Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

owns the apartment, also gone to the army. A few months ago, a fourth had slept in the kitchen—a British journalist who stained the cupboard doors dark yellow with endless smoke from his pipe—but he left on the same day the Continuation War commenced.
    I watched in the kitchen that day as Joseph poured the man a parting cup of kossu , the Finns' fearsome grain alcohol, and spoke of his misgivings. "I'm thinking of splitting too, Harry. I see Nazis every day at the Parliament House. Makes my skin crawl."
    Harry downed it, shivered, grunted, and returned to packing. "When I get back to Blighty, maybe the Army'll have me. Turned me down for flat feet, they did, but I expect they've lowered their standards since then. Good luck, Joseph. You're in a damned hard place. They won't hand over the Jews here, though—their Church won't stand for it."
    Joseph silently poured himself a cup and drank. I remember that his hands shook a little. I think he was angry that the man thought he was afraid.
    Now that Joseph's back in the empty kitchen with its stained cupboard doors and dusty sink, he finds the bottle, pours himself a finger of kossu —and sets it aside. "The hell am I thinking?" he asks himself, shaking his head. Perhaps he's considering the effects of the stuff on an empty stomach.
    Yes. Take care of yourself.
    He starts at the sound of the door opening.
    "I'll take that," says Markku, in his perfect, unaccented English. He paces to the kitchen table and slams down the kossu . Still standing, he pours another finger and offers it to Joseph.
    Markku is a tall, impatient man with blond-white eyebrows and much darker hair—almost brown, in fact. It's a combination that renders his appearance subtly unsettling, although in all other respects he presents much the same as any other soldier of Finland.
    "Gotta eat first," says Joseph. "Did you come from the front? You're a mess. Like me." He gestures at their mud stains on both their clothes. They're more apparent against the light grey of Markku's uniform tunic.
    "Yes. And I'll be returning tomorrow. Let's go hunt up some food. Have you sent your dispatch yet?"
    "God, no. I'll work on it while we're eating."
    Joseph wraps a handkerchief around the end of his makeshift cane as they leave for the restaurant.
    Once there, they trade stories of the last few days over thick slices of rye bread loaded with salmon. Joseph's account of the accident is curiously truncated. "When they hit the convoy, I thought I was a goner. A soldier in a motorcycle picked me up. He's dead now. They shot a driver and a nurse, too. Something happened to me, but I'm all right." The story has none of the hallmarks of his journalistic style, which is professionally spare but salted with vivid detail. He's usually better with words, both written and spoken.
    Markku doesn't seem to notice or care. He's in a bad mood. "Fucking savages," he says. "Savages, animals, I want them out . Surely you see now."
    Joseph's eyelids lower by just a fraction. A sleepy, guarded look. It's odd: Joseph, being in the business that he is, is no stranger to heated political conversation. Something inside me curdles, watching him shy back from it now. "Mm," he says, not agreeing or disagreeing, and picks at his food.
    When Joseph turns away from him, Markku's expression changes somehow. His jaw sets as though he has a toothache, and one of the tendons in his neck pops with the strain. Like he's doing his best not to lunge over the table. All that tension is released by a reflexive clenching of his hands, over and over again. Silent, but telling.
    If only Joseph would look up and could see it for himself.
    But he doesn't. He doesn't notice any of it, damn him. "I have to maintain objectivity," he says, quite diplomatically, all of the handsome dramatic passion drained out of his voice. "I'll report on things as I saw them. The editor doesn't want a political statement." Now some emotion, some conviction, returns. It's a bitter, thwarted thing. "Not from me , anyway."
    Markku's eyes narrow in visceral disgust, as one might look at a mangy dog. Well, as someone other than Joseph might, anyway, since Joseph seems to overflow with compassion at random, unnecessary moments.
    Rather like me.
    "Roosevelt wants to get into the war. He's looking for any excuse," says Markku. "He doesn't understand the Soviet danger."
    "I don't think you understand the Nazi one. They'll help you beat off the Soviets, sure, and then they'll turn on