The houses appeared wrapped in slumber, but behind the closed windows might be surmised the insomnia of the reddened eyes, the sighs from hearts anguished by the threatened danger, the tremulous agility of the hands preparing the war outfit, perhaps the last loving greetings exchanged without pleasure, with kisses ending in sobs.
Tchernoff thought of his neighbors, the husband and wife who occupied the other interior apartment behind the studio.

She was no longer playing the piano.

The Russian had overheard disputes, the banging of doors locked with violence, and the footsteps of a man in the middle of the night, fleeing from a woman's cries.

There had begun to develop on the other side of the wall a regulation drama--a repetition of hundreds of others, all taking place at the same time.
"She is a German," volunteered the Russian.

"Our concierge has ferreted out her nationality.