happen then. I am a soldier, I must cling to that.
Wearily I stand up and look out of the window. Then I take one of the books, intending to read, and turn over the leaves. But I put it away and take out another. There are passages in it that have been marked. I look, turn over the pages, take up fresh books. Already they are piled up beside me. Speedily more join the heap, papers, magazines, letters.
I stand there dumb. As before a judge.
Dejected.
Words, Words, Words—they do not reach me.
Slowly I place the books back in the shelves.
Nevermore.
Quietly, I go out of the room.
★★
Still I do not give up hope. I do not, indeed, go to my room any more, but comfort myself with the thought that a few days are not enough to judge by. Afterwards—later on—there is plenty of time for that.
So I go over to see Mittelstaedt in the barracks, and we sit in his room; there is an atmosphere about it that I do not like but with which I am quite familiar.
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