“The first evening I took my place at the table assigned me, was also a birthday for me—my nineteenth.”
Vladimir wanted to cry out for the girl to stop, but his voice stuck in his throat.
The colorless voice suddenly broke.
“Don’t cry,” the man begged.
“I’m not crying,” the girl replied. “I think all my tears dried up inside of me when I sat at the table in that red plush seat. Three months after my horrible birthday celebration, I woke up in my room with the noon sun on my face. I’d forgotten to draw the curtains the night before. I reached for my hand mirror and looked at myself, and then I got down on my knees and prayed.
“In the afternoon I sold my three evening dresses, the cheap perfume and the imitation jewelry. I bought a pair of heavy shoes, the dress I have on now, and a warm jacket—all secondhand. I walked to the railroad station and looked on the board for the list of departing trains. A train for Pomerania was leaving within ten minutes. I showed the ticket-agent the money I had left and asked how far that would take me. He sold me a ticket to this village. With all my money gone, I could not turn back, you see. These peasants took me in. They are not our people. I cannot talk with them. But I have enough to eat and I am warm.”
Suddenly Vladimir found a limp square of paper slipped into his hand as the girl whispered:
“For remembrance from one who can never fly again, to you who tomorrow return to the sky.”
And she was gone.