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I discovered that it was she who bakes the melting, golden German Pfannkuchen on Sunday mornings; she it is who fries the crisp and hissing Wienerschnitzel; she it is who prepares the plump ducklings, and the thick gravies, and the steaming lentil soup and the rosy sausages nestling coyly in their bed of sauerkraut.
And I knew that I would miss the easy German atmosphere of the place; the kindness they had shown me; the chattering, admiring Minna; the taffy-colored dachshund; the aborigines with their ill-smelling pipes and flappy slippers; the Wienerschnitzel; the crushed-looking wives and the masterful German husbands; the very darns in the table-cloths and the very nicks in the china.
For supper there was Wienerschnitzel, and kalter Aufschnitt, also Kartoffel Salat, and fresh Kaffeekuchen. The room hung breathless on my decision. I wrestled with a horrible desire to shriek and run. Instead I managed to mumble an order. The aborigines turned to one another inquiringly. "Was hat sie gesagt?" they asked. "What did she say?"
"Thank God for your gift of laughter," Von Gerhard said, and took my hand in his for one brief moment before he turned and walked away. Quite prosaically I opened the big front door at Knapfs' to find Herr Knapf standing in the hallway with his: "Nabben', Frau Orme." And there was the sane and soothing scent of Wienerschnitzel and spluttering things in the air.
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