“What is your name?” I asked.
The boy stared at me, uncomprehending. Was my German so bad? Or did he speak another language. His arraignment indicated that he was either not a local or that he had raided a wardrobe of a century past. I repeated the question.
“Werner Hoerst”, he barked. He looked at the mud then cautiously raised his eyes to me again. “I think I am very, very lost.”