehearsed the things she would say to break off their affair the rest of that first day. It was the rational thing to do. But that night was anything but rational—nothing but an explosion of raw lust from the moment they came together. All the words she had mustered to protect herself and her career melted away in an instant: It’s just Pilcher’s word against ours…and he’s finished.

  Last night had taken a gentler course: a light dinner, small talk over a bottle of wine, followed by a passionate discussion of binary mapping techniques that ended with a quick but tender lovemaking on the couch while they were still fully clothed. Then, after a brief rest, they undressed each other and settled into bed, determined to continue their carnal explorations.

  Pola carried her tea back to the bed and sat on its edge as Joe stirred. “Wake up, laddie. We’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered, smoothing his hair with her free hand. “Sorry…there’s no coffee.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll live.” He threw off the covers, then grabbed them back and pulled them to his chin. “Damn! It’s cold in here!”

  “Oh, get up, silly boy!”

  Joe reached up and grabbed her shoulders to pull her down. She struggled to place the brimming teacup on the night table before surrendering and collapsing on top of him. Their lips met in a long, deep kiss.

  When the kiss was done, she began to play with the two dog tags that dangled from his neck on a thin chain. “May I have one of these?” she asked.

  “We’re supposed to have two. One’s for Graves Registration…”

  Her outburst of laughter interrupted his sentence. Opening the chain and removing one of the tags, she said, “Oh, Joseph, nobody’s going to die here.”

  He smiled and pulled her mouth back to his. Between kisses, he murmured, “How about one more time?”

  Reluctantly, she pulled away. “How about you get your clothes on and go home?”

  She instantly wished she had not used the word “home.” He did not seem struck by the literal meaning of what she had just said, however, and kept trying to pull her back. She squirmed from his embrace and stood alongside the bed, smiling down on him, his liberated dog tag clasped tightly in her hand.

  “I’ve got a special treat planned for you tonight, Joseph.”

  Joe was puzzled: More special than what we’ve been doing all these other nights?

  “I’m going to show you the most beautiful autumn sunset you’ve ever seen. The church across the street from the police barracks…meet me inside at 1700 hours.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Leonard Pilcher paced the floor of his barracks room—the room that was now his prison cell. The guards were, for once, unbending; orders had come down from above that Pilcher was to remain in quarters and remain he would. And these are the same clowns
who usually don’t give a rat’s ass who comes and goes from this building…they don’t even bother handing out passes anymore. Where were you going to go, anyway? Even if you disappeared for days on end, they knew you’d always be back for payday. Somebody really put a bug up their asses this time.

  He would have tried to bribe them, but he was broke; Lichtblau’s high-living ways had bled him dry again. Payday was still a week away.

  Lichtblau’s probably wondering what happened to me. We were supposed to meet up for dinner…that crazy Nazi even said he’d try to scare up some pussy.

  Pilcher stepped from his room into the hallway. The policeman usually sitting opposite his door—his personal guard—was gone. His chair stood empty, the pages of a newspaper scattered around it. A steaming cup of coffee sat on the floor next to the chair.

  I guess he won’t mind if I go up to the roof and have a smoke.

  Joe arrived at the church at the appointed hour of 1700, just as Pola had directed. Funny how these Europeans tell time like the military, he thought, as he took a seat in a back pew. Pola was nowhere to be seen. Two old women moved slowly about, tending to cleaning chores in the spare interior of the church, eyeing him suspiciously. So this is what a Lutheran church looks like...so different from the Catholic churches I’m used to…nothing fancy here. Just a bunch of pews, a pulpit, and a big cross on the front wall. Drab brick walls. No statues. The windows are just that…no stained glass with saints and martyrs. No holy water…Looks more like an auditorium than a place God is supposed to dwell…and those two old girls don’t know what to make of me. I wish to hell Pola would show up…I feel kinda naked. Damn, it’s chilly in here.

  As if on cue, Pola appeared, striding from a door next to the pulpit. She walked straight to the old women, who greeted her warmly, with hugs and kisses all around. There was a brief exchange in Swedish, of which Joe understood not a word. The old women gestured with concern toward him, but Pola said something that seemed to allay their fears, if only a little. The old women then passed through the door through which Pola had just entered. Neither Joe nor Pola noticed the suspicious looks the two old women were still shooting their way as they exited.

  “You look a wee bit cold, Joseph…that jacket is not going to be warm enough. Didn’t you get a winter coat for yourself?”

  He liked the way she said that. It had a tone that suggested permanence.

  “Funny…I got one for David and Tony but not me.”

  “So typical,” Pola gushed as she kissed him. “Takes care of the lads first…Come on, we’re alone now,” she said, tugging on his sleeve. “We’ve got to lock up. I told the ladies I’d take care of it.”

  “You work here, too?”

  “No, silly. My uncle is the pastor. He trusted me with a set of keys years ago.” She locked the front entry doors. “There. Anna and Ingrid…the two caretakers you saw…took care of the back door.”

  Joe was confused. “I’ve never heard of a church that locks its doors…”

  “We didn’t used to, but there was a wee problem with vandals a while back. Communists, supposedly.”

  “Wow…Communists, huh? Is nothing sacred?”

  Pola replied with just a knowing smile, the one Joe had seen many times before and taken to mean you silly American.

  “So what about this sunset you promised?”

  She led him to another door. “We’re going up the bell tower,” she said as she turned the key in its lock. “It’s a beautiful view over the rooftops. You can occupy that mathematical mind of yours calculating the number of steps in the spiral staircase.”

  “Okay…how high is the tower?”

  “You can calculate that, too, if you like, clever boy!”

  Pola and Joe had arrived at the top of the bell tower. Like the rest of the building, the tower was a simple brick and stone structure. The open bell deck was surrounded by waist-high fencing, with brickwork forming the posts and railing. Thick stone pillars in each of the four corners rose to support the tower’s roof and the bell’s trunnion. A few pigeons lined the railing, totally unconcerned at the presence of humans. The bells were still, their slack ropes swaying in the light breeze.

  “Two hundred twenty-five steps,” Joe said. “And I estimated two hundred thirty, right?”

  “Close enough,” Pola replied, playfully leaning over the fence rail. Abruptly, she pulled back and ducked behind a pillar, pulling Joe with her.

  “What’s wrong?” Joe asked, straining to get a view around the pillar of what had startled her.

  She pulled him back again before he could see anything. “We’re looking down at the roof of the barracks, Joseph! Pilcher is there…on the roof! Bloody hell!”

  Joe shook free of her grasp and peeked around the pillar. He was alarmed by what he saw. “Oh, brother…you aren’t going to believe this, Pola…but Linker and Moscone just popped up on the roof, too! Just what the hell is going on here?”

  “That’s all I bloody need…him seeing us,” Pola said. In a crouch, she started for the stairway.

  “Pola, wait! Take a look at this!”

  Hunched down, they peered through the fence posts. It looked like a stand-off between Pilcher and Linker. Joe and Pola could not make out precisely what their voices were saying, but it was obvious those voices were raised. An occasional, clearly distinguishable expression floated up to their perch. Despite the distance, the speakers of those words were unmistakable. David Linker shouted traitor and fucking queer. Pilcher screamed Jew bastard.

  The physical struggle ignited an instant later. Pilcher and Linker locked into a clinch, like two punch-drunk prizefighters, stumbling in a bizarre, silent dance across the barracks roof. In an instant they were at the edge—Pilcher gave one thrust with his entire body.

  David Linker plummeted to the street four stories below.

  The distance from the street to the bell tower caused an audio delay, like a brief suspension of reality; a second after Joe and Pola watched his body crumple and skull impact the cobblestones, they heard the dull crump of that impact.

  In shock and disbelief, they looked back to the barracks roof. Pilcher had vanished. Tony Moscone remained—head down, hands in his pockets—standing near the ladder hatch, not having moved an inch since he first appeared.

  The pigeons had disappeared, too; they could simply fly away when calamity struck. They left behind only a feather that fluttered slowly downward between Pola and Joe. It brushed across his face as it fell. His open hand swept it away angrily.

  There was shouting from the street below. People rushed to the broken body, some trying to help, some with a need to feel a part of this horror, but most simply out of morbid curiosity. After a few moments, they all stepped back, for there was nothing they could do. A widening river of blood flowed from beneath David Linker’s shattered skull. Policemen spilled from the barracks and took control of the scene. They all looked up toward the barracks roof, expecting to find the cause of this tragedy. They saw nothing but the darkening sky. Two policemen bolted from the street and appeared on the roof of the barracks a minute later. They found nothing but Tony Moscone.

  Joe Gelardi and Pola MacLeish were frozen in horror, unable to move. They stayed—speechless and panic-stricken—squatting behind the pillar. It was Pola who finally shattered the silence, imploring in a whisper, “Joseph, what are we going to do?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They never saw the sunset. It was nearly dark by the time Joe and Pola descended the stairs from the bell tower, yet only 10 minutes had elapsed since David Linker’s murder. On the stairs, Joe reached for her arm but she pulled away, as if his touch was anything but comforting. Once in the empty chapel, a trembling Pola repeated her question: “Joseph, what are we going to do?”

  Joe paced nervously by the front pew. He stammered his plan. “I’m going…I’m going to say…to say that I witnessed the whole thing from the bell tower…”

  Incredulous, she interrupted. “Wait…wait. You alone witne
ssed it?”

  “Yeah…why not?”

  Pola stood, open-mouthed, completely astonished by Joe’s suggestion. She began an agitated, wordless rejection, shaking her head from side to side.

  Joe tried to regroup his thoughts. Okay, she doesn’t buy that idea. He seized on another: “Pola, suppose you tell them you witnessed the whole thing from the tower?”

  Pola seemed to vibrate, signaling the eruption that was only an instant away. When it came, she shouted so loudly that Joe was sure she could be heard throughout the city: “ARE YOU TAKING THE PISS, JOSEPH? WHY THE BLOODY HELL WOULD YOU OR I BE UP IN A BLOODY BELL TOWER ALL ALONE? AND HOW THE BLOODY HELL WOULD YOU GET THERE WITHOUT ME? WHO’LL BELIEVE THAT, YOU STUPID SOD? BESIDES, ANNA AND INGRID SAW US TOGETHER! DO YOU WANT THEM TO LIE, TOO?”

  “Anna and Ingrid? Who the hell are they?”

  “THE CHURCH CARETAKERS! THE TWO WHO THOUGHT YOU WERE SOME BLOODY CRIMINAL UNTIL I TOLD THEM WE WERE FRIENDS!”

  She defiantly stood her ground—feet apart, her blue eyes glaring like beacons—dangling the required keys before his face. Joe felt like he had been knocked backwards by the force of her outburst. It seemed to take an eternity for her words to stop echoing in that vast, empty chamber.

  Unnerved, he still could not fully grasp her opposition. He tried to reason with her: “What would be so unbelievable about you being there alone?”

  Pola launched into another volcanic tirade: “BECAUSE NOBODY EVER GOES UP THERE! I HAVEN’T BEEN THERE SINCE I WAS FOURTEEN OR SO…AND EVEN THEN, I SNUCK UP WITH A BOY!”

  He had no answer for that. Against all reason, her last outburst distracted him. It stung, arousing jealousy deep within him, as if youthful sex—even just kissing and petting—with other boys was suddenly a threat.

  More calmly, Pola continued, “Joseph, don’t you see I’m in deep shite here? There’ll be a police inquiry…they’ll dig into everything. Any suggestion that you and I have been together and my career…my life…is finished. I’ve already been warned.”