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turned around. There stood my father. He was pale and looked tormented. My welcome stuck in my throat. I saw that he knew. He had come. The trial was beginning. Nothing had turned out well, nothing was atoned for, nothing forgotten. The sun paled and the Sunday morning collapsed.
    Thunderstruck, I stared at Father. I hated him. Why had he not come yesterday? Now I was not girded for this, had no resources, not even repentance and a sense of guilt. And why did he have to keep figs upstairs in his chest of drawers?
    He went over to my bookcase, reached behind the books, and took out several figs. There were few left. As he did so, he looked at me with mute inquiry. I could not say anything. Anguish and defiance choked me.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I finally brought out.
    â€œWhere did you get these figs?” he asked me in that low, controlled voice I so bitterly hated.
    I began talking at once. Lying. I said I had bought the figs at a confectioner’s, that there had been a whole ring of them. Where did the money come from? From a savings box I had together with a friend. We’d pooled the small coins we were given every so often. Incidentally—here was the box. I produced the box with the slit. Now there was only a ten-pfennig piece left in it because we had bought the figs yesterday.
    My father listened with a quiet, composed expression. Not for a moment did I believe he felt as calm as he looked.
    â€œHow much did the figs cost?” he asked in that soft voice.
    â€œOne mark sixty.”
    â€œAnd where did you buy them?”
    â€œAt the confectioner’s.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œHaager’s.”
    There was a pause. I was still holding the money box in my freezing fingers. My whole body was cold and shivering.
    And now he asked, with a note of menace in his voice: “Is that true?”
    Again I talked rapidly. Yes, of course it was true, and my friend Weber had gone into the store, I had only tagged along with him. The money was mainly Weber’s, only a little of it came from me.
    â€œTake your cap,” my father said. “We’ll go over to Haager’s together. He’ll certainly remember selling you the figs.”
    I tried to smile. Now the cold had penetrated as far as my heart and stomach. I led the way, picking up my blue cap in the hall. Father opened the glass door. He too had taken his hat.
    â€œJust a moment,” I said. “I have to go.”
    He nodded. I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and was alone, safe for another moment. If only I could die now!
    I stayed a minute, stayed two. It was no use. You didn’t die. You had to face everything. I unlocked the door and we descended the stairs together.
    As we were going out the front door, a happy thought struck me. I said quickly: “But today is Sunday and Haager’s isn’t open.”
    That hope lasted just two seconds. My father said calmly: “Then we’ll go to his house. Come.”
    We walked. I straightened my cap, thrust one hand into my pocket, and tried to walk along beside him as though nothing in particular were happening. Although I knew that everybody could see I was a criminal who had just been caught, I tried by a thousand devices to conceal the fact. I struggled to breathe easily and innocently. Nobody needed to see how my whole chest was constricted. I tried to put on a candid expression, to pretend naturalness and security. I pulled up one of my stockings, though it did not need pulling, and smiled, knowing that this smile looked frightfully stupid and forced. The devil was inside me, in my throat and innards, and he was choking me.
    We passed the restaurant, passed the blacksmith, passed the hansom-cab stand, passed the railroad bridge. This was where I had fought with Weber last night. Didn’t the cut above my eye still hurt? Oh God! Oh God!
    Docilely, I walked on, keeping my composure by terrible efforts. We started down Main Street.