bags, his own and the leather satchel. The train was cold and crowded and smoky. Szara shared a compartment with two middle-age women he took to be sisters and two teenage boys whose windburned faces and khaki shorts suggested they'd been on a weekend mountain-climbing holiday in Czechoslovakia and had stayed on until Tuesday before returning to school in Germany.
Szara had some anxiety about the German customs inspection, but the officer's revolver now lay at the bottom of the Vltava and he doubted that a file written in Russian—something it would be normal for him to have—would cause any difficulty. Border inspections concentrated on guns, explosives, large amounts of currency, andseditious literature—the revolutionary toolkit. Beyond that, the inspectors were not very interested. He was taking, perhaps, a small chance, that a Gestapo officer would be in attendance (not unlikely) and that he would know enough Russian to recognize what he was looking at (very unlikely). In fact, Szara realized he didn't have much of a choice: the file was “his,” but not his to dispose of. Sooner or later, they would want to know what had become of it.
As the train wound through the pine forests of northern Czechoslovakia, Szara's hand rose continually to his ear, slightly red and swollen and warm to the touch. He'd been hit, apparently, with the end of a metal salt shaker enclosed in a fist. As for other damage— heart, spirit, dignity; it had a lot of names—he finally managed to stand off from it and bring himself under control. No, he told himself again and again, you shouldn't have fought back. The men listening to the radio would've done far worse.
The border control at Aussig was uneventful. The train slowly gained speed, ran briefly beside the Elba, shallow and still in the late autumn, and soon after passed the brown brick porcelain factories of Dresden, red shadows from the heating kilns flickering on the train windows. The track descended gradually from the high plain of Czechoslovakia to sea-level Germany, to flat fields and small, orderly towns, a stationmaster with a lantern standing on the platform at every village.
The train slowed to a crawl—Szara glanced at his watch, it was a few minutes after ten—then stopped with a loud hiss of decompression. The passengers in his compartment stirred about irritably, said “Wuss?” and peered out the windows, but there was nothing to see, only farm fields edged by woodland. Presently, a conductor appeared at the door to the compartment. An old gentleman with a hat a size too large for him, he licked his lips nervously and said, “Herr Szara?” His eye roamed among the passengers, but there was really only one possible candidate.
“Well?” Szara said. Now what?
“Would you be so kind as to accompany me, it's just …”
Entirely without menace. Szara considered outrage, then sensedthe weight of Teutonic railroad bureaucracy standing behind this request, sighed with irritation, and stood up.
“Please, your baggage,” the conductor said.
Szara snatched the handles and followed the man down the corridor to the end of the car. A chief conductor awaited him there. “I am sorry, Herr Szara, but you must leave the train here.”
Szara stiffened. “I will not,” he said.
“Please,” said the man nervously.
Szara stared at him for a moment, utterly confounded. There was nothing outside the open door but dark fields. “I demand an explanation,” he said.
The man peered over Szara's shoulder and Szara turned his head. Two men in suits stood at the end of the corridor. Szara said, “Am I to walk to Berlin? ” He laughed, inviting them to consider the absurdity of the situation, but it sounded false and shrill. The supervisor placed a tentative hand above his elbow; Szara jerked away from him. “Take your hands off me,” he said.
The conductor was now very formal. “You must leave.”
He realized he was going to be thrown off if he didn't move, so he
Szara had some anxiety about the German customs inspection, but the officer's revolver now lay at the bottom of the Vltava and he doubted that a file written in Russian—something it would be normal for him to have—would cause any difficulty. Border inspections concentrated on guns, explosives, large amounts of currency, andseditious literature—the revolutionary toolkit. Beyond that, the inspectors were not very interested. He was taking, perhaps, a small chance, that a Gestapo officer would be in attendance (not unlikely) and that he would know enough Russian to recognize what he was looking at (very unlikely). In fact, Szara realized he didn't have much of a choice: the file was “his,” but not his to dispose of. Sooner or later, they would want to know what had become of it.
As the train wound through the pine forests of northern Czechoslovakia, Szara's hand rose continually to his ear, slightly red and swollen and warm to the touch. He'd been hit, apparently, with the end of a metal salt shaker enclosed in a fist. As for other damage— heart, spirit, dignity; it had a lot of names—he finally managed to stand off from it and bring himself under control. No, he told himself again and again, you shouldn't have fought back. The men listening to the radio would've done far worse.
The border control at Aussig was uneventful. The train slowly gained speed, ran briefly beside the Elba, shallow and still in the late autumn, and soon after passed the brown brick porcelain factories of Dresden, red shadows from the heating kilns flickering on the train windows. The track descended gradually from the high plain of Czechoslovakia to sea-level Germany, to flat fields and small, orderly towns, a stationmaster with a lantern standing on the platform at every village.
The train slowed to a crawl—Szara glanced at his watch, it was a few minutes after ten—then stopped with a loud hiss of decompression. The passengers in his compartment stirred about irritably, said “Wuss?” and peered out the windows, but there was nothing to see, only farm fields edged by woodland. Presently, a conductor appeared at the door to the compartment. An old gentleman with a hat a size too large for him, he licked his lips nervously and said, “Herr Szara?” His eye roamed among the passengers, but there was really only one possible candidate.
“Well?” Szara said. Now what?
“Would you be so kind as to accompany me, it's just …”
Entirely without menace. Szara considered outrage, then sensedthe weight of Teutonic railroad bureaucracy standing behind this request, sighed with irritation, and stood up.
“Please, your baggage,” the conductor said.
Szara snatched the handles and followed the man down the corridor to the end of the car. A chief conductor awaited him there. “I am sorry, Herr Szara, but you must leave the train here.”
Szara stiffened. “I will not,” he said.
“Please,” said the man nervously.
Szara stared at him for a moment, utterly confounded. There was nothing outside the open door but dark fields. “I demand an explanation,” he said.
The man peered over Szara's shoulder and Szara turned his head. Two men in suits stood at the end of the corridor. Szara said, “Am I to walk to Berlin? ” He laughed, inviting them to consider the absurdity of the situation, but it sounded false and shrill. The supervisor placed a tentative hand above his elbow; Szara jerked away from him. “Take your hands off me,” he said.
The conductor was now very formal. “You must leave.”
He realized he was going to be thrown off if he didn't move, so he
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