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| Pinot Noir via Pixabay |
There were six of us in the cozy little dining room in the Meyer’s apartment in Lützowerstrasse. As four of them stood up and toasted me silently, I shook my head. I wasn’t sure I deserved Franz Meyer’s thanks, and besides, the wine we were drinking was a decent German red - a Spätburgunder from long before the war that he and his wife would have done better to have traded for some food instead of wasting it on me. Any wine - let alone a good German red - was almost impossible to come by in Berlin.
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