Marching Through Georgia (10 page)

The general nodded. "They
are
true, and you can have the Intelligence reports to prove it. And if the Yankee in the street isn't moved by love of the Jews, the Fritz—the Germans—plan to stuff the Poles and Russians into the incinerators next." He straightened. "As to your reports—keep them non-specific, for the present, on the Domination, and the units to which you'll be attached. Then, when there's action… you'll be there, won't you?

A 'scoop' for you, and a minor factor in our favor, at least. Now, if you'll pardon me, I have a great deal to do. As a guest, you have free run of the House; if you want anything in the way of diversion, horses or women or whatever, the Steward will see to it. Good day."

Dreiser stared blankly as the tall figure limped from the terrace. He looked about. The table faced south, over a courtyard surrounded by a colonnade. Cloud-shadow rolled down the naked rock of the hill behind, over the dappled oak forest, past fenced pasture and stables, smelling of turned earth and rock and the huge wild mountains to the east. The courtyard fountain bent before the wind, throwing a mist of spray across tiles blue as lapis. The two young Draka leaned back in their chairs, smiling in a not unkindly scorn.

"Pa—Strategos von Shrakenberg—can be a little… alarming at times," Eric said, offering his hand. "Very much the
grand
seigneur
. An able man, very, but hard."

Johanna laughed. "I think Mr. Dreiser was a bit alarmed by Pa's offer of hospitality in the form of a girl," she drawled.

"Visions of weeping captive women dragged to his bed in chains, no doubt."

"Ah," Eric said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Well, don't concern yourself; the Steward never has any trouble finding volunteers."

"Eh, Rahksan?" Johanna said jokingly, turning to a serf-girl who sat behind her on a stool, knitting. She did not look like the locals, the American noticed; she was lighter, like a south European. And looking him over with cool detachment.

"
Noooo
, thank yaz kahndly, mistis," Rahksan said. "Got mo'

than "nuffon mah plate, as 'tis." The Draka woman laughed, and put a segment of tangerine between the serfs lips.

"I'm married," the American said, flushing. The two Draka and the serf looked at him a moment in incomprehension.

"Mind you," Eric continued in a tactful change of subject, "if this was Grandfather Alexander's time, we could have shown you some more spectacular entertainment.
He
kept a private troupe of serf wenches trained in the ballet, among other things. Used to perform nude at private parties."

With a monumental effort, Dreiser regained his balance.

"Well, what did your grandmother think of that?" he asked.

"Enjoyed herself thoroughly, from what she used to cackle to me," Johanna said, rising. "I'll leave you two to business; see you at dinner, Mr. Dreiser. Come on, Rahksan; I'm for a swim."

"This… isn't quite what I expected," Dreiser said, relighting his pipe. Eric yawned and stretched, the yellow silk of his robe falling back from a tanned and muscular forearm.

"Well, probably the High Command thought you might as well see the Draka at home before you reported on our military.

This," he waved a hand, "is less likely to jar on Yankee sensibilities than a good many other places in the Domination."

"It is?" Dreiser shook his head. He had hated Berlin—the whole iron apparatus of lies and cruelty and hatred; hated it the more since he had been in the city in the 20's, when it had been the most exciting place in Europe. Doubly exciting to an American expatriate, fleeing the stifling conformity of the Coolidge years.
Be honest
, he told himself.
This isn't more evil.

Less so, if anything. Just more… alien, longer established and
more self-confident
.

"Also, out here and then on a military installation,
you
are less likely to jar on
Security's
sensibilities." Eric paused, making a small production of dismembering a pomegranate and wiping his hands. "I read your book
Berlin Journal
," he said in a neutral tone. "You mentioned helping Jews and dissidents escape, with the help of that Quaker group. You interest yourself in their activities?"

"Yes," the American replied, sitting up. A newsman's instincts awakened.

The Draka tapped a finger. "This is confidential?" At Dreiser's nod, he continued. "There was a young wench… small girl, about two years ago. Age seven, blond, blue eyes. Named Anna, number C22D178." The young officer's voice stayed flat, his face expressionless; a combination of menace and appeal behind the harsh grey eyes.

"Why, yes," Dreiser said. "It created quite a sensation at the time, but the Committee kept it out of the press. She was adopted by a Philadelphia family; old Quaker stock, but childless. That was the last I heard. Why?" It
had
created a sensation: almost all escapees were adults, mainly from the North African and Middle Eastern provinces. For a serf from the heart of the Police Zone there was nowhere to go, and an unaccompanied child was unprecedented.

Eric's eyes closed for a moment. "No reason that should be mentioned by either of us," he said. His hand reached out and gripped the other's forearm. "It wouldn't be
safe
. For either of us.

Understood?"

Dreiser nodded. The Draka continued: "And if you're going to be attached to a paratroop unit, I strongly advise you to start getting into shape. Even if it's several months before the next action."

'"Yaaaaaaah!"

Despite himself, Dreiser flinched slightly as Johanna's nine-inch knife blurred toward her brother's stomach. That was real steel, and
sharp
. Eric swayed aside, just enough; clamped the arm between his own and his flank, and brought his knee up into her stomach. She rolled sideways with an
ooff
, came to her feet and scooped the blade from the dimpled surface of the cotton matting.

"Goddamn!" she swore, flicking the knife six feet into a hardwood block. "I
know
you're no faster than me—"

"You're still telegraphing."

"I am
not!'

"Subliminally, then." He turned to Dreiser. "Swim, Bill?"

The American shook his head silently, still exhausted from the hour-long workout, and watched as they shed the rough cotton exercise outfits and dove into the great pool. He sighed and leaned back against the padded wicker chair, reaching for the lemonade. It was astonishing how the body craved fluids for hours after a workout;
he
had never been the athletic type, and the past week had been hard on a sedentary man of middle years.

And goddamn it, I'm still not used to mixed skinny-dipping
, he thought resentfully, watching the sleek naked bodies arrowing through the water. He had imagined that twenty years of Europe had worn away the results of a childhood spent in small-town Iowa, and lately found that not so. Not that it would raise many brows in Hollywood circles, for instance…

He pulled the towelcloth robe around himself and looked about the…
baths
. It was more like a gymnasium-health club complex, filling most of a wing, with artwork that a du Pont might have envied…

If
those pirates knew a work of art when it bit them on the
leg
, a New Dealer in the back of his mind prompted. The whole thing was of a piece with his experience of the Domination, so far: unthinkable luxury, beauty, blood, cruelty, perversion. But not decadence, whatever the Holy Rollers at home thought; these might be hedonists, but it was the sybarism of a strong, hungry people.
Quo Vadis
, his mind continued sourly. If
de Mille had
any taste, and didn't have the Catholic Decency League on his
ass
.

Rahksan sat on a stool nearby, knitting again, with
A
long-haired Persian at her feet making an occasional halfhearted bat at the wool.
That
had bothered him more than he thought it would, too—particularly since Johanna had mentioned that she was engaged to be married, and the serf girl seemed to be—having an affair? Could you use that term when one party was chattel to the other?—Whatever, with Eric. Things got thoroughly confused around here. He chuckled to himself, remembering how his mother had warned him about loose women when he left for that assignment in Paris, back in '22.

Little did she know
, he thought.

Rahksan looked up and met his eyes. He coughed, searching for words. He always felt so sorry for the poor little bitch—a combination of pity and bone-deep distaste. And on top of that awkwardness, it was always difficult to know what to say to a serf, the need for discretion aside. The tattoo on her neck drew his eyes, loaded with a freight of symbol that made it difficult to see through to the human being, the person, behind it. He'd had something of the same feeling in India back a decade ago, when he'd been reporting on Gandhi, with some of the Hindu
sadhus
he'd met; a feeling that there was simply no meeting place of experience.

"We'll be going soon," he said. It beat
my, aren't the walls
vertical
, at least.

"Yassuh," she said tranquilly, and sighed. "Be a montha so, fo'

Mistis Jo git perm'nant quahtahs, send fo' me." She held up the knitting, pursed her lips and undid a stitch, then giggled. "Glada tha rest; naace havin" they both heah, buta little,
strenuous-ifyin

, does yaz be knowin' wha' Ah mean."

"Ah," he said noncommittally, lips tightening.
This is either
the best actress I've ever met, or what southerners used to call
the "perfect nigger
," he thought.

The serf dropped the wool into her lap; she was looking cool and crisp and elegant in a pleated silk skirt and embroidered blouse of white linen. A slim gold chain lay about the smooth olive column of her neck, sparkling against the blue-black curls falling to her shoulders. He forced his attention back to her face; it had been a long time since he left home and wife.

"Yaz doan laahk me ovahmuch, suh, does yaz?"

The young woman's voice carried the usual soft, amiable submissiveness, but the words were uncomfortably sharp.

"No… what makes you think that?" He felt slightly guilty agreement, and a sharp wish he had been better at concealing it.
Goddamit, you're a newsman, act like it
! he thought savagely to himself.

"Masta Dreiser, moas' freemen tink bondfolk be foolish, which ama foolishness itself. Mebbe moah 'scusable ina Yankee, wha doan see us day by day."

She looked over to the pool. Brother and sister had climbed up on the rocks beneath the waterfall, and Eric had just pitched his sister backwards into the torrent.

"Ah doan' remembah mucha mah fam'ly," she said meditatively. " 'Cept lying undah they-ah bodies, an' being pulled out." She turned her eyes to the Draka. "They didn' do it, Mastah Drieser," she said. "Ah unnahstood that, soon's Ah stahted thinkin' bout things. Coulda spent alia mah taahm hatin"; what it get me? Just twisted up insaahd, laak them is what makes a life a hatin'." She smiled grimly.

" 'Sides, what Ah do remembah, is mah fathah hittin' me fb'

makin' noise. An' mommah, she give th' food't' mah brothahs, on

'count they boys, leave me cryin' an' hongry. Ifn the Draka hadn'

come, Ah'd a growed up inna hut with the goats, been
sold
fo'

goats, hadta put onna tent't' go out.
Chador
, hey? Nevah been clean, nevah had 'nuff't' eat, nevah seen anytin' pretty…

"So-an." She touched the numerals behind her ear. "This doan mean Ah's a plough, oah a stove. Cain' nohow see how a man's thinkin' undah his face. Serf need that moah thana freemen."

She paused. "Yo" a Godshoutah, suh?" At his blank look:

'Christ-man, laahk somma they-ah down in't'Quahtahs. What jects to folks pleasurin' as they-ah sees fit?"

"No, not really." Not altogether true, but he
should
have remembered that illiteracy was not synonymous with stupidity.

"Besides, you don't have much choice in the matter."

"Oh, but Ah
does
. Luckiah than 'lotta folks, thayt way." She leaned closer. "Masta Dreiser, yo' a Yankee-man, means well, so Masta Eric tell thissun'. Say talk if'n yo' wanna, so Ah bean'

talkin', not justa
Yassuh, masta
, an'
Nossuh, masta
laahk Ah could. So Ah says, keep youah pity an' youah look-down-nose foah them as needs it. Two 'tings y'otta 'tink on, masta: Ah laahks Masta Eric well 'nuff. Good man, when he-ah doan'

git't'tinkin' so much. Laahk Mistis Jo lot moah; she allays been naahce't'me. Weeeell, near allays as no mattah, nobody naahce alia taahm.

"Othah ting: serf, buck oah wench
needa
good masta, good mistis. Tings diffren yaz contry, mebbe; heah
anytin
can happen't' the laahk'sa me.
Anytin
. Yaz tinks onna thayt. Ah grows up witta Mistis Jo, Masta Eric, t'othahs. Laahk… pet, hey?

Ah knows they; they knows me, near as good. Doan't gonna laahk me if n Ah doan laahk they, yaz see? Easy 'nuff to laahk they, so-ah? Doan't nuthin' bayd happen if n Ah wuz ta act sullen. Ah jus end up cookin', oah pullin' spuds, milkin' cows. Thayt mah choice."

For a moment the softly pretty face looked almost fierce.

"So-ah, yaz doan' hayve mah laaf't'live, mah de-cisions't'mayk, does yaz,
masta
? So, mebbe little lessa
drawin asaahd't'skirts of
tha garment
, eh, Masta Dreiser, suh?"

He flushed, slightly ashamed, feeling a stirring of liking despite himself, nodded.
Well, you always knew people were
complicated
, he chided himself.

The Draka returned. Rahksan bounced up to hand them towels and began drying Johanna's back.

"Well," Eric said, pulling on a robe in deference to the guest's sensibilities. "You'll be glad enough to get where you can put the
war
back into the correspondent, eh?"

Dreiser nodded. "Although I've gotten some interesting background material here," he said.

"Yes," Johanna chimed in, muffled through the towel. "And even more interesting, the way you slanted it. Gives me a good idea of what the particular phobias of the Yankees are: nasty-minded lot, I must say."