The face of the woman who stood in the doorway looking up at him was so ravaged by hunger that it was hard to tell what her age might be. But for the braids of hair wound round her head, even her sex would have been in doubt. The voluminous peasant rags she wore were quite shapeless and her feet and legs were bound with sacking like a man’s. She stared at him dully, then said something in Polish and turned to go inside. He leaned forward and spoke in German.
“I am a Prussian soldier. There has been a great battle. The Russians are defeated.”
He said it as if he were announcing a victory. She stopped and looked up again. Her sunken eyes were quite expressionless. He had the curious idea that they would remain so even if he were to draw his sabre and cut her down.
“Who else is here?” he said.
Her lips moved again and this time she spoke in German. “My father. He was too weak to go with our neighbours. What do you want here?”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“He has the wasting fever.”
“Ah!” If it had been the plague, he would have chosen to die in the snow rather than stay.
“What do you want?” she repeated.
To answer her, he undid the fastenings of his cloak and threw it back to reveal his wounded arm.