Mr. K., an imposing figure, blessed with a rich, melodious voice, always a little awe-inspiring. Once a week he delivered fruit and vegetables to my parents' general store, arriving in his tarpaulin-covered pickup truck. His job, fruit and vegetable wholesaler, and his sonorous voice were something that never really fit together. In 1970, by then I had left home, finished high school, my time in the military over, and was briefly visiting my parents' house. The shop bell rang, and there appeared, with his usual resounding voice, Mr. K. There were large demonstrations in Hanover at the time; many things were questioned, many things were set right, Bild newspapers were burned on the steps of the opera house. By men with long beards. "Under Adolf we would have gassed them all," Mr. K. blurted out. All respect was lost. We never exchanged another word.
