The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll Read Free

indignation girls usually show on such occasions. Uneasiness, yes … and fear.
    God knows I didn’t want to make her uneasy or afraid, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
    At last she got up abruptly, slung a worn haversack over her shoulder, and quickly left the buffet. I followed her. Without turning round she went up the steps toward the barrier. I kept her firmly, firmly within my line of vision as, with barely a pause, I hurriedly bought a platform ticket. She had a good head start on me, and I had to tuck my stick under my arm and try to run a little. I very nearly lost her in the dimly lit underpass leading up to the platform. I found her up at the top leaning against the remains of a bombed-out platform shelter. She was staring fixedly at the tracks. Not
once
did she turn round.
    A chill wind from the Rhine was blowing right into the station. Evening came. A lot of people with packs and rucksacks, boxes and suitcases, stood about on the platform with harassed expressions. They turned their heads in dismay to where the wind was blowing from, and shivered. Ahead of them, dark blue and tranquil, yawned the great semicircle of the sky, punctured by the iron latticework of the station roof.
    I limped slowly up and down, now and then glancing toward the girl to make sure she hadn’t disappeared. But she was still there, still leaning straight-legged against the ruined wall, her eyes fixed on the flat, black trough in which the shining rails were embedded.
    At last the train backed slowly into the station. While I was looking toward the engine, the girl had jumped onto the moving train and disappeared into a compartment. I lost sight of her for several minutes among all the knots of people jostling their way into the compartments, but before long I glimpsed the tan beret in the last car. I got in and sat down right opposite her, so close that our knees were almost touching. When she looked at me, very gravely and quietly, her brows slightly puckered, the expression in her great gray eyes told me that she knew I had been following her the whole time. Again and again my eyes fastened helplessly on her face as the train sped into the oncoming evening. My lips refused to utter a word. The fields sank from view, and the villages gradually became shrouded in the night. I felt cold. Where was I going to sleep tonight, I thought … where would I ever be ableto breathe easily again? Ah, if I could only bury my face in that black hair. That was all I asked, I asked for nothing more … I lit a cigarette. She cast a fleeting but oddly alert glance at the package. I merely held it out to her, saying huskily, “Help yourself,” and felt as if my heart were going to jump out of my throat. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, and in spite of the darkness I saw her momentarily blush. Then she took one. She pulled deeply and hungrily on the cigarette as she smoked.
    “You are very generous.” Her voice was dark-toned and brusque. A few minutes later I heard the conductor in the next compartment, and as if at a signal we instantly threw ourselves back into our corners and pretended to be asleep. But I could see through my half-open lids that she was laughing. I watched the conductor as he shone his glaring flashlight onto the tickets and checked them. And the next moment the light was shining right into my face. I could feel from the way the light wavered that he was hesitating. Then the light fell on her. How pale she was, and how sad the white surface of her forehead.
    A stout woman sitting beside me pulled at the conductor’s sleeve and whispered something in his ear. I caught the words “American cigarettes … black market … no ticket …” to which the conductor responded by giving me a spiteful jab in the ribs.
    There was silence in the compartment as I asked her quietly where she was going. She named a town. I bought two tickets for the place and paid the fine. The silence of the other passengers, after