his nerves. The people who had sheltered him had been decent and kind. He would admit that. But their very quietness, their acceptance of the fact that no message had come from any Allied Command, only added to his sense of failure. He had helped no one. He had been of no use to anyone. And the colonel and Jock and Ferry and all the others—whose names were even beginning to fade from his memory (he could only remember those of his fellow prisoners whom he had either liked or disliked very much)—had been either captured or killed. For that must be the explanation of this silence. There could be no other reason: that damned colonelcouldn’t have meant him to sit up here all winter, watching the snow clouds bank against a string of rocky teeth. Or could he have? When they had parted eight months ago down on the roadway outside of Bozen the colonel had talked of action, of urgent necessity. Action...urgent necessity—sugar-coating on a bitter pill, so that his inflated pride would let him swallow his disappointment about being left up here among a lot of women and boys and old men.
And now it was May. The last blot of snow had soaked into the sodden fields. Lennox had made up his mind. As he dressed in the small room which had become so familiar—with its narrow window tucked under the broad overhanging roof, with its carved wooden bed and thick soft mattress, with its one small table and chair, and white scrubbed floor—he was rehearsing the speech he would make.
“Frau Schichtl!” he would say. “What’s the use of staying here any longer? The plan, which your highly esteemed brother in Bozen made, has definitely not come off. The only sensible thing now—begging your esteemed brother’s pardon, for he seems a most determined man—is for me to leave your house and end the worry you’ve had ever since Johann brought me here. I had a plan for escape, and I haven’t forgotten it. I’ll reach the Allied lines. And I’ll tell the Whosits all about you here on the Schlern. I’ll tell them about the man from Bozen whom I have never met, and about the hatchet-faced old boys, who come on a Saturday evening to drink your homemade wine around the kitchen table and talk and talk and talk. And the Whosits will send the right men up here. Men who will talk and talk and talk, and feel perfectly happy because they know what they are doing. They won’t have guilt every time they look atthe mattress on a most comfortable bed; and they’ll have so many plans inside their specially trained brains that they won’t mind sitting in a room all day and every day. They enjoy hiding. That’s part of their job. And they’ll be really helpful. They’ll parachute all over this place.” He paused while he crossed over to shut out the cold morning air.
“You are getting soft,” he told himself angrily. “Now, where were you?” He stared at himself truculently in the small square of mirror. He saw a white-faced young man with even features, and strong eyebrows now drawn together in a bad-tempered frown. His hair was too long, his chin needed a shave. The grey eyes were clear and direct, but their look was hard enough to jolt him away from the mirror. He didn’t like his looks. He picked up the loose jacket of grey tweed, and pulled it over his white shirt and black waistcoat as he started to descend the bare staircase. His heavy shoes, low-cut, ugly, and strong, struck angrily on the white-scrubbed wood. He slowed up, and set his feet down more quietly. In the kitchen below was a bright wood fire in a neat stove, the smell of newly baked bread, the early sun streaming through the small windows, and Frau Schichtl.
She had poured out a cup of new milk as she heard him leave the room upstairs, and she was now measuring the careful spoonfuls of homemade jam on to his plate. The newly baked bread was wrapped in its white cloth on the dresser: on the table was a staler loaf. (New bread was too uneconomical: it sliced extravagantly
And now it was May. The last blot of snow had soaked into the sodden fields. Lennox had made up his mind. As he dressed in the small room which had become so familiar—with its narrow window tucked under the broad overhanging roof, with its carved wooden bed and thick soft mattress, with its one small table and chair, and white scrubbed floor—he was rehearsing the speech he would make.
“Frau Schichtl!” he would say. “What’s the use of staying here any longer? The plan, which your highly esteemed brother in Bozen made, has definitely not come off. The only sensible thing now—begging your esteemed brother’s pardon, for he seems a most determined man—is for me to leave your house and end the worry you’ve had ever since Johann brought me here. I had a plan for escape, and I haven’t forgotten it. I’ll reach the Allied lines. And I’ll tell the Whosits all about you here on the Schlern. I’ll tell them about the man from Bozen whom I have never met, and about the hatchet-faced old boys, who come on a Saturday evening to drink your homemade wine around the kitchen table and talk and talk and talk. And the Whosits will send the right men up here. Men who will talk and talk and talk, and feel perfectly happy because they know what they are doing. They won’t have guilt every time they look atthe mattress on a most comfortable bed; and they’ll have so many plans inside their specially trained brains that they won’t mind sitting in a room all day and every day. They enjoy hiding. That’s part of their job. And they’ll be really helpful. They’ll parachute all over this place.” He paused while he crossed over to shut out the cold morning air.
“You are getting soft,” he told himself angrily. “Now, where were you?” He stared at himself truculently in the small square of mirror. He saw a white-faced young man with even features, and strong eyebrows now drawn together in a bad-tempered frown. His hair was too long, his chin needed a shave. The grey eyes were clear and direct, but their look was hard enough to jolt him away from the mirror. He didn’t like his looks. He picked up the loose jacket of grey tweed, and pulled it over his white shirt and black waistcoat as he started to descend the bare staircase. His heavy shoes, low-cut, ugly, and strong, struck angrily on the white-scrubbed wood. He slowed up, and set his feet down more quietly. In the kitchen below was a bright wood fire in a neat stove, the smell of newly baked bread, the early sun streaming through the small windows, and Frau Schichtl.
She had poured out a cup of new milk as she heard him leave the room upstairs, and she was now measuring the careful spoonfuls of homemade jam on to his plate. The newly baked bread was wrapped in its white cloth on the dresser: on the table was a staler loaf. (New bread was too uneconomical: it sliced extravagantly