clothes out of sight. In fact, it was odd not to find him sleeping off the fatigue of night duty.
Ilse felt a strange sense of worry. And then suddenly she knew.
At work there had been a buzz about a breaking news story-something about Russians arresting two West Berliners at Spandau Prison. Later, in her car, she'd half-heard a radio announcer say something about Russians at one of the downtown police stations. She prayed that Hans hadn't got caught up in that mess. A bureaucratic tangle like that could take all night.
She frowned. Telling Hans about the baby while he was in a bad mood wasn't what she had had in mind at all. She would have to think of a way to put him in a good mood-first.
One method always worked, and she smiled thinking of it.
For the first time in weeks the thought of sex made her feel genuinely excited. It seemed so long since she and Hans had made love with any other goal than pregnancy. But now that she had conceived, they could forget all about charts and graphs and temperatures and rediscover the intensity of those nights when they hardly slept at all.
She had already planned a celebratory dinner-not a health-conscious American style snack like those her yuppie colleagues from the Yorckstrasse called dinner, but a real Berlin feast: Eisben, sauerkraut, and Pease pudding. She'd made a special trip to the food floor of the KaDeWe and bought everything ready-made. It was said that anything edible in the world could be purchased at the KaDeWe, and Ilse believed it. She smiled again. She and Hans would share a first-class supper, and for dessert he could have her-as healthy a dish as any man could want. Then she would tell him about the baby.
Ilse tied her hair back, then she took the pork from the refrigerator and put it in the oven. While it heated, she went into the bedroom to strip the soiled sheets. She laughed softly. A randy German woman might happily make love on a forest floor, but on dirty linens? Never!
She knelt beside the bed and gathered the bedclothes into a ball. She was about to rise when she saw something white sticking out from under the mattress. Automatically, she pulled it out and found herself holding a damp sheaf of papers.
What in the world? She certainly didn't remember putting any papers under the mattress. It must have been Hans. But what would he hide from her? Bewildered, she let the bedclothes fall, stood up, and unfolded the onionskin pages.
Heavy, hand-printed letters covered the paper. She read the first paragraph cursorily, her mind more on the circumstances of her discovery than on the actual content of the papers. The second paragraph, however, got her attention. It was written in Latin of all things.
Shivering in the chilly ai'r, she walked into the kitchen and stood by the warm stove.
She concentrated on the word endings, trying to decipher the carefully blocked letters. it was almost painful, like trying to recall formulas from gymnasium physics. Her specialty was modern languages; Latin she could hardly remember. Ilse went to the kitchen table and spread out the thin pages, anchoring each corner with a piece of flatware.
There were nine. She took a pen and notepad from the telephone stand, went back to the first paragraph of Latin, and began recording her efforts. After ten minutes she had roughed out the first four sentences. When she read straight through what she had written, the pencil slipped from her shaking hand.
"Mein Gott, " she breathed. "This cannot be."
Hans exited the cinema into the gathering dusk. He couldn't believe the afternoon had passed so quickly. Huddling against the cold, he considered taking the U-Bahn home, then decided against it.
It would mean changing trains at Fehrbelliner-Platz, and he would still have some distance to walk. Better to walk the whole way and use the time to decide how to tell Ilse about the Spandau papers. He started west with a loping stride, moving
Ilse felt a strange sense of worry. And then suddenly she knew.
At work there had been a buzz about a breaking news story-something about Russians arresting two West Berliners at Spandau Prison. Later, in her car, she'd half-heard a radio announcer say something about Russians at one of the downtown police stations. She prayed that Hans hadn't got caught up in that mess. A bureaucratic tangle like that could take all night.
She frowned. Telling Hans about the baby while he was in a bad mood wasn't what she had had in mind at all. She would have to think of a way to put him in a good mood-first.
One method always worked, and she smiled thinking of it.
For the first time in weeks the thought of sex made her feel genuinely excited. It seemed so long since she and Hans had made love with any other goal than pregnancy. But now that she had conceived, they could forget all about charts and graphs and temperatures and rediscover the intensity of those nights when they hardly slept at all.
She had already planned a celebratory dinner-not a health-conscious American style snack like those her yuppie colleagues from the Yorckstrasse called dinner, but a real Berlin feast: Eisben, sauerkraut, and Pease pudding. She'd made a special trip to the food floor of the KaDeWe and bought everything ready-made. It was said that anything edible in the world could be purchased at the KaDeWe, and Ilse believed it. She smiled again. She and Hans would share a first-class supper, and for dessert he could have her-as healthy a dish as any man could want. Then she would tell him about the baby.
Ilse tied her hair back, then she took the pork from the refrigerator and put it in the oven. While it heated, she went into the bedroom to strip the soiled sheets. She laughed softly. A randy German woman might happily make love on a forest floor, but on dirty linens? Never!
She knelt beside the bed and gathered the bedclothes into a ball. She was about to rise when she saw something white sticking out from under the mattress. Automatically, she pulled it out and found herself holding a damp sheaf of papers.
What in the world? She certainly didn't remember putting any papers under the mattress. It must have been Hans. But what would he hide from her? Bewildered, she let the bedclothes fall, stood up, and unfolded the onionskin pages.
Heavy, hand-printed letters covered the paper. She read the first paragraph cursorily, her mind more on the circumstances of her discovery than on the actual content of the papers. The second paragraph, however, got her attention. It was written in Latin of all things.
Shivering in the chilly ai'r, she walked into the kitchen and stood by the warm stove.
She concentrated on the word endings, trying to decipher the carefully blocked letters. it was almost painful, like trying to recall formulas from gymnasium physics. Her specialty was modern languages; Latin she could hardly remember. Ilse went to the kitchen table and spread out the thin pages, anchoring each corner with a piece of flatware.
There were nine. She took a pen and notepad from the telephone stand, went back to the first paragraph of Latin, and began recording her efforts. After ten minutes she had roughed out the first four sentences. When she read straight through what she had written, the pencil slipped from her shaking hand.
"Mein Gott, " she breathed. "This cannot be."
Hans exited the cinema into the gathering dusk. He couldn't believe the afternoon had passed so quickly. Huddling against the cold, he considered taking the U-Bahn home, then decided against it.
It would mean changing trains at Fehrbelliner-Platz, and he would still have some distance to walk. Better to walk the whole way and use the time to decide how to tell Ilse about the Spandau papers. He started west with a loping stride, moving
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