Butler with the sharp, appraising gaze of the bloody-minded opportunist. A character type not prominent in
War and Peace
but well represented in, say, Gogol's
Dead Souls.
Well, so are we all, thought Butler—that is the kind of war it is.
“Say, did you hear they found the place where the Gestapo did their interrogations?” the man said. “And outside, executions. It's an old tsarist mansion with high walls all around. I could get you in there. You'd have an exclusive.”
The older one from Murmansk shook his head. “Sammy here's a frontline man. He likes to write about real soldiers, real fighting, not these other things, the torture, the occupation.”
Butler smiled and turned away, wondering why Russians liked to call him Sammy. Maybe they felt it sounded American. Inside the ruined library, officious young women behind a folding table proffered travel directions, commissary vouchers, clean linen, first-aid kits, Russian phrase books containing the latest official jargon, a newly commissioned hagiography of Comrade Stalin and the latest tidings from the major Red Army commands.
XVII Army
, 2
Bielorussian Front, commanded by Comrade General
I. Shretsev, sends its greetings to patriots everywhere and proudly declares the liberation of Vitebsk.
Butler knew a couple of these good Communist ladies in a vague, genial way. As he stood blinking his eyes, adjusting to the interior gloom, a Georgian brunette sporting a red beret and sergeant's insignia gave a little cry of recognition.
“Comrade Sammy! Here, we are holding several items of post for you. Packages from abroad.” Flashing a smile, she ducked into an alcove screened by a panel of brightly dyed Azerbaijani cotton.
Butler glanced around the room. On one wall, over disintegrating plaster, a notice board displayed recent press clippings, accounts of the Red Army's progress in rolling back the German aggressors, and a
Pravda
tract by Ehrenburg, the Rimbaud of hot-blooded propaganda. (“One cannot bear the Germans, these fish-eyed oafs; one cannot live while these gray-green slugs are alive. Kill them all and dig them into the earth.”) Stacked on the concrete floor, a jumble of Western publications ranging from months-old copies of
Look
and the
Saturday Evening Post
through cheaply printed Maquis broadsheets to last week's
Stars and Stripes
, its cover glumly adorned with Mauldin dogfaces. The only comfortable chairs in sight had been claimed by a pair of earnest Indochinese and a drunken Brit, whowas known, for reasons Butler had never learned, as the Reaper. The latter gave him a quick, collegial nod.
From the screened alcove tottered a pile of cardboard boxes, followed by the lady sergeant, struggling to postpone the inevitable collapse.
“Let me help you, tovarich,” said Butler, springing forward. His arms briefly tangled with hers, and a few boxes clunked to the floor.
“I'm so sorry.” The sergeant was lightly panting.
Butler studied the line of perspiration at her temple, running down skin as dark and fine as polished wood. “Nothing to worry about,” he said softly in passable Russian. “I'm sure anything valuable will already have been stolen.”
She giggled, met his eyes, flushed becomingly.
“Why don't we just set it all down over here,” Butler suggested, edging them into a corner, “and we shall see what we've got. Maybe I can shed some of this stuff right now.”
One of the larger packages, postmarked Washington, D.C., held half-pound bags of unground A&P coffee beans, a dozen cartons of Lucky Strikes, a stack of phonograph records and several pairs of extra-sheer nylon stockings.
“These are…for you?” the lady sergeant asked, switching to broken English and charmingly failing to mask her open-mouthed wonder.
“No, they're for you,” said Butler, pressing the nylons into her hands. “A gift from the people of the United States.”
The sergeant stared at him, then broke into a laugh. “Ah, the well-known
War and Peace
but well represented in, say, Gogol's
Dead Souls.
Well, so are we all, thought Butler—that is the kind of war it is.
“Say, did you hear they found the place where the Gestapo did their interrogations?” the man said. “And outside, executions. It's an old tsarist mansion with high walls all around. I could get you in there. You'd have an exclusive.”
The older one from Murmansk shook his head. “Sammy here's a frontline man. He likes to write about real soldiers, real fighting, not these other things, the torture, the occupation.”
Butler smiled and turned away, wondering why Russians liked to call him Sammy. Maybe they felt it sounded American. Inside the ruined library, officious young women behind a folding table proffered travel directions, commissary vouchers, clean linen, first-aid kits, Russian phrase books containing the latest official jargon, a newly commissioned hagiography of Comrade Stalin and the latest tidings from the major Red Army commands.
XVII Army
, 2
Bielorussian Front, commanded by Comrade General
I. Shretsev, sends its greetings to patriots everywhere and proudly declares the liberation of Vitebsk.
Butler knew a couple of these good Communist ladies in a vague, genial way. As he stood blinking his eyes, adjusting to the interior gloom, a Georgian brunette sporting a red beret and sergeant's insignia gave a little cry of recognition.
“Comrade Sammy! Here, we are holding several items of post for you. Packages from abroad.” Flashing a smile, she ducked into an alcove screened by a panel of brightly dyed Azerbaijani cotton.
Butler glanced around the room. On one wall, over disintegrating plaster, a notice board displayed recent press clippings, accounts of the Red Army's progress in rolling back the German aggressors, and a
Pravda
tract by Ehrenburg, the Rimbaud of hot-blooded propaganda. (“One cannot bear the Germans, these fish-eyed oafs; one cannot live while these gray-green slugs are alive. Kill them all and dig them into the earth.”) Stacked on the concrete floor, a jumble of Western publications ranging from months-old copies of
Look
and the
Saturday Evening Post
through cheaply printed Maquis broadsheets to last week's
Stars and Stripes
, its cover glumly adorned with Mauldin dogfaces. The only comfortable chairs in sight had been claimed by a pair of earnest Indochinese and a drunken Brit, whowas known, for reasons Butler had never learned, as the Reaper. The latter gave him a quick, collegial nod.
From the screened alcove tottered a pile of cardboard boxes, followed by the lady sergeant, struggling to postpone the inevitable collapse.
“Let me help you, tovarich,” said Butler, springing forward. His arms briefly tangled with hers, and a few boxes clunked to the floor.
“I'm so sorry.” The sergeant was lightly panting.
Butler studied the line of perspiration at her temple, running down skin as dark and fine as polished wood. “Nothing to worry about,” he said softly in passable Russian. “I'm sure anything valuable will already have been stolen.”
She giggled, met his eyes, flushed becomingly.
“Why don't we just set it all down over here,” Butler suggested, edging them into a corner, “and we shall see what we've got. Maybe I can shed some of this stuff right now.”
One of the larger packages, postmarked Washington, D.C., held half-pound bags of unground A&P coffee beans, a dozen cartons of Lucky Strikes, a stack of phonograph records and several pairs of extra-sheer nylon stockings.
“These are…for you?” the lady sergeant asked, switching to broken English and charmingly failing to mask her open-mouthed wonder.
“No, they're for you,” said Butler, pressing the nylons into her hands. “A gift from the people of the United States.”
The sergeant stared at him, then broke into a laugh. “Ah, the well-known
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