They all sang with me.
Out of my childhood—comes a song to me . . .
Oh, how far off now lies—the land that once was mine . . .
The hostess turned out all the electric lights.
Only the soft light of the candles remained.
The beer tap trickled gently like some spring in the woods and the flat-footed Alois hovered in the background to and fro like a dark Pan.
I started the second verse.
With shining eyes and good little middle-class faces the girls stood around the piano—but look, who is that snivelling tears?
Kiki, Kiki from Luckenwalde.
Softly the door opened from the big clubroom.
Humming melodiously, the glee-party goose-stepped in and took up position behind the girls, Grigoleit leading with a black Brazilian cigar.
When first I said farewell—the world seemed full to me, When I came back again—it all was gone . . .
Softly the mixed chorus died away.
"Beautiful," said Lina.
Rosa lit the magic candles.
They hissed and sprayed. "So, and now for something jolly," she called. "We must cheer Kiki up."
"Me too," said Stefan Grigoleit.
At eleven Koster and Lenz arrived.
With Georg, still pale, we sat at a table by the bar.
To steady him up, Georg was given a couple of slices of dry bread to eat.
Soon after Lenz was lost to view in the tumult of the cattlemen.
A quarter of an hour later he turned up at the bar with Grigoleit.
The two had linked arms and were pledging eternal brotherhood.
"Stefan," said Grigoleit.
"Gottfried," replied Lenz and both tipped the cognac down.
"I'll send you a parcel of blood and liver sausage to-morrow, Gottfried.
Suit you?"
"Down to the ground." Lenz clapped him on the shoulder. "Good old Stefan!"
Stefan beamed.
"You have a grand laugh," said he, "I like people who can laugh well.
I get so easily depressed myself, that's my weakness."
"Mine too," said Lenz, "that's why I laugh, of course.
Come, Bob, have one with us to endless world laughter."
I went across to them.
"What's up with the lad there?" asked Stefan, pointing to Georg. "He looks mighty depressed too."
"It wouldn't take much to make him happy, though," said I. "All he wants is a bit of work."
"Not so easy," replied Stefan, "nowadays."
"He'll do anything."
"Everybody will do anything nowadays." Stefan grew soberer.
"He only needs seventy-five marks a month."
"Impossible.
He couldn't live on that."
"He does live on it," said Lenz.
"Gottfried," replied Grigoleit, "I'm an old toper.
Good.
But work's a serious matter.
It's not a thing you give to-day and take away to-morrow.
That's worse than letting a man marry and taking his wife away again in the morning.
But if the lad's honest and can live on seventy-five marks he's had a hell of a time.
He can report to me at eight o'clock Tuesday.