Hans Weissman

Hans Weissman

Hans had to read the letter twice.  His hand shaking.  "Mein Gott!", he cursed, then crossed himself, hoping his daughter had not heard.  The inheritance of his father's estate in Saxony had been virtually guaranteed to him, but he could not have known it would come at such an inauspicious moment.  It was winter and in the cold people were begging in the streets for bread.  Women were even offering their bodies.  Families were using notes for fuel, huddled around fires as they burned away fortunes.  Respectable people.  People like Hans.  When the crisis happened, all of the banks refused to make good on withdrawal demands and even cheques.  The Mark was valueless, worthless, yet here was Hans holding a letter from his father's attorney of Hamelin confirming that he, Hans Weissman, had inherited an estate worth two million.  It was the best moment of his life, but also the worst.

He prodded the fire again with a poker, this time in frustration, the flames spitting back through the grate, as if joining him in cursing the ill-timing of his good fortune and his father's foolishness in taking the decision all those years ago to invest his capital in government bonds, rather than something like property or precious metals that would keep its value even through the bad times like these.  Save for a tiny garden house, it was all cash.  He could murder his father now.

He looked down at the letter again.  For the first time, he noticed the high quality ivory paper and the gold-embossed copperplate header, all giving the impression of professional affluence.  He pondered how a rich lawyer had served him with news of a fortune that was a dead letter.  Some lawyer.  Some father.  Some fortune.