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“I’ve no idea. I wasn’t thinking of that. But they have to accept that they lost! Even if some of them think they were betrayed by their politicians rather than their army being beaten.”
“You know a lot about it. Most Brits that I know don’t.”
“I lived in Germany in the twenties, when my father was with the embassy there. I had friends. It wasn’t so long ago.” She had forced out all the memories she could, but a few, deeply personal, refused to be banished. People were hungry and frightened, proud of what they remembered, and confused and ashamed by what they had become: shabby and always poor. She shook her head. “Losing is terrible,” she said, finding the words difficult. “I’m glad they’re getting up on their feet again, even if Adolf Hitler is something of a joke with his waving arms and his absurd little mustache. At least they’ve got their spirit back, and some sense of self-respect.”
Ian seemed lost for an answer. There was patience in his eyes, as if he were looking at a child. “Hope,” he said after a moment, “and a direction to turn their anger? That’s not quite the same thing.” He smiled, but it struck her as a matter of intent, lacking real pleasure. “It’s pretty destructive to blame yourself for everything, but it’s no better to blame other people, especially a particular group of other people.”
“You have to know the cause, in order to stop it happening again,” she pointed out. “History repeats itself, if you let it.”
“I know it does,” he agreed. “But not exactly the same way. There are always diffe
rences. The war wasn’t the Gypsies’ fault; in fact, they had nothing to do with it.”
She was stunned. “Who’s blaming the Gypsies?” she said incredulously.
“Or the trade unionists, or the homosexuals…or the Jews,” he went on, his face totally serious. “It’s what people do that’s good or bad, not who they are.”
She realized that they had left talking about themselves, and their memories. They were now speaking of their most intense beliefs, the issues they were prepared to fight for.
“How big a difference is there?” she asked. It was not a challenge, she wanted to know. It was surprising to her—frightening—how much it mattered to her what he thought.
He weighed his words before he spoke. “Well, for some, very little. We can only answer for what we know…or would know if we cared enough. There’s a terrible temptation to look at only what you want to, and carefully avoid seeing anything else. ‘I didn’t know!’ is the oldest excuse in the world.”
“Is it?” she challenged. “Really an excuse?”
He smiled again. “Am I my brother’s keeper? Didn’t Cain ask that about Abel? Well, the answer is, Yes, you are! You are responsible for what you could have done, had you not chosen to look the other way.” There was anger in his voice, and distress.
Elena sat silent for several moments.
People passed by them, walking carefully along the narrow way between the tables, swaying a little to adjust their bodies to the movement of the carriage.
He spoke apologetically. “With due deference to Milton, ‘They also sin who only stand and watch.’?” Then he sat back. “Would you like a liqueur with your coffee? Something terribly Italian?”
“We should be on the night train from Rome to Milan later this evening. Let’s have a liqueur then.”
He agreed, pleased she was looking forward to it, and they made their way as gracefully as possible back to their carriage.
* * *
—
They arrived in Rome and changed trains with just enough time to catch the night train to Milan. Normally, Elena would have found it tedious, but with Ian there it was entirely different: so much to talk about—funny things, memories from long ago, sadness, surprising discoveries. They had much to share, even more to discover about each other, often stories that explained something they could never have understood otherwise. She was surprised at how much she told him about herself involved her grandfather. Perhaps it was because he had taught her the things she cared about most. Their minds seemed to have followed the same paths, and they did not have to explain themselves. Who did not love the songs of Gilbert and Sullivan? Or know exactly how far Earth was from the moon, or admire the French painters from before the war?
Ian told her more about his sisters and made her laugh. He clearly cared for them very much and was slightly self-conscious about how deeply they cared for him. She was catching glimpses into the life of his heart, small pictures like the illuminated letters of a manuscript.
* * *
—
From Milan, they needed to catch the next train to Paris. They had to wait about two hours and took the opportunity to walk a little and take a good meal in one of the railway restaurants. Elena was surprised to notice at a table, about ten feet away, a face she recognized from Amalfi. It took her a moment to remember his name, and then it came to her: Walter Mann.
He looked at her briefly, then away again as he tried to attract the attention of a waiter. He must have recognized her because he smiled. It was remarkable how that lit his rather grave face. She smiled back, then a waiter crossed between them and she returned her attention to Ian. They were sharing adventures and misadventures, laughing at memories that formed the high points of childhood.
“I remember once, when Mike and I were in the front window watching the thunder and lightning,” she continued. “We had two dogs then, and they started howling. We joined in.” She began to laugh as she thought of it. They had kneeled on the window seat, shoulder to shoulder, the dogs beside them, all matching each other in making a wonderful noise. “Mother came in to see what on earth was the matter,” she told him. “We must have sounded terrible, but we couldn’t explain, we were laughing so hard. Even the dogs were too happy to be alarmed. Mother wanted to be furious, said we’d wakened the entire neighborhood, but then she started to laugh, too. Silly things you remember, isn’t it?”
“It’s the good things,” he replied. “The things that matter most are sometimes very small, but they’re like portmanteau words: They carry all kind of meaning you can’t explain.”
They walked toward their Paris-bound train and found their seats. Maybe they could each take a short nap, but why waste such precious time when there was so much to talk about? One could sleep later.
