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ochre-coloured, four-storey houses had been built in the
nineteen thirties and, in summer, wild ivy crept across the
windows. Roses bloomed in the front yard where children
were not allowed to play. Instead we were allowed to do
whatever we wanted in the backyard, which was
pockmarked with gravel and mangy blotches of grass. The
doors of our building were made of solid heavy wood and
the wide stairs creaked when our neighbours climbed up to
their respective flats. Max taught me later to identify every
individual’s steps, for example those of Mrs Blum from the
third floor, whose court shoes barely touched the steps, so
different from those of Mr Schwarz who slowly and heavily
dragged himself up to the second floor. The easiest ones to
recognise were the piano students who always dashed up to
the flat directly above ours. They were late every day and
tried to gain a few more seconds in the stairwell, loudly
clattering up to the first floor. Shortly afterwards, when
they’d shed their jackets and opened their music books,
their playing began to sound over our heads.
The five of us lived on the ground floor sharing a ninety-
square-metre, four-bedroom apartment. Sometimes there
were six of us if a guest stayed on, which could mean for
months because we were very tolerant. The guests usually
slept in the box room, which really didn’t really count as a
room as it had just enough space for a narrow bunk and a
bedside table. It could also happen that the guest had
invited another guest who then also remained, without any
vote being taken on the matter, for days or even weeks.