Unpunished

by William Peter Grasso

  “What do you mean you’ve been warned?”

  “The professor…do you remember when I said I still had my job, but it was a very close call?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Joe mumbled, eyes downcast, as the memory of that chaotic morning flooded back.

  “He knew then…and he won’t let it pass again. We say nothing, Joseph. I don’t lie very well…neither do you.”

  The grim calculus of Pola’s decision had become clear: she had no choice but to trade the truth of David Linker’s death for her own life. But what of Joe’s perspective? In his soul, the issue was simple: It just wasn’t right…Linker deserved justice; Pilcher deserved to be hung for murder. Yet, he would trade his soul for Pola Nilsson-MacLeish. Resigned and downcast, it was his turn to ask, “So what do we do now?”

  “First,” she said softly, “we need to slip out of this church the back way. I’ll go straight to the barracks…I need to make sure those bloody policemen don’t terrorize poor Sergeant Moscone. You take your time getting there…so we don’t show up together.”

  They parted without so much as an embrace.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Joe Gelardi spent the night of David Linker’s murder in his police barracks room. It had been the first night in some time he actually spent there—and it was the first night in some time he had spent alone. Sleep proved impossible. His tormented mind replayed the events of the day over and over. He paced the floor of the dark room, yearning more for his lover than justice for David Linker.

  After he and Pola left the church, he had walked a long, circuitous path through a darkened Malmö for over an hour. The more he walked, the stronger became the impossible urge to avoid this whole mess and never return to the barracks. Eventually, he gave in to the inevitable and arrived on that street, the one that still bore faint stains from David Linker’s blood, visible even in the streetlights’ dim glow.

  He found Pola in the police commander’s office with several gentlemen. Although she looked pale as a ghost, she greeted him matter-of-factly; they all did. He nervously scanned the men’s faces: the commander, several uniformed police officers, two detectives, and Professor Steenslund. No one seemed to look at him as if thinking, Ahh…MacLeish’s lover has arrived, not even Professor Steenslund. Changing from Swedish to heavily accented English, the commander invited him to stay. “Please take a seat, Lieutenant. We have some very bad news.”

  With a nod from the commander, a detective began to speak. His English sounded like it came from the American Midwest, perhaps Minnesota. “Sorry to inform you that at approximately 1715 hours, Sergeant David Linker, US Army Air Forces, currently interned in Sweden, fell to his death from the roof of this barracks…”

  Joe tried to display the appropriate surprise and shock. His voice managed to sound appropriately distressed when he uttered, “Oh, no!”

  What he really wished to say was Fell, my ass!

  The detective had more to say. “We have classified Sergeant Linker’s death as a suicide. There is no evidence to suggest accident or foul play. While we believe Sergeant Anthony Moscone was present on the roof at the time of death, Mrs. MacLeish vouches for the fact that his condition, and his dependence on Sergeant Linker, would make it impossible for him to cause…or prevent…such a tragedy. We concur with Mrs. MacLeish.” Smugly, the detective added, “As you well know, Lieutenant, suicides are not uncommon among interned aircrews.”

  Joe was stunned by the finality of the detective’s statement. They’ve closed the book on this already. Hughes committed suicide, therefore Linker did, too. They’re really not interested in looking any deeper. He struggled to decide if he should be relieved—or outraged.

  Joe could see Pola go rigid in her chair as he asked: “Where is Captain Pilcher, anyway?” She would not look at him. Then he added: “Shouldn’t he be here?”

  The detective’s face reddened in obvious irritation. This internee did not seem to realize it was not his place to be questioning the authorities. He tapped a pen on his notebook several times before continuing. “Captain Pilcher is in his room, where he has been confined pending his repatriation tomorrow. He has been confined the past three days, as you well know…”

  Pola’s knuckles were gripping her chair tight enough to turn them white. She would not look at Joe. She wished he would just be silent.

  The detective gestured to Professor Steenslund, who shifted his considerable bulk in the chair to face Joe Gelardi and added these final details to the report: “Since Captain Pilcher and Sergeant Moscone will be leaving us tomorrow, that makes you, Lieutenant Gelardi, the ranking officer…and the only remaining member of your unfortunate crew at this facility. Therefore, Captain Pilcher has requested that you write the letter of condolence to Sergeant Linker’s next of kin.”

  Leonard Pilcher figured he had gotten away with it: Nobody saw anything…and Moscone, that vegetable, won’t be telling no tales. He had been able to flee the roof and get back to his room undetected; the chaos in the street outside had seen to that. The chair that should have been occupied by his guard was still empty, the coffee cup and newspaper beside it unmoved. Nobody had checked on him until 15 minutes after his return; a policeman in full stride had glanced into the room, then continued down the hall toward the shouting and commotion without saying a word.

  He found it impossible to calm down. He paced the room, muttering rationalizations over and over again for the homicide he had just committed: Who does that sheenie think he is, calling ME a traitor…and a queer! I was just trying to make him shut his big Jew mouth…It was an accident he tripped and fell over the edge…that’s all, just an accident. Wasn’t my fault at all. Stupid kike brought it on himself.

  A thought surfaced that finally calmed him a bit: Maybe it’s a good thing I’m getting shipped out tomorrow and taking that looney toon Moscone with me…It’ll be like it never happened in no time.

  With newfound resolve, he began to pack his personal belongings, an act he had had no interest in accomplishing until now. He whistled I’ll be Home for Christmas while he worked.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  She’s avoiding me…

  It had been three days since David Linker’s murder, and Joe Gelardi had managed only a few moments with Pola MacLeish, all within the confines of the police barracks. When he tried to arrange a rendezvous of any sort, she always had some excuse.

  Pilcher and Moscone were gone, whisked away at dusk on the appointed day. They were placed on a bus with a small group of internees also to be repatriated and driven to the airfield on the outskirts of the city. A daylight flight to England would be too risky; too many German fighters still prowled the daytime skies between occupied Denmark and Norway. The RAF transport flying them out arrived and departed in darkness, never shutting its engines down during its brief turn-around. By daybreak, they were back on British soil.

  As he was being helped onto the bus, Tony Moscone kept looking back and yelling, “Wait for Dave! Wait for Dave!” Joe Gelardi felt certain he could still hear Moscone’s pleas as the bus drove off, until the drone of a civil aircraft overhead drowned them out.

  But David Linker was gone, too. Joe missed him more than he thought possible: the vibrant intelligence, the biting sarcasm, the delicate way he had cared for Tony. David was truly an exceptional young man. But every thought of him degenerated to that last moment of his life, that sickening sound of body impacting pavement. Joe had nowhere to turn for refuge but to Pola—and she, too, was threatening to become a devastating memory.

  And that son-of-a-bitch Pilcher stuck me with writing the condolence letter! Sure…what would he have written? Dear Mr. and Mrs. Linker, I’m so sorry I killed your son…

  Joe Gelardi hoped Tony Moscone would finally get the psychological treatment he so badly needed. He wished Leonard Pilcher would go straight to hell. And he prayed David Linker would forgive him.

  But it was Pola who dominated his thoughts. He longed for her touch, to feel her body respond to his,
to see that splendid mane of flaxen hair splayed across the pillow as they made love. Her refusal to see him drove him to desperation. One morning, that desperation poured recklessly out as they passed in the hallway. “Pola,” he whispered, “I’m going to go out of my mind if I can’t be with you again.”

  At first, she turned away without saying a word. After a few steps, she turned back and said in a voice that seemed to possess all the control his quavering voice lacked, “All right. Come to the apartment at 1800. I’ll make supper. Bring a loaf of bread.”

  He bounded up the staircase to the apartment several minutes early, a loaf of fresh bread from the corner bakery tucked under his arm. No one answered his knock. He slumped against the wall next to the door, praying that she actually intended to show her face.

  After 10 minutes that had seemed to Joe like 10 hours, Pola ascended the staircase. “I’m sorry I’m late, Joseph,” she said, not bothering to explain further. Once inside the apartment, she went directly to preparing the food, broiling fish fillets and preparing a salad.

  Rummaging the cupboards, Joe asked, “Is there any wine?”

  “No…no wine. Slice the bread…there’s a good lad.”

  He could take no more of her indifference. He seized her from behind, his arms alternating entwining her waist and massaging her breasts as he kissed her neck, her hair, her ears. She spun in his grasp to face him, their bodies tight together. Tepidly, her mouth met his fervent kiss and then gently extinguished it.

  “Later, Joseph. Let’s eat first.”

  That promise was enough. He released her and did as he was told. They spoke little as they faced each other at the small table, moving to the couch in the tiny sitting room for coffee. This is later, Joe told himself and he pulled her to him once again. She submitted passively, without enthusiasm. His hands began a full exploration of that body he so desperately craved, plunging beneath the full skirt of her dress and unbuttoning the bodice above the belted waist.

  He pushed her down so she was supine on the cushions, her breasts exposed. Feverishly, he pulled the pumps from her feet. He stopped, for a moment, to slather her face and breasts with kisses, then returned to her thighs to unhook her stockings. Roughly, he slid them down her legs one at a time, followed by the panties and garter belt. When he was done, he straddled her thighs, pinning her hands above her head against the armrest. With a studied motion, he bound her wrists with one stocking and secured them over the armrest to a foot of the couch with the other stocking.

  He stood, gazing down at his captive, his lover. Her eyes were closed, her body tense but motionless, awaiting the coupling she had allowed. His pants and boxers fell to the floor. He returned to the couch, knelt between her parted legs, slipped on the prophylactic and entered her quickly. She made not a sound as she absorbed his passionate attempt to reclaim her.

  When he was finished, lying motionless atop her, their bodies still linked, she finally spoke.

  “Joseph, there is something I must tell you…two things, actually.”

  He pulled away slowly and sat between her feet at the opposite end of the couch. Nervously, he asked: “You’re not pregnant, are you? You can’t be…”

  “Not that I’m aware,” she replied, “but I have received word from my husband’s parents in Scotland. Reginald was badly wounded in combat several months ago. He may even be en route to England at this moment for convalescent care. It appears his war is over.”

  “I see,” Joe mumbled as shame poured over him like a drenching rain. A soldier’s wife…a wounded soldier’s wife. He jumped up to untie her.

  “Thank you,” Pola whispered as she rubbed the sore red marks encircling both wrists. “The professor and I are trying to arrange some sort of transport for me to England after Reginald arrives. It’s quite a dodgy thing at the moment.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet it is,” Joe answered softly. The rapid switch from sexual frenzy to crushing reality was making him lightheaded and sick to his stomach. “At least he’s alive,” he said, then immediately wished he had not offered such a ridiculous platitude.

  “Yes, I suppose I should be grateful for that.”

  “You said there were two things you need to tell me?”

  She hesitated before continuing. “Yes. I’ve decided to stop using the police barracks as a billet. You’re being reassigned to Stockholm. You leave in two days’ time.”

  There was little reaction from Joe, just a confused smile, slight and pitiful. The full weight of her words had not yet made its mark on him. Her tears began to flow. “I’m sorry, Joseph. Every time I see you, I see that poor lad being murdered…and I can’t do anything about it…I should give him justice and I can’t…and now poor Reginald! I’m so ashamed!” She collapsed into deep, wracking sobs.

  Her words began to take their full effect, capsizing whatever hope Joe had managed to keep afloat. He reached out for a lifeline and tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away. Fighting his own tears, he said, “But Pola, I love you…We love each other!”

  Her reply was a shriek: “DON’T SAY THAT! NOT NOW!” She jumped up from the couch, flinging herself into the armchair across the room, her legs tucked defensively beneath her, a hand holding the top of her dress closed.

  So many thoughts began to swirl in Joe Gelardi’s mind—images of their days and nights together, things they had said, things they had done—spinning faster and faster until the ensuing vortex threatened to suck them all away. He began to plead. “So we can’t do anything about David. That was for you, wasn’t it? But that doesn’t mean…”

  But she cut him off. “Just go, Joseph. Please…just go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The walls of the office were lined with photographs depicting mobs of angry men, sometimes hundreds, sometimes thousands. Common-looking men, dressed in workingman’s clothes, carrying picket signs—a pictorial history of this last century of class warfare in America. In some pictures, the picket signs were being held aloft, like countless pages with identical text. In others, the signs had become weapons—clubs and spears—leveled against the better-armed mercenaries of the corporations. It mattered not at all if these mercenaries were company goons, private “detectives,” state police, or federal soldiers; they all served the same enemy.

  Tom Houlihan leaned back in the armchair and lit another of his fetid cigars. “You don’t mind if I smoke in here, do you, Freddy?” It was not really a question, just a confirmation of privilege masquerading as one. After all, as president emeritus of the Amalgamated Steelworkers Union, this was his office; always has been, always would be, no matter who actually sat in that chair. Even this brand-new, hand-picked successor.

  The putrid odor of cigar smoke was the least of Fred O’Hara’s problems at the moment. Something stunk far worse than that; Tom Houlihan’s pronouncement, just prior to lighting up, still hung in the air like a cloud of deadly gas. And it smelled far worse to Fred O’Hara than the noxious odor of steel mills that belched from every smokestack, permeating the Pittsburgh air.

  “That’s right, Freddy. Our union is going to endorse Congressman Leonard Pilcher for President of these United States.” He was grinning from ear to ear as he took another puff on the cigar. “You know, my boy, I couldn’t be happier with you at this moment. You are truly the right man at the right time; 1960 is going to be another Republican year, and we’re going to help make it so. The fact that you two boys know each other…served together in the war, goddammit!…is gonna bring good things for all of us. Even with that damn fool Ike still running his mouth, first with that Republicans are the party of business stuff…Gee, no fooling, General! And then he throws in that crap about the dangers of the military-industrial complex! Shit, son, we live off that goddamned military-industrial complex! That Daddy Pilcher…old Mr. Military-Industrial Complex himself…bought his boy that congress seat and he’ll buy him the White House, too. And when he does, we kick the United Steelworkers and their Democrat friends right in their commie asses. W
e’ll be calling our own shots.”

  Fred O’Hara was on his feet now, pacing the well-worn carpet. “You’re sure about this, Tom?”

  “Absolutely, Freddy my boy. Absolutely.”

  “This union is going to support a Republican candidate for president? Since when?”

  “There’s a first time for everything, Freddy. Gotta go with the times.”

  “Do you really think Pilcher needs our endorsement? Or would his daddy just rub the USW’s face in it?”

  “It’s a win for us either way, Freddy my boy.”

  The pictures on the wall—so many bloodied strikers, fighting daunting odds—suddenly seemed discordant, an inappropriate backdrop to the heresy Houlihan was spouting.

  “Then I’ve…no, we’ve…got a problem, Tom.”

  Tom Houlihan’s face—cigar and all—twisted into an expression of disapproval.

  “What kind of problem, son?”

  “Yeah, I know Pilcher…all too well. I’ve told you before about how Captain Leonard Pilcher took a perfectly good airplane to Sweden while I twiddled my thumbs in the Stalag Luft.” He pounded a fist on the desk as he said, “He’s a deserter…and a coward!”

  “The war’s over, Freddy.”

  “The fuck it is, Tom! Why should I have to shine shit for that shirking son of a bitch?”

  “Because if he wins, this union wins. Big time. And that’s all that matters, Freddy boy. Besides, we’re all sons of bitches, ain’t we?”

  “Not like him, we ain’t. We’re sons of bitches for the right reasons.”

  Houlihan shifted his old bones uneasily in the plush chair, exuding disapproval without uttering a word. He had given his proclamation; he was not expecting any debate.