Goodbye, Janette
“She could see that in the way he paced around the room, occasionally going to the window and lifting the lace curtain to look out at the rain-swept Geneva street. He turned to look at her. “The Frenchman isn’t here yet,” he said in his harsh Bavarian German.
She did not look up from her knitting. “He will come,” she answered.
He walked back to the sideboard and poured himself a schnapps, swallowing it in one gulp. “It wasn’t like this in Paris. Then he would come running whenever I snapped my fingers.”
“That was three years ago,” she said calmly. “The Germans were winning.”
“We were never winning,” he cried. “We only thought we were. The minute America came into it, we all knew in our hearts it was over.” The faint sound of the doorbell came from downstairs. “He’s here now,” he said.
She rose to her feet, laying the knitting on the table next to her chair. “I’ll bring him right up.”
She went down the staircase to the foyer. He was already in the house, the maid taking his coat.
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