"I have the most profound admiration for my sister's intelligence," Hasz said.

"She's managed brilliantly in adverse circumstances. But I don't want these concerns to weigh upon her. I want her to feel safe as long as she can."

"So do I," Andras said. "But, as you observed, I'm not in the habit of keeping secrets from my wife."

"You've got to promise me you won't speak to her about it. I don't like to place you in a position of incomplete honesty, but in this situation I find I have no choice."

"You mean to say that I I have no choice." have no choice."

"Understand me, Andras. We've invested a great deal in Klara's safety already. If you were to tell her now, it might all have been in vain."

"What if it were my wife's wish not to bring her family to ruin?"

"What else can we do? Would you prefer that she turn herself in? Or that she risk her own life and your child's in an escape attempt?" He got to his feet and paced before the fireplace. "I assure you I've considered the problem from every angle. I see no other course. I beg you to respect my judgment, Andras. You must believe that I have some insight into Klara's character too."

Though it still seemed a betrayal, Andras agreed to keep his silence. In fact he had no other choice; he had no money of his own, no high connections, no way to step between Klara and the law. And he was to leave again for Banhida in the morning. At least the current arrangement would keep Klara protected while he was away. He thanked Hasz for his pledge to see what might be done for Matyas, and they parted with handshakes and serious looks that suggested they would move through this difficulty with the stoicism of Hungarian men. But as Andras left the house on Benczur utca the news struck him again with all its original force. He felt as if he were walking through a different city, one that had lain all this time just behind the city he had known; the feeling brought to mind Monsieur Forestier's stage sets, those palimpsestic architectures in which the familiar concealed the strange and terrifying. In this inside-out reality, the secret of Klara's identity had become a secret kept from her, rather than one held by her; now Andras, no longer deceived, had agreed to become his wife's deceiver.

He thought it might calm his nerves to go down to the river and stand on the Szechenyi Bridge. He needed some time to arrange the situation in his mind before he went home to Klara. How long after he'd entered the work service, he wondered, had Madame Novak gone to the authorities? Was it merely the memory of past wrongs that had sent her there, or had there been a more recent wound? What did he really know of the present situation between Klara and Novak? Was it possible that, despite Gyorgy's reassurances, Andras had been betrayed? A jolt of nausea went through him, and he had to stop at the curb and sit down. A stray mutt sniffed around his ankles; when he extended a hand toward the dog it drew back and ran away. He got up and pulled his coat closer, tightened his muffler around his throat. From Benczur utca he walked to Bajza utca, and from Bajza to the tree-lined stretch of Andrassy ut, where pedestrians huddled against the chilly wind and the streetcar sounded its familiar bell. But as he walked down Andrassy he found himself becoming increasingly anxious, and he realized that it was because he was approaching the Opera House, where, as far as he knew, Zoltan Novak was still director. It had been more than two years since he'd seen Novak; the party at Marcelle's had been the last time. He wondered if the wounds Novak had suffered that night could have moved him to a cruel and subtle act--if he might have brought Klara's peril to his wife's attention, might have betrayed Klara through his knowledge that Edith would want to be rid of her. Andras stopped on the street before the Operahaz and considered what he might say to Novak that very moment if he could walk into the man's office and confront him. What accusations might he make, what would Novak admit?

The knot of connection among the three of them, himself and Novak and Klara, was so convoluted that to pull at any one of its strands was to draw the whole mess tighter. It was possible that if Andras walked into that building he might emerge with the knowledge that Klara had betrayed him, had been unfaithful to him for months--even that the child she was carrying was not his own. But wasn't it worse to stand outside in ignorance, worse to return to Banhida and not know? The doors of the Operahaz were open to the brisk afternoon; he could see men and women inside, waiting in line at the boxoffice window. He drew a breath and went in.

How many months had passed, he wondered, since he'd been inside a theater? It had been since his last summer in Paris--he and Klara had gone to see a dress rehearsal of La Fille Mal Gardee. Now he walked in through one of the Romanesque doorways of the performance space and made his way down the carpeted aisle. Onstage, the curtains had been drawn aside to reveal an Italian village square with a white marble fountain at its center. The buildings surrounding it were made of fake stone cut from yellow-painted pasteboard, with awnings of green-and-white-striped canvas. A carpenter bent over a set of steps leading into one of the buildings; the sound of his hammer in the open space of the auditorium gave Andras a pang of nostalgia. How he wished he were arriving here to install a set, or even to set up a coffee table for the actors and deliver their messages and fetch them when it was time to go onstage. How he wished he had a deskful of halffinished drawings waiting for him at home, a studio deadline looming in the near distance.

He ran to the front of the auditorium and climbed the steps at the side of the stage.

The carpenter didn't look up from his work. In the wings, a man who must have been the properties master was arranging props on their shelves; the whine of an electric saw rose from the set-building shop, and the smell of fresh-cut wood came to Andras with its layered suggestions of his father's lumberyard and the Sarah-Bernhardt and Monsieur Forestier's workshop and the labor camp in Subcarpathia. He wandered farther into the back hallways of the theater, up a set of stairs to the dressing rooms; the whitewashed doors, with their copperplate-lettered names in brass cardholders, chastely hid the disasters of makeup boxes and stained dressing gowns and plumed hats and torn stockings and dog-eared scripts and moldering armchairs and cracked mirrors and wilted bouquets that he knew must lie on the other side. When Klara had been a girl, he realized, she must have dressed for her performances in one of these rooms. He remembered a photograph from those days, Klara in a skirt of tattered leaves, her hair interwoven with twigs like a woodland fairy's. He could almost see her sylphid shadow slipping across the hall from one room to another.

He walked down the hallway and climbed a flight of stairs; at the top, a hallway held another row of dressing rooms. The hall ended at a wooden door with a white enameled nameplate, the same one Novak had used at the Sarah-Bernhardt in Paris.

There were the familiar words etched in black paint, their gold highlights and curlicues dimmed by the travel between Paris and Budapest: Zoltan Novak, Directeur Zoltan Novak, Directeur. From behind the door came a deep cough. Andras raised a hand to knock, then let it drop. Now that he had arrived at this threshold, his courage had fled. He had no idea what he would say to Zoltan Novak. From within came another deep cough, and then a third, closer. The door opened, and Andras found himself face-to-face with Novak himself. He was pale, wasted, his eyes bright with what appeared to be fever; his moustache drooped, and his suit hung loose on his frame. When he saw Andras before him his shoulders went slack.

"Levi," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know," Andras said. "I suppose I wanted a word with you."

Novak stood for a long moment before Andras, taking in the Munkaszolgalat uniform and the other changes that accompanied it. He let out a long and labored exhalation, then lifted his eyes to Andras's.

"I must say you're the last person I would have expected to find outside my door,"

he said. "And, to be perfectly honest, among the last I might have wanted to see. But since you're here, you might as well come in."

Andras found himself following Novak into the dim sanctum of the office and standing before the large leather-topped desk. Novak waved a hand toward a chair, and Andras took off his cap and sat down. He glanced around at the shelves of libretti, the ledger books, the photographs of opera stars in costume. It was the Sarah-Bernhardt office refigured in a smaller, darker form.

"Well," Novak said. "You might as well tell me what brings you here, Levi."

Andras folded and unfolded his Munkaszolgalat cap. "I had some news this afternoon," he said. "I've just learned that your wife revealed Klara's identity to the Hungarian police."

"You learned that just this afternoon?" Novak said. "But it happened nearly two years ago."

Andras's face flamed, but he kept his eyes steady on Novak's. "Gyorgy Hasz saw to it that I knew nothing. I went to him today to see if he could help exempt my brother from front-line duty, and he told me that his funds were engaged in keeping my wife out of jail."

Novak got up to pour himself a drink from the decanter that stood on a table in the corner. He glanced back over his shoulder. Andras shook his head.

"It's just tea," Novak said. "I can't take spirits anymore."

"No, thank you," Andras said.

Novak returned to the desk with his glass of tea. He was pale and haggard, but his eyes burned with a terrible fierce light, the source of which Andras was afraid to guess.

"The government is a clever extortionist," Novak said.

"Thanks to Edith, Klara's life is in danger," Andras said. "And my brother is on a train to Belgorod as we speak. I'm to rejoin my company in Banhida tomorrow morning and can do nothing about any of it."

"We all have our tragedies," Novak said. "Those are yours. I've got mine."

"How can you speak that way?" Andras said. "It's your own wife who did this.

And it wouldn't surprise me if you'd had a hand in it."

"Edith did what she got it into her mind to do," Novak said curtly. "She heard a rumor from a friend that Klara had come back to town. Heard she'd married you, and that you'd gone to the work service. I suppose she thought I might go looking for Klara, or that Klara might look for me." He spoke the last words in a tone of bitter irony. "Edith wanted to give her what she thought she deserved. She thought it would be a simple matter, but she didn't count on the Ministry of Justice to be so willing to be bought off.

When she heard about the arrangement they'd made with your brother-in-law, she was furious."

"And now? How do I know she won't do something more, or worse?"

"Edith died of ovarian cancer last spring," Novak said. He gave Andras a challenging look, as if daring him to show pity.

"I'm sorry," Andras said.

"Spare me your condolences. If you're sorry, it's only because you've lost the chance to hold her accountable for what she did. But she was punished enough while she lived. Her death was a terrible one. My son and I had to watch her go through it. Carry that back with you to the work service, if you want something to ease your anger."

Andras twisted his hat in silence. There was no way to reply. Novak, seeing he'd rendered Andras mute, seemed to relent a little. "I miss her," he said. "I was never as good to her as she deserved. I suspect it's my own guilt that makes me cruel to you."

"I shouldn't have come here," Andras said.

"I'm glad you did. I'm glad to know Klara's still safe, at least. I've tried not to hear of her at all, but I'm glad to know that much." He began to cough deeply, and had to wipe his eyes and take a drink of his tea. "I won't know more of her for a long time, if ever. I'm leaving here in a month. I've been called too."

"Called where?"

"To the labor service."

"But that's impossible," Andras said. "You're not of military age. You have your position here at the Opera. You're not even Jewish."

"I'm Jewish enough for them," Novak said. "My mother was a Jew. I converted as a young man, but no one cares much about that now. I shouldn't have been allowed to keep this job after the race laws changed, but some friends of mine in the Ministry of Culture chose to look the other way. They've all lost their their jobs by now. As for my jobs by now. As for my position in the community, that's part of the problem. They mean to remove me from it.

Apparently there's a new secret quota for the labor battalions. A certain percentage of conscripts must be so-called prominent Jews. I'll be in illustrious company. My colleague at the symphony was called to the same battalion, and we've just learned that the former president of the engineering college will be joining us too. Age isn't a factor. Nor, unfortunately, is fitness for service. I've never quite shaken the consumption that brought me back here in '37. You've been through the service yourself; you know as well as I do that I'm not likely to return."

"Surely they won't make you do hard labor," Andras said. "Surely they'll give you a job in an office, at least."

"Now, Andras," Novak said, with a note of reproach. "We both know that's not true. What will happen will happen."

"What about your son?" Andras said.

"Yes, what about my son?" Novak said. "What about him?" His voice trailed into silence, and they sat together without saying a word. Into Andras's mind came the image of his own child, that boy or girl sitting cross-legged in Klara's womb--that child who might never be born, and who, if born, might never live past babyhood, and who might then live only to see the world consumed by flames. Novak, watching Andras, seemed to apprehend a new grief of his own.

"So," he said, finally. "You understand. You're a father too."

"Soon," Andras said. "In a few months."

"And you'll be finished with the labor service by then?"

"Who knows? Anything might happen."

"It'll be all right," he said. "You'll make it home. You'll be with Klara and the child. Gyorgy will maintain his arrangement with the authorities. It's not her they want, you know; it's his money. If they prosecute her it will only bring their own guilt to light."

Andras nodded, wanting to believe it. He was surprised to feel reassured, and then ashamed that it was Novak who had reassured him--Novak, who had lost everything but his young son. "Who will look after your boy?" he asked again.

"Edith's parents. And my sister. It's fortunate we came back when we did," Novak said. "If we'd stayed in France, we might be in an internment camp by now. The boy too.

They're not sparing the children."

"God," Andras said, and put his head into his hands. "What'll become of us? All of us?"

Novak looked up at him from beneath his graying brows; the last trace of anger had gone out of his eyes. "In the end, only one thing," he said. "Some by fire, some by water. Some by the sword, some by wild beasts. Some by hunger, some by thirst. You know how the prayer goes, Andras."

"Forgive me," Andras said. "Forgive me for saying you weren't a Jew." For it was the verse from the Rosh Hashanah liturgy, the prayer that prefigured all ends. Soon he would say that prayer himself, in the camp at Banhida among his workmates.

"I am a Jew," Novak said. "That was why I hired you in Paris. You were my brother."

"I'm sorry, Novak-ur," Andras said. "I'm sorry. I never meant you any harm. You were always kind to me."

"It's not your fault," Novak said. "I'm glad you came here. At least this way we can take leave of each other."

Andras rose and put on his military cap. Novak extended his hand across the desk, and Andras took it. There was nothing more to do except bid each other farewell. They did it in few words, and then Andras left the office and pulled the door closed behind him.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

Barna and the General THAT EVENING, when he returned home to the apartment on Nefelejcs utca, he told Klara nothing of what had passed between him and her brother; nor did he mention that he had seen Novak. He said only that he'd been on a long walk around the city, that he had been thinking about what he might do when he returned from the service. He knew she'd taken note of his anxious distraction, but she didn't ask him to explain his mood. The fact that he was going back to Banhida the next day must have seemed explanation enough. They ate a quiet dinner in the kitchen, their chairs close together at the little table. Afterward, in the sitting room, they listened to Sibelius on the phonograph and watched the fire burning in the grate. Andras wore a flannel robe Klara had bought for him, and a pair of lambswool slippers. He couldn't have imagined a setting more replete with comfort, but soon he'd be gone and Klara would be alone again to face whatever might come. The more comfortable he felt, the more contented and drowsy Klara looked as she lay back against the sofa cushions, the more painful it was to imagine what lay on the other side. Gyorgy was right, he thought, to have protected Klara from the knowledge of what had happened. Her tranquility seemed worth his own dishonesty.

She was utterly serene as she spoke of the changes pregnancy had brought about in her body, and of the comfort of being able to talk to her mother about them. She was tender with Andras, physically affectionate; she wanted to make love, and he was happy for the distraction. But when they were in bed, her body surprising in its new balance, he had to turn his face away. He was afraid she would sense he was keeping something from her, and would demand to know what it was.

Once he was back at Banhida he was spared that danger, at least. He had never been so glad to have to do heavy work. He could numb his mind with the endless loading of brown coal into dusty carts, the endless pulling and pushing of the carts along the tracks. He could stun his limbs with calisthenics in the evening lineup, could submit to the drudgery of chores--the cleaning of barracks, the cutting of firewood, the hauling away of kitchen garbage--in the hope that the exhaustion would allow him to fall asleep at once, before his mind opened its kit bag of worries and began to display them in graphic detail, one after the next. Even if he managed to avoid that grim parade, he was at the mercy of his dreams. In the one that recurred most frequently, he would come upon Ilana lying in the hospital in a place that wasn't quite Paris but wasn't Budapest either, on the brink of death; then it wasn't Ilana but Klara, and he knew he had to give his blood to her, but he couldn't figure out how to transfer it from his own veins into hers. He stood at her bedside with a scalpel in his hand, and she lay in bed pale and terrified, and he thought he must first press the scalpel to his wrist and then think of a solution. Night after night he woke in the dark among the coughs and snores of his squad-mates, certain that Klara had died and that he had done nothing to save her. His sole consolation was that his term of service would end on December fifteenth, two weeks before she was due. He knew that it was foolish to pin all his hopes on that release date when the Munkaszolgalat showed so little respect for the promises it had made to its conscripts; he tried to remember the hard lessons of disappointment he'd learned in his first year of service. But the date was all he had, and he held on to it like a talisman. December fifteenth, December fifteenth: He said it under his breath as he worked, as if the repetition might hasten its arrival.

One morning when he was feeling particularly desperate, he went to the prayer service before work. A group of men met in an empty storage building every day at dawn; some of them had tiny dog-eared prayer books, and there was a miniature Torah from which they read on Mondays, Thursdays, and Shabbos. Inside his tallis, Andras found himself thinking not of the prayers, but, as often happened when he performed any religious observance, of his parents. When he'd written to tell them Klara was pregnant, his father had written back to say they'd make a trip to Budapest at once. Andras had been skeptical. His parents hated to travel. They hated the noise and expense and crowds, and they hated the crush of Budapest. But a few weeks later they had gone to visit Klara and had stayed for three days. Andras's mother had promised to come back before the baby was born and to stay as long as Klara needed her.

She must have known it would be a comfort to Andras. She was expert at comforting him, at making him feel safe; she had done it unfailingly all through his childhood. During the silent Amidah, what came to him was a memory from Konyar: For his sixth birthday he'd been given a wind-up tin circus train with little tin animals rattling behind the bars of their carriages. You could open the carriages to take out the elephants and lions and bears, who could then be made to perform in a circus ring you'd drawn in the dust. The toy had come from Budapest in a red cardboard box. It so exceeded any Konyar child's imagining of a toy that it made Andras the subject of jealous rage among his classmates--most notably the two blond boys who chased him home from school one afternoon, trying to catch him and take the train away. He ran with the red cardboard box clutched against his chest, ran toward the figure of his mother, whom he could see up ahead in the yard: She was beating rugs on wooden racks at the edge of the orchard. She turned at the sound of the boys' approaching footsteps. By that time Andras couldn't have been three meters away. But before he could reach her, his foot caught on an apple-tree root and he flew forward, the red box leaving his hands in a rising arc as he threw out his hands to catch himself. In one graceful motion his mother dropped her rug-beating baton and caught the box. The footsteps of Andras's pursuers came to a halt. Andras raised his head to see his mother tuck the train box under one arm and pick up her rug-beater in the other hand. She didn't make a move, just stood there with the tool upraised. It was a stout branch with a sort of flat round basket fixed to one end. She took a single step toward the two blond boys. Though Andras knew his mother to be a gentle person--she had never struck any of her sons--her posture seemed to suggest that she was ready to beat Andras's attackers with just as much fervor as she had employed in beating her rugs. Andras got up in time to see the blond boys fleeing up the road, their bare feet raising clouds of dust.

His mother handed him the red box and suggested that he keep the train at home for a while. Andras had entered the house with the sense that his mother was a superhuman creature, ready to fly to his aid in moments of peril. The feeling had faded soon enough; not long afterward he'd left for school in Debrecen, where his mother couldn't protect him. But the incident had left a deep imprint upon him. He could feel his mother's power now as if it were all happening again: The red cardboard box of his life was flying through the air, and his mother had stretched out her hands to catch it.

When he wasn't consumed with thoughts of Klara, he was thinking about his brothers. The mail distribution center had become a source of constant dread. Every time he passed it he imagined receiving a telegram that brought terrible news about Matyas's fate. There had been no word since his deployment to the east, and Gyorgy's efforts to help him had met with frustration. Gyorgy had sent a series of letters to high Munkaszolgalat officials, but had been told that no one could bother with a problem of this scale when there was a war to be fought. If he wanted to arrange Matyas's exemption from service he would have to contact the boy's battalion commander in Belgorod.

Further inquiry revealed that Matyas's battalion had finished its service in Belgorod and had been sent farther east; now the battalion command headquarters was situated somewhere near Rostov-on-Don. Gyorgy sent a barrage of telegrams to the commander but heard nothing for weeks. Then he received a brief handwritten note from a battalion secretary, who informed him that Matyas's company had slipped into the whiteout of the Russian winter. They had registered their location via wireless a few weeks earlier, but their communication lines had since been broken and their whereabouts could not be determined now with any certainty.

So this was what he had to picture: his brother Matyas somewhere far away in the snow, the tether to his battalion command center severed, his company drifting with its army group toward deeper cold and danger. What was he eating? What was he wearing?

Where was he sleeping? How could Andras lie in a bunk at night and eat bread every morning when his brother was lost in Ukraine? Did Matyas imagine that Andras hadn't tried to help him, or that Gyorgy Hasz had refused? Who was responsible for Matyas's current peril? Was it Edith Novak, who had spilled Klara's secret? Was it Klara's longago attackers? Was it Andras himself, whose connection to Klara had made the price of his brother's freedom so high? Was it Miklos Horthy, whose desire to restore Hungary's territories had drawn him into the war, or Hitler, whose madness had driven him into Russia? How many other men besides Matyas found themselves in extremis that winter, and how many more would die before the war was over?

It was some comfort to know that Tibor, at least, remained far from the front lines. His letters continued to drift in from Transylvania according to the whims of the military postal service. Three weeks would go by without a word, then a clutch of five letters would come, then a single postcard the next day, and then nothing for two weeks.

During his time in the Carpathians, the tone of Tibor's writing had devolved from its casual banter to a stricken monotone: Dear Andras, another day of bridge-building. I Dear Andras, another day of bridge-building. I miss Ilana terribly. Worry about her every minute. Plenty of disaster here: Today my workmate Roszenzweig broke his arm. A complex open fracture. I have no splints or casting materials or antibiotics, of course. Had to set the fracture with strip of planking from the barracks floor. Or, Eight servicemen down with pneumonia last week. Three Eight servicemen down with pneumonia last week. Three died. How it grieves me to think of it! Iknow I could have kept them hydrated if I hadn't been sent out with the road crew. And another letter, in its entirety: Dear Andraska, I Dear Andraska, I can't sleep. Ilana is in her 21st week now. Last time the miscarriage occurred in the 22nd. Andras wished he could write to Tibor about what he'd learned in Budapest, but he didn't want to compound Tibor's fears with his own. He wasn't alone in his anxiety, though; every week a pair of ivory-colored envelopes arrived from Benczur utca with words of reassurance. One would be from Gyorgy-- No news, no new threats. All goes on No news, no new threats. All goes on as before--and the other would carry Klara's mother's seal-- Dear Andras, know that we Dear Andras, know that we are all thinking of you and wishing you a speedy return. How Klara misses you, dear boy! And how happy it will make her when you come home. The doctor believes her to be getting on quite well. Once she sent Andras a small package, the contents of which had evidently been so attractive that nothing remained in the box except her note: Andraska, Andraska, here are a few sweets for you. If you like them, I'll send more. Andras had brought the box back to the barracks to show it to Mendel, who had roared with laughter and suggested they display it on a shelf as an icon of life at Banhida. It was a comfort, too, to have Mendel there; they would finish their terms of service together and would travel back to Budapest on the same train. At least that was what they planned, marking off the boxes on their hand-drawn calendar as the days grew colder and the distant hills faded to winter brown.

But on the twenty-fifth of November, a day whose gray blankness yielded in the evening to a confetti storm of snow, there was a telegram from Gyorgy waiting for Andras at the central office. He tore it open with shaking hands and read that Klara had given birth the previous night, five weeks before her due date. They had a son, but he was very ill. Andras must come home at once.

It was a long time before he could move or speak. Other work servicemen tried to shuffle him aside to get to the counter; was he going to stand there all day? He made his way to the door of the office and staggered out into the snow. The lights of the camp had been lit early that evening. They formed a brilliant halo around the quadrangle, broken only by a brace of brighter, taller lights on either side of the administrative offices.

Andras moved toward that bracket of lights as if toward a portal through which he might be conducted to Budapest. He had a son, but he was very ill. A son. A boy. His boy, and Klara's. Fifty miles away. Two hours by train.

The guards who usually flanked the door had gone to supper. Andras went in unhindered. He passed by offices with electric heaters, telephones, mimeograph machines. He didn't know where Major Barna's office was, but he felt his way into the heart of the building, following the architectural lines of force. There, where he would have placed the major's office if he had designed this building, was the major's office. But its door was locked. Barna, too, had gone to supper. Andras went back outside into the blowing snow.

Everyone knew where the officers' mess hall was. It was the only place at Banhida from which the smell of real food issued. No thin broth, no hard bread there; instead they ate chicken and potatoes and mushroom soup, veal paprikas, stuffed cabbage, all of it with white bread. Servicemen who had been assigned to deliver coal or remove garbage from the officers' mess hall had to suffer the aromas of those dishes. No serviceman, except those who waited on the officers, could enter the mess hall; it was guarded by soldiers with guns. But Andras approached the building without fear. He had a son. The first flush of his joy had mingled with the physical need to protect this child, to interpose his own body between him and whatever might do him harm. And Klara: If their child was dangerously ill, she needed him too. Guards with guns were of no consequence. The only thing that mattered was that he get out of Banhida.

The guards at the door were not ones he recognized; they must have been fresh from Budapest. That was to Andras's advantage. He approached the door and addressed himself to the shorter and stockier guard, a fellow who looked as though the smells of meat and roasted peppers were a torment to him.

"Telegram for Major Barna," Andras said, raising the blue envelope in one hand.

The guard squinted at him in the glow of the electric lights. Snow swirled between them. "Where's the adjutant?" he asked.

"He's at dinner, too, sir," Andras said. "Kovacs at the communications center ordered me to bring it myself."

"Leave it with me," the guard said. "I'll see he gets it."

"I was ordered to deliver it in person and wait for a reply."

The short stocky guard glanced at his counterpart, a bullish young soldier half asleep at his post. Then he beckoned Andras closer and bent his head to him. "What do you really want?" he asked. "Work servicemen don't deliver telegrams to camp commanders. I may be new here, but I'm not an idiot." He held Andras's gaze steady with his own, and Andras's instinct was to answer truthfully.

"My wife just gave birth five weeks early," he said. "The baby's sick. I have to get home. I want to ask for a special leave."

The guard laughed. "In the middle of dinner? You must be crazy."

"It can't wait," Andras said. "I've got to get home now."