There was a little Christian.
He had a little tree.
Up came a Superman
And cracked him, like a flea.
Tarrasch (laughing).
Very good! You should send that to the Tageblatt, Brander.
Well, Rada, or whatever your name is, you’d better find something for us to eat. I’m sick of this whimpering.
Wouldn’t your Belgian swine have massacred us all, if we’d given them the chance? We’ve thousands of women and children at home snivelling and saying, “Oh! my God! Oh! my God!” just like you.
Rada (rising to her feet in a fury of contempt).
Then why are you in Belgium, gentlemen?
Is it the husks and chaff that the swine eat,
Or is it simply butchery?
(They stare at her in silence, over-mastered for a moment by her passion. Then, her grief welling up again, she casts herself down on the couch, and buries her face in her hands, sobbing.)