London
London.
It was an exciting city, so much bigger than Memphis. And older, too. Even though I had already been in England close to a month, I had felt the age of the country as soon as I had stepped off of the boat. It makes me realize that America really is a young country, as I have heard others mention.
I had already visited so many places in England, seen so many things. Today I just happened to be walking the streets with Mary, one of the daughters of the family I was staying with. We were shopping, that was all. She was pointing out different cafes and clubs and the best restaurants and such.
I had just bought a new purse, and we were walking out of the store, when I saw him.
Without thinking I shouted, "Anton!" I knew I shouldn't've, but it was more of a reflex than anything. He must've just been a mirage that my deluded brain had conjured up. Anton was dead, and that meant that he certainly wasn't roaming the streets of London.
But, to my great surprise, the man I had seen turned his head in my direction, his steps faltering for a moment. A look of worry crossed his face, as if he had done something wrong.
His eyes scanned the crowd, and I knew it was not my Anton, because he would have recognized me right off. Also, my Anton is dead, I reminded myself.
The Man Who Looked Like Anton turned and continued walking, his pace a little faster than before. I turned to Mary, who was standing beside me and giving me a strange look. "Sorry," I mumbled. "I thought I had recognized someone." Mary gave a little chuckle and we continued on.
I had thoroughly convinced myself that the Man was only a delusion, when Mary and I passed one of those red phone booths and, lo and behold, there he stood. Quickly I stopped and began to look at postcards.
Of course, I was not really looking at postcards, but I had to be inconspicuous. The nosy reporter in me listened to the Man's conversation.
Yes. Yes. Yes, he would be leaving tomorrow. No, no one would recognize him. Don't worry, he knew the terrain. Sigh. Yes, he knew. Their superiors wouldn't have hired him for this job if they didn't think he could do this. They also wouldn't have hired if they didn't think they could trust him. Listen, he was in a phone booth, someone could be listening in – I blushed. – He should go.
And he hung up. I turned my back so he wouldn't think I had been listening in. And then I heard him swear. At least, I'm pretty sure he was swearing, but I couldn't tell exactly because it was in German.
I couldn't resist, I had to look. I turned around to see, but he was gone.
And I was left standing with my brain spinning like an out-of-control carousel.
Anton.
A/N: Not sure how much I really liked this one. The writing spark for this story is already starting to die out. Hopefully it can get finished before the spark is completely extinguished. We'll see. Summer of My German Soldier belongs to Bette Greene and all that.