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.and my patient was the menace! a lot of phony pretexts!.his room would be uninhabitable!.I should have him sent back to Germany!.but this Monsieur Miller of Marseille wasn't the least bit dangerous!.those people were scheming something else!.I could see it was another plot, like with Luchaire.I was perfectly willing for Monsieur Miller of Marseille to move out.but where could I put him with his TB? I went to see the lady doctor, a Boche, "führerin" of everything connected with tuberculosis.Dr.Kleindienst.she was really anti-French!.she told me off!.No surprise.she'd always refused me everything! I'd gone to see her a hundred times for my working women with pneumothoraxes.there were plenty of them.Frenchwomen working in the factories.for a quarter pound of butter.a pound of sugar.no! no!.and I knew perfectly well that she sent anybody she pleased.much lighter cases, whole families from the Castle.to the big sanatorium at Saint-Blasien in the Black Forest."send him back to France" was her only advice.The S.S.Sanatorium at Saint-Blasien wasn't for my patients!.I could see the plot coming.petitions all over the hotel and the restaurant, to send this Miller home to Marseille.and me with him!.to throw us both out! all three of us, Lili and Bébert! or ship us to a camp!.I saw it coming!.Cissen!.oh, they were certainly thinking about it! all four!.Le Vigan too!.I seem to be exaggerating a little.not at all! not at all!.I wasn't sure of Brinon!.and not at all sure of the Raumnitzes.and in spite of the cyanide not the least bit sure of Laval.or Bichelonne.Even so the days passed.and the nights.it was getting really cold.Marion comes to see us.he tells me that Bichelonne has pulled out.suddenly, just like that, without a word.without telling me anything.gone away to get himself operated up there in Prussia.okay! I tell him about the Miller business and my troubles with Kleindienst.I tell him it's a plot.he thinks so too, he agrees.Marion.the Minister of Information.isn't optimistic.he had a shit-colored outlook.I've told you a good deal about Herr Frucht and his troubles with his toilet.but there was a Mrs.Frucht too.Frau Frucht, on our landing, Room 15.No.15 was more than a room!.a regular apartment with bathroom, dining room, smoking room.I haven't told you about it.or about Frau Frucht.I took care of her.well, I gave her injections.menopause trouble.I got them from Basel.through "runners".but even so Frau Frucht didn't like us!.not at all!.any more than her Julius!.repulsive Franzosen!.we were contaminating her hotel, etc.why couldn't we go somewhere else?.which didn't prevent her from having herself entertained by the bodyguards from the Castle.who were very, very French!.three, four bodyguards per minister.which made quite a crowd, and those boys had good appetites.for lunch and dinner.Franzosen, athletes, and such lechers!.who weren't bashful and really piled it in!.and it ended in some jamboree!.a real Vrench orgy! The lady of the Löwen kept open board for the bodyguards.all the Rhine wine they wanted, schnapps.even absinthe!.better than at Pétain's.Frau Frucht was having a burning, writhing menopause, hot flashes and torments of the ass!.I think the husband was in on it, he'd take a peek between two sessions at the crapper.two shithouse tantrums!.the perfect Boche!.Anywhere you go, you'll find people who manage to enjoy themselves.if tomorrow the earth turns into ashes and plaster.a cosmos of protons.in some hole in the mountains you'll still find a batch of haggard lunatics buggering and sucking each other, swilling and piling it in.deluge and partouze!.that's what it was like at the Löwen, I've got to admit it.and what's more, only two steps from our door.on the same landing.I knew all about it.I never mentioned it to anybody.not even to Lili.oh, I never talked about Room 36 either!.you don't talk about things like that!.Frau Frucht never went out by way of our landing.she went down to her restaurant by her own winding stairway, from her bed to the kitchen.nobody entered her room except the bodyguards.her muscular friends, her masseurs.all bodyguards are masseurs, they sure massaged that lady!.I could see the marks of their massages, the palms, the fingers!.she was mottled with massages!.with her, her maids were on the receiving end.she had her own way of massaging them, à la schlag! maids and cooks!.she'd ask them up to No.15 for a lecture! boom! boom!.old and young!.for never cleaning the stairs properly!.for breaking dishes in the restaurant!.crack! smack! on the ass! on the back!.they didn't like it?.repeat performance!."lift up your skirts!.higher!.higher!.old or young!.nothing light about her touch!.Frau Frucht had a whip, too.like Frau Raumnitz!.as I saw later, in prison.the whip is a natural for dealing with maids, society women, and prisoners.they've all got a screw loose!.straighten them out, cure their complexes, there's only one way! I saw them coming out of Room 15 in tears and hysterics.they'd been straightened out.you think you ought to interfere?.how do you know the flagellees don't like it?.that getting themselves whipped isn't a vice with them?.one way or another, it was vice all right!.I knew.I didn't talk about it.The Frucht apartment, as long as we're there, was as fluffy.cushions, settees, furs, overstuffed velvet easy chairs.as our hovel was sordid.and talk about incense and perfumes!.Frau Frucht was always spraying her bed, the hangings, and chairs.a bottle of lavender.another! heliotrope, jasmine! made you think of the Chabanais!°.maybe you never knew the Chabanais.but a Chabanais crossed with Paillard's!.ass and stomach!.enormous orgies!.the whole works! the mixture of smells!.jasmine and rich food.leg of lamb, chicken, pheasant au vin.hit you on the landing.the door across from ours, next to the crapper.sent you reeling! Frau Frucht was just right for her boudoir, all ruffles and flounces and luxury.you could easily see her in a whorehouse.the build, the eyes, the tits! The whole picture!.and those wrappers, all lace and cabbage-bow ribbons! and those pale pink and green kimonos!.and whole cupboards full of silk stockings and garters!.menopause or no menopause, Frau Frucht was going strong!.the thrashings she gave the maids, plus my hormone injections, plus the bodyguards kept her in a state of prickling desire!.I played it dumb.I didn't see a thing.she gave us little extras.Lili and Bébert and me.a small platter of noodles now and then.who cared about the rest?.oh, she wasn't the generous type! Messalina if you will, but also a ruthless hashhouse operator!.she took it as a pretext for whipping her maids when they swiped her Stamgericht for their mothers or husbands.or worse.when they took it to the station!.I repeat, it was only a pretext.any pretext to whip!.and make them bellow!.Striptease? Don't make me laugh! Whipping shows are the thing! You'd fill the Opera a little fuller than for Faust or Meistersinger!.any pretext for vice will do! but she was worth knowing.not only her boudoir apartment, the tomato herself.that face! made you think of the Place Blanche and the worst pick-me-ups in the Bois [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]