Chapter 15 Chapter fifteen

A long train rumbled slowly into the terminal of Friedrichstraße in a cloud of white steam, whistled.Rhoda clung to Victor Henry's arm and bounced around.A uniformed Foreign Office official who sent them here to meet the train from Koenigsberg smiled.Pug found him laughing. "We haven't seen our kids in over a year," he yelled over the noise of the trains. "Really? That's a happy event." The train stopped, and people got off one after another. "My God!" Rhoda exclaimed. "Is he the one that got off the pedal? That can't be him. That's a skeleton."

"Where? Where?" said Pug. "It's gone. Over there. Ah, here he is!" Byron's chestnut hair was long and wavy and tousled, and his pale face had prominent cheekbones and bright, large eyes.He smiled and waved, but at first glance, my father could hardly recognize this young man with the pointed chin, sunken cheeks, poorly dressed, and casual manner. "It's me. It's me," he heard Byron shout. "Don't you know me, papa?" Pagula held Rhoda's hand and ran towards Byron.Byron breathed out the smell of alcohol, and he hugged his father tightly for a long time, piercing his face with a beard that hadn't been shaved for two days.Then he hugged his mother and kissed her again.

"Damn it, I'm getting dizzy," he would say out of nowhere, much like Rhoda, but in a rough baritone. "They treated us like pigs going to market in the car. I just finished my lunch and drank three different wines. Mom, you look so beautiful. You look like you are in your mid-twenties." "You look like a ghost. Why are you running around in Poland?" The Foreign Office official tugged Byron's elbow. "Do you really think it's kind to you, Mr. Henry? Dr. Neusdott, Foreign Office," he said, snapping his heels together, and grinning along his wrinkled face.

"Well, all right, sir, all right," said Byron, laughing. "But that was only after we left Warsaw. It was an atrocity in Warsaw." "Ah, that's war. We would like you to write a short opinion on your situation and give it to us at your convenience. Here is my card." Leslie Sloot had a gray face and looked very distressed. Holding a lot of documents in both hands, he came over to introduce himself to Victor Henry. "I should like very much to call on you at the embassy to-morrow, sir," said he, "while I get my head around it." "Come anytime," said Pug Henry.

"But let me tell you now," he said, turning to him as he was leaving, "Byron has been a great help." Dr. Newstrot politely emphasized that Byron could now be in the custody of his father and collect the papers later, or he could do it for Byron himself and send the papers to Lieutenant Colonel Henry's office. "Ah," said Dr. Neusdott, "it would be inhumane to introduce that red tape when it's a son coming to reunite with his parents." The car drove to the green forest area, and Rhoda sat beside his son, holding his arm, complaining that his face was too scary.Byron was her heart and soul.The first time Rhoda saw his child in the hospital, he thought of the name Byron. He was a very thin baby at the time, with a pair of big blue eyes blinking on a triangular face; , but at a glance, he knew it was a boy.She thought the boy very manly and romantic.She originally hoped that he would become a writer or an actor; she even opened his little red fist to look for the "triangular pattern" that could become a writer. She didn't know where she read that a child can predict the future by looking at the handprint after birth .Byron did not become a writer, but she believed that he did have a romantic temperament.She secretly sympathized with his refusal to consider a naval post, and even with his student days of idleness.She never liked the nickname Pug gave the child, "Blarney," which smelt of sea water, and it was years before she called him by it.On a whim, Byron suddenly went to Columbia to engage in art, which disappointed Pug, but she was secretly happy.Warren is really a descendant of Henry. He studies hard, knows how to drive a car, does things from start to finish, is an excellent student in school, pays attention to the rank of officers, and pursues it step by step.She felt that Byron was like herself, with a good nature, distressed because her dream had not been realized, and even gave up on herself.

① Blaney has the meaning of "salt water" and "sea water" in English. Startled when she spots the scar on his temple, she runs her hand over it and asks what's the matter.He then began to tell the story of his adventurous journey from Krakow to Warsaw, interrupting from time to time to marvel at what he saw in the street: the many red A-flags vertically placed around the statue of Frederick the Great ; a group of Hitler Youth members wearing brown shirts, black scarves, and black shorts, parading through the city; a group of nuns riding bicycles through Friedrichstrasse; an open-air concert in the park; a carousel that is circling. "Perfectly peaceful, isn't it? It's very calm! Dad, how's the war going? Has Warsaw fallen? Are the Allies scared? The Germans are unprecedented experts at lying."

"Warsaw is still holding on, but the battle is actually over. There are different opinions about peace with the Western ae*." "Is there any sincerity? Has it been realized? My God, do you want to go to the cafe? You can't find a single Berliner who doesn't eat sour pastry, drink coffee, and say Jokes. It's nice to be a Berliner! What am I doing? Come to think of it, the water pump broke right around the corner, and the propeller belt broke. The German plane overhead never broke. The bride had a hysterical fit. We Twenty miles to the nearest town. Away from here

There are a few farmhouses for miles and miles, but they've all been blown up to rubble..." "Cottage?" Pug put in warily. "But the Germans keep saying that their air force only hits military targets. And they boast about it." Byron laughed out loud, "What are you talking about? Dad, the German military targets include everything that moves, starting with a pig. I'm a military target too. Because I'm on the ground and I'm alive. I saw it with my own eyes. Far behind the front lines, thousands of houses were bombed. The Luftwaffe was just conducting maneuvers to deal with Britain and France."

"Be careful what you say here," Rhoda said. "We're in the car. Surely it's safe here?" "Of course. You go on," said Pug. He thought Byron's knowledge might be good intelligence material.The German Taisho hyped up the brutality of the Poles and published disgusting pictures in the newspapers of mutilated "Germans" and German officers, as well as of captured Polish soldiers happily eating, drinking and dancing Pictures of folk dances and pictures of Jews eating at soup kitchens, smiling and waving at the camera, German cannons, tanks passing by unharmed farmhouses, towns, cheerful Polish peasants cheering them on, etc.What Byron talks about adds an interesting twist to the propaganda.

Byron talked on and on.After arriving at the green forest area, the car drove into the garden. "Hey! Tennis court! It's huge!" he cried, still in a feverish tone.Everyone was sitting in deck chairs, sipping drinks, and Byron went on about the siege of Warsaw, about the dead horses in the streets, the tank traps and the horrible sentry posts on the corners, the embassy toilets that couldn't be flushed after the water mains were broken, the whole block of A building caught fire, and a group of people wanted to use buckets of sand to extinguish the raging flames.He also told of the smell of horsemeat, the sound of cannonballs, the piles of wounded in hospital corridors, the slow collapse of a synagogue in the street, the rows of cots in the basement of the embassy, ​​along dirt roads blooming with autumn wildflowers through deserted streets. He narrated the terrible investigation in the district so vividly that everyone felt as if they were actually there.The gray-blue twilight in Berlin was getting thicker, and Byron was still talking non-stop, his voice was hoarse, and he kept moistening it with drinks, but he always spoke in an orderly and clear manner.It was a stunning performance, and his parents exchanged glances over and over again.

"I'm getting hungry talking about it," Byron said.He told of the frightful dinner the Germans had given them at the Klovno station. "I did it again in Koenigsberg. As soon as we got on the train they ate us like hell. I didn't know where to put it. I thought I'd drain my bones in Warsaw. Totally exhausted." It's empty, and now it's full. But when are we going to eat? Where and how?" "Byron, your clothes are very dirty," said Rhoda. "Have you no other clothes?" "There's a big box full, mother. In Warsaw, it still has my name on it. It must have turned to ashes by now." They came to a quiet restaurant in the Kurfürstenburg.Byron smiled, pointing to a fly-spattered, crumpled sign in the window, which read: THIS RESTAURANT DOES NOT SERVE JEWS. "Are there any Jews in Berlin?" "Not often," said Pug. "They're not allowed in theaters and the like. I guess they're all in hiding." "Yeah, it's not easy in Berlin," Byron said. "Jews are active in Warsaw." When the soup was served, he stopped talking.It must have been his own voice that kept him awake, and after the soup was finished, but before the food was served, his head drooped on his chest.They had a hard time waking him up. "Let's take him home," said Pug, gesturing to the waiter. "I think he can't take it anymore." "What? Don't go home," Byron said. "Let's go to the theatre. See the opera. Let's enjoy civilization too. Let's go shopping. Ah, to be Berliners!" They put Byron to bed and went for a walk in the garden."He's multiplied," Pug said. "It's because of the girl," Rhoda said. "He rarely mentioned her." "That's how I see it. He didn't mention her at all. But it was because of her that he went to Poland, and it was because of her that he was detained in Krakow. He gave up his passport to protect her relatives. He was talking to her uncle when the synagogue collapsed. I think he was totally Jewish in what he did in Poland." Pug looked at her coldly, but she didn't notice, and continued, "Perhaps you never Slote can learn something about her. She must have a reason for something strange." The next morning, there was a stack of letters on Pug's desk. At the top was an almost square green envelope with the words "White House" printed on the corner.Inside the envelope was a one-page letter scrawled in dark pencil, with the same words printed on the letter paper. You're very right again, man.The Ministry of Finance told me just now that the ambassadors were all furious when they heard our proposal to purchase ocean-going cruise ships.Can you lend me your crystal ball?Ha ha!Write to me whenever you get the chance, and tell me about your life in Berlin, tell me what you and your wife do for fun, what German friends you have, what the people and the papers say there, How are the restaurants serving, anyway, write me and let me know whatever comes your way.How much does a slice of bread cost in Germany now?Washington is still very hot and humid, even though the leaves are starting to turn yellow. Roosevelt Putting the other letters aside, Pug gazed at this strange letter from a strange man whom he had drowned in sea water, but who was now his Commander; the founder of the New Deal movement. (a movement that Pug disapproved of), but now probably the most famous figure in the world, apart from Hitler.Such a relaxed, ordinary, and scribbled letter is not suitable for Roosevelt's identity, but it is in line with the personality of a young man on the "David" wearing a flannel sweater and a straw hat, quite conceited, and bouncing around. match.He took a yellow loose-leaf book and jotted down the essentials of life in Berlin that he was going to report in an informal letter. The obedience and urgency that he had cultivated in the Navy had become ingrained in him.The clerk's bell rang.He flipped a switch. "No visitor, White." "Yes, yes, sir. There is a Mr. Sloter who would like to see you, but I can--" "Slote? Wait a minute. I'll see him. Get us some coffee." The diplomat looked fully recovered from fatigue and refreshed, though he was a little thin in his freshly pressed tweed jacket and flannel trousers. "It's pretty spectacular," he said. "Is that pink building the new office?" "Yes. You can see them changing the guard from here." "I'm not interested in the activities of German armed men, I think so." They both laughed, and over coffee the colonel told Sloter about Byron's four-hour talk.The diplomat listened attentively, now and then running his fingers over the rim of his burning pipe. "Did he mention that unfortunate incident with Brahe?" Henry didn't understand what he meant. "We took a girl in the car and crashed into German fire?" "I don't think he mentioned it. Is that girl Natalie Jastrow?" "Yes. That time I visited the front by car, and I was accompanied by the Swedish ambassador." Pug pondered for a moment.Sloter watched his face. "No. Not a word of it." Sloter breathed a sigh of relief and perked up. "He exposed himself completely to the enemy's fire, and I had to accompany the girl out of the car and find her a place to hide." Sloter nonchalantly told the story from his point of view.Then he talked about Byron going to pull water, about his skilled car repair skills, about how he was not afraid of enemy planes and shells. "I'd like to put all of this in a letter if you feel comfortable," Sloter said. "Yes, I suppose," said Pug cheerfully. "Now, tell me about that girl named Jastrow." "What do you want to know?" Victor Henry shrugged. "Anything is fine. My wife and I are a little curious about this girl, how much trouble she has caused our children. The whole of Europe is mobilized, why is she going to Warsaw, and why does Byron go with her?" Root smiled wryly. "She's come to see me. We're old friends. I think she's out of her mind to come here. I tried my best to stop her. The child is so self-willed that she can do whatever she wants, and she Don't pay any heed to your talk. Her uncle didn't want her to travel alone, and because of the rumors about the war. Byron volunteered to go with her. As far as I understand, that's it." "Was he accompanying her to Poland out of courtesy to Dr. Jastrow? Is that the case?" "You'd better ask Byron." "Is she pretty?" Sloter puffed thoughtfully, his eyes fixed ahead. "Pretty handsome. Very clever and well-bred." He looked at his watch suddenly and stood up. "I will write you that letter, and I will mention your son in the official report I write." "Very well. I'll ask him about Brahe too." "Oh, no need to ask, no need. I just wanted to give an example of how well he cooperates." "You're not engaged to a girl named Jastrow?" "No." "I wouldn't mind getting into personal matters, but you're older than Byron, and unlike him, I can't imagine how a girl can get along with people of all ages." Slote looked at him, Not a word was said.Pug then went on: "Where is she now?" "She went to Stockholm with most of us. Goodbye, Lieutenant Colonel Henry." Around noon, Rhoda called Pug, interrupting his letter to Roosevelt. "The child has been asleep for fourteen hours," she said. "I was a little worried. I went in and saw that he was breathing as evenly as a baby, with one hand resting on his cheek." "Then let him sleep." "Does he need to write a report somewhere?" "No. He'd better sleep." Pug, at the President's request, wrote the letter loosely, concluding with a short paragraph about Byron's adventures in Poland.Various ideas arose in his mind, and he put his son's experience to official use.He dropped the letter into the diplomatic pouch.Back home, he was uncomfortable with taking another workday away from the normal reporting lines.Of course, he was also complacent about having a direct connection with the president, but that was just an instinctive reaction.He judged from experience that the connection was bad. Byron was lying on a deck chair in the garden, eating grapes from a bowl and reading a "Superman" comic book.There were probably more than twenty of these funny books lying on the grass next to him. They were all patchwork things with tacky covers. "Hey, Dad," Byron said. "How about these treasures? It's from Franz's collection." (Franz was the housekeeper.) "He said he'd begged or bought them from tourists over the years." Pug was taken aback by the sight. Funny books had always been a cause of turmoil in their family until Byron went to Columbia.Pug forbade Byron to read such books, tearing them up or burning them as soon as he found them in his possession.But there is no way.This kid is totally hooked.With difficulty Pug restrained himself from uttering words of reproach.He is twenty-four years old. "what do you think?" "Hungry," Byron said. "My God, the 'Superman' books are amazing. They make me homesick." Franz brought Pug an iced whiskey and soda on a tray.Pug sat in silence the whole time, waiting for the butler to go away.He waited a long while, for Franz had finished wiping the glass-panelled table, picked some flowers, and had been fiddling with the loose hangings on the door leading to the tennis court.He always likes to be where he can hear conversations.At this time, Byron just flipped through his "Superman" series, put all the books together, and then looked at his father bored. Franz went back into the house.Relieved, Pug sipped his iced whiskey and said, "Brannie, what you told us yesterday was really interesting." The son laughed. "I guess I'm a little dazed from seeing you and Mama again. And Berlin makes me feel funny." "You have had access to some very unusual intelligence. I think, since the war Since the outbreak, probably no second American has had the opportunity to travel from Krakow to Warsaw. " "Oh, I think it's been in newspapers and magazines." "Then you are mistaken. Who has committed the atrocities in Poland has been debated bitterly between the Germans and the Poles, and a few escaped Poles may still argue. An eyewitness like yours will be Important testimony." Shrugging his shoulders, Byron picked up another funny book. "Maybe." "I want you to write this. I'd like to send what you've written to Naval Intelligence." "Oh, papa, you think too highly of it, don't you?" "No. I want you to write tonight." "I don't have a typewriter," Byron said, yawning. "There's one in the study," said Pug. "Oh, well, I've seen it. So be it." In the past, Byron often evaded school work by perfunctory words.However, his father left him alone this time, inclined to believe that his son had matured under the fire of the Germans. "Sloot was here today. Says you've done a lot in Warsaw. Getting water to the embassy, ​​etc." "Oh, that's right. Carrying water makes me sick." "And the thing about going to the front with the Swedish ambassador. You climbed up the watchtower under German fire, and Sloter hid the girl named Jastrow in the peasant's house. He seems to be very impressed by this incident. " Byron opened a horror comic, with a grinning skull on the cover, carrying a screaming, half-naked girl up the stone steps. "Oh, yes. That's right before we crossed No Man's Land. I drew a road map." "Why does Slote keep thinking about this?" "I think it was probably because it was the last thing that happened before we left Warsaw, so it stuck in his mind." "He's going to write me a letter to praise you." "Really? Good. Did he mention Natalie?" "All he said was that she was in Stockholm. Are you going to start writing the report tonight?" "must." Byron went out after supper, and didn't come home until two o'clock in the morning.Pug was up all night, working in the study and worried about his son.his son happily told He said that he went to the opera with a few other Americans.He had a new edition of the English translation under his arm.Byron was dressed and up when Pug left the next day.He was wearing a sweater and sweatpants, and he was walking by the back door, drinking coffee, watching.At seven in the evening the father found his son still in the same place, sitting in that chair, drinking iced whiskey and soda.He was completely intoxicated in the thick book on his lap.He rubbed his sleepy eyes and greeted his father lazily.Pug said, "Have you started writing your report yet?" "I'll start writing, Dad. Hey, this is a really interesting book. Have you read it?" "I read it, but I didn't find it interesting. In fact, it was completely clear after reading fifty pages. But, I thought I should finish it, so I had to bite the bullet and finish it." Byron shook his head. "That's wonderful," he said, turning the page. Byron went out again at night, came back very late, and lay down with his clothes on, which was Pug's old pampered habit.Byron awoke at about eleven o'clock and found himself undressed, lying under the covers, clothes draped over a chair, with a note on it that said: Get your damn report out. In the afternoon, Byron was strolling around the Kurfürstenburg Avenue with his arm in his arms. Leslie Slote suddenly passed by him. Slote stopped and turned around. "Oh, you're here! What luck. I'm trying to find you. Are you going to come back to America with us? We have a flight on Thursday." "I'm not sure yet. How about some coffee and a snack? Let's be a couple of Berliners." Sloter pouted. "Honestly, I haven't had lunch yet. Well. Why are you reading such absurd books?" "I thought the book was amazing." "Brilliant! What an unusual comment." They sat down at a table in a large café on the sidewalk, where there were clumps of flowers in the space between the tables and chairs, and a brass band played a cheerful waltz in the sun. "My God, look at this life," said Byron, as they ordered the waiter, as one beamed and bowed to them. "Have you seen these beautiful, polite, sincere, humorous and cheerful Berliners? Have you ever seen a nicer city? How clean! Look at the beautiful statues, the Baroque buildings, and the The outstanding theater, and the first-class modern new theater, look at these gardens, trees, I have never seen such a green and clean city! Berlin seems to be built in a forest. The canals are so elegant. Do you see that tugboat? And its pointy chimney under the bridge? It's fascinating. But, these lovely people just bombed Poland with machine guns shooting residents from the sky, I The scars left are proof that they were the ones who razed a city as beautiful as Berlin. It's incomprehensible, you might say." Sloot shook his head and smiled. "During the war, the contrast between the front and the rear is always very different. There is no doubt that when Napoleon was slaughtering abroad, the charm of Paris remained the same as before." "Slote, you can't help but admit that the Germans are weird." "Yeah, the Germans are really weird." "That's why I read this book, in order to have a better understanding of them. This book was written by their leader. Now it seems that the person who wrote this book is simply crazy. He said that the Jews are secretly destroying The world. That's his central idea. He sees the Jews as both capitalists and Bolsheviks, plotting to destroy the Germanic nation, but only the Germans should really rule the world. It seems that he will become a dictator and drive the Jews out, Destroy France, occupy half of Bolshevik Russia, in order to gain more living space for Germany. Am I right?" "It's a bit simplistic, but it's pretty good." Sloter was interested, but he glanced unnaturally at a few nearby tables. "That's good. These lovely Berliners love this guy. Right? They vote for him, follow him, salute him, cheer him on. Don't they? What's going on? Isn't it weird? He How did they become their leader? Didn't they read the book he wrote? Why didn't they put him in a madhouse? Don't they have a mental hospital? If not this guy in a madhouse, then what What about people?" Slote looked around him as he filled his pipe.He found that no one was eavesdropping, so he was relieved, and then whispered: "Did you just discover Adolf Hitler's madness now?" "I was shot in the head by a German and that's what got my attention." "You don't learn anything from it. It's just the bubbles in the teapot, so superficial." "And what do you know about Hitler and the Germans?" Slote lit his pipe, stared into the air for a few seconds, then smiled pedantically modestly and said, "I have an opinion. It's the conclusion of some research." "Can you tell me about it? I'm interested." "It's a long story, Byron, and a complicated one." Slote looked around again. "Find another time, let's talk in another place, now..." "So can you tell me which books to read?" "You really want to see it? You must find it boring." "I will read all the books you recommend." "Well, give me your book." On the title page of a book, Slote listed a list of authors and titles in purple ink produced in Poland, and the whole page was written in neat italics.Byron slipped through the list, his heart sank. He had never heard of these Teutonic writers, followed by obscure titles, and some cited two books: Fichte, Schlegel , Arndt, Jahn, Roos, Fries, Menzel, Treichick, Moeller, van den Brouck, Lagarde, Langbein, Spengler... There were a few names on the list that he had encountered in his History of Modern Civilization course at Columbia University and that now caught his eye like raisins in gray dough: Martin Luther, Kant, Hegel. , Schopenhauer, Nietzsche.He remembered that this class was the most headache, like a bible.He got a crumpled and dirty class notebook from a classmate he was close to, and crammed into it all night, getting a "d—" in the exam. Slote drew a sharp line and added the names of many equally obscure writers: Zantayana, Mann, Veblen, Renan, Heine, Kornai, Rauschning. “Below the line are critics,” he said as he wrote. "Above the line are some of Hitler's predecessors in Germany. I think you have to know these people before you can understand him." Byron said darkly: "Is it? These philosophers need to know too? Hegel, Schopenhauer Hua wants to understand? Why? Even Martin Luther wants to understand, why?” Slote looked at the list with considerable satisfaction, adding a name or two, smoking his pipe vigorously. "I think that Hitler and his Nazism arose out of the very heart of German culture, perhaps as a tumor, but as a peculiarly German symptom. It was certain people of insight who persuaded me to hold this opinion. They Insist that this can happen anywhere as long as the same conditions are present; for example, defeat in a major war, harsh peace, devastating inflation, mass unemployment, growing communism, anarchist Inundation, etc., will lead to the appearance of the bewitched and the reign of terror.But I……" The waiter came, and Sloter kept his mouth shut and said nothing as he brought the food.The diplomat, drinking coffee and eating a snack, watched the waiter disappear from sight before continuing his conversation in a low voice. "I don't believe it though. I think it's inconceivable not to look for the roots of Nazism in nineteenth-century Germanic thought: romanticism, nationalism, and the whole source. It's contained in these books. If you're not going to Read, say, Hegel's Philosophy of History, and you give up. That's the basis." He pushed the book up to Byron and opened the title page. "Come on, this is the beginning." "Tacitas?" said Byron. "Why read Tacitus? Isn't he a Roman historian?" ① Tesitas (55?—117), a Roman historian. "Yes. Do you know Arminius and the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest?" "have no idea." "It was the ninth year of A.D., Byron, a Germanic military leader named Arminius stopped the Romans forever on the banks of the Rhine in one fell swoop, thus preserving the original temple in the hinterland of Europe. This was even a major event in the history of the world .It led to the eventual demise of Rome, and to this day affects policy and warfare throughout Europe. I think so, therefore, I think you should read Tecitus' description of the battle. You can read these things if you want , It’s okay if you don’t want to see it.” Byron squinted his eyes and nodded his head intently. "Have you read all these books? Have you read them all?" Sloter chewed his pipe and looked at the young man mockingly. "Although I don't fully remember it, yes, I've seen it all." "I guess, you actually want to say to me, let me mind these nosy things, these should be the topics that scholars who have won the Rhodes Scholarship should study." "I don't mean that at all, but it's a real problem. Well, Byron, I'm a bit late for the embassy now. Are you coming with us? We're flying to Oslo on Thursday, and from there Go to London. Then see the opportunity, by destroyer, cargo ship, ocean liner, maybe by plane via Lisbon, whatever it is." Byron said: "What is Natalie's plan? She got a little bit angry with me later, and she didn't want to talk to me much." Slote looked at his watch. "She's having trouble with me too, and she doesn't care about it. I really don't know." He hesitated. "I want to tell you something else. You may not like to hear it, and you may not believe it. But it is so, and perhaps you know better." "Just talk." "I asked her about you and if you were going back to Siena. She replied, 'I don't want him back. I wish with all my heart that I would never see Byron Henry again. If you had the chance , pass on my words, and greet him.' You find it strange. Did you quarrel before she went? I'm sure you did." Byron calmed down and said, "I haven't really quarreled. But she seems to have a bad temper." Slote said: "She was in a bad mood. She said she had a sore back from the train journey and that's why. She probably meant nothing else. I know she appreciates you. Like me, I do too. You." Byron shook his head. "Honestly, I never knew her." Slote glanced at the bill, put away the colorful marks under the saucer, and said, "Well, Byron, look, we don't have time to talk about Natalie Jastrow I just want to tell you that I have never had a moment of peace of mind since I first saw her two years ago at a very dull cocktail party in the Quay Voltaire." "Then why didn't you marry her?" said Byron, as Slote was about to rise. The older man sat back in his chair and stared at Byron for several seconds. "Well, Byron, as long as she agrees, I can't be sure that I won't marry her." "Oh, she'll agree. Listen, I think I'll probably stay here with my family. I'm not going to Oslo." Sloter stood up and held out his hand. "We give your passport etc. to your father's steward. Good luck to you." Byron shook hands, pointed and said, "I am very grateful for your speech and this book list." "This is also a little return for your help to me," Sloter said. “在你离开柏林之前，如果知道娜塔丽的行止，”拜伦说，“你是否能告诉我一下？” 斯鲁特一边用烟斗拍打手掌，磕掉烟灰，一边说了句“一定”，随后匆匆消失在人行道上的人群中。拜伦又要了一杯代用品的咖啡，打开，这时咖啡馆乐队奏起一支愉快的奥地利民间舞曲。