“This is what comes of sticking your fingers into things that ought not to concern you,” he said, in that quiet, civilized, Mozart-loving voice of his. The Nazi gentleman. “And you can think yourself lucky we decided it wasn’t your nose that got you into trouble. Otherwise, we might have cut that off instead. Do I make myself clear, Herr Gunther?”

I grunted feebly. I was all out of impertinence. I felt my finger start to slip out of my nostril. But he caught it just in time and then tucked it into my breast pocket, like a pen he had borrowed. “Souvenir,” he said. Turning away, he said to the man in the bowler hat, “Take Herr Gunther to wherever he wants to go.”

They dragged me back to the car and pushed me into the backseat. I closed my eyes. I just wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Just like Hitler and the rest.

Car doors closed. The engine started. One of my comrades elbowed me properly awake. “Where do you want to go, Gunther?” he asked.

“The police,” said someone. To my surprise it was me. “I want to report an assault.”

There was laughter in the front seat. “We are the police,” said a voice.

Maybe that was true, and maybe it wasn’t. I hardly cared. Not anymore. The car started to move and quickly gathered speed.

“So where are we taking him?” someone said after a minute or two. I glanced out of the window with half an eye. We seemed to be heading north. The river was on our left.

“How about a piano store?” I whispered.

They thought that was very funny. I almost laughed myself except that it hurt when I tried to breathe.

“This guy is very tough,” said the big man. “I like him.” He lit a cigarette and, leaning over me, put it in my mouth.

“Is that why you cut my finger off?”

“’S right,” he said. “Lucky for you, I like you, huh?”

“Friends like you, Golem, who needs enemies?”

“What did he call you?”

“Golem.”

“It’s a soap word,” said the bowler hat. “But don’t ask me what it means.”

“Soap?” I was still whispering but they could hear me all right. “What’s that?”

“Jew,” said the big man. And then he jabbed me painfully in the side. “Is it a soap word? Like he said?”

“Yes,” I said. I didn’t want to provoke him anymore. Not with nine fingers still on my paws. I liked my fingers and, more importantly, so did my girlfriends, back in the days when I had had any girlfriends. So I backed off telling him that the Golem was a big, stupid, only vaguely human monster that was as ugly as it was evil. He wasn’t ready for that level of honesty. And neither was I. So I said, “Means big guy. Very tough guy.”