Walter Schreiber was a good-natured man. His entire being radiated affability and understanding. He was living his life, and he didn’t claim that he alone had the right to do so. He conceded that others, too, were entitled to exist—as long as they didn’t deal in vegetables.
His shop in the basement was doing well despite being located in a decidedly poor part of town. The nearby tenements were crammed with people who earned very little, because times were tough. Many were on the dole, forced to live off the state, while others received no support and couldn’t find work. Nevertheless they managed to scrounge up enough to buy potatoes and cheap vegetables from Walter Schreiber. Even in the toughest times, people couldn’t break their habit of eating.
Walter Schreiber didn’t rack his brains figuring out how they did it. He stood downstairs in his shop, selling produce with a friendly smile across his broad, benevolent face. His prices weren’t higher than anyone else’s, and he categorically refused to grant credit—for him, this was a question of fairness.
“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” he liked to say. “Since I can’t possibly let two hundred people buy on credit, I don’t let anyone. After all, what I give to one person I can’t deny to the next, and these days everybody’s strapped, including me.”
But now and then he did give things away. Mostly when they could no longer be sold. The concept of quality had reached even his neighborhood, and although his clients weren’t particularly choosy, in autumn they still refused to buy potatoes that had been harvested the previous year and had since sprouted quite profusely. And so, when even rock-bottom prices no longer tempted any buyers, he was able to part from the goods in question and simply gave them away.
A set of stairs led down from the street into Schreiber’s shop, which was quite spacious—almost too big for his purposes. He had outfitted the main room to look as professional as possible. It was well lit and nicely lined with wallpaper. The vegetables, fruit, and baskets of potatoes were attractively arranged.
The previous tenant—a coal merchant—had also utilized the small side room, which was connected to the main room by a door and a few steps. But since it was a whole meter lower and so damp that it was completely unsuited for keeping produce, Schreiber only used it to store baskets for vegetables and crates for dried fruit.
Every time he had to enter that room, it struck him as nothing but a nuisance. A single window opened onto the street, and the cracked, murky glass let in an ugly light. The air was so stuffy and unhealthy, he always had to cough when he went in to fetch something. He would have preferred to take the room, which his landlord had thrown in practically for free, and wall it off from his shop. Every morning he had to spend time airing out the mustiness that had seeped into the main room.
Schreiber stood tallying figures at his small desk, of which he was very proud, since it lent the whole shop the air of a serious commercial enterprise. It was two in the afternoon, and for a brief period there was nothing to do; the shop was quiet. Then he heard someone climbing down the stairs. He left his desk and went to meet the presumed customer, busily rubbing his hands together.
An old man stepped inside, and Schreiber eyed him with amazement. His clients weren’t exactly the most elegant—he was used to that—but this man was not so much dressed as draped. A jacket that was far too big hung loosely from his shoulders. A pair of trousers, which once upon a time had been tailored in the American fashion, was now a colorless oversize mass of cloth that covered his legs like sacks. Their former owner must have been a tall, corpulent man; otherwise there was no explaining the difference between the wearer and the worn. This man was short, and when he walked, he gave the appearance of wearing a skirt instead of trousers. The crotch came down to his knees, and the pant legs, which once were clearly too long, had been cut off, leaving a fringe of loose threads. On top of this, he wore a hat that fit him quite well and only accentuated his ridiculous, scarecrow-like appearance. His face was yellow and bony. He looked around the room with lusterless eyes.
Schreiber wondered what the man would ask for—at most a couple pounds of potatoes or carrots, he thought.
The old man walked up to him. “Guten Tag,” he greeted. His voice sounded unclear and exceptionally indifferent. “I heard you have a basement room available. I might want to take it.”
For a moment Schreiber didn’t answer, just went on observing the man closely. An odd duck to be sure. And a stranger to the neighborhood as well. Schreiber knew the locals, and he’d never seen this man before.
“Who told you that?” he asked, eager to find out.
“I can’t remember. Somebody in the shelter, I think. Were they wrong?” The man looked at Schreiber expectantly.
Schreiber nodded. “No, they weren’t wrong. There is a room. But you won’t be able to move in. It’s fine for a basement business, but not as a place to live.”
“I see.” The man took a step closer. Schreiber caught a strong whiff of cheap schnapps. “Well, I’d like to have a look. I don’t want to live there. Just sleep. But it has to be real cheap.”
Schreiber thought a moment. God, if I could make a couple extra pennies . . . why not? Hopefully the man was honest and wouldn’t break into his stock. But there were ways to make sure that didn’t happen.
He nodded energetically at these last thoughts. Then he said, “Follow me. I’ll show it to you.” He headed to the side room, and the old man—Schreiber guessed he was between sixty-five and seventy—trudged behind him.
Schreiber stopped in front of the large, dirty door that was held together with metal strips, fished in his pockets for a key, and turned it twice in the lock. As he did so he said, by way of warning, “The air in there’s a little bad.”
The old man did not react. At this hour—around midday—a sallow daylight filled the room. As the two men climbed down the steps, they were struck by the dank, musty air. Baskets and wicker panniers lay piled up in a corner.
The man inspected the space. He walked alongside the walls, touching them here and there, squeezed past the baskets, and studied everything very thoroughly. Schreiber grew impatient. He went halfway back up the stairs to peek into his shop, but there were no customers.
“Well, how do you like it?” Schreiber asked.
Instead of answering, the man held out his hands, which were moist from the walls.
“Yes, I know,” Schreiber said regretfully. “It’s a bit clammy.” “How much are you asking?”
Schreiber wrinkled his forehead as though pondering. Finally he said, with a generous smile and a condescending tone, “I’ll let you have the place for one mark fifty a week—any cheaper I’d be giving it away.”
The old man agreed to the price. He rummaged in his pants for a handful of coins—each smaller than the next—and counted them out.
While Schreiber scrupulously checked the amount, he asked the old man, “When are you coming?” The latter took off his hat, lowered his shiny bald head as though in greeting, and answered, “My name is Fundholz. Emil Fundholz. I’ll come this evening, together with Tönnchen and possibly with Grissmann.”
When he heard that the man was planning to bring two others, Schreiber was taken aback.
“If three of you are planning to live here, it will cost more than one mark fifty.”
Schreiber had never rented out a living space. But somehow he divined what landlords said in such cases.
The old man shook his head vigorously. “Only Tönnchen and I will stay here. Grissmann is just a visitor,” he explained.
Schreiber took that in and noted the names. “Ah, so Grissmann is just a visitor. But for Tönnchen or whatever his name is, it will cost one mark extra.”
The old man held out his open hand. “In that case give me back my money,” he said calmly.
Schreiber heard a customer entering his shop. “I don’t have any more time,” he said, now very busy. “But I’ll give you a break. So let’s just leave things as they are. But no more than two people can sleep here, otherwise it will cost more. Let’s say that you come every evening at seven, and I’ll lock you in the basement. In the morning I’ll come from the market hall at half past five and let you out.”
This solution had just occurred to him, and he thought it was excellent. This way he could rent out the room without being afraid that his shop might get robbed empty in the night.
Fundholz followed him up, protesting vaguely, but Walter Schreiber was already very cheerfully attending to a working-class wife who was asking for potatoes, carrots, and bouillon cubes. Fundholz stood waiting off to the side.
The woman stared at the old man in amazement. “Nice weather today,” she said.
Fundholz said nothing and just gazed blankly past her.
Walter Schreiber jumped in with a confirmation. “Very nice indeed!” he said, with a friendly laugh, as he gave the lady a sly wink.
Fundholz didn’t seem to notice. Then he proceeded to take an enormous blue-and-green-striped cotton handkerchief from his pocket and blow his nose with a mighty snort. The woman laughed as she paid and left, while Walter Schreiber scowled angrily at Fundholz. Why was he sticking around? This roving ragbag was going to wind up scaring off the clientele.
“So, this business about locking us up at seven o’clock, that’s not going to work!” Fundholz was speaking more firmly and resolutely than before. “You can shut us in at eleven, but not at seven!”
Schreiber realized that grown men couldn’t be put to bed at seven in the evening, so he agreed. “Fine. I’ll come here every evening at ten and let you in. But if you’re not on time, you’ll have to sleep in the Tiergarten. I’ve got to get going early in the morning and can’t play doorman for a bunch of late-night carousers.”
The old man bleated out a laugh. “Late-night carousers—that’s a good one. Really good.” Still laughing, he climbed up the stairs. Once he reached the street, he turned back around. “So, I’ll see you at ten this evening.”
Then he put his hat back on and vanished from sight.
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From Berlin Shuffle by Ulrich Alexander Boschwitz, translated by Philip Boehm. Used with permission of the publisher, xx. Copyright © 2025.
