Why the hell shouldn’t she?
It was a man’s world, and she and everyone younger had every right to blame him and everyone older for every unnatural tragedy that befell them; just as she, even in her grief, was to blame for every man-made misery that landed on her kid sister and on all other children behind her.
Someone had to do something sometime.
Every victim was a culprit, every culprit a victim, and somebody had to stand up sometime to try to break the lousy chain of inherited habit that was imperiling them all. In parts of Africa little boys were still stolen away by adult slave traders and sold for money to men who disemboweled them and ate them. Yossarian marveled that children could suffer such barbaric sacrifice without evincing the slightest hint of fear or pain. He took it for granted that they did submit so stoically.
If not, he reasoned, the custom would certainly have died, for no craving for wealth or immortality could be so great, he felt, as to subsist on the sorrow of children.
He was rocking the boat, Milo said, and Yossarian nodded once more.
He was not a good member of the team, Milo said.
Yossarian nodded and listened to Milo tell him that the decent thing to do if he did not like the way Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn were running the group was go to Russia, instead of stirring up trouble.
Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn had both been very good to Yossarian, Milo said; hadn’t they given him a medal after the last mission to Ferrara and promoted him to captain?
Yossarian nodded.
Didn’t they feed him and give him his pay every month?
Yossarian nodded again.
Milo was sure they would be charitable if he went to them to apologize and recant and promise to fly eighty missions.
Yossarian said he would think it over, and held his breath and prayed for a safe landing as Milo dropped his wheels and glided in toward the runway.
It was funny how he had really come to detest flying.
Rome was in ruins, he saw, when the plane was down.
The airdrome had been bombed eight months before, and knobby slabs of white stone rubble had been bulldozed into flat-topped heaps on both sides of the entrance through the wire fence surrounding the field.
The Colosseum was a dilapidated shell, and the Arch of Constantine had fallen.
Nately’s whore’s apartment was a shambles.
The girls were gone, and the only one there was the old woman. The windows in the apartment had been smashed.
She was bundled up in sweaters and skirts and wore a dark shawl about her head.
She sat on a wooden chair near an electric hot plate, her arms folded, boiling water in a battered aluminum pot.
She was talking aloud to herself when Yossarian entered and began moaning as soon as she saw him.
‘Gone,’ she moaned before he could even inquire.
Holding her elbows, she rocked back and forth mournfully on her creaking chair.
‘Gone.’
‘Who?’
‘All.
All the poor young girls.’
‘Where?’
‘Away.
Chased away into the street.
All of them gone.
All the poor young girls.’
‘Chased away by who?
Who did it?’
‘The mean tall soldiers with the hard white hats and clubs.
And by our carabinieri.
They came with their clubs and chased them away.
They would not even let them take their coats.
The poor things. They just chased them away into the cold.’
‘Did they arrest them?’
‘They chased them away.
They just chased them away.’
‘Then why did they do it if they didn’t arrest them?’
‘I don’t know,’ sobbed the old woman.
‘I don’t know.
Who will take care of me? Who will take care of me now that all the poor young girls are gone?
Who will take care of me?’
‘There must have been a reason,’ Yossarian persisted, pounding his fist into his hand.