ACROSS the RIVER and INTO the TREES by ERNEST HEMINGWAY

“You haven’t a picture of them, have you?”

“No. There weren’t any pictures except with Mr. d’Annunzio in them. Also most of the people turned out badly.”

“Except for us,” the Gran Maestro said. “Now I must go and see how the steak marches.”

The Colonel, who was a sub-lieutenant again now, riding in a camion, his face dust, until only his metallic eyes showed, and they were red-rimmed and sore, sat thinking.

The three key points, he thought. The massif of Grap­pa with Assalone and Pertica and the hill I do not re­member the name of on the right. That was where I grew up, he thought, and all the nights I woke sweating, dreaming I would not be able to get them out of the trucks. They should not have gotten out, ever, of course. But what a trade it is.

“In our army, you know,” he told the girl, “practically no Generals have ever fought. It is quite strange and the top organization dislikes those who have fought.”

“Do Generals really fight?”

“Oh yes. When they are captains and lieutenants. Later, except in retreats, it is rather stupid.”

“Did you fight much? I know you did. But tell me.”

“I fought enough to be classified as a fool by the great thinkers.”

“Tell me.”

“When I was a boy, I fought against Erwin Rommel half way from Cortina to the Grappa, where we held. He was a captain then and I was an acting captain; really a sub-lieutenant.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. Not until after the war when we could talk together. He was very nice and I liked him. We used to ski together.”

“Did you like many Germans?”

“Very many. Ernst Udet I liked the best.”

“But they were in the wrong.”

“Of course. But who has not been?”

“I never could like them or take such a tolerant atti­tude as you do, since they killed my father and burned our villa on the Brenta and the day I saw a German of­ficer shooting pigeons with a shot-gun in the Piazza San Marco.”

“I understand,” the Colonel said. “But please, Daugh­ter you try to understand my attitude too. When we have killed so many we can afford to be kind.”

“How many have you killed?”

“One hundred and twenty-two sures. Not counting possibles.”

“You had no remorse?”

“Never.”

“Nor bad dreams about it?”

“Nor bad dreams. But usually strange ones. Combat dreams, always, for a while after combat. But then strange dreams about places mostly. We live by accidents of terrain, you know. And terrain is what remains in the dreaming part of your mind.”

“Don’t you ever dream about me?”

“I try to. But I can’t.”

“Maybe the portrait will help.”

“I hope so,” the Colonel said. “Please don’t forget to remind me to give back the stones.”

“Please don’t be cruel.”

“I have my small necessities of honor in the same pro­portions as we have our great and enveloping love. You cannot have the one without the other.”

“But you could give me privileges.”

“You have them,” the Colonel said. “The stones are in my pocket.”

The Gran Maestro came then with the steak and the scaloppine and the vegetables. They were brought by a sleek-headed boy who believed in nothing; but was try­ing hard to be a good second waiter. He was a member of the Order. The Gran Maestro served adroitly and with respect both for the food, and those that were to eat it.

“Now eat,” he said.

“Uncork that Valpolicella,” he said to the boy who had the eyes of an unbelieving spaniel.

“What do you have on that character?” the Colonel asked him, referring to his pitted compatriot, sitting chawing at his food, while the elderly woman with him ate with suburban grace.

“You should tell me. Not me you.”

“I never saw him before today,” the Colonel said. “He’s hard to take with food.”

“He condescends to me. He speaks bad Italian assidu­ously. He goes everywhere in Baedeker, and he has no taste in either food or wine. The woman is nice. I believe she is his aunt. But I have no real information.”

“He looks like something we could do without.”

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