climbed the four stone stairs, and entered the foyer of the Society building.
The moment that he was inside, he heard his name. The switchboard girl removed her earphones. ‘Professor Stratman—your niece has called three times. She seems terribly anxious to get hold of you.’
Stratman felt his heart thump. Emily had called three times. Unusual and ominous. He asked the girl to connect him, and as he started for the telephone booth, he realized that his heart was still hammering and that Dr. Ilman would disapprove, for the T waves had been inverted, and he now had ‘a condition’. Closing himself inside the booth, he removed the receiver and listened. What he heard was an engaged signal. He opened the booth and put his head out, questioningly.
The girl shrugged. ‘Busy.’
Stratman left the booth. ‘Keep trying.’
For ten minutes, as Stratman paced the inlaid floor, the operator tried his number, and every time, the response was a busy signal. Stratman’s mind worried: she had fainted, and the phone was off the hook; someone was using the phone to summon an ambulance; the police were on the phone ordering all squad cars on the alert.
At last, he could endure the suspense no longer. ‘Send for my car,’ he commanded the operator.
In short minutes, the automobile was waiting for him. The drive from the Society building along Peachtree Road to the five-room bungalow on Ponce de Leon Avenue that he and Emily rented was fifteen miles. To Stratman, it seemed fifty miles, especially since the chauffeur refused to speed over the rain-slicked asphalt highway.
It was twenty-five minutes before he saw the bungalow. Then, as they approached, he saw Emily. She stood on the small porch, a scarf around her head, a leather windbreaker over her blouse and skirt. He felt the knot in his abdomen unwind. She was alive. She was well. Nothing else mattered.
As they drew up before the bungalow, he dismissed the chauffeur. Stepping out of the car, he saw Emily running down the walk towards him.
‘Uncle Max—!’ she cried.
He slammed the door and waited, again concerned. But he saw that she was beaming, and that was unusual, too.
‘Uncle Max!’ She reached him breathlessly, and blurted the next. ‘You won the Nobel Prize!’
He stood, head cocked sideways, uncomprehending. ‘What? What? I do not— wiederhole , bitte —’
‘You won! The telegram came an hour ago!’ She fished inside the windbreaker and showed it to him.
He held it in both hands, close to his nose, for his spectacles were still in his pocket.
‘Oh—Uncle Max—imagine—the Nobel Prize!’
He lowered the telegram and looked at her, dazed.
‘I—I cannot believe it,’ he said.
‘But it’s true. All the newspapers know. They’re all in the living-room right now—reporters, photographers—they say it was announced from Stockholm on the news wires.’
He tried to focus on the telegram again. ‘Fifty thousand three hundred dollars,’ he murmured. ‘ Gott im Himmel .’
‘You’re rich—’
‘We are rich,’ he corrected, meticulously. And, at once, he realized that he could call the Secretary of Defence tomorrow and turn down the new job—that it was not necessary any more, that he had won Emily’s buffer against life, that Walther would rest in peace, that he could keep his old sedentary cubbyhole with its promise and contentment—and he knew that Dr. Ilman would be pleased.
Suddenly, something occurred to him. ‘Where do we get this prize? In Stockholm?’
‘Oh, yes. You must go. The newspapermen said so. It’s a rule you must pick up the money within one year—except if you’re sick—or you can’t have it. Several Germans couldn’t pick it up once, because of Hitler, and later, they couldn’t get it.’
Stockholm was a long way, Stratman realized. The journey, the activities, the ceremony would be strenuous. By all
The moment that he was inside, he heard his name. The switchboard girl removed her earphones. ‘Professor Stratman—your niece has called three times. She seems terribly anxious to get hold of you.’
Stratman felt his heart thump. Emily had called three times. Unusual and ominous. He asked the girl to connect him, and as he started for the telephone booth, he realized that his heart was still hammering and that Dr. Ilman would disapprove, for the T waves had been inverted, and he now had ‘a condition’. Closing himself inside the booth, he removed the receiver and listened. What he heard was an engaged signal. He opened the booth and put his head out, questioningly.
The girl shrugged. ‘Busy.’
Stratman left the booth. ‘Keep trying.’
For ten minutes, as Stratman paced the inlaid floor, the operator tried his number, and every time, the response was a busy signal. Stratman’s mind worried: she had fainted, and the phone was off the hook; someone was using the phone to summon an ambulance; the police were on the phone ordering all squad cars on the alert.
At last, he could endure the suspense no longer. ‘Send for my car,’ he commanded the operator.
In short minutes, the automobile was waiting for him. The drive from the Society building along Peachtree Road to the five-room bungalow on Ponce de Leon Avenue that he and Emily rented was fifteen miles. To Stratman, it seemed fifty miles, especially since the chauffeur refused to speed over the rain-slicked asphalt highway.
It was twenty-five minutes before he saw the bungalow. Then, as they approached, he saw Emily. She stood on the small porch, a scarf around her head, a leather windbreaker over her blouse and skirt. He felt the knot in his abdomen unwind. She was alive. She was well. Nothing else mattered.
As they drew up before the bungalow, he dismissed the chauffeur. Stepping out of the car, he saw Emily running down the walk towards him.
‘Uncle Max—!’ she cried.
He slammed the door and waited, again concerned. But he saw that she was beaming, and that was unusual, too.
‘Uncle Max!’ She reached him breathlessly, and blurted the next. ‘You won the Nobel Prize!’
He stood, head cocked sideways, uncomprehending. ‘What? What? I do not— wiederhole , bitte —’
‘You won! The telegram came an hour ago!’ She fished inside the windbreaker and showed it to him.
He held it in both hands, close to his nose, for his spectacles were still in his pocket.
‘Oh—Uncle Max—imagine—the Nobel Prize!’
He lowered the telegram and looked at her, dazed.
‘I—I cannot believe it,’ he said.
‘But it’s true. All the newspapers know. They’re all in the living-room right now—reporters, photographers—they say it was announced from Stockholm on the news wires.’
He tried to focus on the telegram again. ‘Fifty thousand three hundred dollars,’ he murmured. ‘ Gott im Himmel .’
‘You’re rich—’
‘We are rich,’ he corrected, meticulously. And, at once, he realized that he could call the Secretary of Defence tomorrow and turn down the new job—that it was not necessary any more, that he had won Emily’s buffer against life, that Walther would rest in peace, that he could keep his old sedentary cubbyhole with its promise and contentment—and he knew that Dr. Ilman would be pleased.
Suddenly, something occurred to him. ‘Where do we get this prize? In Stockholm?’
‘Oh, yes. You must go. The newspapermen said so. It’s a rule you must pick up the money within one year—except if you’re sick—or you can’t have it. Several Germans couldn’t pick it up once, because of Hitler, and later, they couldn’t get it.’
Stockholm was a long way, Stratman realized. The journey, the activities, the ceremony would be strenuous. By all
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