Meanwhile, old Mrs. Shimoni, who didn’t know any Russian, commenced an interrogation of her own to find out what sort of Molkho Molkho was, quickly determining that she knew his grandmother and paternal aunt in Jerusalem, from which she had arrived several weeks ago to spend some time with her son. “Doesn’t he have children?” Molkho asked. “Of course he does,” said his mother, “and very successful ones too, but they’re all married with children of their own.” “And where is his wife?” inquired Molkho. “Ah,” exclaimed the old woman, “she passed away several years ago.” “And he never remarried?” asked Molkho with concern. “I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Shimoni with a poignant look, “that finding a new wife isn’t easy as you think.” Molkho nodded so vigorously that his teacup rattled on its saucer. “You’re quite right,” he declared. “Everyone thinks it’s easy, but it’s not. You see,” he added with a suffering smile, “I too lost my wife nearly a year ago. It was cancer.” He persisted plaintively, even though to his surprise the old woman knew all about it, as if it were written on his face, “An incurable cancer that started in one breast, then spread to the other, and then...” But Mrs. Shimoni knew all about that too. The little Russian, it seemed, had told the old woman’s son everything the night before.
Molkho fell silent in frustration and turned his attention to the men, who were hanging on the little Russian’s words, which Mr. Shimoni summarized for his guests in German, with a running commentary of his own. Slighted to find his presence treated as a mere technicality, Molkho demanded a translation into Hebrew, and so received a summary of the summary. At first, apparently, one of the Soviets had asked Miss Zand to sign an anti-Israel declaration, which she was perfectly willing to do, but at the last minute he changed his mind. Then someone else began to question her about her absorption center in Israel—especially about immigrants from Ethiopia, who seemed to arouse great interest—only to go on to something else. And so she had been passed from official to official, each of whom, she reported, had been friendly and eager to help, indeed even proud of her, yet unable to do a thing. “What did I tell you!” said Mr. Shimoni, jumping up and walking about. “They can’t make unroutine decisions. They’re paralyzed by their own bureaucracy!” Smiling in agreement, his two guests added something in German.
And yet, though Molkho tried hard to follow the conversation, even to participate in it, he soon found himself excluded and had to content himself with staring at his Russian, who sat glumly gripping her second glass of Scotch, a twice-failed émigrée. Finally, tired and feeling the need to take some action, he put down his cup of tea and rose to go. “But why so soon?” asked Mr. Shimoni, who seemed sorry to see them leave. “We’ve imposed on you quite enough,” insisted Molkho, adding something about the unseasonably warm weather while beckoning to Miss Zand and nodding good-bye to old Mrs. Shimoni and her guests. By the open door of the elevator, to which he clung as if refusing to part with them, Mr. Shimoni asked Molkho about his day. “I went to the Vienna Woods,” Molkho told him. “In fact, I enjoyed it, though I never got to see the zoo.” “What a pity,” said Mr. Shimoni. “Will the two of you be staying in Vienna or are you going straight back to Israel?” “No, we’re not,” replied Molkho, annoyed to be permanently coupled with the little Russian. “If I’ve come this far to get her into Russia, I’ll look for another way—one that’s less bureaucratic.”
AT THE CRACK OF DAWN, Molkho left his room with his suitcase and rapped nervously on the little Russian’s door. She was fully dressed, packed, and ready. Why, I just had to put my foot down like a man and she’s my slave! he congratulated himself, seizing the steamer trunk by its handle and dragging it to the elevator. If only someone had told me about this damn thing, I could have put some wheels on it, he thought. Two is all it would have needed.
Now, however, there was no time even for one. In fact, he was in such a hurry that he skipped breakfast, though it was included in the price of the room, and paid the bill without question, asking only that the desk clerk order a taxi with a roof rack. In the train station, an immense, bustling place still chill with the vapors of dawn, he had a moment’s panic that his little Russian might vanish again; but when he warned her not to, her eyes filled with tears, and indeed, she clung to him anxiously, tagging after him as he looked for their train while glancing back now and then as instructed to make sure that their porter was following.
They found their train, car, and compartment and managed to hoist the trunk onto the overhead rack, where it miraculously fitted right in. But of course, it’s an old railroad trunk! thought Molkho in amazement just as an elderly conductor passing down the aisle insisted that they take it back down again. Unable to convince him that it wasn’t a public menace, Molkho tried pushing it under a seat, attempted to put it on top of one, and finally dragged it to the baggage car behind the locomotive, where it was given a yellow tag, for which he paid a schilling and was handed a receipt.
He hurried worriedly back to his compartment, but the little Russian was sitting dutifully where he had left her, her face bathed in morning light. Has she gotten prettier or have I just gotten used to her? he wondered, gazing out the window at the arriving passengers. Distant music reached him from the train or station, and he shut his eyes, tired but pleased despite his sleepless night. You can’t say I haven’t tried, he said mentally to his mother-in-law, for whose sake he was doing all this. The air breaks hissed underneath him, and the train glided out of the station. But, throwing an arm across his face, he refused to watch or even glance at his companion, whose eyes, he felt sure, were on him. There’s time for that, he told himself, the ever-louder rattle of the wheels and car joints lullabying him to sleep, even as he sensed her slipping out of the compartment. Let her roam, he thought with a smile. This is one place she can’t run away from.
She was in the buffet when he awoke, chatting with a Russian soldier. Pretending not to recognize her, he ordered a container of coffee, returned with it to his seat, and reached into his briefcase for Anna Karenina, which he was determined to finish once and for all. So far, so good, he thought, checking to see how many pages were left. It’s still eight hours to Berlin. Five pages an hour is all that it will take.
WORDS WERE UNNECESSARY, the visiting card of the little hotel being all the taxi driver needed. But he could not drive up to it, for a large trench barring the street forced them to unload their luggage a block away despite the cold, rainy night. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” said Molkho softly, leaping carefully over the trench with a suitcase in each hand and heading for the hotel, the little lobby of which, he was happy to see, was as neatly crammed with bric-a-brac as ever. Standing in a dignified black suit behind the small bar, where he was arranging bottles and glasses, the owner recognized Molkho at once, and Molkho shook his hand warmly, pleased to be remembered after so many months, if only because of his sleeper and a borrowed thermometer. In any event, here he was again with two suitcases, a trunk up the street that he needed some help with, and a new companion who would no doubt sleep well too. At once, someone dashed off to fetch the trunk and the little Russian, while someone else opened the register to look for Molkho’s name and room number. Alas, neither was there—the reason being, Molkho explained, that he hadn’t made a reservation, having just arrived unexpectedly from Vienna. Anxiously the register was consulted again before it was triumphantly announced that there was a room available and that if the guests would hurry up to it and change, they might still be in time for the opera.