‘“And after they’ve seen the camp, sir?”
‘“Let’ em go.”
‘They did as ordered. They marched those four hundred townspeople through every damn corner of the camp. The barracks, with human waste piled up on the floors. The ovens. The dissecting tables. The mountain of bones and skulls piled up right near the crematorium. As they took them on this guided tour, the camp survivors - there must have been a couple of hundred of them - stood silently in the courtyard. Most of them were so emaciated they looked like the walking dead. I tell you, not one of the townspeople looked a survivor in the face. In fact, most of them kept their eyes fixed firmly on the ground. They were just as silent as the survivors.
‘But then, this one guy lost it. He was a well-dressed, well-fed banker type. He must have been in his late fifties: good suit, well-polished shoes, gold watch in his vest pocket. Out of nowhere, he suddenly started to cry. Uncontrollably. The next thing we knew, he broke out of the line, and went staggering towards Captain Dupree. Immediately, two of our guys had their guns drawn. But Dupree waved them away. The banker type fell to his knees in front of the Captain, sobbing wildly. And he kept saying this one thing over and over again. He said it so much I remembered it:
‘“Ich habe nichts davon gewufsst… . Ich habe nichts davon gewusst … Ich habe nichts davon gewusst.”
‘Dupree looked down at him, really puzzled. Then he called for Garrison - the translator who’d been assigned to our battalion. He was this shy, bookish type, who never looked directly at anyone. He stood by the Captain and stared wide-eyed at the weeping banker.
‘“The hell is he saying, Garrison?” Dupree asked him. The banker’s words were now so garbled that Garrison had to crouch down beside him.
‘After a moment he stood up again.
‘“Sir, he’s saying - I didn’t know … I didn’t know.”
‘Dupree’s eyes went white. Then, suddenly, he reached down and pulled up the banker by the lapels of his suit, until they were face-to-face.
‘“The fuck you didn’t know,” Dupree hissed at him, then spat in his face and pushed him away.
‘The banker staggered back to the line. As the townspeople continued to be marched through the camp, I kept my eye on the guy. Never once did he try to wipe Dupree’s spit off his face. Over and over again, he kept mumbling that phrase, Ich habe nichts davon gewusst … Ich habe nichts davon gewusst. A soldier standing near me said, “Listen to that kraut sonofabitch. He’s gone off his rocker.”
‘But all I could think was: it sounds like an act of contrition. Or a Hail Mary. Or anything you say again and again to yourself, in an attempt to do penance, seek forgiveness, whatever. And I actually felt for the guy. Because I sensed what he was really saying was, Yes, I knew what was going on in this camp. But I could do nothing about it. So I shut my eyes … and convinced myself that life in my village was as normal as ever.’
He paused for a moment.
‘I tell you, I don’t think I’ll ever shake the memory of that fat little man in a suit, saying Ich habe nichts davon gewusst again and again and again. Because it was such a plea for forgiveness. And the basis of the plea was so frighteningly goddamn human: we all do what we have to do to get through the day.’
Jack reached for his cigarette. It was dead, so he fished out another Chesterfield and lit it up. After he took a puff, I pulled it out of his lips and took a long, deep drag.
‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ he said.
‘I don’t. I dabble. Especially when I’m pensive.’
‘You’re feeling pensive?’
‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’
We fell silent for a moment, passing the cigarette back and forth between us.
‘Did you forgive that German banker?’ I finally asked.
‘Forgive him? Hell, no. He deserved his guilt.’
‘But you sympathized with his predicament, didn’t you?’
‘Sure, I sympathized. But I wouldn’t have offered him absolution.’
‘But say you had been him. Say you were the manager of the local bank, and you had a wife and kids and a nice secure life. But say you also knew that, just down the street from your nice little house, there was the slaughterhouse, in which innocent men, women and children were being butchered - all because your government had decided that they were enemies of the state. Would you have raised your voice in protest? Or would you have done what he did - keep your head down, get on with your life, pretend not to notice?’
Jack took a final drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it into the ashtray. ‘You want an honest answer?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Then the honest answer is: I don’t know what I would have done.’
‘That is an honest answer,’ I said.
‘Everyone talks about doing “the right thing”, taking a stand, thinking about the so-called greater good. But talk like that is cheap. When we find ourselves on the front line - with flak coming at us - most of us decide we’re not the heroic type. We duck.’
I stroked his cheek with my hand. ‘So you wouldn’t call yourself a hero?’
‘Nah - a romantic’
He kissed me deeply. When he ended it, I pulled him back towards me and whispered, ‘Let’s get out of here.’
He hesitated. I said, ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘I have to come clean on something,’ he said. ‘I’m not just going to the Brooklyn Navy Yards today.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Europe.’
‘Europe? But the war’s over. Why are you going to Europe?’
‘I volunteered …’
‘Volunteered? There’s no war to fight, so what’s to volunteer for … ?’
‘There may be no more war, but there’s still a big US Army presence on the continent, helping handle stuff like refugees, bomb clearance, repatriation of POWs. And Stars and Stripes asked if I wanted to sign on to cover the postwar clean-up. In my case, it also meant instant promotion to the rank of lieutenant, not to mention another stint overseas. So …’
‘And how long is this additional tour of duty?’
He lowered his eyes, avoiding mine.
‘Nine months.’
I said nothing … even though nine months suddenly seemed like an epoch.
‘When did you sign up for this tour?’ I asked quietly.
‘Two days ago.’
Oh God, no …
‘Just my luck,’ I said.
‘Just my luck too.’
He kissed me again. Then whispered, ‘I’d better say goodbye then.’
I felt my heart miss a beat … or three. For a moment I found myself wondering what sort of madness I was getting myself into. But that moment vanished. All I could think was: this is it.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t say goodbye. Not yet anyway. Not until oh-nine-hundred.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m sure.’
It was only a five-minute walk from Sheridan Square to my apartment on Bedford Street. We said nothing en route, just silently clutching on to each other as we negotiated the empty city streets. We said nothing as we climbed the stairs. I opened the door. We stepped inside. I didn’t offer him a drink or coffee. He didn’t ask. He didn’t look around. He didn’t make admiring noises about the apartment. There was no nervous small talk. Because, for the moment, there was nothing more either of us wanted to say. And because - as soon as the door shut behind us - we began to pull each other’s clothes off.
He never asked me if it was my first time. He was just so exceptionally gentle. And passionate. And a little clumsy … though hardly as clumsy as me.
Afterwards, he was a little aloof. Almost shy. As if he had revealed too much.
I lay against him, amidst the now tangled, damp sheets. My arms were entwined around his chest. I let my lips linger on the nape of his neck. Then, for the first time in around an hour, I spoke.
‘I’m never allowing you out of
this bed.’
‘Is that a promise?’ he asked.
‘Worse,’ I said. ‘It’s a vow.’
‘Now that is serious.’
‘Love is a serious business, Mr Malone.’
He turned around and faced me.
‘Is that a declaration of sorts, Miss Smythe?’
‘Yes, Mr Malone. It is a declaration. My cards are - as they say - on the table. Does that scare you?’
‘On the contrary … I’m not going to let you out of this bed.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘For the next four hours, yes.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, once again, I become the property of the United States Army - who, for the time being, dictate the course of my life.’
‘Even in matters of love?’
‘No - love is the one area over which they have no control.’
We fell silent again. ‘I will come back,’ he finally said.
‘I know that,’ I said. ‘If you survived the war, you’ll definitely survive the peace over there. The thing is: will you come back for me?’
As soon as I uttered that sentence, I hated myself for saying it.
‘Will you listen to me,’ I said. ‘I sound like I have some sort of proprietorial hold on you. I’m sorry - I’m being deeply silly.’
He held me tighter. ‘You’re not being deeply silly,’ he said. ‘Just nominally silly.’
‘Don’t you make light of this, Brooklyn boy,’ I said, gently poking him in the chest with my finger. ‘I don’t give up my heart that easily.’
‘Of that I am absolutely certain,’ he said, kissing my face. ‘And, believe it or not, nor do I.’
‘There’s not a girl stashed away over in Brooklyn?’
‘Nope. Promise.’
‘Or some Fraulein waiting for you in Munich?’
‘There is no one.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ll still find Europe very romantic …’
Silence. I felt like kicking myself for sounding so astringent. Jack smiled at me.
‘Sara …’
‘I know, I know. It’s just … Damn it, it’s not fait, you going away tomorrow.’
‘Listen, had I met you two days ago, I would never have volunteered for this tour …’
‘But we didn’t meet two days ago. We met tonight. And now …’
‘We’re talking nine months, no more. September first, nineteen forty-six - I’m home.’
‘But will you come looking for me?’
‘Sara, I’m planning to write you every day of those nine months …’
‘Don’t get too ambitious. Every other day will do.’
‘If I want to write you every day, I’ll write you every day.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise,’ he said. ‘And will you be here when I get back?’
‘You know I will.’
‘You are wonderful, Miss Smythe.’
‘Ditto, Mr Malone.’
I pushed him down against the mattress, then climbed on top of him. This time, we were less shy, less clumsy. And totally unbridled. Even though I was scared to death. Because I’d just lost my heart to a stranger … who was about to vanish across the ocean for nine months. No matter how hard I tried to avoid it, this was going to hurt.
Night ended. Light seeped in through the blinds. I peered at the bedside clock. Seven forty. Instinctively I clutched him closer to me.
‘I’ve decided something,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘To keep you prisoner here for the next nine months.’
‘And then, when you release me, the Army can keep me prisoner in some brig for the next two years.’
‘At least I’d have you to myself for nine straight months.’
‘Nine months from now, you’ll have me to yourself for as long as you want me.’
‘I want to believe that.’
‘Believe it.’
He got up and began to pick up his uniform off the floor. ‘I’d better make tracks.’
‘I’m coming with you to the Navy Yards,’ I said.
‘There’s no need …’
‘There’s every need. It gives me another hour with you.’
He reached back and took my hand.
‘It’s a long subway ride,’ he said. ‘And it is Brooklyn.’
‘You might just be worth the trip to Brooklyn,’ I said.
We dressed. I filled my little tin percolator with Maxwell House and put it on the stove. When brown liquid began to splash upwards into its dome, I poured out two cups. We raised one each, clinking them together, but said nothing. The coffee tasted weak, anaemic. It only took a minute or two to slurp it down. Jack looked at me.
‘It’s time,’ he said.
We left the apartment. Thanksgiving morning 1945 was cold and bright. Far too bright for two people who’d been up all night. We squinted all the way to Sheridan Square station. The train to Brooklyn was deserted. As we barreled through Lower Manhattan, we remained silent, clinging on to each other tightly. As we crossed under the East River, I said, ‘I don’t have your address.’
Jack pulled out two matchbooks from his pocket. He handed one to me. Then he dug out a pencil stub from the breast pocket of his uniform. Licking it, he opened his book of matches and scribbled a US Army postal address on the inside cover. He gave me the matches. I clutched them in one hand, then relieved him of the pencil and scribbled my address on the inside flap of my matchbook. When I handed it back to him, he instantly put it into his shirt pocket, buttoning the flap for safe keeping.
‘Don’t you dare lose that book of matches,’ I said.
‘They have just become my most prized possession. And you’ll write me too?’
‘Constantly.’
The train continued its headlong plunge under the river and through subterranean Brooklyn. When it jerked to a halt at Borough Hall, Jack said, ‘We’re here.’
We climbed back up into the Thanksgiving light, emerging right near a dockyards. It was a grim industrial landscape, with half-a-dozen naval frigates and troop ships berthed in a series of docks. They were all painted battleship grey. We were not the only couple approaching the gates of the Navy Yards. There must have been six or seven others, embracing against a lamp post, or whispering final declarations of love to each other, or just looking at each other.
‘Looks like we’ve got company,’ I said.
The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) Page 16