Bernard Becker

They came​ for me early in the morning on a grey November day in 1965, announcing themselves with a loud banging on the front door of my lodgings, a suburban house in Weimar. My landlady, a widow in her fifties and the owner of a gigantic black poodle (in the habit of greeting me by clamping his forelegs around one of my legs to masturbate and difficult to shake off), opened the door to two...