He walked deliberately towards his bunk, keeping his eyes down, avoiding looking at the other men, but sensing that they were all looking at him. Even the poker players stopped their game when he passed them and sat down on his bunk. Even Whitacre, the new man, who looked like quite a decent fellow, and who had, after all, suffered that day at the hands of Authority, too, sat on his re-made bed and stared with a hint of anger at him.
Fantastic, Noah thought. This will pass, this will pass…
He took out the olive-coloured cardboard box in which he kept his writing paper. He sat on his bunk and began to write a letter to Hope.
"Dearest," he wrote, "I have just finished doing my housework. I have polished hundreds of windows as lovingly as a jeweller shining a fifty-carat diamond for a bootlegger's girl. I don't know how I would measure in a battle against a German infantryman or a Japanese Marine, but I will match my windows against their picked troops any day…"
"It's not the Jews' fault," said a clear voice from the poker game, "they're just smarter than everyone else. That's why so few of them are in the Army. And that's why they're making all the money. I don't blame them. If I was that smart I wouldn't be here neither. I'd be sitting in a hotel suite in Washington watching the money roll in."
There was silence then, and Noah could tell that all the players were looking at him, but he did not look up from his letter.
"We also march," Noah wrote slowly. "We march uphill and downhill, and we march during the day and during the night. I think the Army is divided into two parts, the fighting Army and the marching and window-washing Army, and we happen to be assigned to the second part. I have developed the springiest arches ever to appear in the Ackerman family."
"The Jews have large investments in France and Germany," another voice said from the poker game. "They run all the banks and whorehouses in Berlin and Paris, and Roosevelt decided we had to go protect their money. So he declared war." The voice was loud and artificial, and aimed like a weapon at Noah's head, but he refused to look up.
"I read in the papers," Noah wrote, "that this is a war of machines, but the only machine I have come across so far is a mop-wringer…"
"They have an international committee," the voice went on.
"It meets in Poland, in a town called Warsaw, and they send out orders all over the world from there: Buy this, sell this, fight this country, fight that country. Twenty old rabbis with beards…"
"Ackerman," another voice said, "did you hear that?"
Noah finally looked across the bunks at the poker players. They were twisted around, facing him, their faces pulled by grins, their eyes marble-like and derisive.
"No," said Noah, "I didn't hear anything."
"Why don't you join us?" Silichner said with elaborate politeness. "It's a friendly little game and we're involved in an interesting discussion."
"No, thank you," Noah said. "I'm busy."
"What we'd like to know," said Silichner, who was from Milwaukee and had a trace of a German accent in his speech, as though he had spoken it as a child and never fully recovered from it, "is how you happened to be drafted. What happened – weren't there any fellow-members of the lodge on the board?"
Noah looked down at the paper in his hand. It isn't shaking, he thought, looking at it in surprise, it's as steady as can be.
"I actually heard," another voice said, "of a Jew who volunteered."
"No," said Silichner, wonderingly.
"I swear to God. They stuffed him and put him in the Museum."
The other poker players laughed loudly, in artificial, rehearsed amusement.
"I feel sorry for Ackerman," Silichner said. "I actually do. Think of all the money he could be making selling black-market tyres and gasoline if he wasn't in the infantry."
"I don't think," Noah wrote with a steady hand to his wife far away in the North, "that I have told you about the new Sergeant we got last week. He has no teeth and he lisps and he sounds like a debutante at a Junior League meeting when he…"
"Ackerman!"
Noah looked up. A corporal from another barracks was standing beside his bunk. "You're wanted in the orderly room. Right away."
Very deliberately, Noah put the letter he was writing back in the olive-coloured box and tucked the box away in his locker. He was conscious of the other men watching him closely, measuring his every move. As he walked past them, keeping himself from hurrying, Silichner said, "They're going to give him a medal. The Delancey Street Cross. For eating a herring a day for six months."
Again there were the rehearsed, artificial volleys of laughter.
I will have to try to handle this, Noah thought as he went out of the door into the blue twilight that had settled over the camp. Somehow, somehow…
The air was good after the close, heavy smell of the barracks, and the wide silence of the deserted streets between the low buildings was sweet to the ear after the grating voices inside. Probably, Noah thought, as he walked slowly alongside the buildings, probably they are going to give me some new hell in the orderly room. But even so he was pleased at the momentary peace and the momentary truce with the Army and the world around him.
Then he heard a quick scurry of footsteps from behind a corner of the building he was passing, and before he could turn round, he felt his arms pinned powerfully from behind.
"All right, Jew-boy," whispered a voice he almost recognized, "this is dose number one."
Noah jerked his head to one side and the blow glanced off his ear. But his ear felt numb and he couldn't feel the side of his face. They're using a club, he thought wonderingly as he tried to twist away, why do they have to use a club? Then there was another blow and he began to fall.
When he opened his eyes, it was dark and he was lying on the sandy grass between two barracks. His face was collapsed and wet. It took him five minutes to drag himself over to the wall of the building and pull himself up along its side to a sitting position.
Michael was thinking of beer. He walked deliberately behind Ackerman, in the dusty heat, thinking of beer in glasses, beer in schooners, beer in bottles, kegs, pewter mugs, tin cans, crystal goblets. He thought of ale, porter, stout, then returned to thinking of beer. He thought of the places he had drunk beer in his time. The round bar on Sixth Avenue where the Regular Army colonels in mufti used to stop off on the way uptown from Governor's Island, where they served beer in glasses that tapered down to narrow points at the bottom and where the bartender always iced the glass before drawing the foaming stuff from the polished spigots. The fancy restaurant in Hollywood with prints of the French Impressionists behind the bar, where they served it in frosted mugs and charged seventy-five cents a bottle. His own living-room, late at night, reading the next morning's paper in the quiet pool of light from the lamp as he stretched, in slippers, in the soft corduroy chair before going to bed. At baseball games at the Polo Grounds in the warm, hazy summer afternoons, where they poured the beer into paper cups so that you couldn't throw the bottles at the umpires.
Michael marched steadily. He was tired and ferociously thirsty. His hands were numb and swollen, as they always were by the fifth mile of any hike, but he did not feel too bad. He heard Ackerman's harsh, grunting breath, and saw the way the boy rolled brokenly from side to side as he climbed the gentle slope of the road.
He felt sorry for Ackerman. Ackerman had obviously always been a frail boy, and the marches and problems and fatigues had worn the flesh off his bones, so that he now looked like a stripped-down version of a soldier, reedy and breakable. Michael felt a little guilty as he stared fixedly at the heaving, bent back. The long months of training had thinned Michael down, too, but with an athlete's leanness, leaving his legs steel-like and powerful, his body hard and resilient. It seemed unjust that in the same column, just in front of him, there was a man whose every step was suffering, while he felt so comparatively fit. Also, there had been the sickening hazing that Ackerman had been submitted to in the last two weeks. The constant ill-tempered jokes, the mock political discussions within Ackerman's hearing, in which men had said loudly, "Hitler is probably wrong most of the time, but you've got to hand it to him, he knows what to do about the Jews…"