It was scary, cold, and the inevitable arrival of trouble was felt. It is restless on the child's tiny soul, as in hoffmann's fairy tales, as if thousands of mouse regiments are lined up and gnawing, gnawing with their terrible teeth at the child's soul, gnawing into the flesh of the heart, splashing blood, stamping with their little soldier's paws, casting terrible shadows on the walls. It's all a dream, a dream, wake up, my good one, mom will kiss, and everything will pass, everything will be fine again. oh, he won't.

1941. And now, twenty years later, he is like a mouse himself, stamping with his paws, casting terrible shadows and gnawing, gnawing to death other people's children, big and small, beautiful and smart. everyone, indiscriminately, who is told, is gnawed at. And he's not ashamed. After all, Franz is not in a fairy tale. There are no fairy tales, there is only drama. The drama when the mother hugs her thin arms around his shoulders at parting. The drama when the father gives the last farewell. The drama when he rides in a train full of the same rats, yes, yes, exactly, the same rats as himself.

A funny drama. A sad comedy.

And so, when he looks into your eyes, he sees himself: A tiny child in a knitted blouse that trembles from any rustle behind the fireplace. No, no! There is none of this, it's just madness, permeated through and through by the cold of this nasty country. Crack it like breaking a nut, get the valuable and important things out of the shell, and the rest out into the furnace, into the stove, burn it, scatter the ashes to the wind, and that's it. and the fairy tale is over. But Franz look into your eyes and find no malice.

You both were standing on the edge of the forest, almost waist-deep in wet grass. Crows are screaming and circling overhead. You're standing with guns pointed at each other. The same age, no other way. You both had something and now there will be nothing. Franz took a step back and threw the weapon into the grass, raising his hands slowly.