“Yes, sir.”
Even before the car had stopped moving, Model jumped out of it. Lasch, hand on his pistol, was close behind, protesting, “What if one of those fanatics has a gun?”
“Then Colonel-General Weidling assumes command, and a lot of Indians end up dead.”
Model strode toward Gandhi. As it had at the surrender ceremony, India’s damp heat smote him. Even while he was sitting quietly in the car, his tunic had stuck to him. Sweat started streaming down his face the moment he started to move. Each breath felt as if he were taking in warm soup; the air even had a faint smell of soup, soup that had gone slightly off.
In its own way, he thought, surprised at himself, this beastly weather was worse than a Russian winter. Either was plenty to lay a man low by itself, but countless exotic diseases flourished in the moisture, warmth, and filth here. The snows at least were clean.
The field marshal ignored the German troops who were drawing themselves to stiff, horrified attention at the sight of his uniform. He would deal with them later. For the moment, Gandhi was more important.
He had stopped—which meant the rest of the marchers did too—and was waiting politely for Model to approach. The German commandant was not impressed. He thought Gandhi sincere, and could not doubt his courage, but none of that mattered at all. He said harshly, “You were warned against this sort of behavior.”
Gandhi looked him in the eye. They were very much of a height. “And I told you, I do not recognize your right to give such orders. This is our country, not yours, and if some of us choose to walk on our streets, we will do so.”
From behind Gandhi, Nehru’s glance flicked worriedly from one of the antagonists to the other. Model noticed him only peripherally; if he was already afraid, he could be handled whenever necessary. Gandhi was a tougher nut. The field marshal waved at the crowd behind the old man. “You are responsible for all these people. If harm comes to them, you will be to blame.”
“Why should harm come to them? They are not soldiers. They do not attack your men. I told that to one of your sergeants, and he understood it, and refrained from hindering us. Surely you, sir, an educated, cultured man, can see that what I say is self-evident truth.”
Model turned his head to speak to his aide in German: “If we did not have Goebbels, this would be the one for his job.” He shuddered to think of the propaganda victory Gandhi would win if he got away with flouting German ordinances. The whole countryside would be boiling with partisans in a week. And he had already managed to hoodwink some Germans into letting him do it!
Then Gandhi surprised him again. “Ich danke Ihnen, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, aber das glaube ich kein Kompliment zu sein,” he said in slow but clear German: “I thank you, field marshal, but I believe that to be no compliment.”
Having to hold his monocle in place helped Model keep his face straight. “Take it however you like,” he said. “Get these people off the street, or they and you will face the consequences. We will do what you force us to.”
“I force you to nothing. As for these people who follow, each does so of his or her own free will. We are free, and will show it, not by violence, but through firmness in truth.”
Now Model listened with only half an ear. He had kept Gandhi talking long enough for the platoon he had ordered out to arrive. Half a dozen SdKfz 251 armored personnel carriers came clanking up. The men piled out of them. “Give me a firing line, three ranks deep,” Model shouted. As the troopers scrambled to obey, he waved the halftracks into position behind them, all but blocking Qutb Road. The halftracks’ commanders swiveled the machine guns at the front of the vehicles’ troop compartments so they bore on the Indians.
Gandhi watched these preparations as calmly as if they had nothing to do with him. Again Model had to admire his calm. His followers were less able to keep fear from their faces. Very few, though, used the pause to slip away. Gandhi’s discipline was a long way from the military sort, but effective all the same.
“Tell them to disperse now, and we can still get away without bloodshed,” the field marshal said.
“We will shed no one’s blood, sir. But we will continue on our pleasant journey. Moving carefully, we will, I think, be able to get between your large lorries there.” Gandhi turned to wave his people forward once more.
“You insolent—” Rage choked Model, which was as well, for it kept him from cursing Gandhi like a fishwife. To give him time to master his temper, he plucked his monocle from his eye and began polishing the lens with a silk handkerchief. He replaced the monocle, started to jam the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket, then suddenly had a better idea.
“Come, Lasch,” he said, and started toward the waiting German troops. About halfway to them, he dropped the handkerchief on the ground. He spoke in loud, simple German so his men and Gandhi could both follow: “If any Indians come past this spot, I wash my hands of them.”
He might have known Gandhi would have a comeback ready. “That is what Pilate said also, you will recall, sir.”
“Pilate washed his hands to evade responsibility,” the field marshal answered steadily; he was in control of himself again. “I accept it: I am responsible to my Führer and to the Oberkommando-Wehrmacht for maintaining Reichs control over India, and will do what I see fit to carry out that obligation.”
For the first time since they had come to know each other, Gandhi looked sad. “I too, sir, have my responsibilities.” He bowed slightly to Model.
Lasch chose that moment to whisper in his commander’s ear: “Sir, what of our men over there? Had you planned to leave them in the line of fire?”
The field marshal frowned. He had planned to do just that; the wretches deserved no better, for being taken in by Gandhi. But Lasch had a point. The platoon might balk at shooting countrymen, if it came to that. “You men,” Model said sourly, jabbing his marshal’s baton at them, “fall in behind the armored personnel carriers, at once.”
The Germans’ boots pounded on the macadam as they dashed to obey. They were still all right, then, with a clear order in front of them. Something, Model thought, but not much.
He had also worried that the Indians would take advantage of the moment of confusion to press forward, but they did not. Gandhi and Nehru and a couple of other men were arguing among themselves. Model nodded once. Some of them knew he was in earnest, then. And Gandhi’s followers’ discipline, as the field marshal had thought a few minutes ago, was not of the military sort. He could not simply issue an order and know his will would be done.
“I ISSUE NO orders,” Gandhi said. “Let each man follow his conscience as he will—what else is freedom?”
“They will follow you if you go forward, great-souled one,” Nehru replied, “and that German, I fear, means to carry out his threat. Will you throw your life away, and those of your countrymen?”
“I will not throw my life away,” Gandhi said, but before the men around him could relax he went on, “I will gladly give it, if freedom requires that. I am but one man. If I fall, others will surely carry on; perhaps the memory of me will serve to make them more steadfast.”
He stepped forward.
“Oh, damnation,” Nehru said softly, and followed.
For all his vigor, Gandhi was far from young. Nehru did not need to nod to the marchers close by him; of their own accord, they hurried ahead of the man who had led them for so long, forming with their bodies a barrier between him and the German guns.
He tried to go faster. “Stop! Leave me my place! What are you doing?” he cried, though in his heart he understood only too well.