The Dark Arena

by Mario Puzo

  “You see this land in ruins, the continent, and Christ sees farther than we, he sees a destruction of soul universal, evil triumphant, Satan looking over the world in glee, seeing with his laughing eyes the death of man and everything man has done since the beginning of time.”

  A plane passed overhead on its way to the air base. The roar of the motor made him stop. He was a small man with a pouter-pigeon chest accentuated by the way he threw back his head to glare with his rolling, brilliant, birdy eyes. He went on.

  “Picture to yourself a world innocent of life. In the polar regions the snow and ice everywhere untracked, unmoved upon. In Africa, in the jungles, where the sun gives, from God, innumerable and diverse forms of creation, there everything is still.” The voice now was madly rhetorical, pompous, the brilliant eyes bulging from his small head. “The carcasses of dead beasts lie putrefying in the rotting vegetation. On China's plains, by the fertile rivers, not even the crocodile lifts his grinning head to return the leer of Satan. And in our cities, in the many hearts of what is known as civilization, there is nothing but ruins. Hills of stone out of which no life will ever grow, a soil of broken glass. For eternity.”

  He stopped and waited for a sign of approval but instead a surprising shout rose from different parts of the crowd. “Where is your permit? Where is your permission from Military Government?” Three or four male voices could be heard shouting this. The preacher was stunned.

  Hella and Mosca found themselves standing now almost in the middle of the crowd, a pile of people bunched up behind them. On their left was a young man dressed in a blue, washed-out shirt and heavy working trousers. He carried in his arms a pretty girl of six or seven whose eyes were curiously blank and whose sleeve on the side facing them was pinned to her flowered frock. On their right was an old worker puffing a stubby pipe. The young man was shouting with the others, “Where is your permit, where is your permission from Military Government?” Then he turned to Mosca and the old worker and said, “We're bawled out by everybody now that we've lost, even by swine like this.” Mosca, in civilian clothes, smiled at Hella, amused that he had passed as German.

  Now the preacher pointed his arm slowly toward the sky and said in a great solemn voice, “I have permission from our Creator.” The sun, red with its last, dying fire bathed the upraised arm with crimson light. The sun began to sink below the earth, and gray in the soft summer twilight, springing up on the horizon like a great ragged circle of spears, the ruins of the city rose like magic before their eyes. The preacher bowed his head in thanksgiving. He raised his head to the sky. He embraced them all with a sweep of his arms. “Come back to Jesus Christ,” he shouted. “Come back to Jesus. Leave your sins behind. Leave the drinking. Leave the fornication. Renounce the gambling, the pride for worldly success. Believe in Jesus and be saved. Believe in Jesus and be saved. You have been punished for your sins. The punishment is before your eyes. Repent before it is too late. Sin no more.”

  The deafening voice stopped for breath. The crowd was stunned, rolled back by the great volume of sound from that little man. He returned to a normal shout.

  “Each one of you, think of the lives you led before the war, are you not to believe that the suffering, the ruin you see is God's punishment for the sins you committed then? “And now the young girls fornicate with enemy soldiers, the young men beg for cigarettes. Puff Puff.” He blew out imaginary smoke with maniacal hatred. “On our Sabbath people go to the country to steal or bargain for food. The house of the Lord is empty. We invite destruction. Repent, I say again. Repent. Repent,” The words began to run together, hysterically. “Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ Believe in the Lord the one and only God Believe in the One Lord Believe in Christ.

  He paused and then in a threatening and scolding voice shouted at them. Harshly. Accusingly. “You are all sinners, you are all condemned to everlasting hell. I see some of you smile. You pity yourselves. Why should God make us suffer so? You ask that?”

  Someone in the crowd shouted mockingly, “It wasn't God, it was the Ami bombers.” The crowd laughed.

  Hie man on the bench waited for them to be still and then peering through the failing light, savagely, vindiciively, he pointed to a woman wearing black. “You, woman, do you laugh at God? Where is your husband; your children?” He pointed to the young man beside Mosca. “Look,” he said to the crowd and they all turned and followed that pointing finger. “There is another scoffer, one of the young men, the hope of Germany. For Ms sins his child is mutilated and he laughs at the wrath of God. Wait, scoffer, in your child's face I see another punishment. Wait. Look at your child and wait.” With spite and malice he pointed out other members of the crowd.

  The young man with the child set her down and said to Hella, “Please look after her.” Then they could see him push through to where the preacher stood on his bench, break through to the open space. With one violent blow he struck the little preacher to the ground. He knelt on the preacher's chest, grabbed a handful of hair and slammed the bird-shaped head against the cement walk. Then he rose.

  The crowd disappeared. The young man picked up his child and walked into the Contrescarpe Park. As if by magic most of the people had disappeared. The preacher lay still and alone in die falling twilight

  Some men helped him up. There was blood running out of his thick curly hair, many tiny rivers flowed down his forehead to form a red mask over his face. Hella had turned away and Mosca took her arm and walked her down the street. He saw that she looked ill, the sight of blood, he thought. “You'd better stay home with Frau Saunders tonight.” And then, as if he owed her an excuse for not interfering, he said, “It's not our business.”

  Mosca, Leo, and Eddie Cassin sat around the Middle-ton living-room. Hie household furniture belonged to the requisitioned house so there were still chairs to sit on. Everything else was packed in wooden orates lined against the wall.

  “So you're really going to the Nuremberg trials tomorrow?” Gordon asked Leo. “What time are you leaving?”

  “Oh, in the evening,” Leo said “I would rather drive at night”

  “Give it to the bastards when you get there,” Ann Middleton said. “Lie if you have to but make sure they all get what's coming to them.”

  “I won't have to lie,” Leo said. “My memory is very good.”

  “I want to apologize about the way I acted the last time you were here,” Gordon Middleton said. “I'm afraid I was very rude.”

  Leo waved his hand. “No, I understand. My father was a political prisoner, a Communist My mother was Jewish, that is why I was sent away. But my father was a political. Of course, after the Stalin-Hitler pact he lost his faith. He realized one was no better than the other.”

  The professor, who was sitting in a corner by the chess table and had a polite smile of interest on his face, became frightened by this tactless remark. He saw, with panic and embarrassment, the anger rising in Gordon Middleton and did not wish to witness a scene of verbal violence. All violence distressed him. “I must go,” he said. “I have an appointment to give a lesson.” He shook hands with Gordon and Ann. “Allow me to wish you a good trip to America and good fortune. I have been very happy to know you.”

  Gordon escorted him to the door and said earnestly, “I hope you won't forget to write me, Professor. Tm depending on you to tell me what happens to Germany.”

  The professor nodded his head. “Certainly, certainly.” He had already decided not to communicate in any way with Gordon Middleton. Any tie with a Communist, however innocent, could in the unpredictable future do him great harm.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Gordon led the professor back into the room. “Leo, I just remembered the professor is going to Nuremberg the end of the week. Can you give him a lift or would that be against your outfit's regulation?”

  “No, no,” the professor said in great agitation. “That is not necessary, please.” “It's no trouble,” Leo said. “No,” the professor said, and now he was almost hysterica
lly frightened. “I have my train tickets, everything is arranged. Please, I know it would be too much trouble for you.”

  “Okay, Professor, okay.” Gordon said soothingly, and took him to the door.

  When Gordon came back into the room, Mosca asked, “What the hell did he get so excited about?”

  Gordon glanced at Leo. “He's a very correct man. His son is under arrest as a minor war criminal, I don't know exactly what, except that he's being tried by a German court, not the occupation so it can't be too bad. I guess he was horrified that Leo might find out and think it was something to do with the concentration camps, which, of course, it couldn't be. You don't mind do you, Leo?”

  “No,” Leo said.

  “I'll tell you what,” Gordon said, “I'll go to his place tomorrow, I'll have time. I'll say you'll pick him up tomorrow night. Once he knows you know, he'll be willing. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” Leo said, “it is very nice you should worry so about that old man.”

  Ann Middleton looked at him sharply, but there was no irony on Leo's hawklike face. He was sincere. She smiled “Gordon always takes care of his converts,” she said.

  “I haven't converted him, Ann,” Gordon drawled in his slow, even voice, “but I think I've put a few ideas in nis head. He listens.” Gordon paused and in a calm tone in which there was a gentle reproof he said, “I don't think ‘convert’ is the right word to use.” They were all silent.

  “When do you think you'll be back?” Mosca asked Leo.

  Leo grinned at him. “Don't worry, I won't miss it.”

  “Miss what?” Ann Middleton asked.

  “I'm going to be a godfather,” Leo said. “I already have the present.”

  “It's a shame I won't be here to see the child when it comes,” Ann said. “Too bad Hella couldn't be here tonight. I hope she isn't too ill.”

  “No,” Mosca said. “She just took too long a walk this evening. She wanted to come but I told her she'd better not.”

  “After all, we're not that important, Walter,” Ann said jokingly but with a touch of malice. Eddie Cassia in his corner armchair opened his eyes. He had dozed off. Visiting married couples was something he hated. He nearly always detested wives when they were with their husbands and in their own homes. And he disliked Ann Middleton. She was plain, she was strong willed, and she treated him with contempt.

  Mosca was grinning at her. “You know damn well I'm right.”

  “It just irritates her that you aren't concerned about other people,” Gordon said. “I wish I could be like that sometimes.”

  Mosca said, “Gordon, maybe Tm being out of line but I'll take a chance. Everybody around the base knows that you're being sent home because you held a Communist party card. I don't know anything about politics. I was a kid when I went into the Army. I guess in some ways I still am. What I'm trying to say is this. I have a lot of respect for you because you have guts. You know things are screwed up. I think you're wrong because I wouldn't trust anybody who can make me do what he wants, no matter what the reason is. That includes the United States Army, the Communist party, Russia, that fat bastard of a colonel, right on down the line.” He turned to Eddie Cassin. “What the hell am I trying to say?”

  Eddie said dryly, “That you like him even if you didn't let Hella come.” They all laughed.

  Gordon didn't. His long Yankee face expressionless, he said to Mosca, “Since you've spoken maybe I can say something I've always wanted to say to you before, Walter.” He paused a moment, rubbed his great, bony hands together. “I know how you feel or think I do, and maybe you can't help yourself. You say I'm wrong, but I have a belief I can hold no matter what happens. I believe in the human race, that life on earth can be extraordinarily beautiful. I believe that this can be accomplished through the efforts of the Communist party. You build everything on a few people you care about Believe me that is a fallacious way of life.”

  “Yeah? Why?” Mosca bowed his head and when he raised it to look at Gordon there were dark-red spots of anger on his face.

  “Because those people and you yourself are controlled by forces that you refuse to concern yourself with. You exercise no free will when you fight on your level, in your narrow circle, your little, personal, arena. When you do that you put those people you care about in terrible danger”

  Mosca said, “This talk about controlling forces that affect my life. Christ, don't you think I know about it? I don't believe anything can help. But nobody is going to move me around, make me think one thing one day, and then, all of a sudden, bang on the other side we go. I don't care if it's right or wrong. Every day some kraut at the air base or in the billet or working in the Rathskellar tells me how happy hell be when we march together against the Russians and expects me to give him a cigarette. And cm the other side I guess it's the same. You know what Fm glad about?” He leaned over the table at Gordon, his face flushed with excitement and liquor. “That this time there's a good chance of everything going up in smoke. Everybody gets it up the ass.”

  “Hey, hey,” Ann Middleton applauded, clapping her hands.

  Eddie Cassin was laughing and said, “Jesus Christ, what a speech.” Leo seemed shocked.

  Mosca burst out laughing and said to Gordon, “Look what you made me do.”

  Gordon had been smiling, too, thinking how he always forgot how young Mosca was, and was always surprised when that youthful, immature sincerity flashed through Mosca's reserve. And trying to help he said, “How about Hella, then, and your kid?”

  Mosca didn't answer. Ann got up to fill their glasses, Leo said, “He doesn't mean what he says.”

  And then Mosca, as if he had not heard, said to Gordon, “I make myself responsible.” And only Eddie Cassin felt that he had said these words as dogma, something he would have to live by. Mosca smiled at them and said it jokingly this time. “I make myself responsible.” He shook his head. “Who can do better than that?”

  “And how is it you don't feel that way?” Ann Middleton asked Leo.

  “I don't know,” Leo said. “I went to Buchenwald when I was quite young, and I met my father there and we were for a long time together. And people are different. Besides, Walter is changing. I caught him bowing, actually bowing good evening to his German neighbors.”

  The others laughed, but Mosca said impatiently, “How a guy can spend eight years in a concentration camp and come out the way you did I'll never understand. If I were you and a kraut looked at me crosswise I'd send him to the hospital. And every time he gave me an answer I didn't like I'd kick him in the balls.”

  “Please, please,” Ann said in mock horror.

  “Too bad about you,” Mosca said, but he grinned at her. She had used worse language cursing black-market operators who had cheated her.

  Leo said slowly, “You forget I am part <5erman. And the things the Germans did, they did not because they were Germans but because they were human beings. My father told me that. And then I am having a good time, I live a new life, it would poison that life if I were cruel to other people.”

  “You're right, Leo,” Gordon said. “We need a more intellectual approach, not emotional reactions. We have to reason, to change the world by logical action. The Communist party believes in that.”

  There was no doubting his sincerity, the purity of his belief.

  Leo gave him a long look. “I know one thing only about communism. My father was a Communist. The camps could never crush his spirit. When the word came into the camp that Hitler and Stalin had signed a pact, my father died easily afterward.”

  “And if that pact was necessary to save the Soviet Union?” Gordon asked. “If that pact was necessary to save the world from the Nazis?”

  Leo bowed his head and put his hand up to his face to hold the muscles tight and stop the tic. “No,” he said, “if my father had to die that way the world isn't worth saving. That is emotional, I know, not your intellectual approach the party f avors.”

  In the silence that followed they c
ould hear the baby crying upstairs. “I'll go change him,” Gordon said. His wife gave him a grateful smile.

  When he had left Ann said, “Don't mind him,” to Leo, keeping the tone of her voice absolutely without inflection so that she could not be thought disloyal. She went out into the kitchen to make coffee.

  When the evening ended everyone shook hands all around. Aim said, “Til drop around tomorrow to say good-by to Hella.” And Gordon said to Leo, “Don't forget fiie professor, Leo, will you?” Leo nodded. Gordon added slowly and sincerely, “I wish you luck.”

  Gordon locked the door behind them and went back into the living-room. He found Ann sitting thoughtfully in her chair. “I want to talk to you, Gordon,” she said.

  Gordon smiled at her. “Well, here I am, talk.” He felt a sharp pang of fear. But he could talk to Ann without becoming angry when they discussed politics, even though she never agreed with him.

  Ann got up and walked nervously up and down the room. Gordon watched her face. He loved the broad, honest planes, the blunt nose and the pale-blue eyes. She was a pure Saxon type, he thought, and yet she looked almost Slavic. He wondered if there were any connection. He would have to read up on it.

  Her words smashed against his mind. She said, “You'll have to give it up, you will just have to give it up.”

  “Give up what?” Gordon asked innocently.

  “You know what,” she said. And the shock of understanding, the pain that she should say such a thing, was so great that there was no anger in him, only a sinking in his stomach, a despairing hopelessness. When die saw his face she came and knelt beside his chair, and it was only when they were alone that she relinquished her strength, that she was tender, supplicating. She said, Tm not angry you lost this job because you were a Communist. But what are we going to do? We have to think of our child. You have to be able to work and earn money, Gordon. And the way you lose all your Meads when you get so angry about politics. We can't live like this, darling, we just can't.”