The road is wet. The pavement is bumpy. The lanterns flicker and clink in the wind. The road is empty. Only the iron-shod hooves make noise. The smell of old leather in the carriage. When the lantern light touches the occupants for a moment, a medal buckle glitters. Colourful ribbons strung closely together. Red collar and silver braid. Brightly polished buttons.

"What is it, Käte, why are you sighing?" Comes from the corner of the carriage.

"Oh, you know, these balls are real torment for me."

"Do you think I enjoy them?" asks the Major von Meinhardis offended. "God knows who I'm taking to the table again. Well, and the food. These mass feedings are terrible. Everything is served cold. A white, soft fish, and then fillet, always fillet."

It's silent over there. In the darkness, a gloomily amused smile steals over Frau Käte's delicate face. But already she is serious again.

It would have been good to stay quietly at home with the children. To knit, to write a letter to Grandma, and go to bed early. Not to have to see all the unfamiliar people. She is frightened a little. Everything there is very noisy. The men-tired from duty-fill themselves with alcohol and soon have red faces over their tight collars. Dancing makes them hot, and they press you to them. You get dizzy when you waltz. However, most of them bored. At home . . .

Lela's mother is still stranger in this garrison town of Dünheim with its small Court. Officers are like chess pieces that are grabbed by an invisible hand and placed somewhere else. Taken away and pushed, without one suspecting why and for which reason. They are paid the moving costs, but no one asks whether they leave friends, whether their wife likes the new climate, whether she is far from home there, whether the children get on in the new school or not. One gets "transferred" and there one is. This is how a woman's heart clings to the old home; because she is never given time to create a new one. It's like demolition everywhere. Once—as sure as Hell— comes the transfer. Until then "one goes along with everything", where one is at the moment. The regiment is the inevitably fixed society. Whether you like them or not, the commander's wife, the major's wife, the lieutenant's wife are your friends. They are invited and invite and no one else. You cannot possibly have relations with the doctor's wife or a banker's—you will not even be tempted; because convention has ensured that you don't get to know them.

Then one goes to the Court ball. Court ball is duty. One can't cancel. If one is terminally ill, the best one can do is to ask beforehand not to be invited. But an invitation-not to obey an order, that's not possible. "Better to stay at home . . ." Frau Käte doesn't dare to say it. What a ridiculous argument-better to knit, better to write a letter, better to stay with the children. And she must write to Pöchlin still. She hasn't yet thanked Grandma for the last sending of sausages. And the sack of potatoes for the winter and the hundred pounds of apples. The ham lasts at least fourteen days. The boys get from it on their bread for school. Both eat a lot now. Actually, like grown men. At the same time, they are only eight and thirteen years old. But they grow. Ali's trousers are too short again. Then Berti can wear it, but Ali must have a new suit. No more this month, if not Grandma . . . Of course, Grandma also has worries. In Pöchlin there is everything, except money.

It has been a Summer without rain. God knows what the harvest was. In her mind's eye, Frau Käte sees her Father standing in front of the rain gauge, counting the millimetres of rain that has fallen. This glass,
attached to a sawed-off tree trunk, has been the scariest enemy of her childhood. Everything depended on that glass. Drought—fright of Father and Mother. Drought-fear of the farm workers. Drought—disease of cattle. Drought—bad harvest. Bad harvest—debts. Debts—mortgages. Mortgages—ruin. Then white blankets of dust-blown in from the country road-lay on the roses and the holly bushes. Then the the trees are yellow in summer. Then the ground cracked. Then the horses' hooves are split. Then the unnatural agaves—as if made of tin—thrived in front of the house. Fusty, alien to the land they mocked the thirst of geraniums and marguerites. The ears of corn in the field remained small and opened their pods, scattering their sparse seeds on the hard ground. Gloomily, in the blazing sunshine the house lay, and gloomily and in silence the inhabitants passed each other . . .

The carriage stops with a jerk. A gallant footman flung the carriage door-a row of curious people on right and left stares at Frau Käte's slender foot in the white atlas shoe. But she doesn't step on wet pavement—a thick red carpet is laid on the road, and above her a canopy protects her from the dampness of quiet rain, to which she looks up gratefully. For a moment she hesitates, waiting for her husband. He gets awkwardly out of the carriage—the spurs on his patent leather boots force him to step sideways on the wagon steps. The fur-lined, light grey cloak with the beaver collar lies in rich folds like a train on the steps of the carriage. His brown, bony hand pulls the coat together. Reluctant for a moment and then laughing, his black, lively eyes roam the audience. He lightly puts his right hand to his cap to thank the serving footman, then he goes without any partiality, almost pleasantly touched by the admiring and envious glances of the bystanders, he approaches the waiting woman, offers her his arm and leads her up the steps to the entrance.

This Impartiality belonged to Major von Meinhardis like his right hand. It was his own and innate. He liked himself and liked others. With pleasure, he let it be known that he had "got something" from a Spanish grandmother. His yellow skin colour, his high instep, his dark, soft hair were un-German. His regimental comrades sometimes called him "old exotic"-then he could not suppress a small vain smile. Lovingly protective, he leads his wife up the stairs, quietly moved—as always in similar cases—by her apparent shyness and strangeness. This trait of hers had captured him at the time. Funny, how one in such moments had to remember the past.

It had been manoeuvre time. Quartering. Heat, dust, and fatigue. Strange men on tired horses, with dusty boots and brown faces, rode into Linden avenue of Pöchlin. The large, white, cool house opened, and three shy young girls led the unknown guests to their rooms. Each tore uniform from body, each bathed and fell on the bed to have a dead-like sleep. Flies buzzed on the chandelier and on the windows. Lieutenant von Meinhardis winked in the green-shaded light of ancient chestnuts outside the window. The little one, the youngest, what was her name? Käte-he smiles-Käte. Big eyes—I don't think she said anything—country girl—how come you, dear Meinhardis? You're probably crazy. When the Princess Schuwaloff hears this, well, and the Schermetieff in Baden-Baden—Meinhardis and a Käte. You're laughing at me. It smells of apples here; he continues to think, even of golden pearmains apples and russet apples. Russet apples shrink like old women. Käte—she washes herself with lavender—that's what I smelt, whether the white dress or her hair or her hands, clearly lavender. Bittersweet. Strange . . .

"The devil take this quartering. I can't stand these reckless hussars at all," saying old Pöchlin, tapping his barometer. But then a day comes when all the white doors in Pöchlin are wreathed with thick garlands of blue cornflowers. Red poppies stood on the table and candles with white cuffs. And the white tulle curtains were starched, and the parquet floor reflected smoothly. The priest in the black gown and the white collar said the first toast at the table, and then the comrades in red coats and the blue dolmans over shoulders with sabres crossed high in front of the door let the bride and groom walk away underneath—out into life—under sabres.

All of this flashes by as Meinhardis slowly strides up the carpeted steps. Frau Käte is shivering. She pulls her cloak tighter around her.

Everybody separates in front of the cloakrooms. The gentlemen are served by footmen, the ladies by waiting maids in white bonnets and dresses of stiff black silk. Tall, gold-framed mirrors on the walls are there to instil confidence in the timid newcomers and for the confident glances of beautiful women with with proud tiaras of flashing diamonds. Only here the anxious hands let go of the long trains that have to be guarded against dirt. Thick sewing cushions with needles and threads are ready for accidents of all kinds. Hasty greetings from acquaintances, unofficial, so to speak; because the real hello's begin upstairs in the hall. There's a nervous silence in the room. Hushed whispers.

Over there, at gentlemen's, it's different. There one groans loudly about tight coat, one stretches one's neck in front of the mirror because of collars that are too high, one swears about a cut that the razor in a hurried hand made across the chin. One complains about cobblers who no longer know how to make high patent leather boots, one asks which guests will come from out of the town and brushes moustaches with a small brush in front of the mirror. Some tail-coated gentlemen feel depressed in their colourlessness that they can hardly brighten with a red ribbon. They don't come against these red collars, green uniforms, blue skirts and white collars, against silver and gold, lacquer and coloured cloth. They are pale with their colour of living room against the weather-red and brown faces of the riders. With a hat under arm, they stealthily pass them by—the ministers and the chamberlains of the cabinet—about whom one has no idea where and how they actually spend their day.

A wide staircase-again with a red rug-leads up. Flowers line the stairs. Above stands a chamberlain of the Grand Duke. Representing the master of the house, he receives the guests. Everyone receives a small, folded cardboard box with a golden crown pressed into it. The dance card. On a silken string, a small pencil is ready to note down the names of the dancers. The programme is fixed-waltz, polka, rhinelander. Festive dinner. Waltz, lancer, polka, waltz, rhinelander, française and cotillon.

All rooms of the of the old castle are opened this evening. In corridors, near doors stand footmen in red liveries, golden cords across their chests, with knee-long breeches and dancing shoes. Chandeliers with hundreds of warm red luminous candles give mild light, enlivening the faces and making the eyes shine.

No one pushes. Despite narrowness, there is a gentle back and forth. Greetings and saying hello's. Frau Käte joins some of the ladies, while Meinhardis is eager to attempt to enter his name on the dance cards of the best dancers. A knock brings the buzzing sound of the voices to silence. Everybody steps back, and the Grand Duke in parade uniform—leading the Grand Duchess—walks past into the great hall.

The reception begins there. New guests are introduced. Meanwhile, waltz begins quietly and the first dance begins. The old ladies group themselves slowly along the walls on the sofas, elderly gentlemen retreat into the smoking rooms. One is still a little cold, one is still standing around, one doesn't feel a little at home. Everybody must say hello to a lot of people; because it is as it should be. Frau Käte seeks out the commander's wife, she greets the waiting maids who ask her graciously—as if they were her superiors—about her children. Frau Käte is not allowed to offend anyone, and as she in turn fulfils her duties, the younger officers who are subordinate to her husband report to her. Of course, they don't look as if this duty is difficult for them. They are literally beaming at her. One takes Käte to the dance, one takes her to the buffet for a glass of champagne. Gradually, it gets warmer in the room. The tips of a train are already torn by the spurs of a dancer. The candles have higher flames and drip treacherously on the uniforms of those standing unsuspectingly beneath them.

Frau Käte flies from arm to arm. Tired, she lets herself be led to a group of older ladies and sits down with them. Gladly, she joins the conversation.

"No, I have the butter from Northern Germany. I find it more economical. It also keeps well. I squeeze it into a large earthenware pot and pour water on it. Five kilograms comes significantly cheaper that way."

"Yes, but you don't use them for cooking?"

"Sometimes I do." She was ashamed of her extravagance, and as if to apologise, "I am from the countryside, Your Excellency. There one is so spoiled with fat . . ."

And the old Excellency nods in understanding.

But Frau Käte is not left alone. An elegant tall officer comes to her, and she rises.

"What are you doing there with the old bags? You don't belong there . . ." Frau Käte lowers her head.
She feels the hard, silver embroidery of the uniform cuff on her neck. It hurts. He holds her tighter than necessary.

"Don't you know that you have great charm?"

She is embarrassed by this male voice talking at her from above. She wishes the music comes to an end.
She also blushed a little.

"You hide too much; a young woman like you."

"Oh, it's not for me."

"This is something for every woman." And now, the music has ended, the man leads her to a side parlour
under a floor lamp. Frau Käte didn't want this. But she didn't succeed in escaping.

Senior Lieutenant von Kaisersmark sits close to her. The old-fashioned sofa is very low, and Kaisersmark sits so that his left knee touches the floor, which gives him an almost kneeling position. He doesn't say a word, but only sighs.

"Are you missing something?" Käte asks anxiously. She sees how slack the wrinkles are that run down Kaisersmark's face from the root of the nose to the mouth. Pity for the beautiful face, she thinks.

"Dear lady, actually, I find it hard to scare you by something about which you'd rather know nothing. But I think I'll be a better person when I've told you. I have debts and no prospect of ever pay them. The commander has warned me, but I can't help it."

"And your father?"

"He sells the estate that is mortgaged.

"Your friends . . ."

"That's the worst. I owe them all."

"There are bankers..."

"I owe them too!"

"And now . . ."

"Yes, so dear beautiful little woman, today you are seeing me for the last time. Tonight I'll take off the uniform." He looks at the embroidered braids. "And tomorrow I'll go with a suitcase to another continent."

"To America? And what do you do there then?"

"I don't know. Washing dishes, probably."

There is silence for a moment. Some young
pairs walk through the room and an old footman offers punch, beer and mineral water. Kaisersmark grabs a glass of water and pours it down. Käte starts again,

"I don't understand—forgive me—how did it come to this?"

Kaisersmark shrugs his shoulders.

"God, as it always comes. My father put me in the expensive regiment and thought that I would soon be a rich man-he pumped in the money for the first uniforms. Well, but one has a casino bill, and also one must live in a decent place. And admittedly, after the dull service and and all the silly, boring socialising one needs something different. God, I've fallen in love, and that costs money. The salary? That's enough for cigarettes."

"Yes, but . . ."

"You mean I was reckless? You're probably right. But do that for me! Drinking water when twenty-four comrades are sitting with Moselle. Or riding a bad horse in front of the regiment. Or wear old uniforms and cracked patent leather boots. Nobody can do that. And then mug some rich lass. Nah, I haven't managed this. The comrades put down a loaded revolver . . ."

Käte opens her eyes in horror.

"But I didn't take it. I don't want to shoot myself, I want to live."

"Of course you shall live, and maybe over there, who knows . . ." Kaisersmark takes Käte's hand and bends down,

"Shall we go dancing now?"

She takes his arm, and he leads her towards the waltz melody.

In the smoking room, the air is blue. On the table there are thick bottles of red wine and many cigar boxes. The faces are shining and reddened.

"Nah, he can't do that if he's still so in love with the lass."

"God, Axelstern, they're very decent people, the Löwensteins, and rich."

"Well, all well and good, but Jews! And he with his position at court. No, out of the question. If he does something like that, he'll be thrown out of here, and the day after tomorrow he'll be sitting in a nasty border place, in a line regiment."

"But she is pretty, even beautiful. Actually . . ."

"Yes," Axelstern smiles. "There's something about them, those Jewish lasses, temperament and- Well, cheers."

In another corner, a very young lieutenant leans over to his comrade.

"But you, trench war. That wouldn't be a war at all. Just think about it, you don't get to see the enemy and get shot to death."

"Hmm, admittedly, it's not pleasant."

"Look, my father was in the war of seventieth, they we
had attacks on horses, hand-to-hand combat and so on. One must be a man. But trenches? Unchivalrous."

On the wet road outside the carriages started to go up. They were ordered on time; because it was taken into account that the gentlemen had to get up early for duty. But not everybody went home. With sabres hanging low, many strolled to a small pub to discuss the events of the ball in comfort.

Meinhardis unlocked the door for Frau Käte and kissed her, "Good night."

"Don't come so late, please."

"But, Käte, I just want to have a drink. Dancing gives one a terrible thirst."

Frau Käte puts the many flowers-that she got at the ball-in a washbasin. Lovingly, she loosens string and wire and carefully sprinkles them. The mimosa smells strong and the white daffodils strange. Silently, she opens a door and stands in front of Lela's bed. Lela breathes quietly, both small hands are buried into Bear's shaggy fur.