Streets were empty, unless one counts the presence of the wind – sneaky whispers behind her shoulder and the rustle of used nylon bags crawling on the pavement like small furry animals. The soles of her shiny oxfords were squeaking “new shoes! new shoes!” at each step, insolent and begging to be ruined by the tattered sneakers of a stranger, then kicked aside. But a stranger never appeared. In such heat no living thing could be seen, it was only her and her barely existent shadow under the glaring sun.
There it was finally, a small white church standing awkwardly with its tiny garden between the grey fields of concrete, ruined asphalt and Plattenbau. It was quiet, all right. The marble floor clicked and clacked, each step a loud accusation. Somewhere there should be a door, there is always a door in the movies, a small wooden cabin of comfort, an elevator leading straight to God. But there was no door here, just an old velvet curtain which probably still carried the s