The men disappear behind the door.
Heaps of razor blades. Tissue papers piling up. Red. White fingers wriggling like snakes on the table. Chaos. All is spinning, the table too. Fingers running across the table. Tissue papers flying. Razor blades cutting. Fingers. Tissue papers. Razor blades. Fingers. Tissue papers. Razor blades. Fingers. Blood.
The doorbell rings. Somebody enters [the stairwell]. Heavy footsteps. Suddenly the door opens—loudly and [19] without a knock. A German. A green uniform. Red tissue papers on the table. Red blood dripping.
“Was ist hier? Was macht Man?”
“Wir packen Rasierklingen.”
“Ah, so. Rasierklingen. Rasierklingen. Rasie. . .”16
He walks over. A heavy, fat, soft paw grabs a razor blade from the heap. Steel. Blood. Silent contentment. They give him a pack of ten razor blades.
“Wo sind die Männer?”
“There are no men here. Keine Männer. Auf wiedersen.”17
A refugee centre. There are 115 people in a prayer room. Military cots set up by the walls. New white floorboards. A spot sometimes disrupts their whiteness. A sick, old man. His eyes wide open, as if surprised by everything going on around him. His beard covers his chest. Long hair, dark, almost blue-black. Long strands fall onto his shoulders.
You can see the sidewalk through the tall windows. And shoes. Boots. Feet. Walking. Flashing past. [20] And suddenly everything disappears. A crack. A shot. A distant scream. Three pairs of feet in high boots. A bang on the door. Three officers enter the centre. People silently press up against the wall. The children are crying. The Germans do not like it.
“Alle Kinder raus!” They order.18
Commotion, running, and the patter of feet for a brief moment—and then silence. You can hear only the ticking of the old clock with a pendulum and
