“But every man must be at least something of a sentimentalist—and while I hate the present rulers and doctrines of my first country with a far greater hate than would be possible to any man of any other nationality, I still give you the toast of Germany. To the Germany of green, fat fields and slow, winding rivers; the Germany of Beethoven and Blücher; of Rhenish wine and Wagner; of Württemberg and the Black Forest; of Grimm and Handel and Frederick’s Hussars; of my father and my mother and my wife. . . .”
Otto said:
“I will drink to that Germany with you.”
He put his hands upon the broad arms of his chair and raised himself and stood upright and tottered a little and then arranged his cumbersome legs and rested one hand upon the back of another chair while Ingolls watched him and did not make the mistake of offering help.
They raised their glasses and drank. The room was very quiet and through the windows, as an underline to silence, drifted the croaking chorus of the frogs.
They set down their glasses, and the dog by Ingolls’ side padded softly back to his place upon the hearth and lay.
And Otto climbed the stairs to his room. He was in bed when he heard the sound of Clare’s returning car—but when she came softly in, he feigned deep and untroubled sleep.
He had the answer to his problem now. He knew what he must do—but the manner of his doing it must be plotted. . . .
He slept for only four hours, but when he waked Lena had already finished her work about the room and it was nearing eleven. He dragged himself from the bed and bathed and shaved and clothed himself and was finished with his breakfast when Clare paid her morning visit.
She looked at him with a smile which seemed careful, and her eyes did not meet his for more than an instant. She said:
“You look all right. How d’you feel?” Her voice was determinedly light, and Otto realized, without remembering, that it must have been this way now for many days.
He said: “I am very well. Fine!” and tried to make her look at him, but failed.
“I’ve been talking to my parent,” she said. “He has a hangover.” She was busy with a cigarette box-upon the mantel now, checking its contents.
Otto levered himself to his feet. He stood upon the splints without swaying and made up his mind and moved forward, tor the first time, without his stick. She wheeled as he moved and her eyes widened in sudden alarm. She said:
“Oh, be careful!” and came forward as if to support him and then backed away a step as she found him close to her and holding with one hand to the mantel-shelf. He said:
“I am all right! Quite all right. I have been . . . strange, I know—but that is over now. I . . . there was a . . . a thing which was worrying my mind. A problem which I did not know how to deal with. But I know now. I wished to tell you that.”
She said: “I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about,” and still did not meet his eyes.
“I am well now,” he said. “And I know the answer to my problem and I will tell it to you soon. To you and your father. But before—now—there is this.”
He took her by the shoulder with his free hand. Beneath the thin silk of her blouse her flesh was firm and alive and coolly warm.
She looked at him now, into his eyes. She looked as if she were afraid, but she did not drop her gaze, and in her eyes he saw again the recognition.
He was very close to her, towering above her. His grip was strong upon her shoulder and it seemed that the blood which was coursing through her body was flowing into his body through his hand.
He lowered his head and she tilted her head back and their mouths touched and a bright flame, bliss and agony inextricably blended, transfixed him.
His eyes closed and he swayed. He steadied himself and opened them again and she was gone. He looked down in amazement at the hand which had held her; it felt as if it were still touching her.
He told them after dinner that night. She and her father sat by the open french windows of the long, low-ceilinged living-room and he came in to them and stood rather stiffly to face them both, braced upon his stick. Ingolls started to say something—and then saw his face and was silent, and Clare drew in her breath with a small, startled, sibilant sound. He said:
“There is something which I have to tell you. I am not what you think I am. I am a serving officer of the German Army. I am on duty, but not in uniform. My name is not Nils Jorgensen but Otto Falken. I was not a passenger upon the train which was derailed: I was in charge of the . . . the working party which was responsible for the derailing.”
There came a strangled little sound from Clare—and then silence. Father and daughter stared steadily up at him. His mouth was dry, and he had to moisten his lips with his tongue before the words world come easily again. He said:
“There is a very great reason why I am telling you this. It is that my mind has changed. I am no longer loyal to the Reich and my oath of service. I am of opposing opinion. My mind began to change at the very beginning of this new duty I was given—or even before that, I think; but I did not know it I did not know it rightly until after I was hurt and was here.”
He paused, and still Ingolls did not speak and watched him. And Clare’s eyes were fixed upon him too. He could feel them. She said, very quietly and as if she did not know she were speaking:
“Oh, God! . . . Oh, my God!”
Then Ingolls spoke. His voice, amazingly, was his ordinary voice. He said:
“The Vulcania? You were aboard her, weren’t you? Or was that some sort of a cooked-up story?”
“Yes,” Otto said. “Yes, I was aboard her. I was Nils Jorgensen, a carpenter’s mate; the only thing that was . . . was arranged was my being taken aboard. I do not know how—but they are very clever.”
Clare spoke to him. If she had not been in his sight, he could not have known her voice. She said:
“The story about the English woman and the boy and your keeping them afloat all that time?”
“That was true.” Otto looked straight in front of him. “I . . . we were together when we jumped from the ship. The boy found our way to get off. He was . . . a good boy. I tried to save him and his mother.”
There was a long silence, and in it no one moved.
“The train,” said Ingolls Suddenly. “Did you plan that and carry it out?”
Otto said: “It was planned and the charge placed and the . . . the beginning work done by my superior officer. But he could not be there on the final day—and I was commanding the work-party. I was . . . involved in the wreck because a man had left something near the track and it might have been dangerous to be found and I tried to recover it.”
Clare spoke again. Her face was hidden from him by the hand which was over her brow. She said:
“That terrible thing in Texas? That dreadful oil fire? Did you . . .”
This time he did not let her finish. He said:
“That was . . . had nothing of my work in it. It was my superior officer—the same man. I have had . . .” He fumbled and lost his words and sentence and breathed deeply and started again. “I should explain that my work was more than being assistant to my super—to this man. It was double work. He is suspected of having ambitions for himself which are not liked by the ones above him, and my main duty was to report secretly upon him while being his aide—his lieutenant. . . . I do not explain it well but perhaps you will understand.”