This was followed by a dead silence. Herbert beckoned Christine from the corridor. She thought he wanted to stand at the window and talk and smoke, but he smiled and edged her along to one of the empty compartments at the end of their carriage. They sat down close together out of the sun and in a pleasant draught, for there was no one here who could ask them to shut the window. But then Herbert slid the door to, and undid the plushy useless curtains held back by broad ties. The curtains were too narrow to meet and would serve only to attract attention to the compartment.
“Someone might look in,” Christine said.
“Who might?”
“Anybody going by.”
“The whole train is asleep.”
“Or if we stop at a station …”
“No scheduled stops. You know we’ve been rerouted.”
It reminded her of the joke about Lenin saying, “Stop worrying, the train’s sealed!” She wondered if this was a good time to tell it.
Herbert said, “Now that we’re alone, tell me something.”
“What?”
“Isn’t it a bit of a pose, your reading? Why did you say you were reading for an exam?”
“I didn’t say it was my exam,” she said.
“You said that it was in two days’ time.”
“Yes. Well, I imagine that will be for students of theology who have failed their year.”
“Of course,” said Herbert. “That accounts for the Bonhoeffer. Well. Our Little Christian. What good does it do him if you read?”
“It may do me good, and what is good for me is good for both of you. Isn’t that so?” For the second time that day her vision was shaken by tears.
“Chris.”
“I do love you,” she said. “But there has been too much interference.”
“What, poor little Bert?” No, she had not meant interference of that kind. “You mean from him, then?” Sometimes Herbert tried to find out how much she lied to her official fiancé and whether she felt the least guilt. “What did you tell him about Paris?” he said.
“Nothing. It’s got nothing to do with him.”
“Does he think you love him?” said Herbert, blotting up her tears as though she were little Bert.
“I think that I could live with him,” said Christine. “Perhaps there is more to living than what I have with you.” She was annoyed because he was doing exactly what her fiancé always did — veering off into talk and analysis.
“It is easy to love two people at once,” said Herbert, more sure of her than ever now. “But it can be a habit, a pattern of living; before it becomes too much a habit you ought to choose.” He had seen the theology student and did not take him seriously as a rival. She glanced out to the empty corridor. “Don’t look there,” said Herbert.
“What if we are arrested?”
Perhaps he would not mind. Perhaps he saw himself the subject of a sensational case, baying out in a police court the social criticism he saved up to send to newspapers. She remembered the elaborate lies and stories she had needed for the week in Paris and wondered if they were part of the pattern he had mentioned. Suddenly Herbert begged her to marry him — tomorrow, today. He would put little Bert in boarding school; he could not live without her; there would never again be interference. Herbert did not hear what he was saying and his words did not come back to him, not even as an echo. He did not forget the promise; he had not heard it. Seconds later it was as if nothing had been said. The corridor was empty, and outside were the same plain of dried grass and the blind, hot, grey stucco box-houses they had been seeing all afternoon. She felt angry with Herbert, hateful even, because he had an unfailing hold on her and used it.
She said, “Herbert, that Norwegian is not interested in me; he is interested in you. And you know it.”
Herbert accepted the accusation as though he were used to every kind of homage. He was tall, intelligent, brave and good-looking. He was generous and truthful. A good parent, a loyal friend. Never bore grudges. His family was worthy of him, on both sides. His distinguished officer father had performed his duty, nothing worse; his mother had defended her faith to the extreme limit. He was thirty-one and had made only one error in a lifetime: he had married a girl who ran away. He sat still and did not protest uselessly or say, “Unhealthy imagination. Projecting your own morbid desires. Insane jealousy,” though he may have been thinking it. He accepted the Norwegian as a compliment.
She plunged on recklessly, just as she had kept the window open when there could have been fires, and said, “If it’s men you want, you needn’t think I am going to be a screen for you.” He turned slightly and said, “Only one thing matters now — this train, which is running all over the map.”
She did not wish to lose him. She was afraid of choosing — that was true — and she was not certain about little Bert. When he kept his head turned the other way, she quickly told the story about Lenin. He smiled, no more. There was a way out of their last exchange, but where? She had tried telling her joke with a Russian accent, but of course it didn’t come off. She knew nothing about him. One thing she had noticed: when he had to speak on the telephone sometimes he would say “Berlin speaking,” like a television announcer, or imitate some political figure, or talk broad Bavarian, which he did well, but it took seconds to get the real conversation moving, which was strange for a man as busy and practical as Herbert. She looked round for a change of subject — the landscape was hopeless — and said, “These seats aren’t reserved. Why not move our things here?”
“No point, we’ve nearly arrived,” said Herbert, and he opened the door and walked out, as if there were no reason for their being alone now. He strode along the rattling corridor with Christine behind him.
Interference came out to meet her halfway:
During the conflict we were enemy aliens. Went to be registered in a post office with spit all over the floor. From there to the police. Just as dirty. The jails must be really something once you’re in them. Police had orders, had to tell us we couldn’t go to the beaches any more. Big joke on them — we never went anyway, didn’t even own bathing suits! Were given our territorial limits: could go into Jackson Heights as far as the corner of Northern and 81st. Never went, never wanted to. We could take the train from Woodside to Corona, or from Woodside to Rego Park, we had the choice, and ride back and forth as much as we liked. Never did, never cared to. We could walk as far as Mount Zion Cemetery but never did — didn’t know anyone in it. Could ride the subway from Woodside to Junction Boulevard and back as much as we wanted, or Rego Park to 65th and back. Never did it once that I remember. The men could take the train to Flushing, they still worked at the same place, closely watched to see they didn’t sabotage the submarine galley units. They had three stations from home to work, were warned not to get off at the wrong one. They never did. The thing was we never wanted to go anywhere except the three blocks between our two homes. The only thing we missed was the fresh bratwurst. We never went anywhere because we never wanted to! The joke was on the whole USA!
They were a happy party in the compartment now. Herbert seemed to feel he had put something over on the universe, and Christine felt she had an edge on both the Norwegian and little Bert. The other three were feeling splendid because they had slept. All were filled with optimism and energy, as if it were early morning. The Norwegian in particular was lively and refreshed and extremely talkative. Inevitably, being a foreigner, he began to do what Herbert called “opening up the dossier.”
“On the subject of German reparations I remain open-minded,” the Norwegian said amiably. “Some accepted the money and invested it, some refused even to apply. I knew of a lawyer whose entire career consisted of handling reparations cases, from the time he left law school until he retired after a heart attack.”