Oleo’s is hopping. Fat Carlo is sweating away behind the bar, dipping and dripping in the ice-cream bins. He looks up for an instant as Stefan comes in—grins —and then re-applies himself. The Moped Gestapo, installed on the left, is demanding Der Stürmer from Emile, spastic fifty-year-old alumnus of Theresienstadt. But all he has left is Die Abendpost. A delegation of straw-hatted Bavarian tourists from a pullman bus has occupied the Polish corridor, and just beyond them a group of Italian and Swedish girls from the Translators’ Institute are eating spaghetti and lining up sleeping accommodations with three boys from the English College, a prince with a Porsche and an American soldier named Tannenbaum. Fraümlein Gerber just left for the evening performance of The Concert at Sans-Souci (her all-time favourite film) at the Studio-Lux.