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were no children in the house. And then a parlour, with lots of things in it, and a little room more like a closet, with a small painted wooden table and four chairs. They ate there. It was a dinette, Erna said. And a bathroom you couldn't turn around in. You couldn't get clean in it, surely; it was too little. It was like the train.
    'I have my trunks, Erna,' he said dimly.
    'Trunks? But you've already got three suitcases.'
    'Yes, but you see, I brought everything. Since I'm not going back. I have my books ...'
    'Oh well, we can leave them all down in the cellar. The janitor won't mind. You don't even need to open them.'
    'But, Erna, you see, I need the books. I have to have the books for my work.'
    'What work?'
    He had never said this sentence before in his life, though he had often thought it. 'I am writing a book.'
    'Oh.' It wasn't anything much, that 'Oh', unless it was suspicion.
    Heinrich stood uneasily in the room. He saw no place where a man might sit, securely. He thought of his books, the busts of Goethe and Beethoven, his fur gloves, and all the other things he had had for some time, and needed and wanted with him. There was scarcely room for him here, and there was Erna, waiting for something. How nervous women made you: they were full of questions, just standing and looking.
    'Well,' Erna said, and there was desperation in her voice. 'Well, what shall we do now?'
    Heinrich stared back at her, nearsightedly. 'I don't know,' he said.
    'Maybe we ought to unpack, and then you can tell me about those awful Nazis and all the things they did to you.'
    She got a suitcase, pulling and dragging it into the bedroom.
    'You take the things out, and I'll put them away,' she said. He unwound his scarf and drew himself out of his massive coat. He put his coat on one of the beds, and it mussed the taffeta spread, and Erna saw herself having to iron it tomorrow. So he was messy, too, was he: a dirty, messy old German. He undid his suitcases so slowly that Erna wanted to scream, push him aside, and do it herself. He fumbled because he had taken eight months to pack them, and now everything was happening so fast. He would rather have talked a while, and then had some coffee, and then presently done a little unpacking. No need to attend to all three suitcases right away.
    'I must get my trunks,' he said.
    'Have you got the baggage checks? We should have done that at the station, while we were there. If you'd only told me, Heinrich.'
    He began heavily to paw into his pockets looking for a wallet, and Erna said to him: 'Oh, not now , Heinrich, there's no sense in doing that now. Since we didn't do it anyhow when we were there at the station.'
    When the three suitcases were unpacked, Erna said she had to go out and do the marketing. This was a lie; she always did the marketing first thing in the morning, when you had a better choice. Heinrich watched her from a window - a narrow window, entirely submerged in ruffled net curtains. He saw a stout, middle-aged woman, walking away from him, down the street; she wobbled on high heels, and her dark red coat blew about her legs. She was thinking about Luther and how it would be when he came home. And suddenly she was trying not to cry.
     
    'Heinrich,' Luther said, being very genial, 'what are your plans?'
    Heinrich hadn't enjoyed supper much; it seemed so frail. A salad with a slice of pineapple was the main plate, as far as he could make out, and spaghetti, which was an Italian dish and not very healthy.
    Besides it was hard to understand Luther; not that he spoke fast, but he swallowed his words, so Heinrich had to say: 'Excuse?' and lean forward and listen all over again. Now Heinrich was startled. He had just come. Why should he make plans?
    'But I will do my work, Luther.'
    'Oh,' Luther said. Erna had told him about the book. 'Well, what's your book about? Maybe it'll be a best-seller like Anthony Adverse or one of those things Erna's always reading, and then we'll all be rich and go to