"I'll leave the two of you alone," the doctor said.
"He's here now?"
"She is here," the doctor said.
3
It was an immense relief to see a stranger come in. He had been afraid that a whole generation of his life would walk through the door, but it was only a thin pretty girl with reddish hair, a small girl -- perhaps too small to be remembered. She wasn't, he felt certain, anybody he needed to fear.
He rose; politeness seemed the wrong thing; he didn't know whether he ought to shake hands -- or kiss her. He did neither. They looked at each other from a distance, and his heart beat heavily.
"How you've changed," she said.
"They are always telling me," he said, "that I'm looking quite myself."
"Your hair is much greyer. And that scar. And yet you look so much younger. . . happier."
"I lead a very pleasant easy life here."
"They've been good to you? " she asked with anxiety.
"Very good."
He felt as though he had taken a stranger out to dinner and now couldn't hit on the right conversational move. He said, "Excuse me. It sounds so abrupt. But I don't know your name."
"You don't remember me at all?"
"No."
He had occasionally had dreams about a woman, but it wasn't this woman. He couldn't remember any details of the dream except the woman's face, and that they had been filled with pain. He was glad that this was not the one. He looked at her again. "No," he said. "I'm sorry. I wish I could."
"Don't be sorry," she said with strange ferocity. "Never be sorry again."
"I just meant -- this silly brain of mine."
She said, "My name's Anna." She watched him carefully, "Hilfe."
"That sounds foreign."
"I am Austrian."
He said, "All this is so new to me. We are at war with Germany. Isn't Austria. . .?"
"I'm a refugee."
"Oh, yes," he said. "I've read about them."
"You have even forgotten the war?" she asked.
"I have a terrible lot to learn," he said.
"Yes, terrible. But need they teach it you?" She repeated. "You look so much happier. . ."
"One wouldn't be happy, not knowing anything." He hesitated and again said, "You must excuse me. There are so many questions. Were we simply friends?"
"Just friends. Why?"
"You are very pretty. I couldn't tell. . ."
"You saved my life."
"How did I do that?"
"When the bomb went off -- just before it went off -- you knocked me down and fell on me. I wasn't hurt."
"I'm very glad. I mean," he laughed nervously, "there might be all sorts of discreditable things to learn. I'm glad there's one good one."
"It seems so strange," she said. "All these terrible years since 1933 -- you've just read about them, that's all. They are history to you. You're fresh. You aren't tired like all the rest of us everywhere."
"1933," he said. "1933. Now 1066, I can give you that easily. And all the kings of England -- at least -- I'm not sure. . . perhaps not all."
"1933 was when Hitler came to power."
"Of course. I remember now. I've read it all over and over again, but the dates don't stick."
"And I suppose the hate doesn't either."
"I haven't any right to talk about these things," he said. "I haven't lived them. They taught me at school that William Rufus was a wicked king with red hair -- but you couldn't expect us to hate him. People like yourself have a right to hate. I haven't. You see I'm untouched."
"Your poor face," she said.
"Oh, the scar. That might have been anything -- a motor-car accident. And after all they were not meaning to kill me."
"No?"
"I'm not important." He had been talking foolishly, at random. He had assumed something, and after all there was nothing he could safely assume. He said anxiously, "I'm not important, am I? I can't be, or it would have been in the papers."
"They let you see the papers?"
"Oh yes, this isn't a prison, you know." He repeated, "I'm not important?"
She said evasively, "You are not famous."
"I suppose the doctor won't let you tell me anything. He says he wants it all to come through my memory, slowly and gently. But I wish you'd break the rule about just one thing. It's the only thing that worries me. I'm not married, am I?"
She said slowly, as if she wanted to be very accurate and not to tell him more than was necessary, "No, you are not married."
"It was an awful idea that I might suddenly have to take up an old relationship which would mean a lot to someone else and nothing to me. Just something I had been told about, like Hitler. Of course, a new one's different." He added with a shyness that looked awkward with grey hair, "You are a new one."
"And now there's nothing left to worry you?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said. "Or only one thing -- that you might go out of that door and not come back." He was always making advances and then hurriedly retreating like a boy who hasn't learned the technique. He said, "You see, I've suddenly lost all my friends except you."
She said rather sadly, "Did you have a great many?"
"I suppose -- by my age -- one would have collected a good many." He said cheerfully, "Or was I such a monster?"
She wouldn't be cheered up. She said, "Oh, I'll come back. They want me to come back. They want to know, you see, as soon as you begin to remember. . ."
"Of course they do. And you are the only clue they can give me. But have I got to stay here till I remember?"
"You wouldn't be much good, would you, without a memory -- outside?"
"I don't see why not. There's plenty of work for me. If the army won't have me, there's munitions. . ."
"Do you want to be in it all again?"
He said, "This is lovely and peaceful. But it's only a holiday after all. One's got to be of use." He went on, "Of course, it would be much easier if I knew what I'd been, what I could do best. I can't have been a man of leisure. There wasn't enough money in my family." He watched her face carefully while he guessed. "There aren't so many professions. Army, Navy, Church. . . I wasn't wearing the right clothes. . . if these are my clothes." There was so much room for doubt. "Law? Was it law, Anna? I don't believe it. I can't see myself in a wig getting some poor devil hanged."
Anna said, "No."
"It doesn't connect. After all, the child does make the man. I never wanted to be a lawyer. I did want to be an explorer -- but that's unlikely. Even with this beard. They tell me the beard really does belong. I wouldn't know. Oh," he went on, "I had enormous dreams of discovering unknown tribes in Central Africa. Medicine? No, I never liked doctoring. Too much pain. I hated pain." He was troubled by a slight dizziness. He said, "It made me feel ill, sick, hearing of pain. I remember -- something about a rat."