“Where are you making for?” His thin face was shaded with beard.
“North.” Leiser knew this game.
“Where are you from?”
Leiser did not reply but asked, “What’s the next town?”
“Langdorn.”
“Far?”
“Five kilometers.”
“Somewhere to stay?”
The old man shrugged. It was a gesture not of indifference nor of refusal, but of negation, as if he rejected everything and everything rejected him.
“What’s the road like?” Leiser asked.
“It’s all right.”
“I heard there was a diversion.”
“No diversion,” the old man said, as if a diversion were hope, or comfort, or companionship; anything that might warm the damp air or lighten the corners of the room.
“You’re from the east,” the man declared. “One hears it in the voice.”
“My parents,” he said. “Any coffee?”
The old man brought him coffee, very black and sour, tasting of nothing.
“You’re from Wilmsdorf,” the old man said. “You’ve got a Wilmsdorf registration.”
“Much business?” Leiser asked, glancing at the door.
The old man shook his head.
“Not a busy road, eh?” Still the old man said nothing. “I’ve got a friend near Kalkstadt. Is that far?”
“Not far. Forty kilometers. They killed a boy near Wilmsdorf.”
“He runs a cafe. On the northern side. The Tom Cat. Know it at all?”
“No.”
Leiser lowered his voice. “They had trouble there. A fight. Some soldiers from the town. Russians.”
“Go away,” the old man said.
He tried to pay him but he only had a fifty-mark note.
“Go away,” the old man repeated.
Leiser picked up the suitcase and rucksack. “You old fool,” he said roughly, “what do you think I am?”
“You are either good or bad, and both are dangerous. Go away.”
There was no roadblock. Without warning he was in the center of Langdorn; it was already dark; the only lights in the main street stole from the shuttered windows, barely reaching the wet cobbles. There was no traffic. He was alarmed by the din of his motorbike; it sounded like a trumpet blast across the market square. In the war, Leiser thought, they went to bed early to keep warm; perhaps they still did.
It was time to get rid of the motorbike. He drove through the town, found a disused church and left it by the vestry door. Walking back into the town he made for the railway station. The official wore a uniform.
“Kalkstadt. Single.”
The official held out his hand. Leiser took a bank note from his wallet and gave it to him. The official shook it impatiently. For a moment Leiser’s mind went blank while he looked stupidly at the flicking fingers in front of him and the suspicious, angry face behind the grille.
Suddenly the official shouted, “Identity card!”
Leiser smiled apologetically. “One forgets,” he said, and opened his wallet to show the card in the cellophane window.
“Take it out of the wallet,” the official said. Leiser watched him examine it under the light on his desk.
“Travel authority?”
“Yes, of course.” Leiser handed him the paper.
“Why do you want to go to Kalkstadt if you are traveling to Rostock?”
“Our cooperative in Magdeburg sent some machinery by rail to Kalkstadt. Heavy turbines and some tooling equipment. It has to be installed.”
“How did you come this far?”
“I got a lift.”
“The granting of lifts is forbidden.”
“One must do what one can these days.”
“These days?”
The man pressed his face against the glass, looking down at Leiser’s hands.
“What’s that you’re fiddling with down there?” he demanded roughly.
“A chain; a key chain.”
“So the equipment has to be installed. Well? Go on!”
“I can do the job on the way. The people in Kalkstadt have been waiting six weeks already. The consignment was delayed.”
“So?”
“We made inquiries … of the railway people.”
“And?”
“They didn’t reply.”
“You’ve got an hour’s wait. It leaves at six thirty.” A pause. “You heard the news? They’ve killed a boy at Wilmsdorf,” he said. “Swine.” He handed him his change.
He had nowhere to go; he dared not deposit his luggage. There was nothing else to do. He walked for half an hour, then returned to the station. The train was late.