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Updated: June 20, 2025
He smiled at the girl and covered her hand with his. Her eyes regarded him luminously. They sat eating their late meal, von Stinnes chatting of the latest developments.... A mob of communist workingmen had attacked the poet Muhsam while he was unburdening himself of proletarian oratory in the Schiller Square.
Dorn jumped for the gun that had appeared and caught his arm in time. Rachel then this was something about Rachel? Hazlitt ... Rachel. What? A fight over Rachel? Rachel gone, dead for always. Get the gun away, though.... They were stumbling across the room, twisting and locked together. He saw von Stinnes rise, stand undecided. Mathilde's face, like something shooting by outside a car window.
He talked with Levine...." "I don't understand," she answered. "He is doing something I don't understand, because he is a traitor." She became silent and moved closer to Dorn. "Oh, Erik," she sighed, "I must cry. I am tired." He embraced her as she began to weep. Von Stinnes emerged, red-faced and elated. "It is settled," he announced. "Hello! what's wrong with Matty?" "Tired," Dorn answered.
Beyond the persistent rumors that the city, cut off from the fields, would starve in another two days and that the legendary armies of Hoffmann were within a stone's throw of the Hofbrau House, there was little excitement. "My employers," von Stinnes had explained on the fourth day, "are waiting to see if the Soviet can stand against the Noske armies from Prussia.
Dorn caught a glimpse of his face. Its importance had vanished. The line of soldiers marched on. When they had turned a corner the sound of firing suddenly resumed. "Shadows again," chuckled von Stinnes. Snow-covered streets, moonlight, waiting buildings, cold and shadows here was reality. The thing under the gay tumult of the cafés. Under the baron's laughter.
And the little music keeps tinkling downstairs. A butterfly of sound in the night. Like a miniature of all living. Ah, I'm growing sentimental. Sitting holding hands with the sea. She was sad when I left her. What of it? Von Stinnes. Dear friend! No sadness there. He was right. New phrases, graceful emotions. What an artist! But Warren couldn't write the story.
Gayety with a rumble and a darkness underneath. But such things were only wilder accents to laughter. If the detachment would leave him, if he could familiarize himself, he could lay hands on something; dance away in a macabré mardi-gras. Two bottles of Sekt had been emptied. A polite Ober responded with a third. Von Stinnes grew eloquent. "Not before March, Mr. Dorn. It will come only then.
"And if you talk of love you may be spared the trouble of having to make love," she laughed quietly. "But I would rather talk of von Stinnes. I am worried." "You are young," Dorn interrupted, "and full of political error. I am beginning to believe von Stinnes. The most terrible result of the war has been the political mania it has given to women."
I have news from secret sources." Baron von Stinnes, lounging wearily in front of a chess-board, spoke and raised a cup of mocha to his lips. Dorn, picking his way through a German novel, looked up gloomily and nodded. "Anywhere," he agreed. "Munich, Moscow, Peking." In a corner of the room Mathilde was curled on the luxurious hotel divan watching through half-closed eyes the figures of the men.
But a fear loosened his heart. The smell of sea whirled in his veins. "Perhaps," he thought dreamily, "perhaps there will be nothing. She will say no." He hesitated, straightened with a sigh. "A wife deserter, a seducer, a murderer. I mustn't expect too much, eh, von Stinnes?" He smiled at the night. The sound of the Baron's name seemed to bring a strength into him.
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