The Cowards (38 page)

‘Shit,’ said Benno.

‘There are quite a lot of you here,’ yelled Krpata. ‘So Major Weiss and I decided that half of you will go out on patrol while the other half undergoes basic training here this morning and when the patrols return those who’ve remained will go out.’

‘Are we going to parade around town again?’ somebody up front asked.

‘Yes,’ Krpata told him. ‘Somebody’s got to help handle the refugees and move mattresses into temporary dormitories.’

‘The same old grind all over again,’ grumbled Benno.

‘And now I’ll read off half the men on this list. That half will remain here. You others’ll leave and report back in two hours,’ said Krpata. I looked at my watch. It was eleven. Krpata read off the names. All were present and accounted for. The sun was getting hotter and hotter and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was sweltering. Benno took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt all the way down to his belly. Drops of sweat glistened on his forehead and there were big wet stains under his armpits.

‘Now what’re they going to do with us?’ he said in a low voice.

Krpata finished reading his list and said all those whose names had not been read should leave. Several guys hoisted themselves up off the grass and plodded off. I saw the mountain climbers leave with the leather patches on their behinds, looking like they were going to some kind of masquerade. The sun beat down on the green grass and on the guys clumping past the icehouse. The back wall of the icehouse was cracked and tiny useless bits of mica in the plaster glittered in the sun.

‘Well, now,’ said Krpata and then out of the clear blue sky, he let out an unnatural bellow: ‘
Ten
-shun!’ Though none of us moved, I noticed a number of boys jumping up off the grass. Hrob was standing in front of me, tense as a bowstring, his carrot top blazing in the sunshine.

‘You! You back there! Didn’t you hear me? I gave the order to stand at attention!’ yelled Krpata, glaring at us. Wearily we got up and drew ourselves to attention while Krpata kept his threatening glare trained on us. I could hear Benno behind me whispering, ‘Jackass.’

‘You waiting for somebody to pick you up?’ said Krpata with suppressed rage. I looked around. Pedro was lazily getting up off the grass, smiling wryly. But no sooner had he stood up then he leaned over again and brushed off his knees.

‘Well? You about ready now?’ roared Krpata.

‘Take it easy,’ said Pedro. Krpata flushed and bristled. He strode sternly up to Pedro and stopped in front of him. Pedro straightened up. He was about a head taller than Krpata but the sergeant was very solidly built. Then he yelled right into Pedro’s face.

‘What’s your name?’

Pedro twisted his mouth into a near grin. ‘Gershwin,’ he said.

‘You know where you are?’

‘Sure. At the brewery.’

‘Don’t try getting wise with me, and don’t think you’re going to get anywhere with your Schweik tricks either, because you’re not!’ bellowed Krpata. You could see he was trying to make up his mind whether he ought to start off his glorious training programme by marching Pedro off and locking him up in the cellar with Prema or not.

‘Wouldn’t think of it, sir,’ said Pedro. Krpata sliced him with another bitter look.

‘And stand up straight!’ he barked, but in a somewhat milder tone now. Pedro straightened up a bit.

‘Stomach in!’

Pedro sucked his stomach in and tilted slightly forward.

‘Toes out!’

Pedro stood there looking like a toe dancer.

‘Not so
far
out!’ bellowed Krpata.

Pedro stood practically pigeon-toed. Krpata studied him for a minute, then said, ‘All right. But I’m going to keep my eye on you.’ Then he turned and went back to stand in front of the crowd.

‘Prick,’ said Haryk quietly.

‘Form up behind me now, in a column of threes!’ shouted Krpata, and he turned to face the icehouse wall. Everybody milled around for a while and three straggly lines formed up behind Krpata. Guys were pushing and shoving, trying to line up according to height, and meanwhile Krpata stood there with his back to them, one hand stretched out towards the sky.

‘Let’s get in the back,’ said Benno. We headed for the rear. We stood right at the end of the line. Pedro, Lexa, and Fonda stood in front of me; Benno and Haryk and I brought up the rear. Far away I could see Krpata’s upraised hand. Then his hand came down and I heard him yell, ‘Line up!’

I took two steps to the right and stopped directly behind Lexa. I saw Krpata marching back along the column, checking every row. He was looking for us. I heard him stop behind us and then a roar: ‘About
face
!’

Feet flashed in front of me and I pivoted slowly. It reminded me of the time at the beginning of the war when I went to Sokol Hall on account of Irena and let myself be shoved and ordered around by Brother Vladyk. When I turned around, there was Krpata again. His eyes were sparkling with vicious glee. The dunce had tricked us. Now the three of us were at the head of the column. Krpata studied us a moment. Benno stood right in front of him.

‘I can see,’ said Krpata, ‘that some of you don’t even know how to execute a proper about face. Be so kind as to watch. I’ll demonstrate.’

He drew himself up stiff as a ramrod. ‘This exercise is executed in two stages. In stage one, you pivot on your left foot and move your right foot out to the side, like so. In stage two, you bring your right foot up next to the left. Like so.’ Like a billiard ball hit with just enough English, he spun around and clicked his heels.

‘Once more,’ he said, and did it again. We stood there watching him.

‘All right, now,’ he said. ‘Company! About
face
!’

You could hear feet scraping over the ground and clumping together. I did it in two stages as he said. We stood there with our backs to him.

‘Wonderful!’ he howled sarcastically behind us. ‘Company! About
face
!’

I spun again and saw Benno next to me, pivoting like an elephant. Krpata was watching him, too.

‘You now. By yourself,’ he said to Benno. ‘About
face
!’ Benno turned his back to him.

‘My God,’ said Krpata. ‘Did you even listen to what I was saying?’

‘Yeah,’ said Benno, with his back towards him. I could tell he was mad and embarrassed. He always used to get embarrassed in gym class and always did everything wrong. Like the time when that ju-jutsu instructor came to our school to demonstrate self-defence and, of course, picked Benno for his demonstrations and threw him around on the mat for a full hour, twisting his arms and legs until, finally, he sat down on top of him while he explained the theory of self-defence to the whole class.

‘Then kindly repeat what I said,’ said Krpata.

‘Well, first you pivot on one foot and put the other foot out and then bring it over,’ said Benno.

‘Then why didn’t you do it?’

‘I did.’

‘Nonsense! Now try it again. Company! About
face
!’ Benno turned back to face Krpata. A couple of clowns behind snickered.

‘You’re as graceful as a block of wood! See if you can’t move that big right foot of yours this time! Company! About
face
!’

Benno turned again.

‘Company! About
face
!’

Benno turned back.

‘Shift some of that flab of yours around, for Chrissake!’ howled Krpata. ‘Company! About
face
!’

Benno wanted to turn but just then Krpata bent down and grabbed his right foot and, as Benno turned, pulled. Only Benno, caught completely off guard, lost his balance and came down heavily on Krpata’s foot. Krpata let out a hiss of pain.

In the middle of the silence, Pedro chuckled. It wasn’t any joke, though, to have Benno sitting on your foot.

‘Up! Get up, you!’ roared Krpata and Benno scrambled up from the ground.

‘I’ve never seen such a clumsy ox in my life,’ said Krpata furiously. Then he turned and slowly went back to his place. He limped a bit, but tried to hide it.

‘Let’s hope they have to amputate,’ whispered Lexa behind me.

Krpata started in on his instruction course again.

‘The cornerstone of military training,’ he said, ‘is knowing what every order means. The order. “Forward march,” for example, is done this way.’

He made a half turn, stuck out his bemedalled chest and yelled at himself, ‘Forward, march!’ Then he flung out his left foot and started marching past our line without making any mistakes that I could see.

‘When the order “Halt!” is given,’ I heard him say as he marched along, ‘you come to a halt on your right foot, take one more step with your left, then bring your right foot up beside it. Like so.’ He came along briskly till he got to us, yelled ‘Halt!’ and clacked his boots together. Then he looked at us triumphantly as if waiting for us all to applaud.

‘Now let’s all try it,’ he said. ‘Just mark time, standing where you are. Atten-
tion
!’ He looked imperiously around the yard. It was as quiet as a graveyard. Then he let out a yell like an Apache: ‘Forward, march!’

I looked back and saw everybody tramping their feet up and down, looking embarrassed. The sun slid behind a small cloud and three long lines of guys marched away without going anywhere. ‘Left!’ howled Krpata. ‘Left! Shift that flab! Higher! Higher! Lift those feet!’ I could see him glaring at Benno. ‘Get some life into it!’ he bellowed. ‘You look like you’re going to a funeral!’ Benno was staggering from foot to foot like a camel,
staring stupidly ahead at the sergeant, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. He was red and shining with sweat. Then Krpata started off around the field. You could hear him howling remarks all over the place. The sun came out again and there we stood in the field behind the icehouse, marking time. Four guys went past the fence with a load of bazookas on their back. I stood there treading up and down and watched them until they disappeared around the corner. Then there wasn’t anything else to look at so I glanced at my watch. Quarter to twelve. We’d been tramping up and down there for a good five minutes. We kept it up a while longer and then Krpata bellowed ‘Halt’ and started telling us all about half turns and oblique turns and marching doubletime and about field equipment and outfits and about how a platoon is made up of a couple of riflemen and a reconnaissance man and a machine gunner and I don’t know what all and the sun beat down and we were sweating like down at the beach on the hottest summer day and Krpata kept on instructing us tirelessly there behind the icehouse and its white wall kept on sparkling away in the sunshine. He showed us how to salute a lieutenant and a colonel and a general and how many steps ahead you start and how many steps after you can bring your hand down again and he picked out Pedro to demonstrate with and really kept him stepping, past him and back and over and over again, bawling him out the whole time, and making him do those turns and half turns and obliques all by himself out in front of everybody until even Pedro was red with anger, though he was usually the last person in the world to lose his temper. Finally we each got a wooden stick handed to us – dummy rifles from Sokol Hall – and Krpata taught us how to present arms, but he himself had a rifle and kept waving its polished muzzle under our noses. You couldn’t wear that guy down. When we took off our shirts because of the heat, he buttoned up the collar of his old uniform which he’d unbuttoned earlier and when we croaked from parched throats during the break he went right on roaring till we thought we’d go nuts. When we could hardly lift our feet after finishing that crazy stand-still march, he showed us how to hurdle obstacles and slip under wires,
wriggling past us on his belly like a slug in a hurry. At first I found the whole thing a big joke but then the humour wore thin and I started getting mad and finally wound up hating that idiot sergeant standing there, in the pink of condition though a bit overweight for his size, bellowing orders like one of the German guards out at Messerschmidt, like Mr Uippelt, the supervising manager, a pompous fart, bursting with zeal and unable to get his voice down under a shout. Finally Krpata dismissed us and trotted briskly off towards the administration building.

As soon as he turned his back on us, Benno collapsed and rolled over on the grass. He was soaking wet with sweat.

‘Jesus H. Christ,’ he said and stretched out his legs. We sat down around him.

‘A turd. A genuine turd, that guy,’ said Haryk.

‘What’re you griping about?’ said Lexa. ‘You’ve got a complete military education in one short morning.’

‘Up yours,’ said Benno.

‘You’re talking like a top sergeant already,’ said Haryk.

‘What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy, Benno?’ said Lexa. ‘Fonda, go tell your old man to give Benno some private lessons in how to be a soldier.’

‘Up that, too,’ said Benno.

‘You know, your old man’s really not very bright, Fonda,’ said Haryk.

‘Maybe not. But this farce isn’t his fault,’ said Fonda.

‘Like hell it isn’t. He thought this whole thing up.’

‘Sure,’ said Lexa. ‘And when we finally attack, old Cemelik’s going to send us back and make us do it all over in step the next time.’ He turned to Benno. ‘Hey, Benno, got anything to eat?’

‘Food!’ cried Benno. ‘Food! The best idea I’ve heard all morning!’ He reached over for his jacket and started taking little packages out of the pockets. We got out our supplies, too, and started in. Our mood picked up, Suddenly Fonda started tapping his feet and humming and after a while he gave out with some scat. Fonda was a great scat singer. He sat there, his skinny body jerking as he sang through his nose, just sounds,
no words. Haryk and Benno joined in, Benno like a trumpet, Haryk like a clarinet in the high registers, and then Fonda came in like a trombone. They scatted on into ‘Drop Down Mama Blues’ and as I sat there listening, I started feeling good. Guys around us turned to listen, too. The sun shone down as hot as ever, and we sat in that checkerboard slope of shadow and light and the blues echoed against the icehouse wall and when the boys had finished the final chorus, I started up in English, singing ‘Woman I’m Loving’ and the boys picked it up but stayed down soft and easy. ‘One tooth solid gold’, I sang, and when I got through with that verse, the boys broke out with a gorgeous dissonance that swelled to fortissimo and Fonda gave out with a great big glissando and then they faded off and I went on, ‘dat’s de only woman,’ while they plucked staccato chords and I let my voice go down to a hoarse sob for ‘a mortgage on my soul,’ and then I joined in like I would on my tenor sax and we went on like that, drifting from one piece to another for at least a quarter of an hour. A circle formed around us, guys sitting there gaping at us and tapping their feet, their eyes full of wonder. Their eyes always looked that way when they heard jazz, like when they were sitting around a table at the Lion behind a glass of pink lemonade, listening reverently as we played ‘Chinatown’ and Brynych took over on his drums for an ear-shattering beautiful solo or when we played in our overalls at the Messerschmidt cafeteria at noon and I could feel their eyes on me when I played Coleman Hawkins’s solo from ‘Sweet Lorraine’. They were staring at us now with the same sort of eyes you saw when you told them the incredible fact that ‘Big Noise from Winnetka’ was nothing but drums and bass for one whole side, and this wonder in their eyes made me feel great and I loved them for it and figured they must be all right after all if they loved jazz so much, and that they’d run things differently than Mr Krocan who owned the factory or Mr Machan or Mr Petrbok, the band leader with his simpleminded merry-go-round music, and maybe their world was going to be a great world, full of jazz, and just generally a great place to live in. We sat there on the grass and were just blasting our way into ‘Darktown Strutters’
Ball’ when men with armbands on their sleeves came around the side of the icehouse and started calling up the patrols. We stopped singing. Our good mood faded fast.