“Well, did you get an answer?”

“Yes,” he says maddeningly, and puts the headphones on. “It is not a poisonous gas.”

I shrug as if I do not care whether I get an answer or not. I put on my cap and the muffler my mother knitted for me and open the door. “I am going out to see if themail has come. Perhaps there will be a letter there from my, professor.”

“Nature of disease unknown,” Müller shouts against the sudden force of he snow. “Possibly impetigo or glandular disorder.”

I grin back at him and say, “If there is a package from my mother, I will give you half of what is in it.”

“Even if it is your gloves?”

“No, not if it is my gloves,” I say, and go to find the doctor.

At the dressing station they tell me he has gone to see Schwarzschild and give me directions to the artillery staff’s headquarters. It is not very far, but it is snowing and my hands are already cold. I go to the quartermaster’s and ask him if the mail has come in.

There is a new recruit there, trying to fix Eisner’s motorcycle. He has parts spread out on the ground all around him in a circle. He points to a burlap sack and says, “That is all the mail there is. Look through it yourself.”

Snow has gotten into the sack and melted. The ink on the envelopes has run, and I squint at them, trying to make out the names. My eyes begin to hurt. There is not a package from my mother or a letter from my professor, but there is a letter for Lieutenant Schwarzschild. The return address says “Doctor.” Perhaps he has written to a doctor himself.

“I am delivering a message to the artillery headquarter,” I say, showing the letter to the recruit. “I will take this up› too.” The recruit nods and goes on working.