me or not, I really don't. What's the point of playing hide-and-seek? Whatever I do, I'm prepared to take the consequences. I've never been a coward."
She looked up at him with her girlish mouth set in a determined line and a radiant smile in her eyes, ready to forget the whole world in his arms, but he was blind, deliberately blind, to her expression.
She picked up his knapsack and put it on the table.
"My goodness, it's heavy. Let's see what you've got in there."
She undid the draw-string, and the first thing that came to light was the red notebook containing Vit¬torin's Russian vocabulary lists. She peered at the unfamiliar script.
"What's that," she asked, "Greek?"
"No," he said curtly, harshly, "it's Russian."
"You mean you've brought some homework with you? What odd ideas you have, George. I doubt if you'll get much Russian learnt tonight or tomorrow!"
A photograph fell out of the notebook as she deposited it on the table. It showed a tall, stern-faced young woman stiffly posed in front of a painted backcloth - a tulip bed. Her narrow-waisted gown had puffed sleeves.
"Who's this?" Franzi asked.
"It's a photo of my mother as a young woman," said Vit¬torin. "You never knew her. I'm supposed to look like her. I always take it with me when I . . ."
The moment had come. He'd reached the point of no return.
". . . when I go away for any length of time," he went on. "Women used to wear puffed sleeves in those days, around 1900. It wasn't the prettiest of fashions, but that's the only picture of her I've got. I had it with me all the time, in the trenches and later in the prison camp."
Franzi stared at him in sudden alarm.
"You don't mean you're really going away, Georg? Answer me! Are you, seriously? You are, and you only tell me now? Where are you off to?"
Vit¬torin took his mother's picture from her and replaced it in the red notebook.
"Russia," he said. "Don't look so upset. I'll be back in a week or two."
"You once mentioned wanting to go back to Russia some time. So you really meant it," Franzi said in a low, dejected voice. "What do you plan to do there?"
"I can't tell you - it's not the kind of thing one discusses with a woman. There's something I've volunteered to do — unfinished business, if you like. Don't ask me any more. You needn't worry, I'm not going alone - there are two of us - and I'll be back in a few weeks' time. I've got a new job to come back to, too - personal assistant to a business tycoon. At least, I may have second thoughts. He's a rather shady character
in fact, to be quite honest, I suspect he's a bit of crook, but who isn't these days? He pays well, that's the main thing, and he's going to keep the job open till January ist - I fixed it with him."
"When are you leaving?" asked Franzi, thoroughly subdued by this torrent of words.
"My train goes at half-past eleven," he said swiftly, trying to sound off-hand, "but I'll have to be at the station by half-past ten. You'd better get ready quickly if you want to see me off. I can't stay much longer."
She gazed at him in silence, her eyes filling with tears. Stung by the sight because he knew he was in the wrong and wanted to forestall her reproaches, he adopted a harsh, hostile tone.
"If you want to make a scene go ahead, but it's pointless, I can tell you that right now. I don't have the time. I'm not going to miss that train on your account."
She made no reply, just went to fetch her hat and coat.
The last tram had gone, so they had to walk. Franzi didn't utter a word the whole way to the station.
Once in the booking hall they were accosted by Kohout, who was carrying a wooden army suitcase and sweating with excite ment. All he spared Franzi, when introduced, was a cursory, uninterested glance, a clumsy little bow, and a swift, rather moist handshake.
He deposited his suitcase on the ground beside him.
"You might have turned up a bit sooner," he told Vit¬torin, peering nervously in all directions. "I was here on the
She looked up at him with her girlish mouth set in a determined line and a radiant smile in her eyes, ready to forget the whole world in his arms, but he was blind, deliberately blind, to her expression.
She picked up his knapsack and put it on the table.
"My goodness, it's heavy. Let's see what you've got in there."
She undid the draw-string, and the first thing that came to light was the red notebook containing Vit¬torin's Russian vocabulary lists. She peered at the unfamiliar script.
"What's that," she asked, "Greek?"
"No," he said curtly, harshly, "it's Russian."
"You mean you've brought some homework with you? What odd ideas you have, George. I doubt if you'll get much Russian learnt tonight or tomorrow!"
A photograph fell out of the notebook as she deposited it on the table. It showed a tall, stern-faced young woman stiffly posed in front of a painted backcloth - a tulip bed. Her narrow-waisted gown had puffed sleeves.
"Who's this?" Franzi asked.
"It's a photo of my mother as a young woman," said Vit¬torin. "You never knew her. I'm supposed to look like her. I always take it with me when I . . ."
The moment had come. He'd reached the point of no return.
". . . when I go away for any length of time," he went on. "Women used to wear puffed sleeves in those days, around 1900. It wasn't the prettiest of fashions, but that's the only picture of her I've got. I had it with me all the time, in the trenches and later in the prison camp."
Franzi stared at him in sudden alarm.
"You don't mean you're really going away, Georg? Answer me! Are you, seriously? You are, and you only tell me now? Where are you off to?"
Vit¬torin took his mother's picture from her and replaced it in the red notebook.
"Russia," he said. "Don't look so upset. I'll be back in a week or two."
"You once mentioned wanting to go back to Russia some time. So you really meant it," Franzi said in a low, dejected voice. "What do you plan to do there?"
"I can't tell you - it's not the kind of thing one discusses with a woman. There's something I've volunteered to do — unfinished business, if you like. Don't ask me any more. You needn't worry, I'm not going alone - there are two of us - and I'll be back in a few weeks' time. I've got a new job to come back to, too - personal assistant to a business tycoon. At least, I may have second thoughts. He's a rather shady character
in fact, to be quite honest, I suspect he's a bit of crook, but who isn't these days? He pays well, that's the main thing, and he's going to keep the job open till January ist - I fixed it with him."
"When are you leaving?" asked Franzi, thoroughly subdued by this torrent of words.
"My train goes at half-past eleven," he said swiftly, trying to sound off-hand, "but I'll have to be at the station by half-past ten. You'd better get ready quickly if you want to see me off. I can't stay much longer."
She gazed at him in silence, her eyes filling with tears. Stung by the sight because he knew he was in the wrong and wanted to forestall her reproaches, he adopted a harsh, hostile tone.
"If you want to make a scene go ahead, but it's pointless, I can tell you that right now. I don't have the time. I'm not going to miss that train on your account."
She made no reply, just went to fetch her hat and coat.
The last tram had gone, so they had to walk. Franzi didn't utter a word the whole way to the station.
Once in the booking hall they were accosted by Kohout, who was carrying a wooden army suitcase and sweating with excite ment. All he spared Franzi, when introduced, was a cursory, uninterested glance, a clumsy little bow, and a swift, rather moist handshake.
He deposited his suitcase on the ground beside him.
"You might have turned up a bit sooner," he told Vit¬torin, peering nervously in all directions. "I was here on the
Similar Books
The Bitter Road to Freedom: The Human Cost of Allied Victory in World War II Europe
William I. Hitchcock
