Fiction by Mildred Pond
The Stowaway - page 14
“Hello? Schmidt? I want to talk to you.” I spoke firmly, resolutely. It had occurred to me that he had
snatched my passport, while I’d scrambled to keep my balance the night of our encounter.
A hand pulled open a corner of the canvas top, and he climbed out. He looked awful. Immense dark
rings looped under his gaping eyes. Those eyes, I thought, probably had witnessed every horror the
world is capable of committing. The injured foot was a mess of pus, scabs and blisters. I handed him my
kit of ointment, cotton, and a bandage I kept more or less permanently when I traveled. He sat down,
cleaned and bandaged his foot, talking all the while.
“Wo sind wir?”
“We’re in Port Said. For the day only.” He stopped, glanced over the rail-ing. “Don’t even dream of
getting off here.”
Suddenly he mouthed a lot of frantic questions: Wasn’t there an excursion? Why hadn’t I gone with the
others? “Warum, hmmm? Mit die Amerikanisher. . und die . .others?.”
“Be quiet, Schmidt. Don’t try to escape here. They’ll probably kill you.”
“Die Amerikanisher. . .”
“What about her? Did she go to the pyramids?
Yes!” Then I became quiet, insistent. “Where are you from, Schmidt? Berlin? Munich? Hamburg?” I
paused in between the cities, looking for a give-away flicker, a twitch, anything.A mocking grin passed
along his cracked lips.“Where are you from, damnit?” I was yelling, against every rule I knew. He’d
never talk now. And then, calmly, he did.
“Czechoslovakia. “Und sie? – wohin – are you from?”
Central Europe was certainly possible. He could have become fluent in German during the long years of
German occupation.
“I’m from Devon. Southeast of London,” I said.“Sind sie heiraten?”
“Am I married! That’s none of your business. I’m doing the questioning.”
“Nein! We exchange. I tell, you tell.”