"How did you get that?"
"I shot myself."
"You mean, you had an accident?"
"No. On purpose."
"Where?"
"Here in Berlin."
"When?"
"Last winter."
"Why aren't you dead?"
"Because the German doctors are very clever. That's where they dug the bullet out."
Franz laughed. Edward smiled:
"Don't you believe me?"
"Of course I don't."
"Why not?"
"Why should you shoot yourself? You've got money."
His flickering attention moved about the room, fastened on the letters. He examined them with interest:
"Erich? Is that your friend in London?"
"Yes."
"And these are both written in English?"
"Yes."
"Read some of this one. I want to hear how it sounds."
Edward, faintly smiling, read aloud:
" 'In fact, I don't think she was at all seriously aggrieved. I remarked: You know what Edward is, and she agreed that we all knew what you were. You may be thankful, my dear, that we don't.' "
He paused, asked:
"Well, did you understand it?"
"A little."
"What?"
"There's a bit about something being expensive, isn't there? Doesn't 'dear' mean expensive?"
"Yes,"
"You see? I can understand English."
Franz smiled complacently, helped himself to a cigarette:
"No, but tell me, Edward. How did you really get that scar?"
"I've told you."
"No. But really. Wasn't it in the War?"
"Yes, if you like."
"You fought in the War?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill many Germans?"
"Quite a lot."
"Then I shall kill you," said Franz, catching Edward by the throat. But he became serious almost immediately:
"It must have been terrible."
"It was awful," said Edward.
"You know," said Franz, very serious and evidently repeating something he had heard said by his elders: "that War ... it ought never to have happened."