eminent
resistance leader, Georges Monteux… They made him kiss my hand. You know what
men like that think is funny. Then I was back in the cell again. I tried to
break the mirror with a bowl they had given me food in, so that I could use the
splinters to kill myself, but the mirror was steel and wouldn’t break.” She was
silent for a while. Then she went on without a trace of expression in her
voice, “That’s the last I remember, Mr. Emmett. Trying to break the mirror. But
it wouldn’t break.”
Emmett
stood quite still, not looking at the girl or at anything in the room. He found
himself considering the irrelevant fact that she had been married, as if it
were important. When he drew on his pipe it made a ridiculous gurgling sound
and he took it hastily from his mouth.
“When
I got to England ,” the quiet voice went on, “I learned what had happened to the others.
They had all been taken the week after I was caught, except Georges and two
others who had escaped. Georges had been killed later on, with the Maquis,
helping an American flyer who had been shot down. But the Gestapo had got all
the rest that week. After a while she said, “Don’t you see? I don’t know. I don’t
know that I didn’t betray them. I can’t remember.”
chapter NINE
He
leaned against the dresser without moving and looked at the girl sitting now
childishly cross-legged in the center of the big iron bed. There was bitterness
inside him. The war always came back. You had managed to stay out of it while
it was going on; and now everywhere you went they threw the war you had not
fought in your face and asked you to judge what had been right about it, and
what had been wrong.
A
knock on the door made him start. He crossed and pulled at the knob. The
freckled boy was outside.
“I
couldn’t get any Chicago papers, sir. I got the St. Louis Post and the Omaha Sun, in case you’d…”
Emmett
took the papers and his change. He gave the boy a dollar and closed the door.
The girl on the bed was watching him as he came back across the room. There was
something disconcerting about her steady questioning stare. He clapped the
papers on the bed beside her and unfolded the top one.
“Aren’t
you going to say anything?” she asked softly.
“No,”
he said without looking at her.
“That
isn’t much better than saying it, is it?”
“You’re
jumping to conclusions,” he said. “I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say
about it? I mean, even supposing I was going to get indignant about it, I’d
better make sure you’d done it, first, hadn’t I?”
A
small sound made him look at her. He saw that she was crying. She looked at him
with the tears running unheeded down her face.
“I
thought it would help, telling somebody else,” she whispered. “My folks don’t
even guess. They think I won’t talk about it because… because I had such a bad
time in that place… They don’t even suspect…” She tried to brush the tears
away. After a little she stopped crying and attempted, by craning her neck, to
dry her face on the shoulder and sleeve of her blouse. He opened her purse and
pulled two wadded handkerchiefs out of it; the one he had lent her earlier in
the day and a smaller one. Something fell out and shattered on the bare boards
of the floor. He gave her the handkerchiefs and turned to look down at the
broken mirror. There was always something ugly and symbolical about a broken
mirror, and particularly now after the story she had just told him.
“No,”
he heard her say as he bent over. “No, I’ll get it.”
He
heard her push herself across the
resistance leader, Georges Monteux… They made him kiss my hand. You know what
men like that think is funny. Then I was back in the cell again. I tried to
break the mirror with a bowl they had given me food in, so that I could use the
splinters to kill myself, but the mirror was steel and wouldn’t break.” She was
silent for a while. Then she went on without a trace of expression in her
voice, “That’s the last I remember, Mr. Emmett. Trying to break the mirror. But
it wouldn’t break.”
Emmett
stood quite still, not looking at the girl or at anything in the room. He found
himself considering the irrelevant fact that she had been married, as if it
were important. When he drew on his pipe it made a ridiculous gurgling sound
and he took it hastily from his mouth.
“When
I got to England ,” the quiet voice went on, “I learned what had happened to the others.
They had all been taken the week after I was caught, except Georges and two
others who had escaped. Georges had been killed later on, with the Maquis,
helping an American flyer who had been shot down. But the Gestapo had got all
the rest that week. After a while she said, “Don’t you see? I don’t know. I don’t
know that I didn’t betray them. I can’t remember.”
chapter NINE
He
leaned against the dresser without moving and looked at the girl sitting now
childishly cross-legged in the center of the big iron bed. There was bitterness
inside him. The war always came back. You had managed to stay out of it while
it was going on; and now everywhere you went they threw the war you had not
fought in your face and asked you to judge what had been right about it, and
what had been wrong.
A
knock on the door made him start. He crossed and pulled at the knob. The
freckled boy was outside.
“I
couldn’t get any Chicago papers, sir. I got the St. Louis Post and the Omaha Sun, in case you’d…”
Emmett
took the papers and his change. He gave the boy a dollar and closed the door.
The girl on the bed was watching him as he came back across the room. There was
something disconcerting about her steady questioning stare. He clapped the
papers on the bed beside her and unfolded the top one.
“Aren’t
you going to say anything?” she asked softly.
“No,”
he said without looking at her.
“That
isn’t much better than saying it, is it?”
“You’re
jumping to conclusions,” he said. “I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say
about it? I mean, even supposing I was going to get indignant about it, I’d
better make sure you’d done it, first, hadn’t I?”
A
small sound made him look at her. He saw that she was crying. She looked at him
with the tears running unheeded down her face.
“I
thought it would help, telling somebody else,” she whispered. “My folks don’t
even guess. They think I won’t talk about it because… because I had such a bad
time in that place… They don’t even suspect…” She tried to brush the tears
away. After a little she stopped crying and attempted, by craning her neck, to
dry her face on the shoulder and sleeve of her blouse. He opened her purse and
pulled two wadded handkerchiefs out of it; the one he had lent her earlier in
the day and a smaller one. Something fell out and shattered on the bare boards
of the floor. He gave her the handkerchiefs and turned to look down at the
broken mirror. There was always something ugly and symbolical about a broken
mirror, and particularly now after the story she had just told him.
“No,”
he heard her say as he bent over. “No, I’ll get it.”
He
heard her push herself across the
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