Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [123]
Kahr rose from the barrel and lifted the pitchfork from its wooden pegs. The fork had three prongs, each half-a-man long. The wooden handle was shiny from use, years of lifting hay from the rick and tossing it to ungrateful cows. He edged toward the door, bringing up the pitchfork and cocking his arms. Anybody coming through the door was going to wear a pitchfork.
"Sergeant Kahr?" A woman's voice. Somewhere out in the night. "Sergeant Kahr, may I speak with you?"
Kahr was silent. He didn't know any women except Widow Wen- ner, and the widow wouldn't be out walking around his farm in the mud at night. And the widow had a frog's voice, a bass crackle. The voice outside the goat shed was young. And cultured. Kahr could tell in just those few words.
"Come near the shed," he called in a gruff voice, trying to sound armed. "Where I can see you."
Katrin von Tornitz stepped into the circle of frail light coming from the shed. Her blue coat was tight around her waist, and her arms were out for balance on the slippery field. Her shoes were slight and cut low, and muddied, and her coat had shiny buttons and large lapels. Her dark hair was cut to her shoulders. This was a city girl, no question.
"Sergeant?" She smiled at him. "May I have a word with you?"
"Are you alone?" Kahr stepped through the door to look left and right. "What are you doing out here?"
"I've come from Berlin, and I rode a bicycle all the way. Can I come in out of the cold?"
"Into the goat shed?" Kahr lowered the pitchfork.
''Maybe it's warmer in there."
Kahr glanced over her shoulder. "You alone?"
"It's important, Sergeant Kahr. You'll profit by it."
He hesitated, then said, "Sure, come in."
The sergeant led Katrin into the shed. "It's not much, but it's better than where I serve my army time." He turned over another barrel, then dragged it toward the fire. He brushed clinging straw and dirt from the barrel. "Have a seat. Do you want something to drink?" He waved toward the bottles. "A lady like you might not appreciate what I stir up here, but they'll do the job for you." He sat across from her, lifted his bottle, and swallowed gratefully.
She shook her head at the offer, then said, "Sergeant, I don't want you to be frightened."
His chin came up. "I'm not frightened."
"Well, you are going to be in a minute, as I was the first time I saw him. As everyone is, when they see him."
"Who? Who are you talking about?"
"And it isn't as if I had a choice to be with him."
"Who?" Kahr glanced at the door. Nothing outside but darkness.
"The war has forced him on me. I wouldn't tolerate him otherwise."
"Who?"
"If it weren't for this terrible struggle, I'd find his presence intolerable. My association with this man should not be held against me."
"Who?"
From the shed door came a new voice. "Will you just make the introductions, for God's sake?"
Katrin added, "I just don't want you to be afraid, Sergeant."
Sergeant Kahr had seen the posters in Berlin, and now he saw the man standing at the door. Terror lifted him from the barrel as if by the nape of his neck, and his face bunched with fear. He backpedaled, bumping into the boiler. At first he could do nothing but stare at Jack Cray, but then he scooped up the pitchfork and held it up, the points at the level of Cray's neck.
The sergeant glanced reprovingly at Katrin. "You said you were alone."
"No, I didn't," she replied. "But when I'm with this American, I wish I were."
Cray said to the sergeant, "This lady is nicer than she acts."
"What are you going to do?" Kahr's voice was windy with fright.
"What do you have in those bottles?" Cray nodded toward the workbench where the glass dully reflected the lamplight.
"Some of it is schnapps. Some of it is vodka. And some of it, I don't know what to call."
"May I have a drink?"
The pitchfork was lowered slightly. "That all you want?"
"I want to talk."
Kahr peered at the American. "What kind of talk? The kind you did at the chateau?"