her husband to walk Fräulein Haecht back to her family's house. Ah but no—Szara fought back—Herr Doktor must in no way discommode himself, this was an obligation he insisted on assuming. What? No, it was unthinkable, they could not let him do that. Why not? Of course they must allow him to do that very thing. No, yes, no, yes, it went on while the girl sat quietly and stared at her knees as they fought over her. Szara finally prevailed—becoming emotional and Russian in the process. To dine so splendidly, then drive one's host out into the night? Never! What he needed was a good long walk to punctuate the pleasure of the meal. This proved to be an unanswerable attack and carried the day. Arrangements to meet the following morning were duly made, and Szara and Fräulein Haecht were ceremoniously walked to the gate and waved out into the night.
The night made over into something very different.
Sometime after dusk the rain of the afternoon had turned to snow—soft, feathery stuff, nighttime snow, that floated down slowly from a low, windless sky. They were startled, it simply wasn't the same city, they laughed in amazement. The snow crunched beneath their shoes, covered tree branches and rooftops and hedges, changed the streets into white meadows or into silvered crystal where street lamps broke the shadow. Suddenly the night was immensely silent, immensely private; the snow clung to their hair and made their breaths into mist, surrounded them, muffled the world, cleaned it, buried it.
He had no idea where she lived and she never suggested one street or another, so they simply wandered. Walking together made it easy to talk, easy to confide, easy to say whatever came to you, because the silence and the snow made careful words seem empty. In such a moment one couldn't be hurt, the storm promised that among other things.
Some of what she said surprised him. For instance, she was not, as he'd thought, a cousin or a niece. She was the daughter of Baumann'schief engineer and longtime friend. Szara had wondered why she'd remained in Germany but this was simply answered: she was not Jewish. Thus her father would, she explained, almost certainly become the Aryan owner of the business—new laws decreed that—but he had already arranged for Baumann's interest to be secretly protected until such time as events restored them all to sanity. Was her father, then, a progressive? A man of the left? No, not at all. Simply a man of great decency. And her mother? Distant and dreamy, lived in her own world, who could blame her these days? She was Austrian, Catholic from the South Tyrol down near Italy; perhaps the family on that side had been, some time in the past, Italian. She looked, she thought, a little Italian. What did he think?
Yes, he thought so. That pleased her; she liked being so black-haired and olive-skinned in a nation that fancied itself frightfully Nordic and blond. She belonged to the Italian side of Germany, perhaps, where romance had more to do with Puccini than Wagner, where romance meant sentiment and delicacy, not fiery Valhalla. Such private thoughts—she hoped he didn't mind her rambling.
No, no he didn't.
She knew who he was, of course. When Frau Baumann had asked her to make a fourth for dinner she hadn't let on, but she'd read some of his stories when they were translated into German. She very much wanted to meet the person who wrote those words, yet she'd been certain that she never would, that the dinner would be called off, that something would go wrong at the last minute. Generally she wasn't lucky that way. It was people who didn't care much who were lucky, she thought.
She was twenty-eight, though she knew she seemed younger. The Baumanns had known her as a little girl and for them she had never grown up, but she had, after all, one did. One wound up working for pfennigs helping the art director of a little magazine. Wretched things they printed now, but it was that or shut the doors. Not like
The night made over into something very different.
Sometime after dusk the rain of the afternoon had turned to snow—soft, feathery stuff, nighttime snow, that floated down slowly from a low, windless sky. They were startled, it simply wasn't the same city, they laughed in amazement. The snow crunched beneath their shoes, covered tree branches and rooftops and hedges, changed the streets into white meadows or into silvered crystal where street lamps broke the shadow. Suddenly the night was immensely silent, immensely private; the snow clung to their hair and made their breaths into mist, surrounded them, muffled the world, cleaned it, buried it.
He had no idea where she lived and she never suggested one street or another, so they simply wandered. Walking together made it easy to talk, easy to confide, easy to say whatever came to you, because the silence and the snow made careful words seem empty. In such a moment one couldn't be hurt, the storm promised that among other things.
Some of what she said surprised him. For instance, she was not, as he'd thought, a cousin or a niece. She was the daughter of Baumann'schief engineer and longtime friend. Szara had wondered why she'd remained in Germany but this was simply answered: she was not Jewish. Thus her father would, she explained, almost certainly become the Aryan owner of the business—new laws decreed that—but he had already arranged for Baumann's interest to be secretly protected until such time as events restored them all to sanity. Was her father, then, a progressive? A man of the left? No, not at all. Simply a man of great decency. And her mother? Distant and dreamy, lived in her own world, who could blame her these days? She was Austrian, Catholic from the South Tyrol down near Italy; perhaps the family on that side had been, some time in the past, Italian. She looked, she thought, a little Italian. What did he think?
Yes, he thought so. That pleased her; she liked being so black-haired and olive-skinned in a nation that fancied itself frightfully Nordic and blond. She belonged to the Italian side of Germany, perhaps, where romance had more to do with Puccini than Wagner, where romance meant sentiment and delicacy, not fiery Valhalla. Such private thoughts—she hoped he didn't mind her rambling.
No, no he didn't.
She knew who he was, of course. When Frau Baumann had asked her to make a fourth for dinner she hadn't let on, but she'd read some of his stories when they were translated into German. She very much wanted to meet the person who wrote those words, yet she'd been certain that she never would, that the dinner would be called off, that something would go wrong at the last minute. Generally she wasn't lucky that way. It was people who didn't care much who were lucky, she thought.
She was twenty-eight, though she knew she seemed younger. The Baumanns had known her as a little girl and for them she had never grown up, but she had, after all, one did. One wound up working for pfennigs helping the art director of a little magazine. Wretched things they printed now, but it was that or shut the doors. Not like
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