Scott Turow - Ordinary Heroes

Strasbourg was nearly seventy miles away, far behind the German lines.

"My Lord! You just went?"

"Pourquoi pas? Our documents say we are from Arracourt, going to see Robert's grandmere who is near death. The Nazis are oxen. A snake with proper papers could board the train. This has been our life for years, Dubin."

Behind her, the Comtesse's house was under repair in the wake of the bombing. Heavy tarpaulins hung over many of the broken windows, although in the few instances where the shutters remained they had simply been closed. Either way, it would make for a cold winter. There had been talk after the blast that by December the Comtesse would have to abandon the house for the servants' quarters across the courtyard, which were undamaged.

On the other side of the vehicle, Martin had arisen. Until now, I had been too intent on Gita to notice. He was dressed in a suit and a fedora, looking proper and bourgeois. I saluted, which drew a faint smile, as he wandered up with far less enthusiasm than Gita had shown.

"Back so soon, Dubin?"

I reminded him of my promise to return his documents. "And I've brought you a few new ones."

He read for a while, nodding. "Very good," he said. He handed the orders back, with a bright grin. "I guess I've won this round."

"Sir?"

"Proves the point, doesn't it? Teedle has given up his claim to be my commanding officer. I'm under OSS direction. And London has ordered me to proceed here. That's my duty. All cleared up, I'd say."

"Major, these documents require you to travel to London at once."

"Yes, and I've done so and London sent me back. You're holding the proof of that in your other hand. Am I to be court-martialed because I have already carried out my orders?"

Martin gave another glowing smile, as if this weren't flimflam. On the other hand, there wasn't much here to prove him wrong. Nothing showed OSS's involvement or that some obliging paymaster hadn't simply sent the travel papers at Teedle's request, a prospect I hadn't considered until now.

"Major, I mean no disrespect, but even if there's a mistake, had you asked OSS to contact Third Army G-1 or Colonel Maples, this could have been resolved instantly."

"Well, it is a mistake, Dubin, quite clearly, because I received the go-ahead by radio yesterday on an operation that's been planned for months. And inasmuch as the one thing Teedle and I now agree upon is that I take my commands from OSS, I will carry out those orders. I'll deal with your papers straightaway when we return."

I asked the nature of this new operation, but Martin gave a strict shake of his head.

"I'm hardly at liberty to discuss that, Dubin. The other members of Stemwinder don't even have the details yet. We work strictly on a need-to-know basis. Capture is always a risk in this line of work, Dubin. And what difference would that make?"

"I'm just looking for a way to confirm your position, Major."

Standing by and listening, Gita suddenly interjected, "Laisse-le venir."

Martin drew back. What Gita had said was, Let him come.

"Tres dangereux, non?" he responded. "Demand. E-lui." Ask him. Martin reflected, then took on a look of revelation.

"My God, she's right. What a marvel you are, Gita, you never cease to amaze." He swung an arm around her waist and planted a paternal kiss atop her head. "You want evidence of my orders from OSS? Come watch me follow them. You say I get to present any proof I wish to your investigation, don't I?"

"Yes, sir." Those were surely the rules.

"Then this is it. Patton's going to be on the move again momentarily, and this operation is an essential prelude. You're more than welcome to observe, Lieutenant, to see once and for all that I'm under OSS direction and not sitting out here on Roman holiday, or whatever else it is that Teedle imagines. It will put an end to all questions. If you choose not to come, there's no more I can do."

I had no idea, of course, what I was being asked to say yes to. Except that I'd heard the word 'dangerous.' It was a dare, actually, the man of action's challenge to the deskbound bureaucrat, and Martin was probably betting I would never accept. But his logic was impeccable. If I refused, I'd have denied him the opportunity to offer the only evidence he had. In fact, reading the rules, I might even have been derelict. I told him I would have to consult Maples.

"As you wish. But we start this afternoon, Dubin. You'll have to be there and back before three."

That was impossible, especially with the movements on the roadways that could sidetrack us for hours. Martin, still with his hand on Gita's back, turned away, and she gave me a quick private frown before heading off beside him. I was being just the man of small points she'd ridiculed last week. Worse, I felt like a coward.

"I'll go," I told Martin.

Martin didn't flinch when he revolved my way, even though I'd probably called his bluff.

"Bravo, Dubin. I'll brief you shortly. Glad to have you," he said, and continued toward the house with his arm still around Gita's waist.

I found Bidwell with the Gypsy, Antonio, and several of the farmworkers, showing off the photos he had taken during our last visit. They were little twoby-twos and he was complaining about the supplies he'd had to work with.

"Can't get no bigger film. Damn lucky for what I have. Wanted my folks to send some six-twenty but they-all is hoarding silver on the home front."

Small or not, the images were striking. After the bombing, Biddy had shot through a broken window into the darkness of the house. Within, you could detect the form of a tall chifforobe, while the glass reflected uprooted trees outside leaned together like a tepee and, farther in the background, Antonio, with his long hair and dark intense eyes aimed right at the camera. Biddy had taken another photo inside the bomb crater looking up at two of the dead animals. There were also several pictures he'd snapped on our way here last time of haystacks being gathered in the open fields.

"Put me in mind of those paintings in the Museum of Art," he said. "You seen them?" I had. Famous Impressionist works in vivid hues, but the artist's name eluded me. "Same idea," Biddy said, "but in black and white. You think that's okay?"

They were beautiful photos. I asked what could be wrong.

"I don't know," he said. "Seems like if you make a picture you oughta rightly be thinkin about life, not other pictures. But I got those paintings in my head."

"Did you study art, Biddy?"

"Aw, hell, Lieutenant, my daddy, he'd probably just keeled over dead if I'd'a tole him I was going to art school. I just liked them paintings, seein what happened to our world when it went flat. I was over there whenever I could. A lot of that, the stuff folks are doin these days especially, they really talk to me, you know?"

My mother was always hauling me down to the museum, hoping something would rub off, but the truth was I couldn't make heads or tails of the works that excited Biddy.

"I think I'm too practical-minded for modern art, Gideon. Art and opera. My mother loves that, too. But I like your photographs."

He shook his head. "You see things through that lens, Lieutenant, you can't catch with your eye. And I like how I feel when I'm lookin, with that contraption between me and everything else. Here in this mess and able to stand back like that, I'm a million miles away sometimes." He looked at me. "I don't know what the hell I'm talkin about, you know."

"You're making plenty of sense, Biddy. Don't sell yourself short. Maybe you should think about art school."

"Maybe I should. We-all gotta live through this first."

That was the reminder I needed. I told him about my conversation with Martin. As his expression darkened, I could see he was resisting the impulse to stab me.