But at least he wasn't hungry, or cold, anymore. Sure the job was boring, taking strangers' coats--mostly Americans at that!--but it beat starving in Kaliningrad. Alexei had long ago learned to take the few crumbs that life offered, especially after that pig 'comrade' Stalin exiled him from his home.
So when that strange American offered him the job, Alexei jumped at it. And he'd stood here ever since, in this ugly little room. He incurisously took their coats and just as silently returned them as they left-or were carried out. Occasionally he glanced at the shelf of books across the room but he never took the few steps to read them. Nor did he ever sneak a glance into the raucous room through the door beside him.
It wasn't his job. This was his post.