Mila 18 - Leon Uris

They shaded their eyes from the sun. Chris put on dark glasses to cover the bruises, and they strolled down New World Street. Across the street a pair of men began to follow them, and Von Epp’s car drifted alongside at a crawl. “Lovely system,” Von Epp said. “This way no one knows exactly who is watching who. How did you find the Russian front?”

“Nothing but victory for the Fatherland. Trouble is, I’m having a time getting my dispatches through about your glorious achievements.”

“Sorry about that. Your line to Switzerland was restored this morning. Bloody blockheads. I knew the moment I left Warsaw there would be a panic.”

“Restoring Rosenblum to me too?”

They crossed the street.

“Your silence is deafening, Horst.” Chris pressed.

“Be reasonable.”

“He’s like my right arm.”

“I told you I didn’t know how long I’d be able to keep him out of the ghetto.”

They walked in quiet unison for the rest of the block, then stopped at the junction where Jerusalem Boulevard turned into the Third of May Boulevard. A screaming set of sirens froze all movement. A pair of motorcycles followed by a command car followed by a convoy of a hundred trucks filled with fresh soldiers poured past them. From two or three of the trucks they were able to catch a note or two of a marching song. The convoy swept toward the newly reconstructed bridge to Praga.

Meat for the eastern front, Chris thought. The blitzkrieg had swept over the steppes. The fantastic military machine was slicing up the vastness of Russia from the Black Sea to the gates of Moscow. Horst and Christ drifted in the wake of the convoy to the bridge, and they stopped in the middle and leaned on the rail.

“Schreiker called me in and questioned me about Rosenblum. They were all on me about him. For both of your welfares it is better this way. It is impossible to have him out of the ghetto without casting all sorts of suspicion on you. Obviously he’s mixed up in some sort of contacts around Warsaw and probably two steps ahead of being hauled into Gestapo House. Now don’t press me on this matter, Chris.”

Von Epp was right. Rosenblum was in thick as a courier. The Germans would be fools to allow him to continue to run loose.

“If you need another man, for Christ sake, find yourself a nice untainted Aryan.”

Chris nodded. The Vistula River was filled with barges bearing the tools of war for transfer to the eastern front.

“Any of all this bother you, Horst?”

“Everyone knows the Jews started the war,” Horst recited from the principal dogma.

“I saw a few things out there behind your lines that may be pretty hard to explain.”

“Believe me, Goebbels will find explanations. And the rest of us? Hell, we’ll all shrug with blue-eyed innocence and say, ‘Orders were orders—what could we do?’ Thank God the world is blessed with short memories.”

“Where does it end?”

“End? We can’t stop until we either own it all or get blown up into a billion pieces. Besides, don’t be too hard on us. Conquerors have never won prizes for benevolence. We are no worse than a dozen other empires when they ran the show.”

“Does this make it right?”

“My dear Chris, right is the exclusive property of the winning side. The loser is always wrong. Now, if I were you, I’d string along with us for awhile because the way things are going we may be Rome, Babylon, Genghis Khan, and the Ottomans combined for many hundred years.”

“Christ, what a prospect.”

Horst laughed and slapped Chris on the back vigorously. “Trouble with you, you bastard, you’ve been out on the front looking at the seamy side of things. Warsaw is the warriors’ reward. Unbend a little. How about a private party tonight? You, me—a pair of ladies. Hildie Solna said you were rather nice to her last time out.”

“Once in a while my chemicals get out of balance. Hildie restores them. Usually when I’m tailing off a drunk.”

“Tell you what. To hell with Hildie. Tonight I’m lending you number one from my private stock. Eighteen, built like a ripe peach. And where this dear girl picked up so many tricks in her short life—fantastically beautiful muscle control, and she does a thing of rubbing on baby oil ...”

A roaring truck blotted out further dissertation on the orgy.

Chris again became entranced by the river barges. Horst von Epp was correct. “Right” was the winning side. He sure was with the winner. Five hundred years of Germany? Could be. The trip to the eastern front was the clincher. No matter how dark things had been in Spain, in Poland he always felt that the pendulum would swing back the other way. But would it? A breakthrough in Egypt would put Rommel on an unstoppable path to India. Moscow was digging in for a siege. The frantic preparations in America—too little, too late. He had seen the German power unleash a fury that made the conquest of Poland look like child’s play. Kiev, a half million Russian soldiers trapped. What could stop them?

Chris looked at Von Epp, who was enjoying a cigarette. Orders are orders. A wall of indifference built around him that shut out a struggle of good and evil.

And then ... the thoughts of the massacre outside Kiev seared into his mind. Chris had to make his move. Make it soon. Now ... now ...

And Horst von Epp was his only chance.

Do it, Chris prodded himself, do it—tomorrow may be too late.

“I want to go into the ghetto,” Chris said quickly, fearing his own courage.

“Come now, Chris,” Von Epp said, concealing his delight. “It will put us both in a bad light.” All of Horst von Epp’s patience was beginning to pay off now. Chris had held a card up his sleeve from the beginning. His desire to stay in Warsaw at any cost. His reluctance to join the parties after a reputation as a lothario in other places at other times. Chris wanted something. Von Epp knew that from the start. Now the card was being played with caution.

“I’ve got to see Rosenblum and clean up a lot of odds and ends.”

“If you insist on this ...”

“I insist.”

Von Epp threw up his hands in “defeat.” “All right.” He glanced at his watch. Enough for one day, he thought. He looked for his car, which had trailed them and parked at the foot of the bridge. “Can I drive you into town?”

“I’ll walk. I’ll see you later.”

“Try to change your mind about going into the ghetto.” Horst turned briskly as he started for his car.

“Horst!”

The German turned to see Chris walking grimly toward him, on the brink of a terrible decision.

“Suppose I want to get someone out of the ghetto?”

“Rosenblum?”

“No.”

“A woman?”

“And her children.”

“Who?”

“My grandmother.”

Horst von Epp smiled. Christopher de Monti had played his card. Every man had his price. Von Epp always found it With most, petty bribes ... favors. That was for petty people. Christopher de Monti? Tough. An idealist in the throes of conflict. Blackmail often worked. Almost everyone had dirty tracks they tried to cover. Von Epp found them too.

No matter how tough, how idealistic, how clean, every man had his price. Every man had his blind spot.

“How important is this?” Horst asked.

“Everything,” Chris whispered, culminating the decision, putting himself at the mercy of the German.

“It can be done, I suppose.”

“How?”

“She can sign papers that she isn’t Jewish. We have handy form letters for all occasions, as you know. Marry her, adopt the children. A ten-minute detail. Then send her into Switzerland as the wife of an Italian citizen.”

“When can I pick up my pass for the ghetto?”

“After we settle on the price.”