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Updated: May 13, 2025
Once two men whom Peter knew very well by sight came into the shop. They were, he believed, Russians one of them was called Oblotzky a tall, bearded fierce-looking creature who could speak no English. Then suddenly, just as Peter was thinking of finding his way home to the boarding-house, Mr. Zanti appeared.
Zanti, still very slowly, as though he were thinking. "Any one been?" he said at last to Herr Gottfried. "Oblotzky." Mr. Zanti, after flinging a strange, half-affectionate, half-inquisitive look at Peter, went through into the room beyond. "What ..." said Peter. "Often enough," interrupted Herr Gottfried, shuffling back to his seat, "young boys want to know too much ... often enough."
Stephen here and I we could do nozzing we 'ad no time I did not know where Oblotzky was this girl 'ere did not know I could do nozzing Peter, believe me, believe me " The man was no scoundrel. It was plain enough as he stood there, his eyes simple as a child's, pleading still like a small boy. A minute ago Peter had hated him, now he crossed over and put his hand on his shoulder.
In front of her were the Royal Personages, on every side of her her faithful subjects ... only a cloud of dust had given occasion for a surer sign of her people's devotion. That, at any rate, Oblotzky had done. The carriage passed. Mr. Zanti now faced Peter. "Peter Boy you must believe me. I did not know, believe me, I did not.
Her name was Maria Notroska and she was engaged to the big Russian, Oblotzky, whom Peter had seen, on other days up and down through the shop. She spoke to no one. She knew but little English but she would stand for hours at the door looking out into the street. It was a long uneasy day and Peter was glad when the evening, in slow straight lines of golden light, came in through the black door.
He knew that it was Oblotzky the tall Russian who had been killed. He knew because Oblotzky was the lover of this Russian girl and he turned round to watch her, curiously, as one who was outside it all. She was standing with her back against the wall, her hands spread out flat, looking through the door into the bright street, seeing none of them.
Little Herr Gottfried, who had been silent behind them, came forward now and spoke: "It is too late," he said, "for this crying like a baby. We have no time we must consider what must be done. If it is true, what that man says that Oblotzky has blown himself up and no other is touched then no harm is done. Why regret the Russian?
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