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". . . an incident—a Kismet, if you prefer—which may cure you of wanting to know too much."
Heading by Joseph Eberle
"The beauty of dying young," said Colonel Verenekin philosophically, "is that one doesn't have to face one's mistakes." The Colonel set his glass down on a copy of the Stars & Stripes and flicked a finger at the front page picture of a dead infantryman. "Notice how they fall," he said didactically. "Completely relaxed."
We sat alone at the bar in the Kretchma. The cafe had closed and the haze of smoke left by the customers thinned gradually. Over at the counter the manager was checking the night's receipts. Three musicians in the corner softly strummed their balalaikas while they finished their cigarettes. An ancient scrubwoman worked slowly across the floor.
"So," the Colonel said, drawing the cork from a bottle of Cognac, "the war goes well?"
"We're across the Rhine," I said.
"Fine. Excellent. Soon it is finished and you can go home." The Colonel said "home" in a dead tone that had no connection with any emotion. As he sat there, tunic open at the throat and his karacul cap leaning up against the bottle, I wondered if he had ever had a home.
The Colonel seemed genuine, not like most of the other White Russians in Paris. He never first-named the Romanovs or spoke of lost estates—but his bitter silence told more than the time dulled stories of the other refugees. Personal conversation was not his forte. He spoke of Russia almost never.
The Russian colony in Paris sprouted threadbare full dress and tarnished decora-
9
