They’d issue him a new uniform there … or maybe they wouldn’t, if they didn’t happen to have one. If they didn’t, he couldwear this in the trenches till it got too ragged to stand. It wasn’t as if he’d never been ragged before.
When he stuck his good hand in the pocket of the dungarees, he found a small roll of pesetas in there. He started to thank the surgeon, then clamped down on it. By the look in his eye, Alvarez wanted no thanks and would have denied putting the money in there. Some people were like that: they didn’t care to admit, maybe even to themselves, that they could be nice.
A couple of the nurses kissed Chaim before he left. One of them was halfway cute, or more than halfway. Why couldn’t they have been a little more friendly when all he could do was lay there—no, lie there—in bed like a sack of peas, dammit?
He was sweating before he’d walked even a block. Part of that was Madrid’s fierce summer heat and the blazing sun overhead. And part of it was that he’d spent too goddamn long lying there like a sack of peas. He hadn’t realized how far out of shape he’d got.
Madrid itself kept the hectic gaiety he’d always found here. Buildings without damage were scarce, glassed windows scarcer. Nationalist, Italian, and German bombers had pounded the Republican stronghold since the civil war started in 1936. Madrileños repaired, rebuilt, and carried on.
Chaim needed a little while to orient himself. He hadn’t been at his best when they brought him to the hospital, which was putting things mildly. And the building, like most here, had boarded-up windows. So he hadn’t known where he was. Now that he did …
Luckily, Party headquarters was only a few blocks away. The first person he saw when he walked in there was La Martellita. She was hurrying across the lobby with a fat folder of papers squeezed between her arm and her sweetly curved side. She saw him, too—with no great delight. “What?” she said. “They turned you loose?”
“Afraid so,” he answered.
“And so you came over here to bother me?” She jumped to a natural conclusion.
But he shook his head with more dignity than he could usually muster. “Sorry,
querida
, but no. I came over here to ask where I could get a ride up to the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.”
“Oh,” La Martellita said in a different tone of voice. That was business. She told him what he needed to know. The bus depot wasn’t far, either, for which he was glad. Then she asked, “And your hand—it’s better?”
“It’s good enough.” He showed her he could bring thumb and forefinger together. He tried not to show her it still hurt. His pride was of a different sort from the Spaniards’ flashy variety, which didn’t mean he had none.
“It’s still not pretty,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’ll never be pretty.
Así es la vida
. You, now, you’re pretty.”
Flattery got him nowhere. He hadn’t expected it would. Hoped, sure, but not expected. “Go find your bus,” she told him. “If you stay here very long, you won’t find anything but trouble.”
He blew her a kiss as he turned to go. “
Hasta la vista
. Say hello to my son for me.”
She headed for the stairway without answering. He suspected Carlos Federico Weinberg wouldn’t get the hello. Sighing, he walked out and trudged over to the depot.
Every last bus in the Republic would have been junked for spare parts in the States—except the ones old and strange enough to go straight into a museum. The ancient French ruin he boarded might have rushed troops from Paris to the Marne in the darkest days of 1914. It wouldn’t have been fresh from the factory then, either.
It rattled. It farted. It stank of gasoline—something was leaking somewhere. At least half of what should have been teeth on the gears in its transmission were only memories. Its shocks weren’t even memories, because Chaim didn’t think it had ever had any.
But it still ran. The maniac behind the
When he stuck his good hand in the pocket of the dungarees, he found a small roll of pesetas in there. He started to thank the surgeon, then clamped down on it. By the look in his eye, Alvarez wanted no thanks and would have denied putting the money in there. Some people were like that: they didn’t care to admit, maybe even to themselves, that they could be nice.
A couple of the nurses kissed Chaim before he left. One of them was halfway cute, or more than halfway. Why couldn’t they have been a little more friendly when all he could do was lay there—no, lie there—in bed like a sack of peas, dammit?
He was sweating before he’d walked even a block. Part of that was Madrid’s fierce summer heat and the blazing sun overhead. And part of it was that he’d spent too goddamn long lying there like a sack of peas. He hadn’t realized how far out of shape he’d got.
Madrid itself kept the hectic gaiety he’d always found here. Buildings without damage were scarce, glassed windows scarcer. Nationalist, Italian, and German bombers had pounded the Republican stronghold since the civil war started in 1936. Madrileños repaired, rebuilt, and carried on.
Chaim needed a little while to orient himself. He hadn’t been at his best when they brought him to the hospital, which was putting things mildly. And the building, like most here, had boarded-up windows. So he hadn’t known where he was. Now that he did …
Luckily, Party headquarters was only a few blocks away. The first person he saw when he walked in there was La Martellita. She was hurrying across the lobby with a fat folder of papers squeezed between her arm and her sweetly curved side. She saw him, too—with no great delight. “What?” she said. “They turned you loose?”
“Afraid so,” he answered.
“And so you came over here to bother me?” She jumped to a natural conclusion.
But he shook his head with more dignity than he could usually muster. “Sorry,
querida
, but no. I came over here to ask where I could get a ride up to the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.”
“Oh,” La Martellita said in a different tone of voice. That was business. She told him what he needed to know. The bus depot wasn’t far, either, for which he was glad. Then she asked, “And your hand—it’s better?”
“It’s good enough.” He showed her he could bring thumb and forefinger together. He tried not to show her it still hurt. His pride was of a different sort from the Spaniards’ flashy variety, which didn’t mean he had none.
“It’s still not pretty,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’ll never be pretty.
Así es la vida
. You, now, you’re pretty.”
Flattery got him nowhere. He hadn’t expected it would. Hoped, sure, but not expected. “Go find your bus,” she told him. “If you stay here very long, you won’t find anything but trouble.”
He blew her a kiss as he turned to go. “
Hasta la vista
. Say hello to my son for me.”
She headed for the stairway without answering. He suspected Carlos Federico Weinberg wouldn’t get the hello. Sighing, he walked out and trudged over to the depot.
Every last bus in the Republic would have been junked for spare parts in the States—except the ones old and strange enough to go straight into a museum. The ancient French ruin he boarded might have rushed troops from Paris to the Marne in the darkest days of 1914. It wouldn’t have been fresh from the factory then, either.
It rattled. It farted. It stank of gasoline—something was leaking somewhere. At least half of what should have been teeth on the gears in its transmission were only memories. Its shocks weren’t even memories, because Chaim didn’t think it had ever had any.
But it still ran. The maniac behind the
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