“There is something I should have told you if I’d known you were meaning to leave London. I am going to become a Catholic. Perhaps this will surprise you. It would have very much more than surprised me a year ago. I don’t know exactly when I shall make my first Communion, but it will be soon. Until that is over I shall say nothing to Mary or to my Mother, but I wanted you to know. It is impossible for me to say much about it. I don’t propose to try to convert you by describing how it happened. Only I have the most extraordinary feeling of peace. And you who know me will know what a lot that means. Needless to say, I shall carry on with the work here.

“My best wishes for Christmas and the New Year.

ERIC”

*   *   *

A long whistle sounded from the darkness of the trees by the canal bank. Edward rose from his chair, pushed open the window, peered down:

“Franz?”

“Edward?”

“Look out.”

Edward took the key of the flat from his pocket, let it fall.

“Good. I’ve got it.”

A moment later, and the door opened.

“Well, Edward, you old house, how goes it?”

Franz took off his overcoat, coat and scarf. Then he went, as usual, to the glass and carefully parted his hair with a pocket comb. After this he poured water into the basin and washed his hands.

“How goes it?” Edward asked.

“Bad.”

“Been having another quarrel with your stepfather?”

Franz nodded, uttered a sudden animal sound like a laugh and performed three rapid handsprings on the back of the sofa.

“Wonderful,” Edward mocked. He picked up a paper-knife from the table; asked:

“Can you do this?”

“No. How do you do it? Show me.”

“It’s quite simple.”

“No. Show me. Do it again.”

“What’s that?” asked Edward, to change the subject, pointing to a long scar on Franz’s arm.

“That was last May. At my sister’s. The police broke one of our windows with machine-gun bullets.”

“Are you a Communist, then?”

“No, of course not.”

Franz laughed. Asked suddenly:

“You’ve got a scar, too.”

Edward was rather startled. He didn’t think it showed.

“How did you get that?”

“I shot myself.”

“You mean, you had an accident?”

“No. On purpose.”

“Where?”

“Here in Berlin.”

“When?”

“Last winter.”

“Why aren’t you dead?”

“Because the German doctors are very clever. That’s where they dug the bullet out.”

Franz laughed. Edward smiled:

“Don’t you believe me?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why should you shoot yourself? You’ve got money.”

His flickering attention moved about the room, fastened on the letters. He examined them with interest:

“Erich? Is that your friend in London?”

“Yes.”

“And these are both written in English?”

“Yes.”

“Read some of this one. I want to hear how it sounds.”

Edward, faintly smiling, read aloud: