A candle was burning in the master builder’s room, deprived of daylight by the shutters. Contrary to his habit, John Hubert, without waiting this time to have a seat offered to him, sank limply into an armchair.
“Thank goodness you are all here,” he said, making a caressing movement with his hand in the air. “I came along the shores of the Danube,” he continued hoarsely. “There were crowds of people and they said that the shells could not reach across the river. People from the shore sat about on stones. One was eating bacon. He ate quite calmly and suddenly he was without a head. For a time the corpse remained seated, and everything was covered with blood....” Horrified, he covered his eyes with his hand.
“So it was a shell that fell into the confectioner’s shop in Little Bridge Street?” said Christopher, stuffing barley sugar into his mouth. “The pavement was all covered with sweets as if the shop had been turned inside out. The whole school filled its pockets for nothing.”
The builder smiled. Behind the barred gates life continued. John Hubert put his necktie straight and sometimes in the course of the day forgot completely what he had seen. When he sat down to meals, however, he became pale. He pushed his plate aside.
From time to time, the window panes rattled. Woeful distant shrieks flew over the roofs. They were followed by the anguish of numb expectancy. People counted. The silence became crystalline and quivered in the air.
“The shell has not burst!” They counted again, in helpless animal fear. Whose turn would it be next? On the banks of the Danube a stricken house howled out. Clouds of dust burst high up into the air. The sky became red, the colour of bleeding flesh.
The wind blew a wave of hot air, heralding disaster, into the courtyard of Ulwing the builder. Behind the locked gate nobody knew which neighbouring house was expiring in a last hot breath.
The Fügers hid in the cellar. John Hubert and the children had moved into the office, situated in the inner courtyard. The first floor became empty, except for Christopher Ulwing who remained in his bedroom, the single window of which opened into the deserted timber yard.
“The house is strong,” said the builder to Mrs. Füger through the cellar window. “I built the walls well.”
A furious crack came from the gate as if it had been flicked by a wet towel of gigantic dimensions. The windows broke in a clatter. The house shook to its foundations.