Thrusting its war-scarred head into the clouds, Amiens had been left
behind: they were skirting the old battle-line. Though seasons had come
and vanished, memories of tragedy were still apparent. Shell-torn walls
had been patched, but the patches served to emphasize the ruin. One
could trace in the landscape crumbling trench-systems and the rusty red
of entangled wire. Here and there, in gleaming plots, white crosses grew
in humble clusters. In fancy he pictured the hosts who had died. The
unprofitable patience of their sacrifice! Had they known what was to be
the result, would they have gone to their death so gladly? The result of
their idealism was hunger. He recalled his awkward phrase--the world's
hunger had proved to be his opportunity. Santa's horror disturbed his
memory. He was inclined to go to her and explain. Everything had to be
purchased by labor. Anything one possessed was the wage of labor. To
give things away did harm. It wasn't business. It set a premium on
laziness. Even to give food to a starving nation did harm; it made that
nation a pauper. The most primitive of all laws was that bread should
be earned by the sweat of the brow--that if a man did not toil, neither
should he eat. The only righteous way to feed starving people was to set
them to work. So his thoughts ran on, building up the argument.
But he did not go to her. It was Varensky's message that deterred him:
“He told me to say, 'Soon you can have her.'” Did Santa know what was
meant--that the message referred to Anna? She must know. What difference
would this make to her? She also loved, and she was a panther-woman.
The countryside grew blurred with dusk. The stiff, white crosses faded
out of sight. Forgetting his danger, he fell asleep, wondering whether
Anna would be with her husband at Budapest.