No place, no game, no work, no idea in which this whistle would not sound.
I was dependent on it, it was now the messenger of my fate.
On mild, glowing autumn afternoons I was often in our little flower garden, which I loved dearly.
A peculiar impulse made me take up again boyish games which I had played formerly.
I played, as it were, that I was a boy who was younger than I, who was still good and free, innocent and secure.
But in the middle of the game, always expected and yet always terribly disturbing and surprising sounded Kromer’s whistle,
destroying the picture my imagination had painted.
Then I had to go, I had to follow my tormentor to evil and ugly places, had to render an account and let myself be dunned.
The whole business may have lasted a few weeks, but it seemed to me like a year, or an eternity.
I seldom had money—a five or ten pfennig piece stolen from the kitchen table when Lina left the market basket standing there.
Each time I was blamed by Kromer, and heaped with abuse;
it was I who deceived him and kept back what was his due, it was I who robbed him and made him unhappy!
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