“If Berlin has a change of heart,” said my caller, “I'll let you know. Sleep well, Major.” And he was gone.
As you might expect, the ghastly incident on the ramp has left me with a splitting headache. I have just taken 2 aspirin (650 mg; 20:43) and shall doubtlessly rely on a Phanodorm at bedtime. Not a word of solicitude from Hannah, of course. Whilst she could clearly see that I was shaken to the core, she simply turned away with a little lift of the chin—as if, for all the world, her hardships were greater than my own . . .
Ah, what's the matter, dearest sweetling? Have those naughty little girls been “playing you up”? Has Bronislawa again fallen short? Are your precious poppies refusing to flower? Dear oh dear—why, that's almost too tragic to bear. I've some suggestions, my petkins. Try doing something for your country, Madam! Try dealing with vicious spoilers like Eikel and Prufer! Try extending Protective Custody to 30, 40, 50,000 people!
Try your hand, fine lady, at receiving Sonderzug 105 . . .