“Is it possible?”
“I know now why they all have such high piercing voices. It comes from talking in sets. But I always used to wonder what went on behind; in their own minds.”
“Do not wonder. There is no arrière-boutique in these types. They are most simple.”
“They don’t like us. They think we are frigid; not cordial, is one of their phrases.”
“That is a most superficial judgment. Stay! I have a splendid idea. We will leave for the present this large book. But why should you not immediately translate a story of Andrayeff? They are quite short and most beautiful. You will find them unlike anything you have read. I have them here. We will at once read one.”
“I must go out; it will soon be too late.”
“You have had no dinner? Ach, that is monstrous. Why did you not tell me? … It is half eleven. There is yet time. We will go to my dumme August in the East-end.”
In her room, Miriam glanced at the magic pages, hungrily gathering German phrases, and all the way to Aldgate, sitting back exhausted in her corner she clung to them, resting in a “stube” with “Gebirge” all round it in morning and evening light. When they reached their destination she had forgotten she was in London. But the station was so remote and unknown to her that it scarcely disturbed her detachment. The wide thoroughfare into which they emerged was still and serene within its darkness behind the spread veil of street sounds, filled with the pure sweet air of adventure. The restaurant across the road was a little square of approaching golden light. It was completely strange. There was a tang of coarse tobacco in the air, but not the usual restaurant smell. There were no marble-topped tables; little square wooden-legged tables, with table-covers of red and blue chequered cotton; pewter flagons, foreigners, Germans, sturdy confident Germans sitting about. It was Germany.
“Well? Is it not perfectly dumme August?” whispered Mr. Shatov as they took an empty corner table, commanding the whole room. There was a wooden partition behind them, giving out life. Her fatigue left her.
“Für mich ist es absolut als wär ich in Hannover.”
“At least here you shall have an honest meal. Kellner!”
She did not want to eat; only to sit and hear the deep German voices all round her and take in, without observation, kindly German forms.
“Simply you are too tired. We will have at least some strong soup and Lager.”
The familiar smooth savoury broth abolished the years since she had left Germany. Once more she was finding the genuine honest German quality reflected in the completeness of their food; all of it even the bread, savoury and good through and through, satisfying in a way no English food was satisfying, making English food seem poor, ill-combined, either heavy and dull, or too exciting. She saw German kitchens, alles rein und sauber, blank poliert, large bony low-browed angry-voiced German servants in check dresses and blue aprons, everlastingly responsibly at work.
And here was Lager, the Lager of the booming musical German cafés. She was sure she would not like it. He was taking for granted that she was accustomed to beer, and would not know that she was having a tremendous adventure. To him it did not seem either shocking or vulgar. Protected by his unconsciousness she would get perhaps further than ever before into the secret of Germany. She took a small sip and shuddered. The foamy surface was pleasant; but the strange biting bitterness behind it was like some sudden formidable personal attack.
“That is the first time I’ve tasted beer,” she said, “I don’t like it.”
“You have not yet tasted it. You must swallow, not sip.”
“It makes your throat sore. It’s so bitter. I always imagined beer was sweet.”
“There is perhaps something a little acid in this imported Lager; but the bitterness is most good. It is this biting quality that is a most excellent apératif. We will have also honey cakes.”
The light, not too sweet, porous crisp mealiness of the little cakes was German altogether. Mr. Shatov was whispering busily. She feared he would be heard. There was not much conversation in the room; large deep solid sentences reverberated through it with a sound of thoughtfulness, as though the speakers were preoccupied, like travellers, talking with their eyes turned inward upon their destination. All of them appeared serious and sober.
“Just as we crossed the frontier one big fat German roused up and said in an immense rolling voice. ‘Hier kann man wenigstens vernunftiges Bier haben!’ ”
“Ssh! They will hear.”
“What then? They are here nearly all Jews.”
“Jews? But they are nearly all fair!”
“There may be a few Germans. But many Jews are fair. But you have not told me what you think of this story.”
“Oh I can see the man and hear his voice” … Nearly all the people in the room were dark. It was the man sitting near, with the large fresh fair German face who had made her imagine the room was full of Germans. But there were no hooked noses; no one in the least like Shylock. What were Jews? How did he know the room was full of them? Why did the idea cast a chill on the things she had brought in with her? She drew the little book from her pocket and took a long draught of Lager. It was still bitter, but the bitterness was only an astringent tang in the strange cool lively frothy tide; a tingling warmth ran through her nerves, expanding to a golden glow that flowed through the room and held
