The worried look disappeared when the man smiled.
He held out his hand.
"You must be David. I’m Otto Strassmer."
David shook his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Strassmer."
"My wife, Frieda, and my daughter, Rosa," Mr. Strassmer said.
David smiled at them.
Mrs. Strassmer nodded nervously and said something in German, which was followed by the girl's pleasant, "How do you do?"
There was something in her voice that made David suddenly look at her. She was not tall, perhaps five four, and from what he could see, she was slim.
Her dark hair, cropped in close ringlets to her head, framed a broad brow over deep-set gray eyes that were almost hidden behind long lashes. There was a faint defiance in the curve of her mouth and the set of her chin.
An instant realization came to David. The girl no more cared for this meeting than he did.
"Who is it, David?" His mother called from the kitchen.
"I beg your pardon," he said quickly. "Won't you come in?" He stepped aside to let them enter. "It's the Strassmers, Mama."
"Take them into the living room," his mother called. "There's schnapps on the table."
David closed the door behind him.
"May I take your coat?" he asked the girl.
She nodded and slipped it off.
She was wearing a simple man-tailored blouse and a skirt that was gathered at her tiny waist by a wide leather belt.
He was surprised. He was experienced enough to know that the pert thrust of her breasts against the silk of the blouse was not fashioned by any brassiere.
Her mother said something in German.
Rosa looked at him.
"Mother says you and Papa go in and have your drink," she said. "We'll go into the kitchen and see if we can help."
David looked at her. Again that voice. An accent and yet not an accent. At least, it wasn't an accent like her father's.
The women turned and started toward the kitchen. He looked at Mr. Strassmer. The little man smiled and followed him into the living room.
David found a bottle of whisky on the coffee table, surrounded by shot glasses.
A pint bottle of Old Overholt. David suppressed a grimace.
It was the traditional whisky that appeared at all ceremonies – births, bar mizvahs, weddings, deaths.
A strong blend of straight rye whiskies that burned your throat on the way down and flooded your nose unpleasantly with the smell of alcohol. He should have had enough brains to bring a bottle of Scotch. He was sure it was Old Overholt that had kept the Jews from ever acquiring a taste for whisky. It was apparent that Mr. Strassmer didn't share his feelings.
He picked up the bottle and looked at it. He turned to David, smiling.
"Ah, Gut schnapps."
David smiled and took the bottle from his hand.
"Straight or with water?" he asked, breaking the seal.
That was another thing that was traditional. The bottle was always sealed. Once it was opened and not finished, it was never brought out for company again. He wondered what happened to all the open, half-empty bottles.
They must be languishing in some dark closet awaiting the day of liberation.
"Straight," Mr. Strassmer said, a faintly horrified note in his voice.
David filled a shot glass and handed it to him.
"I’ll have to get a little water," he apologized.
Just then Rosa came in, carrying a pitcher of water and some tumblers.
"I thought you might need this." She smiled, setting them on the coffee table. "Thank you."
She smiled and went out again as David mixed himself a drink, liberally diluting it with water. He turned to Mr. Strassmer.
The little German held up his glass.
"L'chaim."
"L'chaim," David repeated.
Mr. Strassmer swallowed his drink in one head-tilted-back gesture. He coughed politely and turned to David, his eyes watering.
"Ach, gut."
David nodded and sipped at his own.
It tasted terrible, even with water.
"Another?" he asked politely.
Otto Strassmer smiled.
David refilled his glass and the little man turned and sat down on the couch.
"So you're David," he said. "I’ve heard a great deal about you."