“But there’s another reason, Jorgensen. You may as well have it now; then perhaps you’ll realize you don’t have to thank us. That train-wreck was called ‘sabotage’—but to me, and to very many others in America, it was more than that—it was an act of war; from a treacherous, underhand enemy who hasn’t had the courage to declare himself openly. That makes you, wounded by the enemy, in the same relation to us as an injured R.A.F. pilot would be to any Britisher whose field the boy landed in. Only it’s a bit more, even, in our case. It’s more than just a plain duty, it’s a pleasure as well, because it gives us a feeling that, by patching you up, we’re striking a more direct blow against the enemy than we’d be allowed to otherwise in the present situation, which is what a Senator would probably call ‘unclarified’ if he had to find a word for it.”
He paused. The break was rhetorical, and would have been prelude to more had it not been for his daughter’s interpolation.
“I think,” she said, “there are some soap-boxes in the tool shed. Shall I get one?”
Otto stared, and Ingolls laughed again. He said:
“All right.
Otto was slow and careful. “Yes. Yes, I am sure I understand.”
He had been too slow. He became aware that Ingolls’ grey eyes, hard and intent and unsmiling now, had fixed upon him suddenly.
“Unless, of course,” said Ingolls slowly, “you don’t sympathize with the viewpoint I’ve just expressed.”
The girl got to her feet. Otto saw her cross to the bookshelves at the other side of the room, but Ingolls appeared not to notice any movement. He kept his eyes on Otto’s face, waiting for an answer.
Otto smiled. “I assure you,” he said, “that I am anti-Nazi almost to the point of insanity. At least, that is what my friends have told me.” He was on the old familiar ground and, although it seemed strangely distasteful now to gambol upon it, it was firm and solid beneath his feet. He let the smile die and the well-rehearsed gleam of earnest fanaticism replace it. He turned his body towards Ingolls and rested on an elbow. He said:
“I am sorry that you should doubt me, Mr. Ingolls. If you knew me better, you would not.” The stiffness of his English was mercifully fading. “I am a Swede, but my father and mother, some years ago, went to Norway. They lived in the region of Narvik.” He heard Clare’s light footstep as she came back across the room but he would not let himself so much as glance at her. His eyes must be fixed upon Ingolls’ and his voice dry and harsh with suppressed emotions. He said:
“Their house was de . . . demolished by Nazi bombs—and they were in it!”
There was silence, broken first by a thin, slight rustling of paper, then by Ingolls’ voice.
“I’m sorry,” said Ingolls. “I wasn’t doubting you, as you call it. I just like to be sure.”
But Otto went on, making his voice harsher yet, and slightly, ever so slightly, broken. He said:
“They were both killed. There was not anything left of them. And there were no soldiers near their house, nor anything which could be in any way mistaken for a military objective. They were both killed.” He leaned further towards the man in the chair, half his body out of the bed.
“But perhaps that was better for them,” he said. “I am sure that it was better for them. They died—but they are free now. My father would not like to live under a rule which forbids a man even to think his own thoughts.”
He laughed suddenly—and it was a wilder sound than he had intended. His head was hurting him now, and his eyes. But he must finish the work. He thought that Ingolls was about to speak and hurried on before he could. He tried to raise his voice a little more, but somehow miscalculated and heard that he was shouting and went on, not caring.
“It was better, maybe. They were old—they could not fight. But people who are not old must fight—and that is what they must fight for, to keep the right to think as
He might have gone on too long, but his head helped him. It suddenly hurt him so much that he was forced to put it back upon the pillow and lie still, his lungs labouring, until the pain died down.
Clare’s voice dropped cool and quiet into the rough-edged silence.
“Waldemar Ingolls,” it said, “you are sometimes awfully dumb!”
Then Otto felt her hand upon his forehead. The pain was fading rapidly now. He held his eyes tight shut for a moment; then suddenly opened them. He was rewarded: the strategy worked, and he caught her eyes with his and hers were not guarded. The clouded veil was not over them, and they could not find any pretext upon which to avert themselves from his and again came the strange and fearful and ecstatic shock of recognition.