speeding train," I said.
"Which is exactly what you did, Mr. Carter," she smiled. "Though jumped is the word, not fallen." She smiled and sat down on the chair. The blouse pulled tighter against deep, heavy breasts. "I went through your papers, I'm afraid," she apologized almost shyly, her lips soft in a slow smile. "And those men who stopped by, they told me they were looking for an escaped prisoner who had leaped from the train."
She shuddered and her eyes suddenly took on a faraway look. "They were frightening," she went on. "Ruthless. Cold. They'll be back. I'm sure of it."
"Why are you sure of it?" I asked.
"I've had experience with their type before," she answered simply, a terrible sadness clouding her face.
"But you didn't believe what they said about me?"
"No," she replied. "Prisoners don't carry the land of passport and papers you had on you, Mr. Carter. I don't know why they were after you, but it's not because you're a common escaped prisoner."
"Thank you for being so astute," I said. "What is your name?"
"Emilie," she said. "Emilie Grutska, and this is my daughter, Gerda."
"Is your husband away?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Gerda and I run the farm alone. My husband
is
dead. You rest now." She stood up, dismissing any more conversation about the matter. "I will be back later," she said. "I shall put Gerda to bed."
I watched the woman and the child climb the steps and close the trap door. The short conversation had taxed me, I was amazed and angry to find. My eyes closed, despite myself, and I was asleep in seconds. I woke only when I heard the trap door being opened. Emilie was alone this time, a shawl wrapped around an opaque nightgown and her hair hanging long behind her back. There was an old-style kind of beauty to this woman, I saw, delicate yet strong, young and yet womanly, a Vermeer painting come to life. She carried a small iron pot with a long handle and a spoon sticking out of it. The pot contained a soup which tasted absolutely wonderful. She sat down on the chair beside me and watched as I drank the soup, sipping it slowly. She propped me up with an extra pillow and looked at me as I sat up, my chest naked, the smooth hard-muscled skin belying the inner pain of my body.
"Your clothes were ruined, of course," she said. "Your personal things are in the corner there with some work pants and a shirt I think will fit you, when you're ready for them, that
is.
I think it may be a while yet."
She hesitated for a moment, and then smiled slowly, that half sad, slow smile of hers. "I hope you are not embarrassed that I stripped you," she said. "I think not, though. You are not the kind of man that embarrasses easily. That seems, somehow, obvious about you, Mr. Carter."
"Nick," I said.
"I did not want to talk about my husband before Gerda," she said. "The child knows enough. She need not know the details at this time. The Soviets killed my husband. He was a Hungarian and he became a freedom fighter during the occupation. I am Swiss, and we were living in Hungary at the time. The Russians caught him after a long search. That's why I know those men who stopped here. I've met their counterparts before, many times. My parents had died and this was their farm. I took the child and fled. We returned here and we have been working the farm ever since. It is hard work, but we are happy."
"No help at all?" I asked. "No young men interested in two such lovely girls?"
"I hire extra help dining harvest," she said. "As for your men, here in Europe they are not interested in women with children. Maybe sometime, someday, I will meet someone. Who knows?" That smile that was at once saddening and warming passed over her face.
"If they're coming back, I've got to get out of here," I said.
"You are not strong enough yet," the woman said. "You wouldn't get far between the shock to your system and the loss of blood from your leg. Besides, they won't find you here. You are safe."
She stood up. "I am going to change
"Which is exactly what you did, Mr. Carter," she smiled. "Though jumped is the word, not fallen." She smiled and sat down on the chair. The blouse pulled tighter against deep, heavy breasts. "I went through your papers, I'm afraid," she apologized almost shyly, her lips soft in a slow smile. "And those men who stopped by, they told me they were looking for an escaped prisoner who had leaped from the train."
She shuddered and her eyes suddenly took on a faraway look. "They were frightening," she went on. "Ruthless. Cold. They'll be back. I'm sure of it."
"Why are you sure of it?" I asked.
"I've had experience with their type before," she answered simply, a terrible sadness clouding her face.
"But you didn't believe what they said about me?"
"No," she replied. "Prisoners don't carry the land of passport and papers you had on you, Mr. Carter. I don't know why they were after you, but it's not because you're a common escaped prisoner."
"Thank you for being so astute," I said. "What is your name?"
"Emilie," she said. "Emilie Grutska, and this is my daughter, Gerda."
"Is your husband away?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Gerda and I run the farm alone. My husband
is
dead. You rest now." She stood up, dismissing any more conversation about the matter. "I will be back later," she said. "I shall put Gerda to bed."
I watched the woman and the child climb the steps and close the trap door. The short conversation had taxed me, I was amazed and angry to find. My eyes closed, despite myself, and I was asleep in seconds. I woke only when I heard the trap door being opened. Emilie was alone this time, a shawl wrapped around an opaque nightgown and her hair hanging long behind her back. There was an old-style kind of beauty to this woman, I saw, delicate yet strong, young and yet womanly, a Vermeer painting come to life. She carried a small iron pot with a long handle and a spoon sticking out of it. The pot contained a soup which tasted absolutely wonderful. She sat down on the chair beside me and watched as I drank the soup, sipping it slowly. She propped me up with an extra pillow and looked at me as I sat up, my chest naked, the smooth hard-muscled skin belying the inner pain of my body.
"Your clothes were ruined, of course," she said. "Your personal things are in the corner there with some work pants and a shirt I think will fit you, when you're ready for them, that
is.
I think it may be a while yet."
She hesitated for a moment, and then smiled slowly, that half sad, slow smile of hers. "I hope you are not embarrassed that I stripped you," she said. "I think not, though. You are not the kind of man that embarrasses easily. That seems, somehow, obvious about you, Mr. Carter."
"Nick," I said.
"I did not want to talk about my husband before Gerda," she said. "The child knows enough. She need not know the details at this time. The Soviets killed my husband. He was a Hungarian and he became a freedom fighter during the occupation. I am Swiss, and we were living in Hungary at the time. The Russians caught him after a long search. That's why I know those men who stopped here. I've met their counterparts before, many times. My parents had died and this was their farm. I took the child and fled. We returned here and we have been working the farm ever since. It is hard work, but we are happy."
"No help at all?" I asked. "No young men interested in two such lovely girls?"
"I hire extra help dining harvest," she said. "As for your men, here in Europe they are not interested in women with children. Maybe sometime, someday, I will meet someone. Who knows?" That smile that was at once saddening and warming passed over her face.
"If they're coming back, I've got to get out of here," I said.
"You are not strong enough yet," the woman said. "You wouldn't get far between the shock to your system and the loss of blood from your leg. Besides, they won't find you here. You are safe."
She stood up. "I am going to change
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