“Where are they now?”
“At Jahn’s, of course. Where you’re going, love.”
Helen had been under so much stress for days and nights on end. Now, suddenly, she was relaxed. She immediately forgot about the cold, her anxieties, the grief of being alone. She was going to see Milena again! Maybe even tonight. She laid her forehead against the back of Mitten’s neck. This is an angel taking me there on his motorbike! she thought. Maybe he doesn’t smell too sweet as angels go, but he’s an angel all the same because we’re on our way to Milena.
They rode through a maze of narrow alleys and reached a small paved square. It was deserted. Mitten stopped outside a restaurant with an old-fashioned facade running at least sixty feet along one side of the square. The glazed door bore the name of the place, JAHN, in gilded lettering. Behind the curtained windows Helen could just make out rows of tables with chairs perched on them upside down, a forest of legs sticking up into the air.
“This is it,” said Mitten, without turning off his engine. “Off you go. I won’t come in. You ask for Mr. Jahn, get it? Not just Jahn, right? Mr. Jahn. You tell him you want work. He’ll tell you to clear out. So then you say, ‘I’m ready to wash dishes.’ And then he says, ‘Ready to wash dishes?’ And you say, ‘Yes, I’ve already mashed potatoes for Napoleon . . .’ and he’ll take you on. Easy as pie. Got all that, have you?”
Helen wondered if she was in the middle of some crazy dream. “I don’t understand. Who’s Napoleon?”
“Why, Dr. Josef’s giant pig. Didn’t you see him up in the hills?”
“Yes, but I never knew his name.”
“He’s our mascot, Napoleon is. When we’ve seen those Phalangist bastards off, we’re going to build a great big bonfire, have a hog roast, and eat Napoleon, in tribute to him, like. Off you go, then. I’ll wait to see if you’re OK. Give me a wave from the window, right?”
“Right,” said Helen. “I’ll go in — and thank you for everything.”
She was on her way to the entrance of the restaurant when Mitten called her back. “Wouldn’t have a little cash for the gas and the guided tour, would you?”
“Oh, of course!” cried Helen apologetically, ashamed of herself for not thinking of it first. She gave him a few bills.
Then she opened the door and found herself in the comfortable warmth of the building inside. Dim standby lights faintly illuminated the large restaurant. She made her way between the tables, passing double doors that must lead to the kitchens. At the back of the restaurant there was a wide oak staircase with a faint light at the top of it. She climbed the stairs in silence, drawn as if by a magnet to the line of light showing under a door. She had almost reached the landing when she tripped on one of the steps.
“Anyone there?” asked a deep voice from the lighted room.
“Yes,” said Helen. “I . . . I’d like to see Mr. Jahn.”
“You want to see Mr. Jahn?”
“Yes, please.”
“Come on in, then, and you’ll see him.”
A chubby-cheeked man was sitting at a desk, poring over accounts books. He glanced rapidly at Helen and went back to his calculations. Classical music was playing on the radio, but the volume was turned down, and Helen had to strain her ears to pick it up.
“So what brings you here, young lady?”
“Work. I’m looking for work.”
“No vacancies.”
His thick lips gave the impression of a sulky pout. Helen stood her ground.
“I . . . I’m ready to do any kind of work. I can wash dishes. . . .”
Still writing with his stub of a pencil, the man muttered, “Ready to wash dishes, are you?”
“Yes, I’ve already mashed potatoes for Napoleon, so . . .”
She had the odd sense of speaking lines in a play, but a play that would determine the whole course of her future life. Jahn glanced up. This time he was really looking at her, and his eyes were very gentle.
“Ah, so that’s it. Potatoes for Napoleon. And how old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Did you run away from your boarding school too?”
“Yes.”
The stout man put down his pencil, took off his glasses, and ran both hands through his curly hair. Then he sighed, as if all the cares of the world were weighing down on his shoulders.
“Right,” he said at last. “Right. I’ll show you to your room. It’s up in the attic. You can begin tomorrow morning. But I already have more than enough people washing dishes. You can . . . Let’s see, yes, you can sweep up in the restaurant and wait on tables. The others will explain the job to you. Your salary won’t be very much, but you’ll get your board and lodging. Are you hungry?”
“No,” said Helen. She hadn’t even finished the food Dr. Josef had given her for the journey.
“Then off to bed with you now. It’s late.”
He switched off the radio, rose, and led her up more stairs. They climbed two floors higher and reached a dilapidated, low-ceilinged corridor with a dozen small closed doors on each side of it.
“Your colleagues’ rooms,” said Jahn.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he opened the left-hand door and stood back to let Helen in.
“Here we are. This is your room, and here’s the key.” He stepped back out into the corridor, and then turned back. “What’s your name?”
“Dormann,” said Helen. “My name is Helen Dormann. Please . . . is there a girl called Milena Bach here?”
“Milena sleeps in the room next to yours,” said Jahn as if in passing, “but don’t call her that anymore.”
“What should I call her, then?”
“Anything you like, but not Milena. Good night.” The stout man didn’t give any further explanation, and she heard his heavy tread as he walked away.
The tiny room contained only a narrow bed, a table, a chair, a washbasin, and two shelves. A cord stretched across one corner did duty as a wardrobe. But Helen was holding the key to her room for the first time in her life, her own room, and she felt wonderfully happy. A cast-iron radiator gave gentle warmth. She stood on the chair to see out of the skylight and had a view of the river, wide and silent, and the sleeping city with its street lights on.
A beginning, she thought, a new beginning. Everything will be all right.
She went to bed, worn out by exhaustion and emotion, and as she slowly fell asleep, she called to mind everyone who had ever been dear to her: her parents, coming back out of the night to smile lovingly at her; Paula, who must know what had happened by this time and might be thinking of her; Milos, now in the middle of his hardest fight somewhere; and Milena asleep on the other side of the wall, with her hair cut short.
The last thing she heard was the noise of a motorbike rattling down the road and fading away. Oh no! That’s Mitten riding off, and I forgot to wave from the window to let him know I was staying. Sorry, Mitten.
Helen was so tired that she had been afraid she wouldn’t wake up until midday, but at dawn the sound of a door being carefully closed and a key turning in the lock of the room next to hers woke her. At first she had difficulty remembering where she was. Then it all came back to her: Mitten, the capital city, Mr. Jahn, the room that was now her own, and Milena sleeping next door. Milena! Those must be her footsteps moving away down the corridor! Afraid of missing her, Helen jumped out of bed, flung on a shirt, and left her room. Right at the far end of the corridor a tall girl with cropped blond hair, wearing a cook’s white apron tied at the back, was just starting down the stairs.
“Just a minute!” called Helen.