Pytor gazed at the passengers. The envelope under his hat was resting on his lap. More trouble. What has happened to his life? Days ago or was it just a day, he was a professor of music doing what he loved…teaching. How did he become an informant, a courier, a spy? Oh his God must be laughing at his predicament. What was that saying? Mentchen plan und Got Lachs. Men plan and God laughs. His sides must be hurting for this joke He has played. Pytor’s fingers ran up and down the sides of his hat. Who needs more danger? He bent forward as if to pick something from the floor, instead he placed the envelope inside his jacket. He could go to the lavatory and flush the letter. That would end one problem. He didn’t have to re-read her note to be reminded of its importance. Freedom and Czechoslovakia depends on… oh, Katalyna why him? Why the devil did he pick this seat? He looked out the window. Cows grazed undisturbed by the rushing train. An occasional tractor belched smoke as it went between rows of crops. He turned from the window and stared at the back of the seat in front. What are they doing to Katalyna? She’s certainly been mistreated, but would Faber and his whorish friend Bauer use torture on a woman? Have Germany stepped back centuries to when the Huns butchered their way through Europe? He smacked his forehead with his fist. It was too much.
He looked between the seats and saw his crinkled newspaper, Der Sturmer. He didn’t grab it. He stared at it and realized the horror of that garbage. As the public drank in those lies it made it easier for Faber and his crowd to do what they want. He gave the outside of his breast pocket a pat. He had become a soldier in the still unannounced war on civilization. He hadn’t realized until this moment he had enlisted.