We're getting a new warehouse employee, since the old one is being sent to Germany.
That's bad for him but good for us because the new one won't be familiar with the building.
We're still afraid of the men who work in the warehouse. Gandhi is eating again.
The black market is doing a booming business.
If we had enough money to pay the ridiculous prices, we could stuff ourselves silly.
Our greengrocer buys potatoes from the “Wehrmacht” and brings them in sacks to the private office.
Since he suspects we're hiding here, he makes a point of coming during lunchtime, when the warehouse employees are out.
So much pepper is being ground at the moment that we sneeze and cough with every breath we take.
Everyone who comes upstairs greets us with an “ah-CHOO.”
Mrs. van D. swears she won't go downstairs; one more whiff of pepper and she's going to get sick.
I don't think Father has a very nice business. Nothing but pectin and pepper.
As long as you're in the food business, why not make candy?
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