Children of No Man's Land

by G. B. Stern

... This man was rather handsome, viewed from the close range which usually brings distortion of features. She tried to laugh under his stinging kisses, to pick up the spirit of burlesque where they had dropped it.... “Pretty child,” he muttered; “pretty neck—no wonder she leaves it always unclothed.”

“Herr Koch—you promised—I said I wanted to rest——”

“Felix, then.”

“I want to rest, Felix——” She took advantage of a momentary relaxation of his arms, to snuggle down into the cushions, as a baby might; to close her eyes with a semblance of trustful drowsiness ... her lips were half parted, her breathing regular; one curled-up fist pushed against her cheek. At any moment she might just drop off to sleep....

Would he leave her alone now? Was she safe under this guise of silly, innocent confidence? Any sophisticated recognition of his attempt to start a surreptitious affair with her, would have been fatal.

Felix Koch, like all South Germans, was a sentimentalist. Church spires by moonlight, or a slumbering infant, were unfailing bell-pulls to his softer nature. Gently he touched her hair with his fingers. “Sleep then, pretty child, there is nothing to fear,” he murmured, profoundly moved by this self-evidence of the rake’s reverence for purity. It was all the easier to assume, since he did not really care for Deb.

Deb thought: “And so one must love a man, to like being kissed by him?... Or is it only because he is married that I can’t like it?”

She had been in love, of course; not the conventional once and once only, but twice. A glamorous episode with a young Territorial Captain, Con Rothenburg, eldest son of her father’s partner. And later on, a man whose age doubled hers: the doctor who had taken over the practice while the Marcus’ old family practitioner went round the world for his health. This was a less complete attachment than with Con, for Doctor Steele was not even aware of her tremulous passion; nor with what conscientious honesty she prevented herself from deliberately seeking to contract the ailments which would have ensured his attendance. It had occurred to her, while his hand was on her racing pulse: “How easy it would be for him just to bend down and kiss me. So easy that it doesn’t seem fair he shouldn’t. So easy—he could forget it at once; and I should always remember....” But Doctor Steele had relinquished his locum tenency, and disappeared, leaving Deb with no such memory.

There had been other—minor adventures. A great many. So irresistibly did she attract them, that one might fancy her reincarnated from some famous harlot of old history. And besides, she involuntarily invited them because she was so plainly on the look-out. Yet she was on the look-out not for minor adventures, but for the big thing; the thing to engross her existence; to dwarf its lesser trickiness; to drench her quick nervous soul with peace; provide employment for her restless, life-bitten brain. If Deb had been an artist, the big thing had been easier to find. She was an artist, but in appreciation only; non-creative. Or if Deb had been religious.... Religion attacked her imagination as little as the winged Victory, rushing like wind down the steps of the Louvre. She knew that the masterpiece was there; she had not seen it herself; others had seen it; she hoped one day to see it. Meanwhile—she could do without it, and not feel the loss.