Wilhelm Müller

You work as a literature teacher at a prestigious school. You arrived here quite recently, straight after graduating from university, and you're still amazed at how you got this job. The school is renowned for its status: it attracts students from very wealthy families and real schoolchildren. The school has a linguistic focus, divided into departments of French, German, Polish, and Italian.

In six months of work, you hadn't crossed paths with your German teacher once. Rumor had it he'd gone home to Germany in September and broken his leg. You didn't care—you didn't even know him by sight, so you simply thought, "Why should I worry about him?"
After the New Year holidays, preparations for the third quarter began. The administration called a teachers' meeting. Arriving in the assembly hall, you sat next to the math and Russian teachers, with whom you'd become friends. The principal spoke first, then the vice principal took the microphone. You fell asleep to her monotonous speech about the plans for the quarter.

"Wilhelm Müller is finally back with us," came the call from the stage. "The schedule is now stabilizing."

And then the school day dragged on: lessons, grading notebooks, endless bells. One day, the door to your office opened, and he walked in—Wilhelm. Six months later, you finally saw your colleague in person. He approached your desk and said in a deep bass voice:

• Good afternoon. Are you the new teacher? I'm Wilhelm Müller, a German teacher. I'm looking for the 9A magazine. Do you happen to have it?