In big letters on a piece of paper, he wrote: ‘A terrible woman.’
And used his hands to sculpt her immense bosom.
He carried on writing and over his shoulder I read: ‘Lived for a long time in Oster. Moved from there to Chernigov. Straight after the war. Sought after by widowers who were knocking on a bit. She turned them down. She was after a young one. Fool.’
Shtadler finished scribbling.
In my estimation, the information was tosh.
“Is that it?” I said.
“An ordinary woman with t**s? You’re having me on. What I need is information. Come on, Veniamin Yakovlevich. There’s a good chap. Take it seriously. Like a Bolshevik. The way you used to. I don’t know how else to get it into your head, to make you understand. I need information! Urgently!”
Shtadler held up his hands helplessly.
In
