Eva Luna by Isabel Allende Read Free Book Online Page B

Everything he had suffered had failed to instill in him any desire for peace; instead, it had etched in his mind the conviction that only gunpowder and blood can produce men capable of steering the foundering ship of humanity toport—abandoning the weak and helpless on the high seas, in accordance with the implacable laws of nature.
    â€œWhat’s this? Aren’t you happy to see me?” he asked, closing the door behind him.
    Absence had not diminished Carlé’s capacity for terrorizing his family. Jochen tried to say something, but the words stuck in his throat; only a guttural sound escaped him as he moved in front of his brother to protect him from an undefined danger. Frau Carlé’s first act, as soon as she recovered, was to run to the linen chest and take out a large white tablecloth, which she spread over the table so her husband would not see Katharina—would not, perhaps, even remember she existed. With nothing more than a quick glance around, Lukas Carlé took over the house and regained control of his family. His wife seemed no less stupid, but the fear in her eyes and the firmness of her rump were as apparent as ever. Jochen had grown into a tall, husky young man, and Carlé could not understand how he had escaped being conscripted into the youth brigades. He scarcely recognized Rolf, but it took him only an instant to appreciate that the boy was tied to his mother’s apron strings, and needed a jolt or two to wipe the spoiled lapdog look off his face. He would make it his business to make a man of him.
    â€œWarm the water for my bath, Jochen. Is there anything to eat in this house? And you must be Rolf. . . . Come here and shake hands with your father. Did you hear me? Come here!”
    After that night Rolf’s life was never the same. In spite of the war and all its hardships, he had never known fear. Lukas Carlé taught him. The boy would not have a good night’s sleep until years later when his father was found swinging from a tree in the forest.
    The Russian soldiers who occupied the village were crude, destitute, and sentimental. In the evening they sat around the campfires beside their weapons and equipment and sang songs of their homeland, and, hearing the sweet sound of their village dialects, some of them wept with nostalgia. Sometimes they got drunk, and quarreled or danced till they dropped from exhaustion. The villagers avoided them, but a few girls, in exchange for a little food, went to their camps to offer themselves, quietly, never raising their eyes. They always returned with something, despite the fact that the victors were as hungry as the vanquished. The children were also drawn to the camp; they were fascinated by the soldiers’ language, their war machines, their strange customs, and they were enthralled by a sergeant with a deeply scarred face who entertained them by juggling four knives in the air at a time. Rolf usually went closer than any of his friends, even though his mother had specifically instructed him not to go there, and one day found him sitting beside the sergeant trying to understand what he was saying, and practicing tossing the knives. Within a few days of their arrival, the Russians had located all the remaining collaborators and deserters in hiding and had begun the war trials—extremely brief because there was little time for formalities. Few people attended; they were worn out and did not want to listen to further accusations. Nevertheless, when it was Lukas Carlé’s turn, Jochen and Rolf slipped in and sat at the back of the room. The accused did not seem to regret anything he had done: he merely stated in his own defense that he had obeyed his superiors’ orders; he was not in the Army to deliberate, but to win a war. The juggler sergeant saw Rolf in the room, felt sorry for him, and tried to take him outside, but the boy sat firmly in his seat, determined to listen to the end.It would have