Shadows of Berlin полностью

“Well, not really college. Law school, I think, is considered to be graduate studies,” Tyrell corrects mildly, thoughtfully. “But you’re right. It is late.” To this he nods in agreement. “I started late, you might say. I had an undergrad degree from City College—­”

“On full scholarship,” Naomi interjects.

Tyrell simply smiles over the top of that fact. “In engineering,” he finishes. “Worked for a firm uptown for a while. But. I don’t know.” He scratches his head, frowning. “Swimming in electrical schematics and all, day after day? After a while, I was looking for a change. And then,” he says, “Uncle Sam decided I should spend twenty-­four months in Korea with the Eighth Army, Second Infantry Division. It wasn’t till afterward that I went back to Columbia for law on the G.I. Bill.”

“He was in combat,” Naomi cuts in sharply, informing her brother with reverent relish. “Against the Red Chinese.” The words Red Chinese are spoken as if a more lethal opponent on earth cannot be imagined, though oddly her eyes are still smiling.

“Really?” says Aaron, eyes flat. A frown of stilted interest. “I didn’t realize that, ya’ know, everybody over there was actually fighting.”

A small, infinitesimal pause as Tyrell absorbs this remark before he answers. “Actually, you’re correct about that, Mr. Perlman,” he says. “I wasn’t sent there to fight. I was sent there as a pack mule. The army didn’t put Negro troops in the front lines,” he says. “Instead they had us in the rear, hauling supplies and digging latrines. Dug a lot of latrines, I can tell you that,” he recalls with only a tiny glimmer of polite bitterness.

“Aaron went to school on the G.I. Bill too,” Rachel hears herself announcing, but that’s all she can manage to say.

“Yeah, though not exactly for a real degree,” Naomi points out. “Not exactly at Columbia University.”

“No, well, that’s true,” Aaron agrees. An admission. “Not exactly that. Two semesters at N.Y.S. Applied Arts, Brooklyn.”

“So you were in the service too, Mr. Perlman,” Tyrell adds chivalrously, trying to keep things from disintegrating.

“The service? Yep,” Sergeant Perlman answers. “For the big one. Duration plus six. Though I was stationed stateside. In California.”

“A fortunate man,” Tyrell says plainly.

Naomi, however, scoffs. “Yeah. Keeping Culver City safe for democracy.”

“Naomi,” Rachel breathes.

“No, it’s okay.” Aaron raises his palm. “She’s right. I wasn’t exactly raising the flag on Iwo Jima.” And then he makes his confession. “I was in the Three-­Ninety-­Fourth Quartermaster Detachment, Mr. Williams. Technical services. I coordinated logistics with the U.S.O. Victory Circuit on the West Coast.”

“Sounds like fun to me,” Tyrell offers.

“More fun than hand-­to-­hand combat.” Naomi nods, scooping another helping of the mashed potatoes onto Tyrell’s plate. “Wouldn’t you agree, Aaron?”

“Oh yeah. Much more fun,” Aaron replies. “For me it was just hand-­to-­hand with the caterers,” he says with a sharp downturn of his lip. “But I’m confused. Maybe somebody can explain to me how hauling supplies in the rear and, well, digging out latrines qualifies as combat duty.”

“Aaron,” says Rachel. “There’s no reason to ask such personal questions.”

“No, it’s okay,” his sister insists firmly. “I’m proud of how Tyrell served his country.” Turning to Tyrell, she prompts him. “Tell him, Tyrell. Tell him about the Chongchon River.”

Tyrell frowns. “Naomi.”

“Please. He needs to know. How many times have you said that America’s forgotten about the war in Korea, like it never happened. We all need to know,” she says.

A breath. “Okay. If, uh, if that’s what you want.” Tyrell swallows some wine and scratches his head again, as if activating the memory. “The Second Infantry Division,” he says. “We’d, uh, we pushed the NKs… I mean, the North Koreans… We’d pushed them back. Past the Thirty-­Ninth Parallel and all the way to the border with China on the Yalu River. So we thought, okay, we had ’em pretty well whipped. That’s what everybody believed, I guess. The brass even commenced what they called the ‘Home-­by-­Christmas’ offensive,” he tells them. Rachel can see the pain of this memory drifting across the man’s eyes. “But things don’t always go according to plan in the army. Do they, Mr. Perlman?”

“They do not,” Aaron must agree.