Joe was awake when she got back to the lodge, seeming more like his normal self. Perhaps he’d just been tired.
“Where are the guns?” he asked. “Found a swimming pool, I see,” he added, noticing her wet hair.
“Under the bed in the middle room, and yes,” she said, brushing past him. “I’m going to try and sleep now.”
“If you hear gunfire, it’ll be me testing them,” he called after her.
She took the room farthest from his and lay down, feeling tired and confused. The tiredness triumphed, and when he woke her the light had gone and the lodge was full of the smell of cooking. “Just some canned goods,” he said as she entered the kitchen. “I didn’t find anything to shoot.”
“The guns are okay?”
“Yep.”
They ate in silence, and washed down the meal with strong coffee. “Do you play checkers?” he asked. She nodded and got up to wash the dishes while he set up the board. They played several games, and he won all but the last. She was convinced he’d lost it on purpose, a thought that almost brought back the tears. What was the matter with her? She suddenly had a picture of jailers playing such a game with the man in the condemned cell, the man feeling sorry for the jailers. It was too much. She had to be alone, physically alone.
He watched her leave the room and felt slightly worried. The whole business was obviously getting to her. He’d hated the idea of working with a woman from the beginning, but had reluctantly conceded to himself that in her case he’d been wrong. She knew what she was doing, and until now she’d shown no trace of nerves at all. Perhaps she needed some comforting, physical comforting. She wasn’t his type — he preferred women with more flesh on them — but…
He knocked softly on her door, put his head around it. “Don’t suppose you want some company?” he asked softly.
“No,” she replied coldly. “Thank you,” she added more gently, “but no.”
“Just thought I’d ask,” he said cheerfully. “Sleep well.”
He lit a cigarette and went outside. Her part was almost over in any case. He and the Germans would do the rest — give all those fucking Yankee liberals a jolt they’d never forget. Two more days.
And then, as I stand up, the stars and the Great Bear glimmer up there like bars above a silent cell. The poem was beginning to haunt him, to follow him around like a running commentary on his life. In the goods station yard I flattened myself against the foot of the tree like a slice of silence… Well, that had been a Hungarian goods station yard, not this one. There were no trees in this one, no gray weeds… lustrous, dew-laden coal lumps.
Kuznetsky had checked into the hotel in Bridgeport late that evening and been given, without knowing it, the same room Joe and Amy had used for their earlier vigil. He’d walked down to the station, awakened the sleeping clerk to inquire about the next day’s trains, and familiarized himself with the layout of the yard. A tree would have been useful, but the decrepit boxcar in the siding adjoining the main line would serve the same purpose. Everything seemed as Amy had reported it.
Now, back in his room, he sat by the window, staring across at the darkened yard, wishing he had a Russian cigarette. He thought he could detect the first hint of moonlight; five days hence it would be earlier, making this end of the operation harder, but the other end easier. The cat can’t catch mice inside and outside at the same time. True. And somewhat facile in this context. It was time he got some sleep.
Next morning he took his car in for a final checkup, arranged to collect it that evening, and walked down to the station. Waiting for his train, he again checked the layout of the yard, measuring distances in his mind, calculating the safest angle of approach.
The train was on time, a good omen, and almost empty. A group of boys in uniform, presumably on their last leave before going overseas, were good-naturedly pestering a solitary young woman. She seemed to be enjoying the attention. Kuznetsky took a window seat and set out to memorize the route. For half an hour they chugged down the valley, mountains to the right, the river occasionally visible several miles away to the left. The train stopped at every country junction, though no one seemed to get on or off. The conductor inspected his ticket, tried in vain to start up a conversation about some circus fire in Connecticut, and took out his irritation on one of the young soldiers who’d had the temerity to soil the upholstery with a dirty boot.
After stopping in Scottsboro, the train climbed away from the main valley and up into the hills. It stopped in Larkinsville but not at Lim Rock, which looked like a ghost town. A few minutes later it passed the point where the old mining spur diverged, and Kuznetsky had a brief glimpse of the narrow Coon Creek Valley stretching north toward a high ridge.
Thirty-five minutes later the train pulled into Huntsville. Kuznetsky got off, had some lunch, and spent several hours sitting on a park bench with nothing but his thoughts. He remembered how, when he’d first lived with Russians, their slowness, their ability to sit doing nothing for hours, had infuriated him, partly because they could, partly because he couldn’t. Since arriving back in America he’d had the opposite sensation: everyone seemed so impatient, so determined to be doing things, so incapable of just being. It was sad. Amusing as well.
He walked back toward the station and was about to cross the road outside when a familiar black Buick cruised past. He and Amy exchanged indifferent glances.
Amy felt relief at seeing Kuznetsky. She had no doubts about his efficiency, but it was still good to be certain that he was around. That morning she’d suddenly imagined his being killed in some ridiculous accident and Joe coming back to the lodge with the Germans. What would she do then?
She checked in the mirror to see that the camper Joe was driving was still following her as she took the Scottsboro road. Everything was going so smoothly, it was almost too good to be true. She and Joe had spent the day driving to and from Birmingham, where they had picked up the camper, complete with fishing rods, hunting rifles, and enough food for a businessmen’s sporting holiday. Unknown to Joe, Amy had also been checking out their eventual escape route, making sure that there would be no unexpected impediments to their flight. According to the radio, some bridges along the route had collapsed in the summer storms, but the road to Birmingham was clear.
They arrived back at the lodge as the last rays of the sun cleared the ridge, and Joe started preparing supper. He obviously enjoyed cooking, if only from cans. Amy pulled some water up from the well and washed herself. In thirty-six hours the Germans would be here.
“Where are you headed when it’s over?” Joe asked.
“Back to Washington.”
“It’ll be a bit tame after this, won’t it?”
“Joe, what are you in this for?” She hadn’t meant to ask, hadn’t wanted to know, but the question came out just the same.
He stirred the corned-beef hash thoughtfully. “Funny you should ask that,” he said finally. “Don’t get me wrong — I believe in the German cause, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that they’ve lost this war. Maybe what we’re doing will change things, but to be honest, I doubt it. It’s a mixture, I guess. Idealism, adventure, getting my own back…”
“Own what?”
“My family used to own a farm up the valley, near Louden. It wasn’t big, but it was beautiful. My folks just lived their life, hell, my pa was even good to the niggers, lot of good it did him. Then one day, just like that, man from Washington knocked on the door. It was 1935. Told us that in a coupla years time our land would be at the bottom of a lake. Nothing we could do about it. Pa just gave up, died rather than see the land drowned. And Ma died because she couldn’t live without him. Government killed them both, men in Washington who didn’t give a damn about people.”