By this time Fernheim realized nothing was in the way, but because he respected Gertrude and did not want to make a liar of her, he did not open the door.
Hans must be told that Fernheim is here, thought Gertrude, but if I leave Fernheim alone he could open the door, cross the room, and go right into Inge’s room; and it won’t do for him to see her before Hans talks with him. Anyway, it’s not good that he came just today, with Inge sitting there waiting for Karl Neiss. Maybe Neiss has arrived already, maybe he’s sitting with Inge. There’s no need for these two to come across each other right in front of her.
She saw Zigbert standing by. “Go to Daddy and tell him that…”
“Whom do we have here?” Fernheim stretched his arms out to the little boy and began speaking affectionately. “Why, this is young Steiner of the house of Starkmat and Steiner. What’s this, Zigbert, you don’t say hello to your dear uncle, Uncle Werner, as though you weren’t happy that he came back from prison where the enemy fed him live snakes and gave him snake poison to drink? Come, Zigbert, my sweet, let me kiss you.” He caught hold of the child, lifted him up, and kissed him on the lips.
Zigbert wrinkled up his mouth and glowered. Fernheim took out half of a cigar, lit it with his lighter, and said to Zigbert, “Don’t you want to put the flame out? Open your mouth and blow on it; it goes out almost by itself.”
Gertrude addressed her son. “Go, sweetheart, and tell Daddy that — that Uncle Werner has come and would like to see him.”
As he was leaving she called him back. Gertrude wanted to warn the child not to tell anyone, least of all Aunt Inge, that Fernheim had come, until he told his father first. But realizing that it was impossible to speak in front of Fernheim, she sent him off.
Zigi stopped, waiting for his mother to call him back as she had the first time. Seeing that she remained silent, he left.
“Daddy, Daddy,” he called, “Mommy wants you. A man is here.”
“Who’s here?” Steiner called down from the attic.
“A man,” the child repeated, saying nothing more.
“Go on and tell Mother that I’m coming.”
“I don’t want to,” said the child.
“You don’t want to what?” asked the father.
“I don’t want to go to Mother.”
“Why don’t you want to go to Mother?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“That man.”
“What about that man?”
“Because.”
“You’re acting stubborn, Zigbert; I don’t like stubborn people.”
The child went off crying.
Fernheim sat himself down, as did Gertrude. While she folded her linens, he clenched a cigar stub between his lips. She sat quietly, uttering not a word, while he was astounded at himself for sitting next to his wife’s sister and saying nothing. She waited for her husband to come; he puffed away furiously.
The cigar stub had almost vanished, but still he gripped it between his lips. I see, thought Gertrude, that the new laundress does a good job. The sheet is sparkling white. It needs scrubbing, though. Werner’s coming back — it’s not good. But now that he’s come, maybe there can be an end to this business. The towels gleam more than the sheets, but their edges are crumbled. Obviously, the laundress ironed two towels as though they were one. What’s this, pigeon droppings? Doesn’t she know you have to clean the rope before hanging the wash? Hans still hasn’t come, and I can’t make up my mind whether or not to invite Werner to lunch, since we’ve already invited Karl Neiss. But just so he shouldn’t feel insulted, I’ll pour him another glass of lemonade. He’s looking for an ashtray. He’s already thrown the cigar into the garden.
3
The footsteps of Hans Steiner resounded, and the aroma of the fine cigar in his mouth wafted into the room. He had a vexed look, the kind he wore regularly when having to appear before a stranger. As soon as he came in and saw Fernheim, his pent-up anger doubled. Utter amazement covered his face. Scratching his moustache and scarcely opening his lips, he muttered, “You’re here?”
Fernheim, trying to look cheerful, answered, “There’s a good deal of truth in that, Hans,” immediately extending both hands in greeting.
Hans presented him with two fingertips and said something indistinguishable, without moving lips or tongue. “You’re back,” he added.
Fernheim replied jokingly, “That, we must admit, is correct.”
“When did you come back?”
“When did I come back? I came back two days ago; to be precise, three days ago.”
Hans flicked the cigar ashes into the glass of lemonade. “You’ve been here three days. Then I would assume you’ve come across some people you know.”
“What if I did?” answered Fernheim heatedly.
“If you happened to meet some people you know,” said Hans, “maybe you happened to hear a little something.”
“‘A little something,’ meaning—”
“Meaning there have been some changes made.”
“Yes,” said Fernheim, “lots of things have changed. I wrote that I would come on a certain day, at a certain hour, on a certain train; and when I got there I found the railroad station empty. Actually it wasn’t empty. On the contrary, it was filled with mobs of noisy people who had come to welcome their brothers and sons and husbands returning from the war; but Werner Fernheim, who shed his blood in the war, who was a prisoner of war, who spent a year in a prison camp — no one was available to come welcome him.”
Steiner raised his head above Fernheim’s. “In your opinion, Werner, who should have come?”
“Heaven forbid that I meant you,” he replied. “I realize that Mr. Steiner is an important personage, a man weighed down with serious business, so serious it even exempted him from army duty; but there is someone here who, had she come to greet her husband, would not have been acting altogether outrageously. What do you think, brother-in-law, suppose Inge had come? Does that sound so very unreasonable?”
Steiner tried to smile, but, as he was not used to smiling, his face assumed a look of surprise. He made a fist of his left hand, looked at his fingernails, and said, “If my ears aren’t liars, Inge should have rushed to the railroad station to meet you. Is that it, Werner?”
“Why are you so surprised?” asked Fernheim. “Isn’t it usual for a wife to greet her husband returning from a distant country? And what a distant country I’m returning from! Anyone else in my place would have died a hundred deaths by now and wouldn’t have lived to see the face of his loved ones.” Suddenly he raised his voice and asked fiercely, “Where’s Inge?”
Steiner looked straight at his brother-in-law and then turned his eyes away. Then he looked at him again and calmly flicked off the cigar ash. “Inge is on her own; we don’t pry into her affairs. And let me advise you, Werner: don’t be prying into her affairs.”
Gertrude sat thinking, This is a man, this is a man. This is a man who can handle anyone. Tonight I’ll tell him my secret — that I’ve got a new child ready for him. But now I’ll leave them alone.
The whites of Fernheim’s eyes reddened as though they had been pricked and blood were trickling out. “What do you mean,” he shouted, “‘Don’t be prying into her affairs’? It seems to me I still have some authority over her.”