Johannes Friedmann 30
On his thirtieth birthday, a fine warm June day, he was sitting after lunch in the grey tent in the garden, leaning against a new soft neck-rest which Henriette had made for him, with a good cigar in his mouth and a good book in his hand. Now and then he would put the book aside, listen to the contented twittering of the sparrows in the old walnut tree and look at the neat gravel drive that led up to the house and at the lawn with its bright flower-beds.
Little Herr Friedmann was clean-shaven, and his face had scarcely changed at all except for a slight sharpening of his features. He wore his soft light brown hair smoothly parted on one side.
Once, lowering the book right into his lap, he gazed up at the clear blue sky and said to himself: ‘Well, that’s thirty years gone. And now I suppose there will be another ten or perhaps twenty, God knows. They will come upon me silently and pass by without any commotion, as the others have done, and I look forward to them with peace of mind.
· ‘Little Herr Friedmann’ ('Der kleine Herr Friedemann') (Trans. David Luke)

