The German House

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THERE HAD BEEN ANOTHER fire last night. She smelled it the moment she stepped out, without a coat, a thin layer of snow blanketing the quiet Sunday-morning street. It must have happened near her house this time. The sharp odor cut through the familiar smell of damp winter air: charred rubber, burned fabric, and melted metal, but also singed leather and hair; some mothers used lambskins to protect their newborns from the cold. It was not the first time Eva wondered who could do such a thing, who could sneak through backyards to break into apartment buildings and set fire to the strollers parked in the entryways. Must be a lunatic—or a bunch of hoodlums! many thought. Fortunately, none of the fires had spread to the building. No one had yet been hurt. Other than financially, of course. A new baby carriage cost 120 marks at Hertie’s. No small peanuts for young families.

“Young families” echoed in Eva’s mind. She paced nervously up and down the sidewalk. It was freezing out. Although Eva wore no more than her new, light blue silk dress, she wasn’t cold—she was sweating with excitement. She was waiting for none other than, as her sister teased, the “apple of her eye,” her future husband, who would meet her family for the first time today, the third Sunday of Advent. He had been invited to the midday meal. Eva checked her watch. Three minutes past one. Jürgen was late.

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