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Authors: Helen MacInnes
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a party.”
“Probably he just called to discuss some things before the Committee meeting tomorrow. Gregor loves discussions.”
“Gregor’s on the Committee?” Paula couldn’t hide her surprise.
“He began it, actually. But then, he knew what it was like to be a prisoner. He’s thirty-four, and he has spent nine of those years in concentration camps. Russian and German. He was a music student, before that.”
“How does he live now?” asked the practical Paula.
“Gregor would say he existed by cutting down trees, and lived by composing music. But mostly he thinks about the Committee. It’s his hope and joy.”
“Haven’t you given it a name, yet?”
“Oh, we’ve had such arguments about that! We usually end by simply calling it the Falken Committee. After all, it is composed of people who live in Falken, or who have houses there. One is a doctor at Schlossfalken-Bad, for instance; a nice elderly Frenchman. Then there’s a retired Englishman who has lived in Falken for thirty years. And we’ve a lawyer from Bern—and so on.”
“You don’t keep it secret?” It almost scares me, Paulathought, the calm way she takes all this.
“Secret enough. We had to let the government know what we planned—we didn’t want them to come asking, ‘Now what kind of a conspiracy is going on here?’ But we do work discreetly. The people we help remain anonymous even to Falken—and that’s easy enough to arrange. Why, Switzerland always did have so many committees and clubs and associations and sanatoriums and children’s homes and lunatic asylums and metaphysical societies, that one more group of people getting together to try to help others—well—” Francesca shrugged her shoulders. “What about dinner? The Café du Théâtre is good. Then we can go on to the Kursaal, up on the Schänzli. There’s music there, if you want that.”
“You ought to give the Committee a name, though,” Paula said, trying to think of one. Committees always had names.
“Gregor wants it to be called ‘The Committee for Freedom of Choice’. He says that’s the basic freedom, and he ought to know. But then our retired Englishman wants us called ‘The Iron-smelters’ or ‘The Curtain-Raisers’. That shocks Gregor.”
“It startles me, too. But tell him Englishmen always make a joke about anything over which they’re deadly serious.”
“None of us think we are playing a game,” Francesca said slowly.
Paula looked at her. I ought not to have suggested revisiting the Café Henzi, she realised. That was silly; cheap. Peter Andrássy may be one of the great composers in this world, but I was foolish in wanting to see him again. More than foolish in being excited about the small part I had in getting him a job in America. What is danger to the Committee is only excitement to me.
She was very silent, for Paula, all through an excellent dinner.
* * *
But later that evening when the Kursaal’s concert was over and dancing was about to begin, it was Francesca who said, “Well, if you still want to go to the Café Henzi, why don’t we go now?”
“Wouldn’t you object?” Paula was startled. “I mean—oh, you know!”
Francesca smiled at Paula’s new caution. “Thursday is his half-day. He will be out in Falken, playing chess and talking music with Gregor. He always does that.”
“He won’t be at the Henzi, then?” Paula was half-disappointed in spite of her resolutions.
“No. Do you still want to go?” Francesca’s amusement grew.
“Of course,” said Paula swiftly. “You see, I’ve been thinking about the houses for rent which we saw today. And I’ve begun to wonder if Andy wouldn’t prefer something more in town, and the older the town the better. You know how men always rush for the Ile Saint-Louis in Paris? So I’d like to see the old town—”
“The Lower Town?”
“—the Lower Town, by night.”
“Now, we aren’t house-hunting at this hour!”
“No, no no. I just like
“Probably he just called to discuss some things before the Committee meeting tomorrow. Gregor loves discussions.”
“Gregor’s on the Committee?” Paula couldn’t hide her surprise.
“He began it, actually. But then, he knew what it was like to be a prisoner. He’s thirty-four, and he has spent nine of those years in concentration camps. Russian and German. He was a music student, before that.”
“How does he live now?” asked the practical Paula.
“Gregor would say he existed by cutting down trees, and lived by composing music. But mostly he thinks about the Committee. It’s his hope and joy.”
“Haven’t you given it a name, yet?”
“Oh, we’ve had such arguments about that! We usually end by simply calling it the Falken Committee. After all, it is composed of people who live in Falken, or who have houses there. One is a doctor at Schlossfalken-Bad, for instance; a nice elderly Frenchman. Then there’s a retired Englishman who has lived in Falken for thirty years. And we’ve a lawyer from Bern—and so on.”
“You don’t keep it secret?” It almost scares me, Paulathought, the calm way she takes all this.
“Secret enough. We had to let the government know what we planned—we didn’t want them to come asking, ‘Now what kind of a conspiracy is going on here?’ But we do work discreetly. The people we help remain anonymous even to Falken—and that’s easy enough to arrange. Why, Switzerland always did have so many committees and clubs and associations and sanatoriums and children’s homes and lunatic asylums and metaphysical societies, that one more group of people getting together to try to help others—well—” Francesca shrugged her shoulders. “What about dinner? The Café du Théâtre is good. Then we can go on to the Kursaal, up on the Schänzli. There’s music there, if you want that.”
“You ought to give the Committee a name, though,” Paula said, trying to think of one. Committees always had names.
“Gregor wants it to be called ‘The Committee for Freedom of Choice’. He says that’s the basic freedom, and he ought to know. But then our retired Englishman wants us called ‘The Iron-smelters’ or ‘The Curtain-Raisers’. That shocks Gregor.”
“It startles me, too. But tell him Englishmen always make a joke about anything over which they’re deadly serious.”
“None of us think we are playing a game,” Francesca said slowly.
Paula looked at her. I ought not to have suggested revisiting the Café Henzi, she realised. That was silly; cheap. Peter Andrássy may be one of the great composers in this world, but I was foolish in wanting to see him again. More than foolish in being excited about the small part I had in getting him a job in America. What is danger to the Committee is only excitement to me.
She was very silent, for Paula, all through an excellent dinner.
* * *
But later that evening when the Kursaal’s concert was over and dancing was about to begin, it was Francesca who said, “Well, if you still want to go to the Café Henzi, why don’t we go now?”
“Wouldn’t you object?” Paula was startled. “I mean—oh, you know!”
Francesca smiled at Paula’s new caution. “Thursday is his half-day. He will be out in Falken, playing chess and talking music with Gregor. He always does that.”
“He won’t be at the Henzi, then?” Paula was half-disappointed in spite of her resolutions.
“No. Do you still want to go?” Francesca’s amusement grew.
“Of course,” said Paula swiftly. “You see, I’ve been thinking about the houses for rent which we saw today. And I’ve begun to wonder if Andy wouldn’t prefer something more in town, and the older the town the better. You know how men always rush for the Ile Saint-Louis in Paris? So I’d like to see the old town—”
“The Lower Town?”
“—the Lower Town, by night.”
“Now, we aren’t house-hunting at this hour!”
“No, no no. I just like
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