People in Vienna remember the first of December 1921 as a day on which morning broke for the wearied masses of humanity as it always did and on which the afternoon likewise ran its usual course; on which, though, toward evening, rage and hopelessness burst through the customary social constraints, through protective barriers worn thin and no longer able to bear the pressure. The streets grew swollen, like torrential rivers, and the most vulnerable parts of expressionless building façades were shattered and destroyed. Mobs went pouring in among the heavy shards of broken glass that cascaded from the large, warmly lighted display windows of elegant shops, cafés, and restaurants; once inside, they turned their hands to destroying and their feet, with all the rapture of being let loose, to kicking in display cases and shelves that held cups and glasses.

Adrian, a young man of twenty-two, didn’t begin to have an inkling of events which quite a few others at that time, after all, had long been considering a serious possibility. The whole time, he was paying little attention to movements in the ground water of the city; he always said he wasn’t interested in “politics.” Adrian used this term disdainfully, as a means of trying to elevate his indifference to the status of a superior position. He was mainly concerned with himself and was forever juggling his personal affairs, which occupied him completely. His parents had sent him from Bohemia to study at the university in Vienna, because the currency exchange rates in those days allowed him to satisfy his daily needs better here than he could have in Prague, say, on the same amount of money.