philip_k_dick_-_the_man_in_the_high_castle

'Thirty-four.'
Then, she thought, you must have been in the war. She saw no obvious physical defects; he had,
in fact, quite a good, lean body, with long legs. Joe, seeing her scrutiny, scowled and turned away.
'Can't I watch?' she asked, wondering why not. All night with him, and then this modesty. 'Are we
bugs?' she said. 'We can't stand the sight of each other in the daylight — we have to squeeze into
the walls?'
Grunting sourly, he started toward the bathroom in his underpants and socks, rubbing his chin.
This is my home, Juliana thought. I'm letting you stay here, and yet you won't allow me to look
at you. Why do you want to stay, then? She followed after him, into the bathroom; he had begun
running hot water in the bowl, to shave.
On his arm, she saw a tattoo, a blue letter C.
'What's that?' she asked. 'Your wife? Connie? Corinne?'
Joe, washing his face, said, 'Cairo.'
What an exotic name, she thought with envy. And then she felt herself flush. 'I'm really stupid,'
she said. An Italian, thirty-four years old, from the Nazi part of the world-. . . he had been in the
war, all right. But on the Axis side. And he had fought at Cairo; the tattoo was their bond, the
German and Italian veterans of that campaign — the defeat of the British and Australian army
under General Gott at the hands of Rommel and his Afrika Korps.
She left the bathroom, returned to the living room and began making the bed; her hands flew.
In a neat stack on the chair lay Joe's possessions, clothes and small suitcase, personal articles.
Among them she noticed a velvet-covered box, a little like a glasses' case; picking it up, she opened
it and peeked inside.
You certainly did fight at Cairo, she thought as she gazed down at the Iron Cross Second Class
with the word and the date — June 10, 1945 — engraved at its top. They didn't all get this; only the
valiant ones. I wonder what you did . . . you were only seventeen years old, then.
Joe appeared at the door of the bathroom just as she lifted the medal from its velvet box; she
became aware of him and jumped guiltily. But he did not seem angry.
'I was just looking at it,' Juliana said. 'I've never seen one before. Did Rommel pin it on you
himself?'
'Genefal Bayerlarn gave them out. Rommel had already been transferred to England, to finish up
there.' His voice was calm. But his hand once more had begun the monotonous pawing at his
forehead, fingers digging into his scalp in that combing motion which seemed to be a chronic
nervous tic.
'Would you tell me about it?' Juliana asked, as he returned to the bathroom and his shaving.
As he shaved and, after that, took a long hot shower, Joe Cinnadella told her a little; nothing like
the sort of account she would have liked to hear. His two older brothers had served in the Ethiopian
campaign, while he, at thirteen had been in a Fascist youth organization in Milan, his home town.
Later, his brothers had joined a crack artillery battery, that of Major Ricardo Pardi, and when
World War Two began, Joe had been able to join them. They had fought under Graziani. Their
equipment, especially their tanks, had been dreadful. The British had shot them down, even senior
officers, like rabbits. Doors of the tanks had to be held shut with sandbags during battle, to keep
them from flying open. Major Pardi, however, had reclaimed discarded artillery shells, polished
and greased them, and fired them; his battery had halted General Wavell' s great desperate tank
advanced in '43.
'Are your brothers still alive?' Juliana asked.