The Seventh Cross by Anna Seghers

Author:Anna Seghers
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2015-10-14T04:30:00+00:00

George could not very well vanish into thin air. He decided: “The first slut that comes along.” But when he saw her come out from behind the shed that stood midway in Forbachstrasse, in back of the freight station, she looked so much worse even than his imagination had pictured her that he felt he could not bear to touch her with his fingertips. Her flesh on her longish head was shrinking. In the feeble light of the street lamp he couldn’t tell whether the tan-colored tuft on top was growing from her head or was merely sewed on to her hat as an ornament. He started to laugh. “That isn’t your hair, is it?”

“My hair? Why, yes.” She looked at him uncertainly, the trace of a human emotion crossing her cadaverous face.

“Well, no matter,” he decided.

She looked at him again, with a sideways glance. Then she stopped at the corner of Tormannstrasse, hesitating professionally, but ostensibly to give a final touch to her face and hair. With a show of heartiness, he took her arm. They walked along quickly. It was she who first spotted the policeman at the corner of Dahlmannstrasse and pulled George into a doorway. “Everything’s so strict now,” she said. Carefully avoiding police patrols, they walked through several streets arm in arm. At last they arrived. It was a small square, neither angular nor round; it was like a circle drawn by a child. The square and the overlapping slate roofs seemed suspiciously familiar to George. “Wonder if I lived here once with Franz”

On the stairs they had to squeeze past a small group—two fellows and two girls. One of the girls was knotting the bow tie of a young chap two heads shorter than she. She twirked the ends up, Shorty immediately turned them down, the girl yanked them up again. The other fellow had a smooth-shaven face, was somewhat cross-eyed, and very well dressed. The other girl wore a long black dress. She was surprisingly good-looking—a little white face in a cloud of shimmery pale gold. One of the fellows called out: “Good night, sweetie!”

“Good night, cockeye!” George’s woman called back.

As she was unlocking the door, Shorty shouted: “Have a good time!”

“Shut up, shrimp,” she retorted.

“Is that supposed to be a bed?” asked George.

The woman let out a flood of abuse. “You’d better go to the Englischer Hof, or to Kaiserstrasse....”

“Do be quiet and listen to me,” said George. “I’ve had some trouble, and it’s none of your damn business either what it was. I’ve been beside myself with worry and I haven’t had a wink of sleep ever since. If you can manage to make me fall asleep, I’ll treat you right. I don’t mind spending a little money, and I have some to spend.”

She looked at him with surprise. Into her eyes came a glow, as if a light were lit in a death’s-head. Then she said with the utmost determination: “Done!”

There came a thump at the door, and Shorty stuck his head in the room.

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