Sins of Omission (3 page)

Reuben flicked his cigarette into a mound of slush. His feet were cold, his legs ached, and he had a terrible pounding in his head. Back at the barracks he would apply the drops to his eyes and gradually the headache would lessen. It was a hell of a price to pay for three meals that were more slop than food and for a cold roof of stars. But what choice had he? he reflected bitterly. All the ills of the world, all the wars, pestilence, and famine, were brought about by small men, small of stature and small of mind.

With a muttered oath, he pulled his cap over his curly dark hair and yanked it down over his ears. By the time he'd made it halfway down the road to the barracks, the hard, sluicing sleet had soaked him to the skin. His head was pounding as he limped through the half-frozen sludge. Looking up, he squinted through the rain in the direction of the barracks. Another few minutes and he'd be inside, where it was warm. Things were looking up—the way his luck was going, his dreams might even come true. He could almost touch them, and it scared him; he kept wanting to look over his shoulder. But he had guts, he had chutzpah, and that chutzpah would make all the difference. He was going to succeed in this world. In the trenches, he'd climbed over dead bodies literally—now he'd do it figuratively if need be.

Yes, he was Jewish, but only when it was convenient to be Jewish. During his year in the trenches he had passed for every nationality under the sun. Jews, he'd found out early, were not the most highly regarded of people. But when it came right down to it, he probably wasn't anything except Reuben Aaron Tarz from Brooklyn, New York.

A young man, angry still at his mother for dying during the first minutes of his life and then making him live through his first six years with his father, who had grieved over his wife's death in granite silence until he, too, had succumbed. Those first six years, he believed, had taught him not to cry. He didn't remember too much after that except arriving and leaving, then his aunt's house in Brooklyn, and the years with her and her swarming brood. Those years, he believed, had taught him how to fight for his own space. Six loved children in a cramped tenement in Brooklyn and one begrudged child made that damned near an impossible feat. He'd been thrown out of that house after his temper had erupted once too often. And he had been on his own ever since. Often, in those early times in Brooklyn, he went hungry for days and had a bath and clean clothes only when he could finagle a deal. Soon trouble became his middle name. And trouble finds trouble. The local gang of street boys was well into a life of crime, running numbers and doing shady errands for local smalltime mobsters, by the time Reuben had decided that getting out meant living longer. He'd seen enough of what happened when the low men on the totem pole got into a disagreement. The ones on the ground got squashed. Life held no guarantees, but of one thing Reuben was certain: He'd never go back to Brooklyn.

The long gray barracks were just ahead, low shadows in an already gray background. Only the yellow lights dimly penetrating the ice-glazed windows gave him direction. He couldn't wait to get out of his wet clothes, clothes that would never dry. In the morning he'd have to put them on again and they'd stick to his body like leeches. Well, he'd worry about that tomorrow. Right now he was going to shed the wet wool, slip under his blankets, and pray for the pounding in his head to let up.

No sooner had he opened the door than a chorus of voices surrounded him. “Here he is!”

“Now we can feast!”

“Come on, Tarz, let's get it together here.”

“Yeah! Lady Bountiful was here and left you a basket of goodies. Good, loyal soldiers that we are, we didn't touch a thing. Divvy up.”

“What do you have that the rest of us don't, Tarz? That's what we want to know.”

Reuben grinned halfheartedly. His bunkmates had been riding him ever since Madame Mickey had made her first appearance at the barracks. At first he'd thought she was just another generous Frenchwoman who wanted to help the Americans. Then his buddy George had explained her mission. “My body!” Reuben had squawked. “She's twice my age!” The first night in the barracks after her visit, the men began to talk.

“What a knockout!” George had exclaimed.

“Did you get a load of her legs? Sheathed in the finest silk stockings.”

“That perfume of hers is enough to make you want to crawl after her on your hands and knees.”

“She's a fool for black hair and gray eyes. I heard her say your eyes were gray. ‘The color of the sky before a snowfall!'”

“I'll bet she's got beds with silk sheets and monograms and the same kinds of towels. Real soap that smells nice and a telephone in the bedroom. White carpets…”

“You're making all this up.” Reuben had laughed with the rest of them.

“No,” George said seriously, “Madame Mickey's a living legend around here from what I've gathered. And I've been up and around longer than you have.” He pointed and flexed his healed arm. “She comes almost every day in a big sleek Citroën, bringing a mountain of goodies just like you've got right here. She's got a warm word and a dazzling smile for anyone who needs it. And always,
always,
looks good enough to…”

“Eat!”

“Devour whole!”

“Make love to!”

“Get lucky with!”

Each soldier had his own idea about what he would do if offered the honor of her company.

“No problem for you, Tarz, right?” they'd heckled.

He remembered how he'd laughed then, and his stomach churned. After that, her special visits to him became routine. She persisted. And persisted. Now he was still unsure of her intentions, but he was ready and willing to go along with anything she said. Why not?

“Well?” the men chorused as they watched him undress.

“Whooeee, look at those haunches! Check those sinewy thighs! And that big broad chest…whooeee!” they heckled.

“Go ahead, eat whatever she brought. Just tell me how it tastes so I won't have to lie.” Drops for his eyes. He needed them badly, so badly that his hands shook as he fumbled with the dropper. It was George who noticed his trembling, and with a wave of his hand he cut the heckling short and reached for the cobalt-blue bottle.

“Jesus, you're frozen. Toss me a couple of blankets. Now lie still and I'll put these in your eyes. You should've said something, Tarz. Sometimes you gotta ask for help.”

“How's Daniel?” George asked. “Do they know yet if he'll be able to see?”

“They're removing the bandages tomorrow. He gets the cast off at the same time. It could go either way.”

“That's pissifying,” George grunted. “I hope the kid's okay.”

Reuben lay quietly on his bunk, careful not to move his head. Within thirty minutes the pounding was only a dull ache. Maybe he could sleep. The others had moved to the far end of the barracks to allow him the quiet time he needed. They were good guys; he appreciated them and liked them. He knew he could have been tossed in with a bunch of hardnoses.

Before he drifted into sleep, Reuben did something he would do only three times in his life: he prayed. This time it was for Daniel. Then he crossed his fingers for luck the way he'd done so often when he was a boy. Surely Daniel's God would listen to a Jew.

That night saw the end of the three-day sleet storm that had nearly paralyzed the activities at Soissons Hospital. Reuben thought it miraculous that Madame Mickey had ventured out in it to deliver the basket of treats.

 

Rolling onto his side as the last notes of reveille died away, he was uncertain whether or not to leave his bunk. His buddies had cleared the barracks at the first sounds of the bugle and had filed out into the deep shadowy dawn. Even here the army had its regulations and methods for making a man miserable. He felt sorry for George and the other men; they'd soon be receiving orders to return to their divisions. Odd as it seemed, none of them appeared to resent the fact that their two comrades would escape a return to the front. Reuben supposed that in some vicarious way, Madame Mickey and her resources represented a kind of hope for all of them.

It was warm beneath the blankets, but not as warm as Reuben would have liked. He was tempted to gather blankets from other bunks and wrap himself like an Indian, but he had a scheduled treatment for his eyes this morning, and at noon Daniel's bandages were to come off. And at some point he had to get in touch with Madame Mickey to give her the news of Daniel. Now, that particular assignment deserved a second thought.

George had warned him not to chase after the famous lady. He'd coached him for hours. Do this, don't do that. Don't fetch and carry, and for God's sake, don't appear grateful. Be stubborn. Parcel out your favors. Flatter the lady, but always make her think you might be lying. Then look into her eyes and say something genuine, something soft and sweet. It had been all he could do to stifle his laughter when old George issued instructions on the exact way sweet talk was to be delivered. But because George was older and wiser in the ways of women, Reuben had listened. He stored away all the little nuggets of information and knew he'd probably have a use for them before long. He stretched his leg, feeling the tendons and ligaments pulling in the muscles of his thigh. He'd carry that scar for the rest of his life, one of the doctors had told him. To Reuben it was more than a scar; it was a sign that he'd survived. The long indentation where flesh and muscle should have been would remind him of the trenches, of where he had slept and ate and learned about a boy named Daniel.

Throwing back the wooden shutter, he peered through the dirty glass out to the bleak light where the men were gathered for roll call. Today was a new day, a beginning of sorts. If he'd calculated, manipulated, and organized the coming events, he couldn't have done a better job than fate had done. Madame Mickey was his first step toward where he wanted to end up. The only problem was he didn't know exactly where that certain place was…yet. Time. Time was always the answer.

The young sun struggled over the horizon, only to be blotted out by a cloud. That didn't have to mean anything, he would never believe in omens. He'd had enough of that crap when he'd lived with his aunt. It was a new day, pure and simple, a good day for Daniel and himself.

He washed his face and shaved with the new safety razor that King Gillette had issued to every doughboy heading overseas in one of the greatest promotional advertising schemes ever. As Reuben allowed his thoughts to travel back to Daniel, he grew jumpy and inadvertently nicked his chin. What if Daniel were permanently blind? He dunked the razor in the tin of water and at that moment reaffirmed a commitment he had made: he and Daniel were to be brothers.

If he felt fear beyond the possibility of Daniel's blindness, it was of his obligation to Madame Mickey. Reuben had never slept with a woman. He'd done all the touching and feeling that was allowed, but that was as far as he'd ever gotten. Back in New York he had few opportunities to meet girls, girls who would bother with him, at any rate. Empty pockets and hard times weren't attractive assets as far as women were concerned. And he would never pay for the pleasure, not like some guys who saved their pennies for a roll between dirty sheets. Not Reuben Tarz. Not when having shoes with decent soles and a new shirt every so often were more lasting pleasures. It was only since joining the army that the opportunity for women had presented itself. Now, as a respectable doughboy, clean shaven and adequately clothed, he'd blended into the ranks with hundreds of thousands of other faceless men. The army, the great equalizer. But so far, every time he'd been presented with an opportunity to be with a woman, he'd either been shipped out prematurely or the old familiar empty-pocket problem had dead-ended him.

This was the reason he'd listened to George, even while pretending his advice was old news to him. And if it was true that Madame Mickey thought of herself as a teacher, then she would just have to show him what she wanted. He was very good at following orders and keeping his mouth shut. The sharp rap of nurses' heels clicking down the corridors echoed off the well-scrubbed bare wooden floors of the hospital. The familiar odor of pine tar cleaner, bloody bandages, and human sweat assaulted Reuben's nostrils. It was a stink he never wanted to experience again once he left this place. Hushed sounds, the low whispers, the rattling of trays and rolling of wheels almost distracted one from the smell. Starched white aprons, sunlight streaming through the tall windows lining the gallery, the officious steps of the doctors, all were underlined by the insidious presence of suffering. Suffering and pain were the masters here, vying for the weak human flesh that was dragged in from the battlefields. Suffering and pain.

Reuben shook his head to clear his thoughts when the nurse instructed him to lie flat on the gurney while drops were put into his eyes. Today his eyes felt rough and scratchy, and he found himself worrying. But instead of voicing his concerns to the doctor, he kept quiet. He was never one to look for trouble. If it found him, that was a different matter.

“You know the routine, Private. Lie still so you don't disturb the compresses,” the American staff doctor reminded him. “One of the nurses will be checking on you every so often.”

Stretched out fully on his back, his head slightly lower than his shoulders, Reuben was inundated with sounds and impressions. Quick steps, the movements of a cart in the hallway, voices that were too far away to recognize, and words that were too hushed to decipher.

Even before she entered the doorway to the confined treatment room, he was aware of her perfume. It was a heady, intoxicating scent, completely feminine, and it did strange things to him.

Her voice was low, close to a whisper, filled with a thrilling warmth. “Ah,
chéri.
The doctors told me you were here.” She bent to kiss him lightly on the cheek. Reuben smiled, pleased with her throaty laugh. Remembering George's advice, he attempted a casual tone. Instead, his voice came out as uninterested and bored. “You're early, aren't you?”