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Vo l . 4 N o . 1 daybed. “Why don’t you sit?” He shook his head, but his legs folded and he perched on the edge of the mattress, forearms resting on his thighs, his fingertips pressed together into a rigid temple. “What is your name?” “Again, I’m sorry. I just needed…” They spoke at the same time. The young man flushed at the awkwardness. Lily waited for a response. “Daniel,” he replied in deference. “Dan.” “Dan. And you’re in the military?” “Army, the 173rd Airborne Brigade. I was at the hospital in Landstuhl for a few weeks…then on R and R…” He trailed off and his jaw began to clench again. He glanced around the room as if looking for an escape. “You have an amazing library. Hana told me you’re a writer. That you write in English.” “How many nights have you been here?” Lily felt that she and the soldier were carrying on parallel conversations in separate rooms. “Six maybe.” He shrugged. “I’ve stayed other places. But I like the peace here. I’ve never had so much time to read.” “And food? Has Hana been feeding you?” Lily kept her tone even, but Dan drew back from her questioning. She intuited from his appearance that his leave had ended some time ago. Her mind sought and found the American term: A.W.O.L.
“Never mind,” she continued. “It doesn’t matter now.” Lily wanted to hear his story. “I suppose you found the whisky?” Dan’s eyebrows drew together in a question. He shook his head. Lily leaned back to open a thin, deep drawer concealed as a desk support. “You haven’t discovered all my secrets.” Lily withdrew a half-empty bottle of Laphroaig single malt from the drawer. “There are glasses on the shelf beside you.” Dan picked out two porcelain sake cups and passed them to Lily. His taut face softened as he realized she wasn’t going to run or scream. “Yes, I’m more comfortable writing and speaking in English.” Lily picked up the earlier conversation as she poured thick fingers of whisky into the small cups. “I was born in Toronto and we stayed until my father felt it was safe to return to Germany.” She took a sip of the rich, peaty liquor. “We came back in ’51, just before my tenth birthday. Then I spent several years in Scotland at university. German has always felt like a second language to me.” “And this is where you write.” “One of the places, yes. Where I feel the safest, I suppose,” Lily acknowledged. “What do you think of Wilfred Owen’s poetry?” Dan reddened again. “I’m sorry. I have the book with me. I didn’t mean to keep it.” Lily smiled and waved away his apology.
Brenda Roper