He looked up anxiously at the girl. But her back was turned to him as she adjusted the little curtain to the tiny window. She had evidently not seen. He felt relieved.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Better hurry,” the girl advised, without turning around. “You’ll find soap and towel near the pump outside.”
When he had gone, the girl reached for the razor in the bed and hid it under a loose plank in the floor, for she had seen.
A moment later Vladimir, facing the old Pomeranian peasant and his equally ancient wife, heard the light pat-pat of the Russian girl’s bare feet.
The meal of black bread and thick potato soup was eaten in silence. At its close the old peasant offered Vladimir a puff at his pipe, but Vladimir refused, remarking that he preferred a cigarette. The old peasant woman disappeared, and the girl in the far corner of the kitchen washed the dishes, putting them on the stove ledge to dry.
Having finished his smoke, the old man rose.
“There’s still enough light for you to look around,” he suggested. “My pigs are the best in all Pomerania. You must see them.”
As Vladimir followed his host out, the girl called out in Russian:
“A few feet away from the barn is your plane.”