He began to tell tales about dead people—how they came out of their graves and wandered till midnight about the town, seeking the place where they had lived and looking for their relations.
"Dead people can only remember the town," he said softly; "but they forget the streets and houses at once."
It became quieter and quieter and seemed to be getting darker. Sascha raised his head and asked:
"Would you like to see what I have got in my trunk?"
I had long wanted to know what he hid in his trunk. He kept it locked with a padlock, and always opened it with peculiar caution. If I tried to peep he would ask harshly:
"What do you want, eh?"
When I agreed, he sat up in bed without putting his feet to the floor, and ordered me in a tone of authority to bring the trunk to the bed, and place it at his feet. The key hung round his neck with his baptismal cross. Glancing round at the dark corners of the kitchen, he frowned importantly, unfastened the lock, blew on the lid of the trunk as if it had been hot, and at length, raising it, took out several linen garments.
The trunk was half-full of chemist's boxes, packets of variously colored tea-paper, and tins which had contained blacking or sardines.
"What is it?"
"You shall see."