"Nah, nah, just leave it alone . . . There's something wrong with the letter." And Herr Alemann doesn't let Frau Alemann out of the room. "It's written in pencil and then all blurred so that you can't read it any more, and then sent back by the post office. I'm telling you, it's a smuggled letter; as true as my name is Alemann."
"If it's smuggled, then you especially bring it here, Aleman. This is the rule. And the rule is the rule."
Herr Alemann tilts his head. He looks at the back of the letter. The sender—Ilse von Westhagen—is clearly legible.
"God, Bettiken, if only little Westhagen doesn't get in a row—no, I feel sorry for the child. Why shouldn't such poor thing be allowed to write to Mother without choosing the right words?"
Bettiken is of a different opinion.
"It's none of your and my business. What is delivered here from the post office is delivered. And what if it's a bomb, do you understand?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, but there are cases where the duty is not so clear. For example, during the war, when a soldier . . ."
He didn't get any further. The house telephone shrilled and Frau Alemann—who was moving faster than him—was already at the device,
"Yes, Fräulein von Kesten! The post has come this minute, yes, I'll bring it." And hanging the receiver, "She knows exactly when the post is coming."
Alemann is shocked and allows the sinister letter to be taken from his hand without a fight. Bettiken rushes up the stairs with it.
Herr Aleman has nothing to do at this moment, and why shouldn't he go into the kitchen and see what old Liese is cooking up for this evening? He is not greeted too friendly. As the only male in the house who is in opposition—albeit powerles—to most of the rules of the institution, he is quite despised by the women. But today it's about something one can use a man for, namely the Swedish punch that is to be served this evening.
Alemann rightly considers himself an expert in this matter. Liese—the fat cook—doesn't quite agree with him, but just to convince him of his superfluousness, she hands him a sample. Herr Aleman sips, moves his lips, wipes his moustaches dry with his handkerchief and then says a single word, drawling and suspiciously.
Herr Alemann says: "Well . . ."