Sirius Read Free

wistfully back and forth in rhythm with the hand stroking him.
    “It’s too dangerous out there if you have a Jewish name,” Liliencron explains to his dog.
    He lays the newspaper aside and gets up.
    “That’s why, as of this moment, you will no longer be called Levi!” he declares. Levi furrows his brow.
    “We’ll find a beautiful new name for you,” says Liliencron. “Then you can give the Aryans the runaround.”
    He closes his eyes and thinks. Big Dog. The constellation pops into his mind. The evening on the terrace. His dog has grown pretty big by now, hasn’t he?
    “Sirius!” The name suddenly bursts out of him.
    He stares into the startled faces of his family.
    “Sirius!” he repeats ceremoniously. “From this moment on, you will be called Sirius.”
    Levi feels flattered. Big Dog. But at the same time he feels the responsibility weighing down on both himself and the star – of being a glimmer of light in the darkness. Dogs called Rusty have an easier ride of it.
    “Sirius, come on!”
    Liliencron grabs the lead, and together they leave the house.
    The passers-by can’t believe their eyes. The professor, still in his dressing gown and at a much later hour than usual, is walking absent-mindedly along the street. And he’s calling his dog “Sirius”.
    “Sirius, let’s go!”
    Frau Zinke, the wife of the caretaker from the neighbouring building, who sometimes makes conversation with the professor on his morning walks, asks: “Isn’t that Levi?”
    Liliencron answers: “No, that’s our Sirius.”
    Sirius trots on ahead, his ears drooping. When he reaches the tree, his tree, he doesn’t bark, but instead lies down thoughtfully.
    “Is it a different dog?” asks Frau Zinke.
    “Yes and no,” replies Liliencron.
    Frau Zinke shakes her head in bewilderment.
    *
    The townhouse the Liliencrons live in is an imposing structure.
    The entrance is framed by two columns, and the door is crowned with a frieze, modelled on the famous ceiling scene in the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam .
    The story goes that the building’s architect, a certain Manfred Buonarroti, was a descendent of Michelangelo who opened an architectural firm in Berlin in the mid 19th century. Liliencron researched the story, but was unable to find proof of the genealogical line from Michelangelo to Manfred. All he found was mention of a sculptor called Manfred Hosemann, from Leipzig, who once spent a month in Florence in 1821.
    There is another unmissable reference to Michelangelo in the conservatory: a statue of David in miniature incorporated into a niche in the wall. “Ecce homo” is engraved beneath it.
    For some time now, Liliencron has been contemplating replacing the David with a bust of his dog. The plan cheers him up. The inscription “Ecce homo” would of course remain, he thinks to himself.
    By now a few weeks have passed, and Sirius has accepted his new identity. He has almost forgotten that he was once called Levi. So quickly.
    “Presumably Hitler has also long forgotten that he was once called Schicklgruber,” says Liliencron.
    Frau Zinke has certainly forgotten, in any case. She calls “Hello, Sirius!” when she sees the dog. And “Heil Hitler!” when she sees Herr Liliencron.
    Life goes on nonetheless. Every morning, at ten o’clock on the dot, Professor Liliencron steps out of his house, followed by Sirius, and together they walk down Klamtstrasse.
    When they get to the corner, the dog begins his ritual with the tree, and Liliencron reads his book.
    The chocolate which was once a trick to lure the dog home is no longer necessary. Sirius knows the route now. He knows the whole neighbourhood.
    Sometimes he even ventures out on his own.
    He has discovered a hole in the garden fence, and he’s off. His first stop is Café Hoffmann on Clausewitzstrasse. He takes up position expectantly before the door, barks and wags his tail.
    “Right then, let’s see if you’ve learnt any new