me. With a snarl he pushed past me and disappeared into the Fibergasse, the alley at the side of the
Rathaus
.
“What did he say?” said Stefan, coming back up to me.
I shook my head. “He said,
go home
.”
“Go home?” Stefan shrugged. “That’s all? He looked like he was swearing at you.”
“No, that’s all,” I said, and shivered.
Stefan looked at me. “You want me to walk you back to your house?”
I glanced at him. StinkStefan, my knight in shining armor.
“Yes,” I said, and meant it.
Chapter Ten
I remember once, when I was quite little, asking my mother about Herr Schiller and Herr Düster. I was puzzled about them because someone had told me they were brothers, but they didn’t look at all alike, and they had different names.
Herr Schiller was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a large-featured, benevolent face. His startlingly blue eyes were overhung with bushy white eyebrows that would not have disgraced St. Nicholas. His hair, which was dead white, was still abundant and always neatly groomed. His mouth was wide and amiable, although when he smiled he rarely opened his lips, perhaps being self-conscious about his teeth, which were stained yellow from decades of smoking.
Herr Schiller was always immaculately turned out. Sometimes he wore an ordinary dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie, and at other times he wore a traditional costume, a dark green woolen jacket with pale horn buttons, matching breeches, and woolen socks. He was considered something of a local character—not an eccentric, something still frowned upon in German society, but a gentleman of the old school, the sort you no longer see anymore, with perfect manners and a dash of gallantry.
Not
, as Oma Kristel used to observe in a tone of frigid disapproval,
like that Herr Düster
.
Were it not for the uncertain notion that he and Herr Schiller were brothers, I would never have taken them for blood relatives. Although Herr Schiller was tall, Herr Düster was of medium height and had a skinny, paltry look about him, as though he had never eaten well in his life. In fact Pluto looked glossier and better fed than he did.
Only in his eyes could one discern any point of similarity with the urbane Herr Schiller—they were the same bright cornflower blue. But they were overhung with iron-gray brows that gave Herr Düster a surly expression, as though he were permanently glowering at someone, which in actual fact he very often was.
The popular legend among the local children (and probably their parents, too, when they were schoolchildren) was that Herr Düster had been a member of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, who’d somehow managed to escape justice. He had been having an affair with the Bürgermeister’s fiercely ugly daughter, and she had somehow got him off the hook; or he had been certified temporarily insane by a doctor he was blackmailing; or he had spent three years after the war hiding out in the ruins of the old castle on the Quecken hill, creeping out at night to steal chickens to eat raw: all these were cited as genuine reasons why Herr Düster had never been brought to justice.
As for the dislike between himself and Herr Schiller, for a long time I just took it for granted. It was after seeing them pass each other in the Werther Strasse one afternoon, Herr Schiller inclining his head with frosty civility and Herr Düster slouching past as though he hadn’t noticed, that I asked my mother about their relationship.
“Are Herr Schiller and Herr Düster brothers, or aren’t they?” I wanted to know.
My mother looked up with mild interest.
“Yes, they are brothers.” She thought about it. “Not very close brothers, though. Your Oma Kristel is always saying that Herr Düster must be a terrible trial to poor Heinrich”—that was Herr Schiller’s Christian name.
“So why have they got different last names, then?” I asked, still not having got to the bottom of the
Rathaus
.
“What did he say?” said Stefan, coming back up to me.
I shook my head. “He said,
go home
.”
“Go home?” Stefan shrugged. “That’s all? He looked like he was swearing at you.”
“No, that’s all,” I said, and shivered.
Stefan looked at me. “You want me to walk you back to your house?”
I glanced at him. StinkStefan, my knight in shining armor.
“Yes,” I said, and meant it.
Chapter Ten
I remember once, when I was quite little, asking my mother about Herr Schiller and Herr Düster. I was puzzled about them because someone had told me they were brothers, but they didn’t look at all alike, and they had different names.
Herr Schiller was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a large-featured, benevolent face. His startlingly blue eyes were overhung with bushy white eyebrows that would not have disgraced St. Nicholas. His hair, which was dead white, was still abundant and always neatly groomed. His mouth was wide and amiable, although when he smiled he rarely opened his lips, perhaps being self-conscious about his teeth, which were stained yellow from decades of smoking.
Herr Schiller was always immaculately turned out. Sometimes he wore an ordinary dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie, and at other times he wore a traditional costume, a dark green woolen jacket with pale horn buttons, matching breeches, and woolen socks. He was considered something of a local character—not an eccentric, something still frowned upon in German society, but a gentleman of the old school, the sort you no longer see anymore, with perfect manners and a dash of gallantry.
Not
, as Oma Kristel used to observe in a tone of frigid disapproval,
like that Herr Düster
.
Were it not for the uncertain notion that he and Herr Schiller were brothers, I would never have taken them for blood relatives. Although Herr Schiller was tall, Herr Düster was of medium height and had a skinny, paltry look about him, as though he had never eaten well in his life. In fact Pluto looked glossier and better fed than he did.
Only in his eyes could one discern any point of similarity with the urbane Herr Schiller—they were the same bright cornflower blue. But they were overhung with iron-gray brows that gave Herr Düster a surly expression, as though he were permanently glowering at someone, which in actual fact he very often was.
The popular legend among the local children (and probably their parents, too, when they were schoolchildren) was that Herr Düster had been a member of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, who’d somehow managed to escape justice. He had been having an affair with the Bürgermeister’s fiercely ugly daughter, and she had somehow got him off the hook; or he had been certified temporarily insane by a doctor he was blackmailing; or he had spent three years after the war hiding out in the ruins of the old castle on the Quecken hill, creeping out at night to steal chickens to eat raw: all these were cited as genuine reasons why Herr Düster had never been brought to justice.
As for the dislike between himself and Herr Schiller, for a long time I just took it for granted. It was after seeing them pass each other in the Werther Strasse one afternoon, Herr Schiller inclining his head with frosty civility and Herr Düster slouching past as though he hadn’t noticed, that I asked my mother about their relationship.
“Are Herr Schiller and Herr Düster brothers, or aren’t they?” I wanted to know.
My mother looked up with mild interest.
“Yes, they are brothers.” She thought about it. “Not very close brothers, though. Your Oma Kristel is always saying that Herr Düster must be a terrible trial to poor Heinrich”—that was Herr Schiller’s Christian name.
“So why have they got different last names, then?” I asked, still not having got to the bottom of the
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