Garden of Beasts
“Bare walls, no plants, rickety furniture; she or the landlord had moved all the better items into the rooms to be let. Nor did anything here seem personal. Maybe she’d been pawning off her possessions. Sunlight hit the faded carpet but it was a small, solitary trapezoid and pale; the light was reflected from a window across the alley.Then she gave a girlish laugh and flung her arms around him. She kissed him hard. “You smell of something different. I like it.” She sniffed his face.“Shaving soap...?”“Perhaps that’s it, yes.”He’d used some he’d found in the lavatory, a German brand, rather than his Burma Shave, because he was afraid a guard at the stadium might smell the unfamiliar scent of the American soap and grow suspicious.“It’s nice.”He noticed a single suitcase on the bed. The Goethe book was on the bare table, a cup of weak coffee next to it. There were white lumps floating on the surface and he asked her if there was such a thing as Hitler milk from Hitler cows.She laughed and said that the National Socialists had plenty of asses among them, but to her knowledge they’d created no ersatz cows.MoreLess
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