Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“I’m jealous of him,” said Ruth, speaking over the edge of her glass.

“Who?”

“Schneider.”

“Why?” Mitchell asked.

“Because of the way he looks at you. He’s crazy about you. Has he asked you to come to tea with him and his mother?”

“Yes,” said Mitchell, trying not to smile.

“I’ll tear his eyes out,” Ruth said. “I’m jealous of anybody who looks at you that way. The girls back in Vermont and those Red Cross girls.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Mitchell said. “Nobody looks at me that way. Not even Schneider or you.”

“That’s the nicest thing about you,” Ruth said. “You don’t know anything. I’m so used to men who know just how many steps out of bed each look a woman gives them measures. I must visit America after the war.…”

“Where will you really go?” Mitchell asked. “Back to Berlin?”

“No.” Ruth stared reflectively down at her plate. “No, not back to Berlin. Never back to Berlin. The Germans have made clear their feeling about me. A little thing like a war will not change them. The lamb does not go back to the slaughterhouse. Anyway, I have nobody there. There was a young man …” She leaned over and picked up the bottle and absently poured for Mitchell and herself. “I don’t know what happened to him. Stalingrad, maybe, Alamein … who knows?”

Four men came into the patio and walked through the brief illumination of the blue lights. Three of them were Arabs in European dress, and the fourth was a man in the uniform of the American Army with the civilian technical adviser patch on his shoulder. They stopped at the table. The three Arabs bowed a little, ceremoniously, to Ruth, and the American said, “I thought you were sick.”

“This is Mr. Carver,” Ruth said to Mitchell, with a wave to the American. “He’s my boss.”

“Hi, Lieutenant,” said Carver. He was a big, fat man, with a weary, puffy, intelligent face. He turned back to Ruth. “I thought you were sick,” he repeated in a pleasant, loud, slightly drunken voice.

“I was sick,” Ruth said, cheerfully. “I had a miraculous recovery.”

“The American Army,” Carver said, “expects every civilian worker to do her duty.”

“Tomorrow,” said Ruth. “Now please go away with your friends. The lieutenant and I are having an intimate talk.”

“Lieutenant …” It was one of the Arabs, the shortest of the three, a slight, dark man, with a round face and liquid, veiled eyes. “My name is Ali Khazen. Permit me to introduce myself, as no one here seems to remember his manners well enough to do so.”

Mitchell stood up. “Mitchell Gunnison,” he said, putting out his hand.

“Forgive me,” Carver said. “I’m suffering from drink. This is Sayed Taif …” He indicated the tallest of the Arabs, a middle-aged man with a severe, handsome, tight-lipped face. Mitchell shook hands with him.

“He doesn’t like Americans,” Carver said loudly. “He’s the leading journalist of the local Arab world and he writes for thirty-five papers in the United States and he doesn’t like Americans.”

“What was that?” Taif asked politely, inclining his head in a reserved, small gesture.

“Also, he’s deaf,” said Carver. “Most useful equipment for any journalist.”

Nobody bothered to introduce the third Arab, who stood a little to one side, watching Taif with a fierce, admiring stare, like a boxer dog at his master’s feet.

“Why don’t you all go away and eat your dinner?” Ruth said.

“Lieutenant,” Carver said, ignoring her, “take the advice of a veteran of the Middle East. Do not become involved with Palestine.”

“He’s not becoming involved with Palestine,” Ruth said. “He’s becoming involved With me.”

“Beware Palestine.” Carver weaved a little as he spoke. “The human race is doomed in Palestine. For thousands of years. They chop down the forests, burn down the cities, wipe out the inhabitants. This is no place for an American.”

“You drink too much, Mr. Carver,” Ruth said.

“Nevertheless,” Carver shook his big head heavily, “it is no accident that they picked this place to crucify Christ. You couldn’t pick a better place to crucify Christ if you scoured the maps of the world for five hundred years. I’m a Quaker myself, from the city of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and all I see here is the blood of bleeding humanity. When this war is over I’m going back to Philadelphia and wait until I pick up the morning newspaper and read that everybody in Palestine has exterminated everybody else in Palestine the night before.” He walked unsteadily over to Ruth’s chair and bent over and peered intently into her face. “Beautiful girl,” he said, “beautiful, forlorn girl.” He straightened up. “Gunnison, I admonish you, as an officer and gentleman, do not harm one hair on this beautiful girl’s head.”

“Every hair,” Mitchell said, gravely, “is safe with me.”

“If you must drink,” Ruth said to Carver sharply, “why don’t you do it with Americans? Why do you have to go around with bandits and murderers like these?” She waved her hand toward the Arabs. The journalist smiled, his handsome face frosty and amused in the wavering light.

“Impartiality,” Carver boomed. “American impartiality. We are famous for it. We are nobody’s friend and nobody’s enemy. We merely build airfields and pipelines. Impartially. Tomorrow I lunch with the President of the Jewish Agency.”

Ruth turned to the journalist. “Taif,” she said, loudly, “I read your last piece.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, his voice a little dead and without timbre. “Did you like it?”

“You’ll be responsible for the death of thousands of Jews,” said Ruth.

“Ah, thank you,” he said. He smiled. “It is my fondest hope.” He turned to Mitchell. “Naturally, Lieutenant,” he said, “our charming little Ruth is biased in the matter. It is necessary to give the Arab side of the proposition.” He began to speak more seriously, with a severe, oratorical emphasis, like an evangelical preacher. “The world is dazzled by the Jewish accomplishment in Palestine. Fine, clean cities, with plumbing. Industries. Where once was desert, now the rose and the olive bloom. Et cetera.”

“Taif, old boy,” Carver pulled at his arm, “let’s eat and you can lecture the lieutenant some other time.”

“No, if you please.” The journalist pulled his arm politely away from Carver’s hand. “I welcome the opportunity to talk to our American friends. You see, my good Lieutenant, you may be very pleased with the factory and the plumbing, and perhaps, even, from one point of view, they may be good things. But they have nothing to do with the Arab. Perhaps the Arab prefers the desert as it was. The Arab has his own culture.…”

“When I hear the word ‘culture,’” Carver said, “I reach for my pistol. What famous American said that?”

“To Americans and Europeans,” the journalist went on, in his singsong, dead voice, “the culture of the Arab perhaps seems backward and dreadful. But, forgive us, the Arab prefers it. The virtues which are particularly Arab are kept alive by primitive living. They die among the plumbing.”

“Now,” said Ruth, “we have heard a new one. Kill the Jew because he brings the shower bath.”

The journalist smiled indulgently at Ruth, as at a clever child. “Personally,” he said, “I have nothing against the Jews. I swear that I do not wish to harm a single Jew living in Palestine today. But I will fight to the death to keep even one more Jew from entering the country. This is an Arab state, and it must remain an Arab state.”

“Gunnison,” Carver said, “aren’t you glad you came?”