Cray peeled off his shirt and pants. He found a shirt with wooden buttons, too tight but wearable. Next were a pair of pants and a work coat.
He returned to the kitchen and opened a drawer for a fork. He lifted the Strudel reverentially. He sniffed the pastry, but only slightly, lest smelling it might somehow diminish it prematurely. He lowered the plate to the table, sat on a sturdy chair, and squared himself to this grand task. He carefully cut off a small piece of the pastry, monitoring where all the crumbs fell so he could return to them, and lifted it to his mouth.
The muzzle of a shotgun bit into the back of Cray's neck. His fork froze.
"This is my house," a voice behind Cray said. An old woman's voice. "And that's my Strudel."
Cray sat utterly still. His knife was under his belt.
The shotgun barrels lifted from his neck. The woman came into his view. She was wearing a long green coat, a crocheted shawl, and a frown.
The shotgun was held comfortably in her hands. She sidestepped to the end of the table opposite Cray, the barrel never wavering She sat on a chair, propping the bird gun on the table edge, its barrels pointed at Cray's throat.
"You are an escapee from that awful castle over in Colditz." It was not a question.
He answered in German. "Yes."
"So you must be dangerous." The woman wore her silver hair in a bun on top of her head. Her face had deep lines like dried and broken mud. Her eyebrows had grown together above her nose. She was thin, with her coat hanging loosely from narrow shoulders, and with wrists the width of broom handles. Her dark eyes were far back in her head. They were alert. Cray suspected they missed nothing.
"And you speak our language," she said. "I should shoot you now."
"Will you wait until I eat this Strudel before you shoot me?"
An eyebrow rose. Then a corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "If I wait until you eat the Strudel, then I'll have a dead body in my kitchen and no Strudel. But if I shoot you now, I'll have a dead body but I also have the Strudel. So it would be smarter to shoot you now."
Cray suggested, "How about if I eat half, then you shoot me?"
"All right," she said. "Cut the Strudel in half, then I'll choose which half you eat."
Cray visually measured the pastry, then cut it precisely in half with his fork. The old lady nodded at the piece to Cray's left. He instantly dug into it with the fork. The Strudel seemed to burst inside his mouth, filling him with flavor down to his feet.
He took three more bites, then said, "You are a good cook, ma'am. This would taste wonderful even if I weren't about to be killed."
"I didn't have fresh fruit, so I used apples I canned last fall. And I had to stretch the flour by adding some sawdust."
"I wondered about the piney taste."
"How did you learn German?" the woman asked.
He hesitated. "My parents came from Berlin."
"I have an unerring ear for the truth," she said. "And I didn't hear it just then. Maybe I should shoot you now, just so I don't have to listen to lies."
Cray chewed. "How's this then? After I received a degree in mechanical engineering in the United States, I did postgraduate work at Berlin Polytechnic. This was in 1936. I learned the language in Berlin." He lifted more Strudel on his fork. "And then in the army when I was training at a base in East Anglia, northeast of London, I often traveled to a POW camp near Stowmarket to practice German with Wehrmacht POWs."
"Why would good German soldiers teach you their language, even if they were in a POW camp?"
"I'd bring them candies and cakes, and I never asked them anything regarding the military. We just chatted." He looked down at his pastry. "I find that as I get near the end of my Strudel, I'm eating more slowly."
"You aren't a regular soldier, are you?" she asked.
"Why is it so cold in here?"
"I don't have any firewood."
Cray said, "But I saw a big stack of wood just outside your kitchen door."
"I have bad arthritis in my fingers and hands and
He returned to the kitchen and opened a drawer for a fork. He lifted the Strudel reverentially. He sniffed the pastry, but only slightly, lest smelling it might somehow diminish it prematurely. He lowered the plate to the table, sat on a sturdy chair, and squared himself to this grand task. He carefully cut off a small piece of the pastry, monitoring where all the crumbs fell so he could return to them, and lifted it to his mouth.
The muzzle of a shotgun bit into the back of Cray's neck. His fork froze.
"This is my house," a voice behind Cray said. An old woman's voice. "And that's my Strudel."
Cray sat utterly still. His knife was under his belt.
The shotgun barrels lifted from his neck. The woman came into his view. She was wearing a long green coat, a crocheted shawl, and a frown.
The shotgun was held comfortably in her hands. She sidestepped to the end of the table opposite Cray, the barrel never wavering She sat on a chair, propping the bird gun on the table edge, its barrels pointed at Cray's throat.
"You are an escapee from that awful castle over in Colditz." It was not a question.
He answered in German. "Yes."
"So you must be dangerous." The woman wore her silver hair in a bun on top of her head. Her face had deep lines like dried and broken mud. Her eyebrows had grown together above her nose. She was thin, with her coat hanging loosely from narrow shoulders, and with wrists the width of broom handles. Her dark eyes were far back in her head. They were alert. Cray suspected they missed nothing.
"And you speak our language," she said. "I should shoot you now."
"Will you wait until I eat this Strudel before you shoot me?"
An eyebrow rose. Then a corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "If I wait until you eat the Strudel, then I'll have a dead body in my kitchen and no Strudel. But if I shoot you now, I'll have a dead body but I also have the Strudel. So it would be smarter to shoot you now."
Cray suggested, "How about if I eat half, then you shoot me?"
"All right," she said. "Cut the Strudel in half, then I'll choose which half you eat."
Cray visually measured the pastry, then cut it precisely in half with his fork. The old lady nodded at the piece to Cray's left. He instantly dug into it with the fork. The Strudel seemed to burst inside his mouth, filling him with flavor down to his feet.
He took three more bites, then said, "You are a good cook, ma'am. This would taste wonderful even if I weren't about to be killed."
"I didn't have fresh fruit, so I used apples I canned last fall. And I had to stretch the flour by adding some sawdust."
"I wondered about the piney taste."
"How did you learn German?" the woman asked.
He hesitated. "My parents came from Berlin."
"I have an unerring ear for the truth," she said. "And I didn't hear it just then. Maybe I should shoot you now, just so I don't have to listen to lies."
Cray chewed. "How's this then? After I received a degree in mechanical engineering in the United States, I did postgraduate work at Berlin Polytechnic. This was in 1936. I learned the language in Berlin." He lifted more Strudel on his fork. "And then in the army when I was training at a base in East Anglia, northeast of London, I often traveled to a POW camp near Stowmarket to practice German with Wehrmacht POWs."
"Why would good German soldiers teach you their language, even if they were in a POW camp?"
"I'd bring them candies and cakes, and I never asked them anything regarding the military. We just chatted." He looked down at his pastry. "I find that as I get near the end of my Strudel, I'm eating more slowly."
"You aren't a regular soldier, are you?" she asked.
"Why is it so cold in here?"
"I don't have any firewood."
Cray said, "But I saw a big stack of wood just outside your kitchen door."
"I have bad arthritis in my fingers and hands and
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