What the photographers caught was the kick.
THE CROWD DISPERSED. THE NEWSPAPERMEN went off to write their copy. Each person carried a piece of the white debris. Doctor Mann had rescued the roll of paper with the signatures of artists which had not burned. The name of Judith Sands was among them. As they stood in the corner hailing a taxi Renate and Bruce came out of the revolving door. Renate recognized Doctor Mann. When Doctor Mann introduced Judith Sands, Renate flung her arms around her.
“I love your book so much I have worn it down with readings; it looks like a pack of cards worn out by a gypsy fortune teller.”
“We wanted to rescue the piano,” said Renate. “I felt it still had a song in it. I didn’t want to rescue anything dead.”
“Let’s sit somewhere and have a drink, and read the roll of artists’ names.”
Judith Sands said in a slightly rough voice: “Come back to my place. I have something to show you.”
They followed her. In the dimly lit apartment they could only see paintings on the walls and many books. The only light came from a desk lamp. Judith Sands without taking her cape off, went to the couch, nudged two cats off who had been sleeping on it, got on her knees, pulled out a carton overflowing with papers, pulled out a bunch which had been clipped together and gave it to Renate to read.
It began:
“Vienna was the city of statues. They were as numerous as the people who walked the streets. They stood on the tip of the highest towers, lay down on stone tombs, sat on horseback, kneeled, prayed, fought animals and wars, danced, drank wine and read books made of stone…”