Another Green World Read Online Free

on the map. While down
here
, God willing, is the ZOB. “And in fact, if you look at this newspaper clipping, you'll see evidence that a small resistance group, whose leader, at least, is a Jew, has been active in recent months in exactly this region.”
    Ingo examined the photo spread as though it were printed in some unfamiliar language. Which in a sense it was: the language of class struggle, Nazism as a terminal case of Late Capitalism, the war as the death rattle of an oppressive world order, all pitched with a broad Australian accent. The story recounted the exploits of workers and peasants waging a secret war of liberation. Grainy photographs showed ruined bridges, a train lying half on its side, tiny figures waving sticks—could they be rifles?— from atop the caboose, smoke rising in a black funnel from what was purported to be a Wehrmacht ammunition depot. Pride of place belonged to a deep-lens shot of someone identified as “the revered commander of this valiant cadre of proletarian fighters.” The photo had been magnified well beyond the limits of fidelity; it could have been anyone, anything, man or woman, golem, clotheshorse, melting snowman in jacket and cap. Beneath it, acaption: “Known as the Little Fox, this is the only known likeness of a nameless revolutionary hero.”
    Ingo said, “Bit of trouble with that syntax, don't you think?” but this struck Martina as weak cover. He couldn't drag his eyes off the picture. Some arresting quality there, though you couldn't quite put a finger on it. Was it the cock of the head, the hint of an insolent stare? The slouch in the shoulders? Something, not quite heroic… inspiring, perhaps. Or lucky— at least that. Lucky for now. In the long run, almost certainly doomed. And the revolutionary hero knows it. You can tell, somehow—he knows, he doesn't care. The fight goes on if only for the hell of it. I resist, therefore I am. The world has grown dark, the sun of Weimar has long set, but the nameless fighter pretends not to have noticed. Just one more inning, Ma, come on, we're not even hungry.
    Ingo glanced up. “Are you trying to tell me,” he said calmly enough, as though it wouldn't have mattered either way, “that this Little Fox actually is Isaac?” There was no need to say more. The picture was nobody they knew, nobody they could know. It was a Rorschach splatter: feel free to project whatever you like on it, just don't expect Ingo to play along.
    “But look,” she told him.
    “Look at what?”
    “In your hand.”
    He was still holding the scrap of brown paper, covered densely with a dark, semi-legible scrawl. What's
this
now?
    “It came clipped to the tear sheet,” she said, as if that explained everything. The note was not signed.
    Ingo read it out, one phrase at a time, as he deciphered them. “‘ Thought this story might interest you. If so, there is a’— what's this word?—' sequel. From the same source,' comma, ‘smuggled over the wire not long ago. Looks authentic to me. You be the judge.’ Now an address. ‘2200 First Street SW.’ Not a nice part of town, is it? ‘No phone there, just go. You're looking for'— I can't make this out.”
    “‘ Vava,’ I think it says.”
    “Really? Oh, I see it. ‘Vava. And be sure—’ “He squinted a moment longer, making certain. Slowly he raised his head. “‘ Be sure to take Ingo. She'll only talk to both of you.' “
    Martina looked away; the tension was all she could bear. She felt his gaze, steady and contemplative, moving from the paper in his hand to her own averted face, the handbag, the mess on the floor. A blurred and grainy photograph. Putting it together; weighing one thing against another.
    “Even if you're right,” he said at last, “even
if—
what can we do, other than hope and pray? The war will be over soon. By Christmas, they're saying. Why did you come here, Marty? What do you want from me?”
    His voice did not match his words. She turned to face