Text C: A Brother's  Murder (from F. Kafka: Short Stories)

The evidence shows that the murder was committed in the following manner:

Schmar, the murderer, took up his post about nine o'clock one night in clear moonlight by the corner where Wese, his victim, had to turn from the street he lived in.

The night air was shivering cold. Yet Schmar was wearing only a thin blue suit; the jacket was unbuttoned, too. He felt no cold; besides, he was moving about all the time. His weapon, half a bayonet and half a kitchen knife, he kept firmly in his grasp, quite naked. He looked at the knife against the light of the moon: the blade glittered; not enough for Schmar; he struck it against the bricks of the pavement till the sparks flew; regretted that, perhaps, and to repair the damage drew it like a violin bow across his boot sole while he bezant forward, standing on one leg, and listened both to the whetting of the knife on his boot, and for any sound out of the fateful side-street.

Why did Pallas, the private citizen, who was watching it all from his window near by in the second story, permit it to happen? Un-riddle the mysteries of human nature! With his collar turned up, his dressing-gown girt round his portly body, he stood looking down, shaking his head.

And five houses farther along, on the opposite side of the street, Mrs Wese, with a fox-fur coat over her night-gown, peered out to look for her husband who was lingering unusually late tonight.

At last there rang out the sound of the door bell before Wese's office, too loud for a door bell, right over the town and up to heaven, and Wese, the industrious night worker, issued from the building, still invisible in that street, only heralded by the sound of the bell; at once the pavement registered his quiet footsteps.

Pallas bent far forward; he dared not miss anything. Mrs Wese, reassured by the bell, shut her window with a clatter. But Schmar knelt down; since he had no other parts of his body bare, he pressed only his face and hands against the pavement; where everything else was freezing, Schmar was glowing hot.

At the very corner dividing the two streets Wese paused, only his walking stick came round into the other street to support him,. A sudden whim. The night sky invited him, with its dark blue and its gold. Unthinking he gazed up at it, unknowing he lifted his head and stroked his hair; nothing up there drew together in a pattern to interpret the immediate future for him; everything remained in its meaningless, inscrutable place. In itself it was a highly reasonable action that Wese should walk on, but he walked on to Schmar's knife.

'Wese!' shrieked Schmar, standing on tip toe, his arm outstretched, the knife sharply lowered, 'Wese! You will never see Julia again!'. And right into the throat and left into the throat and a third time deep into the belly stabbed Schmar's  knife. Water rats, slit open, give out such a sound as came from Wese.

'Done', said Schmar, and pitched the knife, now superfluous blood stained ballast, against the nearest house front. The bliss of murder. The relief, the soaring ecstasy from the shedding of another's blood! Wese, old night bird, friend, and house crony, you are oozing away into the dark earth below the street. Why aren't you simply a bladder of blood so that I could stamp on you and make you vanish into nothingness? Not quite all we want comes true, not all the dreams that blossomed have borne fruit, your solid remains lie here, already indifferent to every kick. What's the good of the dumb question they are asking?

Pallas, choking down the muddle of horror in his body, stood at the double-leafed door of his house as it flew open. 'Schmar! Schmar! I saw it all, I missed nothing.' Pallas  and Schmar   scrutinized  each other . The result of the scrutiny satisfied Pallas, Schmar came to no conclusion.

Mrs Wese, with a crowd of people on either side, came rushing up, her face grown quite old with the shock. Her fur coat swung open, she collapsed on top of Wese, the night-gowned body belonged to Wese, the fur coat spreading over the couple like the smooth turf of a grave belonged to the crowd.

Schmar, fighting down with difficulty the last of his nausea, pressed his mouth against the shoulder of the policeman who, stepping lightly, led him away.