Friday 20 August 2010

...of an inspection

He drove through the devastated waste of a market. The wheels of his gig rolled briskly along over the discarded weights, and Jacobs hoofs buried themselves even deeper in the mud. Eibenschutz stopped in the middle of the market. The traders stood stiff and silent behind the stall tables like wax figures in a waxworks. Anselm Eibenschutz went from stall to stall, the gendarme at his side. He was shown scales and weights, proper scales, proper weights. Ah, he was well aware that they were the false ones, which were never used. He checked the hallmarks, he investigated scoops, pigeonholes, drawers, corners, hiding-places. At mother Czaczkes', the poultry-dealer's, he found seven false pound and kilo weights. He took down her name, he felt sorry for her. She was a haggard old Jewess, with reddened eyes, a firm nose and a wrinkled parchment countenance. It was really a matter of amazement that so many wrinkles could find their way onto such a thin covering of skin. He felt sorry for her, for poor mother Czaczkes. Nevertheless, he had to take down her name. Obviously her hands had been too feeble to throw away the weights in time, as the others had done.

[Weights and Measures, Roth, J.]

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