The Unlucky Lottery

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The last day of Waldemar Leverkuhn’s life could hardly have begun any better.

After a windy night of non-stop rain, mild autumn sunshine was now creeping in through the kitchen window. From the balcony overlooking the courtyard he could hear the characteristic soft cooing of love-lorn pigeons, and the fading echo of his wife’s footsteps on the stairs as she set off for the market. The Neuwe Blatt was spread out on the table in front of him, and he had just laced his morning coffee with a couple of drops of gin when Wauters rang.

‘We won,’ Wauters said.

‘Won?’ said Leverkuhn.

‘By Christ, yes, we won!’ said Wauters. ‘They said so on the radio.’

‘On the radio?’

‘Bugger me if we haven’t won twenty thousand! Five each – and not a day too soon!’

‘The lottery?’

‘The lottery, yes. What else? What did I tell you? There was something special in the air when I bought the ticket. My God, yes! She sort of coaxed it out! As if she really was picking out the right one – Mrs Milkerson in the corner shop. Two, five, five. One, six, five, five! It was the fives that won it for us, of course. I’ve had the feeling this was going to happen all week!’

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