“How old are you, Fuselli?”
“I'm twenty now.”
“I'm thirty. I've lived more, kid. I know what's good and what's bad. This butchery makes me unhappy.”
“God, I know. It's a hell of a note. But who brought it on? If somebody had shot that Kaiser.”
Eisenstein laughed bitterly. At the entrance of camp Fuselli lingered a moment watching the small form of Eisenstein disappear with its curious waddly walk into the darkness.
“I'm going to be damn careful who I'm seen goin' into barracks with,” he said to himself. “That damn kike may be a German spy or a secret-service officer.” A cold chill of terror went over him, shattering his mood of joyous self-satisfaction. His feet slopped in the puddles, breaking through the thin ice, as he walked up the road towards the barracks. He felt as if people were watching him from everywhere out of the darkness, as if some gigantic figure were driving him forward through the darkness, holding a fist over his head, ready to crush him.
When he was rolled up in his blankets in the bunk next to Bill Grey, he whispered to his friend:
“Say, Bill, I think I've got a skirt all fixed up in town.”
“Who?”
“Yvonne—don't tell anybody.”