The Moon Is Down (11 page)

5

The days and the weeks dragged on, and the months dragged on. The snow fell and melted and fell and melted and finally fell and stuck. The dark buildings of the little town wore bells and hats and eyebrows of white and there were trenches through the snow to the doorways. In the harbor the coal barges came empty and went away loaded, but the coal did not come out of the ground easily. The good miners made mistakes. They were clumsy and slow. Machinery broke and took a long time to fix. The people of the conquered country settled in a slow, silent, waiting revenge. The men who had been traitors, who had helped the invaders—and many of them believed it was for a better state and an ideal way of life—found that the control they took was insecure, that the people they had known looked at them coldly and never spoke.

And there was death in the air, hovering and waiting. Accidents happened on the railroad, which clung to the mountains and connected the little town with the rest of the nation. Avalanches poured down on the tracks and rails were spread. No train could move unless the tracks were first inspected. People were shot in reprisal and it made no difference. Now and then a group of young men escaped and went to England. And the English bombed the coal mine and did some damage and killed some of both their friends and their enemies. And it did no good. The cold hatred grew with the winter, the silent, sullen hatred, the waiting hatred. The food supply was controlled—issued to the obedient and withheld from the disobedient—so that the whole population turned coldly obedient. There was a point where food could not be withheld, for a starving man cannot mine coal, cannot lift and carry. And the hatred was deep in the eyes of the people, beneath the surface.

Now it was that the conqueror was surrounded, the men of the battalion alone among silent enemies, and no man might relax his guard for even a moment. If he did, he disappeared, and some snowdrift received his body. If he went alone to a woman, he disappeared and some snowdrift received his body. If he drank, he disappeared. The men of the battalion could sing only together, could dance only together, and dancing gradually stopped and the singing expressed a longing for home. Their talk was of friends and relatives who loved them and their longings were for warmth and love, because a man can be a soldier for only so many hours a day and for only so many months in a year, and then he wants to be a man again, wants girls and drinks and music and laughter and ease, and when these are cut off, they become irresistibly desirable.

And the men thought always of home. The men of the battalion came to detest the place they had conquered, and they were curt with the people and the people were curt with them, and gradually a little fear began to grow in the conquerors, a fear that it would never be over, that they could never relax or go home, a fear that one day they would crack and be hunted through the mountains like rabbits, for the conquered never relaxed their hatred. The patrols, seeing lights, hearing laughter, would be drawn as to a fire, and when they came near, the laughter stopped, the warmth went out, and the people were cold and obedient. And the soldiers, smelling warm food from the little restaurants, went in and ordered the warm food and found that it was oversalted and overpeppered.

Then the soldiers read the news from home and from the other conquered countries, and the news was always good, and for a little while they believed it, and then after a while they did not believe it any more. And every man carried in his heart the terror. “If home crumbled, they would not tell us, and then it would be too late. These people will not spare us. They will kill us all.” They remembered stories of their men retreating through Belgium and retreating out of Russia. And the more literate remembered the frantic, tragic retreat from Moscow, when every peasant's pitchfork tasted blood and the snow was rotten with bodies.

And they knew when they cracked, or relaxed, or slept too long, it would be the same here, and their sleep was restless and their days were nervous. They asked questions their officers could not answer because they did not know. They were not told, either. They did not believe the reports from home, either.

Thus it came about that the conquerors grew afraid of the conquered and their nerves wore thin and they shot at shadows in the night. The cold, sullen silence was with them always. Then three soldiers went insane in a week and cried all night and all day until they were sent away home. And others might have gone insane if they had not heard that mercy deaths awaited the insane at home, and a mercy death is a terrible thing to think of. Fear crept in on the men in their billets and it made them sad, and it crept into the patrols and it made them cruel.

The year turned and the nights grew long. It was dark at three o'clock in the afternoon and not light again until nine in the morning. The jolly lights did not shine out on the snow, for by law every window must be black against the bombers. And yet when the English bombers came over, some light always appeared near the coal mine. Sometimes the sentries shot a man with a lantern and once a girl with a flashlight. And it did no good. Nothing was cured by the shooting.

And the officers were a reflection of their men, more restrained because their training was more complete, more resourceful because they had more responsibility, but the same fears were a little deeper buried in them, the same longings were more tightly locked in their hearts. And they were under a double strain, for the conquered people watched them for mistakes and their own men watched them for weakness, so that their spirits were taut to the breaking-point. The conquerors were under a terrible spiritual siege and everyone knew, conquered and conquerors, what would happen when the first crack appeared.

From the upstairs room of the Mayor's palace the comfort seemed to have gone. Over the windows black paper was tacked tightly and there were little piles of precious equipment about the room—the instruments and equipment that could not be jeopardized, the glasses and masks and helmets. And discipline here at least was laxer, as though these officers knew there must be some laxness somewhere or the machine would break. On the table were two gasoline lanterns which threw a hard, brilliant light and they made great shadows on the walls, and their hissing was an undercurrent in the room.

Major Hunter went on with his work. His drawing-board was permanently ready now, for the bombs tore out his work nearly as fast as he put it in. And he had little sorrow, for to Major Hunter building was life and here he had more building than he could project or accomplish. He sat at his drawing-board with a light behind him and his T-square moved up and down the board and his pencil was busy.

Lieutenant Prackle, his arm still in a sling, sat in a straight chair behind the center table, reading an illustrated paper. At the end of the table Lieutenant Tonder was writing a letter. He held his pen pinched high and occasionally he looked up from his letter and gazed at the ceiling, to find words to put in his letter.

Prackle turned a page of the illustrated paper and he said, “I can close my eyes and see every shop on this street here.” And Hunter went on with his work and Tonder wrote a few more words. Prackle continued, “There is a restaurant right behind here. You can't see it in the picture. It's called Burden's.”

Hunter did not look up. He said, “I know the place. They had good scallops.”

“Sure they did,” Prackle said. “Everything was good there. Not a single bad thing did they serve. And their coffee—”

Tonder looked up from his letter and said, “They won't be serving coffee now—or scallops.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” said Prackle. “They did and they will again. And there was a waitress there.” He described her figure with his hand, with the good hand. “Blonde, so and so.” He looked down at the magazine. “She had the strangest eyes—has, I mean—always kind of moist-looking as though she had just been laughing or crying.” He glanced at the ceiling and he spoke softly. “I was out with her. She was lovely. I wonder why I didn't go back oftener. I wonder if she's still there.”

Tonder said gloomily, “Probably not. Working in a factory, maybe.”

Prackle laughed. “I hope they aren't rationing girls at home.”

“Why not?” said Tonder.

Prackle said playfully, “You don't care much for girls, do you? Not much, you don'!”

Tonder said, “I like them for what girls are for. I don't let them crawl around my other life.”

And Prackle said tauntingly, “It seems to me that they crawl all over you all the time.”

Tonder tried to change the subject. He said, “I hate these damn lanterns. Major, when are you going to get that dynamo fixed?”

Major Hunter looked up slowly from his board and said, “It should be done by now. I've got good men working on it. I'll double the guard on it from now on, I guess.”

“Did you get the fellow that wrecked it?” Prackle asked.

And Hunter said grimly, “It might be any one of five men. I got all five.” He went on musingly, “It's so easy to wreck a dynamo if you know how. Just short it and it wrecks itself.” He said, “The light ought to be on any time now.”

Prackle still looked at his magazine. “I wonder when we will be relieved. I wonder when we will go home for a while. Major, wouldn't you like to go home for a rest?”

Hunter looked up from his work and his face was hopeless for a moment. “Yes, of course.” He recovered himself. “I've built this siding four times. I don't know why a bomb always knocks out this particular siding. I'm getting tired of this piece of track. I have to change the route every time because of the craters. There's no time to fill them in. The ground is frozen too hard. It seems to be too much work.”

Suddenly the electric lights came on and Tonder automatically reached out and turned off the two gasoline lanterns. The hissing was gone from the room.

Tonder said, “Thank God for that! That hissing gets on my nerves. It makes me think there's whispering.” He folded the letter he had been writing and he said, “It's strange more letters don't come through. I've only had one in two weeks.”

Prackle said, “Maybe nobody writes to you.”

“Maybe,” said Tonder. He turned to the major. “If anything happened—at home, I mean—do you think they would let us know—anything bad, I mean, any deaths or anything like that?”

Hunter said, “I don't know.”

“Well,” Tonder went on, “I would like to get out of this god-forsaken hole!”

Prackle broke in, “I thought you were going to live here after the war?” And he imitated Tonder's voice. “Put four or five farms together. Make a nice place, a kind of family seat. Wasn't that it? Going to be a little lord of the valley, weren't you? Nice, pleasant people, beautiful lawns and deer and little children. Isn't that the way it was, Tonder?”

As Prackle spoke, Tonder's hand dropped. Then he clasped his temples with his hands and he spoke with emotion. “Be still! Don't talk like that! These people! These horrible people! These cold people! They never look at you.” He shivered. “They never speak. They answer like dead men. They obey, these horrible people. And the girls are frozen!”

There was a light tap on the door and Joseph came in with a scuttle of coal. He moved silently through the room and set the scuttle down so softly that he made no noise, and he turned without looking up at anyone and went toward the door again. Prackle said loudly, “Joseph!” And Joseph turned without replying, without looking up, and he bowed very slightly. And Prackle said still loudly, “Joseph, is there any wine or any brandy?” Joseph shook his head.

Tonder started up from the table, his face wild with anger, and he shouted, “Answer, you swine! Answer in words!”

Joseph did not look up. He spoke tonelessly. “No, sir; no, sir, there is no wine.”

And Tonder said furiously, “And no brandy?”

Joseph looked down and spoke tonelessly again. “There is no brandy, sir.” He stood perfectly still.

“What do you want?” Tonder said.

“I want to go, sir.”

“Then go, goddamn it!”

Joseph turned and went silently out of the room and Tonder took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. Hunter looked up at him and said, “You shouldn't let him beat you so easily.”

Tonder sat down in his chair and put his hands to his temples and he said brokenly, “I want a girl. I want to go home. I want a girl. There's a girl in this town, a pretty girl. I see her all the time. She has blond hair. She lives beside the old-iron store. I want that girl.”

Prackle said, “Watch yourself. Watch your nerves.”

At that moment the lights went out again and the room was in darkness. Hunter spoke while the matches were being struck and an attempt was being made to light the lanterns; he said, “I thought I had all of them. I must have missed one. But I can't be running down there all the time. I've got good men down there.”

Tonder lighted the first lantern and then he lighted the other, and Hunter spoke sternly to Tonder. “Lieutenant, do your talking to us if you have to talk. Don't let the enemy hear you talk this way. There's nothing these people would like better than to know your nerves are getting thin. Don't let the enemy hear you.”

Tonder sat down again. The light was sharp on his face and the hissing filled the room. He said, “That's it! The enemy's everywhere! Every man, every woman, even children! The enemy's everywhere! Their faces look out of doorways. The white faces behind the curtains, listening. We have beaten them, we have won everywhere, and they wait and obey, and they wait. Half the world is ours. Is it the same in other places, Major?”

And Hunter said, “I don't know.”