Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

“Leave it with me,” the guard said. “I’ll see he gets it.”

“I was ordered to deliver it in person and wait for a reply.”

The short stocky guard glanced at his counterpart, a bullish young soldier half asleep at his post. Then he beckoned Andras closer and bent his head to him. “What do you really want?” he asked. “Work servicemen don’t deliver telegrams to camp commanders. I may be new here, but I’m not an idiot.” He held Andras’s gaze steady with his own, and Andras’s instinct was to answer truthfully.

“My wife just gave birth five weeks early,” he said. “The baby’s sick. I have to get home. I want to ask for a special leave.”

The guard laughed. “In the middle of dinner? You must be crazy.”

“It can’t wait,” Andras said. “I’ve got to get home now.”

The guard seemed to consider what might be done. He looked over his shoulder into the mess hall, and then at the bullish young soldier again. “Hey, Mohács,” he said. “Cover guard duty for a minute, will you? I have to take this fellow inside.”

The bullish man shrugged, made a grunt of assent, and sank back almost immediately into his half-conscious state.

“All right,” said the first soldier. “Come in. I’ll have to pat you down.”

Andras, speechless with gratitude, followed the soldier into the vestibule and submitted to a search. When the guard had determined that Andras was not carrying a weapon, he put a hand on his arm and said, “Come with me. And don’t speak to anyone, understand?”

Andras nodded, and they stepped into the clamor of the officers’ dining room. The long tables were arranged in rows, the officers seated according to rank. Barna dined with his lieutenants at a raised table overlooking the others. At his side was a high-ranked officer Andras had never seen before, a compact silver-haired man in a coat bright with braid, his shoulders bristling with decorations. He had a fine steely beard in an antiquated style, and a gold-rimmed monocle. He looked like an old general from the Great War.

“Who is that?” Andras asked the guard.

“No idea,” the guard said. “They don’t tell us anything. But it looks like you’ve picked a good night to make your début in dinner theater.” He led Andras to another soldier who stood at attention near the head table, and he bent his head to that soldier’s ear and said a few words. The soldier nodded and went to an adjutant who was sitting at one of the tables close to the front. He bent to the adjutant and spoke, and the adjutant raised his head from his dinner and regarded Andras with an expression of wonderment and pity. Slowly he got up from his bench and went to the head table, where he saluted Major Barna and repeated the message, glancing back over his shoulder at Andras. Barna’s brows drew together and his mouth hardened into a white line. He put down his fork and knife and got to his feet. The men fell silent. The splendid elderly officer glanced up in inquiry.

Barna drew himself to his full height. “Where is this Lévi?” he said.

Andras had never heard his name sound so much like a curse. He struggled to keep his shoulders straight as he answered, “Here I am, sir.”

“Step forward, Lévi,” said the major.

It was the second time Barna had given him that command. He remembered well what had happened the first time. He took a few steps forward and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“You see, sir,” Barna said, addressing the decorated gentleman beside him. “This is why we can’t be too careful about the liberties we give our laborers. Do you see this cockroach?” He indicated Andras with his hand. “I’ve disciplined him before. He dared to be insolent to me on an earlier occasion. And here he is again.”

“What was the earlier occasion?” the general said-with, Andras thought, a hint of mockery, almost as though it might please him to hear of someone’s insolence to Barna.

But Barna didn’t seem to catch the note. “It was when he first arrived,” he said, and narrowed his eyes at Andras. “Did you think I’d forgotten, Lévi? I had to strip him of his rank.” Barna smiled at the elder officer. “He tried to cling to it, so I punished him.”

“Why was he stripped of rank?”

“Because he’d misplaced his foreskin,” Barna said.

The room broke out in laugher, but the general frowned at his dinner plate. Barna didn’t seem to notice that either. “Now he’s come to us with an important request,” he went on. “Why don’t you step forward and state your business, Lévi?”

Andras took a step forward. He refused to be cowed by Barna, though his pulse pounded deafeningly in his temples. He held the telegram in his clenched hand. “Request permission for special family leave, sir,” he said.

“What’s so urgent?” Barna said. “Does your wife need a fuck?”

More laughter from the men.

“You can be sure that problem will take care of itself,” Barna said. “It always does.”

“With your permission, sir,” Andras began again, his voice tight with rage.

“What’s that in your hand, Lévi? Adjutant, bring me that piece of paper.”

The adjutant approached Andras and took the telegram from his hand. Andras had never felt such profound humiliation or fury. He stood no more than eight feet from Barna; in another moment he might have his hands around the major’s throat. The thought was some consolation as he watched Barna scan the telegram. Barna raised his eyebrows in bemused surprise.

“What do you know?” he said to the assembled men. “Mrs. Lévi just had a kid. Lévi is a father.”

Applause from the men, along with whistles and cheers.

“But the baby’s very sick. Come home at once. That sounds bad.”

Andras fought the impulse to run at Barna. He bit his lip and fixed his eyes again on the floor. What he did not want was to be shot.

“Well, there’s no use giving you a special leave now, is there?” Barna said. “If the boy’s really that sick, you can just go home when he’s dead.”

A dense silence filled Andras’s ears like the rushing of a train. Barna looked around the room, his hands on the table; the men seemed to understand that he wanted them to laugh again, and there was a swell of uncomfortable laughter.

“You’re dismissed, Lévi,” Barna said. “I’d like to enjoy my coffee now.”

Before anyone could move, the elderly general brought his hand down against the table. “This is a disgrace,” he said, getting to his feet, his voice graveled with anger. He turned a thick-browed scowl on Barna. “You are a disgrace.”

Barna gave a crooked smile, as if this were all part of the joke.

“Don’t you smirk at me, Major,” the general said. “Apologize to this serviceman at once.”

Barna hesitated a moment, then nodded at the guard who’d brought Andras in. “Remove that clod of dirt from my sight.”

“Did you mishear me?” the general said. “I ordered you to apologize.”

Barna’s eyes darted from Andras to the general to the officers at their tables. “We’re done with this, sir,” he said, in an undertone that Andras was close enough to hear.

“You’re not done, Major,” the general said. “Get down off this platform and apologize to that man.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard what I said.”

The men sat in silence, watching. Barna stood still for a long time, seeming to wage an inner battle; his color changed from red to purple to white. The general stood beside him with his arms crossed over his chest. There was no way for him to disobey. The elder man held unquestionable military superiority. Barna stepped down off the dais and marched toward Andras. He paused in front of him, and, with a medicine-swallowing grimace, extended a hand. Andras sent the general a look of gratitude and took Barna’s hand. But no sooner had his own hand touched Barna’s than Barna spat in his face and slapped him with the hand Andras had touched. Without another word, the major made his way through the rows of tables and went out into the night. Andras drew a sleeve across his face, numb with pain.