lit cigar at me as he spoke. Those guys originally occupied it, and when they took the larger office next door, they took the number with them. And then this room didn’t have a number. So we gave it 807.
He laughed.
So you see, you are not even in your own room’s number! Which was supposed to be 805. Look, you move down to 705, since, as I said, 05 was the original number of this line. And the guys expand to fill their original 805, which is now your 807. Then goodbye to 807, since it will be part of 805, its original number. Done. Everyone has a space, everyone has a number. End of story.
I stood swaying; I reached out a hand to my desk to steady myself. Yes, all this taking of room numbers had been explained to me when I first engaged the space, but I never believed it could be forced upon one. Forcefully taken from one space and moved to another! Numbers marching behind like a retinue!
Then I should be in 707, I said, reaching for an argument—any argument—in my favor. At least I should be able to retain the 07!
Sure, said the man with a laugh. Why not? If you like playing James Bond, keep your 07. There’s no 707 at the moment. Sure. If that’s what it takes, we’re done.
No! I thought. We could not be done. This cannot happen. But what could I do? Argue with him further? I had to get him gone before Dr. Schussler’s return.
May we discuss this tomorrow? I asked him.
I don’t know why, replied the man.
You see, I cannot move, I said. I absolutely cannot change offices!
But you said. That 707—
I am in the midst of a project. And any interruption of the sort you suggest will ruin my work and cause me to miss a deadline. Material harm! I lied. You will cause me material harm!
I paused, and thought it would be best to add:
I am begging you, sir. Surely we may find another solution.
He hummed again, puffed on his horrid cigar, and finally said:
There is some possibility—possibility—that the architects on the other side of the engineers are moving. In which case, the engineers might … Well, we’ll see. In any case, even if we take your room, I can give you ninety days, at least.
Ninety days from—?
From the first of next month. See? That gives you nearly three months and a half.
I thought of all that must happen in the patient’s life, and how I might have to leave her in three and a half months. I nearly wept as I stood there.
In any case, the man went on, I’ll let you know … lemme see. The architects have to give notice by … lemme see … end of October. Yeah. October 31st.
At that he turned and left.
Not thirty seconds later, Dr. Schussler’s footsteps sounded in the hall.
88.
The patient settled into her chair, and we soon heard Michal’s voice saying: I was locked in. That Hungarian beast—he left me locked in.
I could hear people shouting in every language. The roar of heavy trucks, or tanks. I kept pounding at the door, Let me out, let me out, in every language I spoke: German, English, Polish, Hungarian, Czech, Slovak, Russian. But people kept running past me; there was too much noise for anyone to hear. This went on for hours—I don’t know how long. Hours. The announcement “Ihr seid frei” had come in the afternoon. And from the cracks of light around my door, I thought it had come at three o’clock, maybe four. All the while, the shouting kept on, the heavy treads—boots, I thought. Eventually the light faded: twilight came, then dark.
Something momentous was going on—what?—and there was nothing for me to do but shout “Let me out!” until I was hoarse, until I had no more energy, until I sank down exhausted by the door. Then, sometime after nightfall, I heard shots—pistols? rifles? machine guns? This terrified me because I could not know who was shooting, who was being shot, what new terrors lay outside my locked room, and now I wanted to stay where I was, thinking myself safer inside than out. No sooner did I have that thought than I heard pounding at the far end of the row of barracks, then scuffles, a man’s voice shouting in Hungarian “I had to! I had no choice, they made me, I had to!” Then a shot and a thud, and the voice