by Paul Leppin
Mylada greeted him.
Do you want the last lot?
She held the white piece of paper between her fingertips.
What can I win? — he asked.
Me!
Then he silently put the last of his money in her hands and took the paper.
The drawing began. The numbers were thrown into an ice-pail, and people crowded around the table shouting. A brutal suspense held all of them in its claws. Wine reddened the reveler’s brows, and a grotesque excitement tautened their features and made their faces leering and beastly.
Blindfolded, Mylada reached into the bucket. The room fell silent as she unfolded the paper.
You were lucky, Severin! — she said, smiling.
An envious pause ensued.
Severin stepped closer. The blood rushed in his ears, and his face was ashen. He raised the object he had recently stolen from Nathan Meyer’s desk. The fuse curled around his arm like a white worm.
A bomb! someone cried with horror, and a scream made all of them shudder.
I came here to kill you —
His voice broke. With red eyes he stared into the lamp.
Nikolaus took the weapon from his hand and stroked his cheeks like a child’s.
Why? he asked tenderly.
Because I hate you! —
And why didn’t you do it? — Mylada whispered, and looked at him open-mouthed. She stretched her body and her breasts rubbed against him.
Because I’ve won the raffle! — —
A deadly shame threw him to the ground. He knelt down and lay his head in her lap. Sobbing overcame him and he began to cry. But the laughter of the drunkards passed over him and transformed his tears into an unclean and burning sludge.
About the Author
About the Translator
Kevin Blahut has an MA in German Language and Literature and has spent a number of years studying language in both Berlin and Prague. His other translations include three volumes of Kafka's short prose and The Maimed by Hermann Ungar.
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