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thoughts were partly directed to himself again, he asked himself this—only to see at once how foolish this question was.
    He was not a man of quick decisions, not a person who will-lessly gave in right away to strange impressions.
    He only knew that he had probably never, no never yet experienced such a feeling, almost like that of a fright, as in the moment when that strange boy at that disgusting place had walked in front of him and he had looked for a second into his face.
    But that had all been much too fleeting, had vanished much too quickly to be taken seriously.
    He had almost forgotten that meeting over these recent days.
    No, he had not forgotten it. For now, when he had become quiet, in the long, lonely hours of the evening before going to bed, that small, pale face popped up again before him. He saw again the gray-blue eyes as they had looked into his, startled and fearful, and he tormented himself again with the question that had disturbed him on that first evening, all the way into his sleep. For the answer he had given himself then was no longer able to satisfy him.
    Where was he now? Submerged into the millions of this huge city, perhaps already in another far from here: unreachable in any case, lost to him forever.
    For, if what he believed was true—that he was a decent boy—he would never meet him again at the only place where he could still look for him. And if it was not true—if he was not a decent boy—should he still hope and wish to see him again?
    An inner unrest gripped him so strongly during the last days of the week that it drove him out, for the first time again, to Unter den Linden.
    He wanted at least to try once, just a single time. If chance and luck were favorable to him? If he met him again—what then?
    He did not believe in chance nor in good luck, which could then no longer be good luck.
    He only wanted to see again the place where he had met him.
    So this time he walked directly to the entrance of the Passage, strode through the hall without looking around, and stood at its southern exit.
    Everything was like before. The people shoved and crowded, shouted and laughed.
    Here he had stood. He had run over there. He recalled him again, the way he had run. Naturally he was not here. Why should he be here!
    He turned and walked back through the Passage and out. He did not look around.
    “I don’t need to look,” he thought. “If he is here and near me, I will feel him.”
    He deceived himself. He was unaware that the boy he sought was sitting on a bench not twenty steps away—tired, hungry, and completely in despair.
    No feeling and voice told him, as with bowed head he strode down Unter den Linden, away from the place so abhorrent to him.
    5
    The boy was still sitting on the outer edge of the thickly occupied bench, staring across to the entrance as often as the view was free.
    A whole troop of young guys were standing there without moving from the spot the whole time, as he could see, entirely indifferent to the fact that they were blocking traffic. They were laughing and talking to one another.
    He still did not venture over.
    Then, however, as the pain in his stomach again became especially strong, he slowly got up and, eyes lowered, just as slowly walked across the road when it was clear for a moment from vehicular traffic and up to the entrance.
    At the corner where a mailbox projected, a boy was standing alone. He was bareheaded, looked down and out, and under his dirty jacket showed a lean, shirtless chest. He stood there as if waiting for someone who had made an appointment.
    The boy positioned himself beside him. He felt how his legs were trembling. Was it hunger? Or was it a sudden fear?
    Of what? For the moment no one was concerned about him. Yet it did seem again that the passersby and people coming out—and always mostly older men—looked at him peculiarly before walking on. He also believed he was being watched by the group of young people in the middle of the