heavy as the echo faded away.
“Did you hear that?” Serebin said.
The professor chewed his apple for a moment, then swallowed. “Excuse me,” he said. “It’s called the Great Black Bell.”
“A church bell?”
“Yes. The church is occupied by the Legion, and one ring means that one legionnaire has died in battle.” He ate another bite of his apple. “A huge bell,” he said, “it takes twenty-nine men to make it ring.”
A man standing nearby said, “They must be fighting.”
“Somebody said they were. This afternoon, in Vacaresti.”
“Oh.”
“Where is that?” Serebin said.
“The south end of the city,” the professor said.
Looking down the track, Serebin thought he saw the dim glow of a light. Somebody said, “Here it comes.”
The light grew brighter, and Serebin could hear the motor.
“It’s about time.”
On the other side of the boulevard, a figure appeared from the shadow of the buildings, walking quickly, almost running, toward the tram stop. He paused to let a car go by, its wheels sliding in the snow as it passed, then crossed the street. An older man, with a full beard, and the broad-brimmed hat and tight leggings worn by Orthodox Jews. He was breathing hard, and his face was white. He stood at one end of the island, pressed a hand to his side, then examined it, squinting as though he had lost his glasses.
The tram approached going full speed, swaying around a curve, its bell ringing wildly. Serebin stepped back from the track as it rushed past, half empty, to angry shouts and curses from the crowd.
Serebin watched it disappear. “Maybe there’s another one.”
Some of the men began to leave.
“Doubtful,” the professor said.
“Are you far from home?”
“Far enough.”
Serebin looked around for the bearded man, but he was gone. “I guess we’ll have to walk,” he said.
They set out together, following the tram track in the middle of the boulevard. “Where do you live?” the professor said.
“Out this way. About a mile or so.”
“My wife will be frantic,” the professor said.
“Can you telephone? From a cafe, perhaps.”
“I tried earlier, but the phones aren’t working.”
They trudged along in silence. The snow was well over the tops of Serebin’s shoes and his socks were wet and cold against his skin. All along the boulevard, people were walking home-apparently the city’s buses and trams had stopped running. Sometimes a car passed, very slowly, its hood and roof capped with snow. The amber light of a cafe appeared in the darkness, but the owner was closing up for the night. “Sorry, gentlemen,” he said.
A block further on, Serebin stopped. “Is that, singing?” They were men’s voices, a lot of them, strong and confident.
The professor muttered something that Serebin didn’t hear, sped up for a moment, then began to run. Serebin ran after him, saw that he was headed for the cover of the buildings. Christ, he’s fast. The professor ran with stiff back and long strides, snow flying in his wake. He pumped his arms, briefcase in one hand, furled umbrella in the other, his hat bobbing precariously on his head, finally tumbling off. They were both breathing hard when they reached the brick wall of an apartment house.
“My hat.”
“Leave it.”
He was infuriated, could see the hat lying forlorn in the street, was barely able to keep himself from retrieving it.
Across the boulevard, some fifty or sixty men, marching in formation with rifles held across their bodies. They sang well, Serebin thought, liked doing it and were good at it.
The song stopped. Replaced by the throb of a heavy engine and clanking treads. The reaction was immediate; frantic, chaotic. And, Serebin thought, comic- the Men’s Chorus of the Iron Guard run for their lives. The riflemen broke ranks and fled into a narrow street off the boulevard. But not quick enough-the tank jolted to a halt and the turret traversed as the cannon tracked the running shadows. The professor said, “My God.” Serebin threw himself on the snow. A long flame lit the street, and the flat crump deepened as it rolled back to them off the sides of the buildings.
Serebin shouted, “Get down.”
The professor wasn’t so sure. He wore a good tweed overcoat, there would be hell to pay if he ruined it. Compromise: he dropped to one knee and rested the briefcase by his side.
In silhouette, the hatch on the top of the turret was flung open and a man with a submachine gun began to work the street, the flare at the barrel flickering on and off with each burst. The cannon shell had meant nothing, zooming away into an unlucky wall, but now the legionnaires were in trouble, and pinpricks of light sparkled from the doorways. Serebin heard it, the air ripped like cloth above his head and he burrowed into the snow as a sliver of brick stung him on the neck and flew away.
Suddenly, the machine gun went silent. Serebin looked up and saw only darkness above the open hatch. The cannon fired again, and again, right and left, broken glass showered down from the windows and a shop began to glow with orange light.
The rifle fire from the legionnaires thinned, then stopped. Serebin managed to get himself turned around so that he could see the professor. He lay on his back, one leg folded beneath itself. Serebin slid closer, but there was nothing he could do. The man had a red hole beneath one eye, the other stared up at the falling snow.
Why wouldn’t you lie down?
Serebin heard the tank move off down the boulevard and, very slowly, got to his feet. The man’s arm had jerked savagely when he’d been hit and his briefcase had come open and stood on end. Inside, there was only a newspaper.
All night long the Black Bell rang as Serebin worked his way across the city, the smell of burning stronger and stronger as the hours passed. At one point, the air-raid sirens went off, whining up and down for an hour. He walked, mostly, sometimes ran, and crawled when he had to. Once down a street where the twelve-story telephone exchange faced an eight-story apartment building, the former occupied by the Legion, the latter by the army and police. In between, the bodies of three legionnaires who’d tried to rush the army position. He waited as they fought, exchanging fire window to window, the ricochets singing off into the night, then circled through a park where two soldiers were carrying a third to a taxi with a red cross painted on its side. He was not alone, he saw others, caught out in the storm, bent low, running from cover to cover, trying to go home.
There was no sunrise. The street simply turned gray, the low sky heavy with winter cloud. He was then at a large square, the piata Obor, and not far from the apartment. He started to cross, then thought better of it and slid beneath a car. The square was held by men wearing the green armbands of the Legion. They had a Model A Ford pickup with a machine gun mounted on a tripod, and had built a barricade of overturned cars and buses, dressers, desks, and beds, across one end of the square. Two of the men sat on a red couch.
Which way to go? Back out, try another street. He was almost finished, he thought, exhausted and soaked and cold, and he had to wait for a minute and gather his strength.
Before he could leave, the barricade was smashed open by a huge tank with a swastika on its side. The tank was followed by an armored car, the commander standing behind the driver, a pair of binoculars hanging down the front of his leather coat. He raised his arm and waved it forward, and a motorized Wehrmacht unit advanced into the square and sealed off all but one street.
The legionnaires thought the Germans had come to help them, and shouted, “Sieg Heil” and “Heil Hitler” and “Duce! Duce!” but the Germans did not respond. When the square was fully controlled, the commander shouted an order and, after a few moments of shocked silence, the Legion began to leave, walking slowly away down the open street.
