"Into the maze of ghosts," said I, pointing to a large booth.
The maze was a way beset with surprises.
After a few steps the ground wobbled, hands groped for one out of the dark, masked figures sprang out of corners, spirits howled —we laughed, but once the girl started swiftly back at the appearance of a green-lighted death's-head.
For an instant she lay in my arms, her breath touched my cheek, I felt her hair on my lips—then immediately she was laughing again and I let her go.
I let her go—but something in me did not let her go.
Long after we had come out I still felt her shoulder in my arm, the soft hair, the faint peach smell of her skin. I avoided looking at her.
She had suddenly become something different for me.
Lenz was already awaiting us.
He was alone.
"Where's Lina?" I asked.
"Getting tight," he replied, with his head indicating the beer garden, "with a blacksmith."
"My sympathy," said I.
"Not at all," replied Gottfried.
"Now let us pass on to serious man's work."
We went to a booth where one had to throw hard rubber rings on to hooks and could win all manner of things.
"So," said Lenz to Patricia Hollmann, shoving his hat on to the back of his head, "now we'll collect your trousseau."
He threw first and won an alarm clock.
I followed and bagged a teddy bear.
The booth proprietor passed them over and made a great spiel to attract other customers.
"You'll soon change your tune," smirked Gottfried, and won a frying pan; I, a second teddy bear.
"Bit of a cow, eh?" said the booth proprietor, handing us the things.
The chap did not know what he was in for.
Lenz had been the best bomb thrower in the company; and in winter when there wasn't much doing we practised for months on end, throwing our hats on to all possible hooks.
By comparison the rings here were child's play.
Without any difficulty Gottfried next collected a cut-glass vase, I half a dozen gramophone records.
The proprietor shoved them over to us in silence and then examined his hooks.
Lenz aimed, threw and won a coffeepot, the second prize.
We now had a host of spectators.
I threw three rings in rapid succession on to the same hook.
Forfeit: the penitent Saint Magdalene in a gold frame.
The proprietor made a face as if he were at the dentist's, and refused to let us go on.
We intended to stop, but the spectators kicked up a row. They insisted that the fellow should let us carry on.
They wanted to see him cleaned out.
When the rumpus was at its height Lina suddenly turned up with her blacksmith.
"People should only miss, eh?" she crowed, "never hit, eh?"
The blacksmith boomed support.
"All right," suggested Lenz, "one more throw each."
I threw first.
A washbasin with jug and soap dish.
Then came Lenz.
He took five rings.
He threw four in quick succession on to the same hook.
Before the fifth he made an artistic pause and took out a cigarette.
Three people offered him a light.
The blacksmith slapped him on the shoulder.
Lina was chewing her handkerchief with excitement.
Then Gottfried took aim and threw the last ring, very gently so that it should not bounce off, clean on to the other four. It hung there.
Thunderous applause.
We had captured the first prize-—a pram with a pink cover and lace pillows.
The proprietor, cursing, wheeled it out.