She looked at him, and the dark-blue eyes blinked once and grew cold, and the smile faded from her mouth and she turned directly about and walked quickly away.
Apathetically, Otto leaned back against his tree. He did not even watch her go. He felt tired and empty, and cursed himself for an over-conscientious fool.
He was still standing there when the little priest came up to him. It was quite dark now, and all the street lamps were on, and it was growing very cold. He had probably leaned there, slouched against the tree, for some thirty minutes. He was wrapped in grey gloom, and for the first time since Berlin regretting life in the Luftwaffe. He started when the little man spoke to him, and peered down through the darkness at the strange, dumpy figure with its shapeless, bundle-like coat and floppy, curl-brimmed hat. But he did not answer.
“Never mind,” said the priest, very gently. “It doesn’t matter.”
There was something in the voice which, made Otto feel ashamed. He brought his mind to attention with considerable effort. He said:
“I’m sorry. What was it you wanted?”
The priest, who had begun to move away, turned back. He said, his head tilted to look up at Otto:
“I have to note something down. My memory, you know . . . I was wondering . . . Could you lend me a pen, perhaps? . . . Or a pencil would do. . . .”
“Huh?” Otto’s tone was sharp. He was momentarily startled by the word
“I think I have one,” he said—and began to grope in his pockets, searching for the ordinary stub which he had brought in addition to
The tree was in a circle of darkness made blacker by its own shadow—and the priest began, while Otto was delving into one pocket after another, to edge towards the street-lamp between the tree and the hotel-entrance. He too was searching in his pockets, and Otto moved automatically with him, until they were both on the very edge of the bright pool of light.
“I’m sorry.” Otto was fumbling furiously. “I know I’ve a bit of pencil somewhere.” He wondered why he was taking so much trouble with the old idolator. Maybe it would be all right to let him use
While he still delved, now into his hip-pockets, the little man took something from some recess in the shapeless coat. He said:
“You see, I broke my own pencil . . . the last lead . . .”
He held out something to Otto, thrusting the hand which held it into the light: it was a pencil; a cheap, utterly ordinary propelling pencil, indistinguishable from any which might be cheaply bought in any stationery store throughout Europe or even America. But in one vital respect it was identical with that in Otto’s breast-pocket: its original white-metal cap, which had probably once held the usual piece of eraser, had been removed and a clumsy, obviously home-made wooden plug had been substituted. . . .
Otto’s heart jumped violently: he hoped the shock had not been visible to other eyes. He managed to say, casually:
“Too bad! I’ll find mine in a minute,” and study his companion thoroughly for the first time. He realized that he had seen him before: he had sat at the table next the beautiful German. He wondered . . .
But he was cautious. It could do no harm to be cautious. After all, a little man like this might conceivably—as anyone very possibly but improbably might—lose the top of a cheap pencil and replace it with a plug of wood roughly shaped with a pocket-knife! He applied the test. He said:
“By the way, do you happen to know what time it is? I’ve a train to catch. . . .”
The little priest, with a worried look of concentration, started to undo the buttons of the shapeless, enveloping coat. It took him quite a long time. When he had them undone, he reached inside, to another coat presumably, and at last brought his hand out bearing a huge pumpkin of a watch, its case of gunmetal, attached to a heavy silver chain. He moved the monstrosity into the light and peered at it carefully. He said, with gentle surprise:
“Why, it’s seventy-one past, or earlier. . . . I’d no idea! . . .”
And then Otto knew. He waited, and nothing happened—and then produced his own pencil and watched in amazement while the priest made some careful and, Otto was sure, meaningless scratches upon a piece of paper.
He looked up at Otto with a shy, kindly smile. “Thank you,” he said in the gentle voice and returned the pencil. “If you are going this way, perhaps we might walk together? . . .”
And so Otto did not return to Kornemunde. Instead, at the frigid grey hour of five a.m. upon the next morning, he boarded the S.S.