The Zeit family would rise at first light, when Hans had only been asleep a few hours. Herr Zeit made them gather round while he read a short passage from the Bible, then the four of them ate breakfast in their apartment. Afterwards, they would each go off to fulfil their different duties. Herr Zeit would take up his position behind the reception desk, spreading the newspaper over his formidable belly as though it were a lectern, and there he would stay until shortly before midday, when he went out to settle a few bills and other payments. He would stop off on the way home to drink a few beers and listen to the local gossip, which he maintained was part of his job. In the meantime, Frau Zeit would tackle a long list of chores that included cooking, fetching firewood, doing the ironing and cleaning the rooms, and ended after supper with a last bit of darning in front of the fire. Then the frown would fade from her brow; she would cast off her apron and parade around the bedroom in the flannel gown she insisted on calling her kimono, swaying her hips with a mixture of sadness and faded charm.
Thomas’s sister Lisa would take him to school. Besides being constantly on the move and never finishing his homework, the boy had a habit that infuriated his sister — he was fond of easing his stomach by letting out little explosions. Each time he did so, Lisa would march out of the bedroom they shared and fetch their mother, who would come and give him a scolding. While Frau Zeit bawled him out and threatened punishment, Thomas would begin again. So, amid giggles and explosions, explosions and giggles, Thomas would finish dressing. He came home every day for lunch, and attended Bible class twice a week. Lisa did not go to school, even though she had always been a more hard-working pupil than her brother. After dropping him off, Lisa would return to help at the inn, shop for groceries in the market square or wash linen in the Nulte. In winter this was the hardest chore, because the washerwomen had to search for stretches that were not iced over. Lisa was tall for her age and quite thin, although in the past year she had begun to fill out, a fact of which she was proud and faintly uneasy. Her skin was smooth and downy, except for her hands — in contrast to the softness of her neck or shoulders, Lisa’s hands were coarse. Her knuckles were red, her fingers chapped, the skin above her wrists raw from the freezing water. Hans noticed this one morning when he wanted to take a hot bath. Lisa was ferrying pans of boiling water up and down the stairs to fill the tub. He suddenly found himself staring at her hands, but she snatched them away, ashamed, and concealed them behind her back. Abashed, Hans tried to distract the girl by engaging her in conversation. Lisa seemed to go along with the ploy, and for the first time since his arrival uttered more than a few words to him. Hans was surprised at how knowledgeable and self-assured she was, although at first she had seemed so timid. When the bathtub was almost full to overflowing, Hans turned to open his case and had the impression Lisa was lingering in the room. As soon as he heard the door close, he felt foolish for even having entertained such a thought.
Worried about the frugality of the organ grinder’s meals, which consisted mainly of boiled potatoes, salted herring, sardines or hard-boiled eggs, Hans would take with him to the cave a little meat, a wheel of sheep’s cheese or some of Frau Zeit’s sausages. The organ grinder accepted these delicacies, but the moment Hans left, fed them to Franz. When Hans discovered his ruse, the old man explained that, although grateful for his generosity, he had promised himself many years ago he would only live off what his barrel organ could provide, which was why he played it in the first place. Hans finally managed to win him over him by persuading him they were simply dining together. One evening, as they were both tucking in to a piece of larded beef and a bowl of rice with vegetables, Hans asked him whether he ever felt lonely in the cave. How can I feel lonely, replied the organ grinder, chewing his beef, when I have Franz watching over me? Isn’t that right, my boy? (Franz trotted over and licked his hand, using the opportunity to help himself to a small chunk of beef.) Besides, my friends come to see me. (Who are they? asked Hans.) You’ll meet them soon enough, you’ll meet them soon enough (the organ grinder topped up his glass), I expect they’ll show up tomorrow or the day after.
Sure enough, a couple of days later, Hans found two other guests at the cave when he arrived — Reichardt and Lamberg. Nobody knew Reichardt’s exact age, but it was obvious he was at least twice as old as Lamberg. Reichardt scraped a living as a hired field hand. He would offer his services to hoe, plough, sow or do a few days’ work on seasonal tasks. He lived crowded together with his fellow labourers on church lands about twenty minutes from the cave. Reichardt was one of those men whose once relatively youthful appearance makes them look even older as they age; their lean bodies betraying more starkly the ravages of time. He suffered from stiff joints, and his hairless skin was cracked and blotchy from the sun. Half his teeth were missing. Reichardt took pleasure in using swear words; he preferred them to the actual subject of a conversation. That evening, when he saw Hans arrive, he greeted him by saying: Shit, so you’re the fellow who comes from who-knows-where. Pleased to meet you, replied Hans. You don’t say? Reichardt replied with a guffaw. Shit, organ grinder, he’s even daintier than you said he was!
Beside him sat Lamberg, as always listening and saying nothing. Unlike Reichardt, who would frequently stop by the cave, Lamberg went there mainly on Saturday evenings or on Sundays, which was his day off. He had been working in Wandernburg’s textile mill since he was twelve. He shared a room in the houses built around the mill, the rent being deducted from his wages. His muscles were always clenched, as if he were permanently suffering from cramp. The fumes from the mill meant his eyes were always bloodshot. Everything he looked at seemed to turn red, to burn. Lamberg was a man of few words. He never raised his voice. He rarely disagreed with the person he was talking to. He simply fixed them with his eyes, red like two glowing pistons.
Franz did not seem to trust the two men equally — he showed a playful familiarity towards Reichardt, whom he kept licking and who he wanted to rub his tummy, while from time to time he would sniff at Lamberg’s legs suspiciously, as though he were still not quite used to his smell. Sitting across from them as the wine was passed around, Hans noticed the two men’s different way of getting drunk. Reichardt was an experienced drinker — he waved his glass about a lot, but only occasionally lifted it to his lips. He remained relatively alert in his drunkenness, like a gambler waiting for his fellow players to become completely intoxicated. There was a youthful impetuosity to Lamberg’s thirst. Although, Hans reflected, perhaps Lamberg’s aim was to find the quickest route to unconsciousness, and this was why he drank as though he were swallowing not only the alcohol but also all the words he never spoke.