But Statt looked back. He came back.
“You’ve always been crazy, Fanny Luve,” he said. “And now, doin’ this ... and for a dirty Jew ... for a Jew you don’t give a damn for ... for a Jew you can’t save.” He looked at her.
She lay strained in her bonds. But her mind was free. And her face, free looking at him, was calm.
Statt came forward a little more.
“Why are you crazy, Fanny Luve?”
He stooped to his knee: he kissed the hand of Fanny. Then he tramped out.
* * *
There was a smile on the face of Mrs. Luve. Her eyes saw happenings far away as if all happenings far away were happenings to smile on.
“For six hours I lay bound. I called and cried for Clara who was in bed upstairs. Just three flights up. She did not hear me.... She had heard too many other calls, I guess, since she lay there, to understand that this call was for her.” Mrs. Luve smiled. “No bell rang all that time, and I stopped calling....
“It seemed to me though, that I could hear the shot that got old Abe in the heart, as he stepped out into the street through the cafe’s swinging door.... Very soon after that, the police. Clara and I were thrown into the street. Clara died in the Hospital of pneumonia. That is all.”