I arrived in that country like a fallen leaf– detached from its surroundings, fragile, and easily pushed around. From the shore, to the station, to my first steps into the division, I wore a heavy European coat on my frail form. It was ill-fitting, clearly intended for a broader man. I felt like a boy wearing his father's clothing.

Stale air hung over the train. Few people talked, fewer still loud enough to be heard. I sat in a square of four, pressed against the window by the wide build of a man with thinning, straw-colored hair. The thick scent of smoke enveloped him, further irritating my throat and lungs. I coughed often because of it, yet he glared at me as if I had those fits simply to spite him. The fine quality of his traveling clothes and suitcase indicated his wealth; I wondered, then, what business had set him on a train stocked primarily with poor foreigners.

Across from me sat two other men. One of them, a small man perhaps in his sixties, seemed to share my situation. His dirty coat swallowed him, and even further he pressed his body together stiffly, as if he wanted to disappear under the European overcoat. His eyelids drooped, and he never looked at his fellow passengers anyway. I considered offering a word of reassurance or kindness in my own language, but I knew how it would fall.

The other man unnerved me. Like the European, he dressed in fine clothes. His black hair was slicked back, his hands protected by elegant gloves. But his eyes held far more intelligence than the other man's. Despite our similar tone of skin, his perhaps darker, one of his irises was pale– light enough to nearly be white. He rarely broke his cold gaze from me. I felt that he knew me: not merely facts about my person, but my soul itself. He saw into me with that eye.

Relief did not wash over me when I finally reached my destination. I exited briskly, pushing through the crowd at the station. I felt his gaze on me, though I did not see him when I dared a glance back. Many faces became his, only for my fear to dissipate when the head turned and both eyes revealed a soothing black instead. I hated him, this stranger then. His spirit stalked me in some feline way– his one conspicuous pupil became a sharp slit in my mind, dilating when it found its prey.

My nerves set themselves in a constant spike until, at last, I had secured my position in the block. Though I had only a thin blanket between my face and the filthy floor and only my coat to drape over my shoulders, a deep sleep embraced me that night. I dreamt of the sun's warmth.

Throughout the week, I regained my bearings. While my lungs deteriorated, my mind turned quickly to the issue of employment. I would wake early to briefly skim my neighbors' newspapers, searching for opportunities. In my condition, a factory would be my deathplace at best. And, in my neurotic youth, I thought myself too refined to surrender to such work.

By some miracle, I met with the division's local dentist. He was aging and, quite late, had recognized his need for an assistant. His delay originated in previous applicants' peculiarly infallible inability to meet his standards. But, in his weary desperation, he met with me.

His clinic formed an abrupt branch off of the main medical building. Some interesting soul had recently chosen a light taffy-pink for most of the walls. The narrow, disgustingly warm waiting room seemed to squeeze the air out of one's lungs, as the stomach of a beast. After passing through the stomach and a narrow throat of a hallway, patients found themselves in one of two identical rooms. Each room was painted in oppressive pink, harshly lit and windowless. The chairs then were gangly things with cushions stiff and black as a roach's shell.

Given such an atmosphere, people's discomfort in the clinic grew more reasonable; Dr. Meier only completed the place. The man had a gray, somber face perpetually set in the expression of someone who has just heard news of a beloved's death. He was tall but slouched, looming over me like a willow tree. His hands were spidery, large yet delicate. I never witnessed a smile cross his thin face– he seemed to care for nothing. He spoke without sugar about the nasty business occuring inside of his patients' mouths, taking the dry tone of an uninvested father when he told a patient not to smoke or informed them that he would need to pull teeth and that they should try not to move too much.

Most of his patients still dreaded a visit to his clinic, but I found that some of them grew less terrified as I became more involved in Dr. Meier's work. Back then, I only held the humble title of "assistant", and I myself spoke Swiss German poorly, but I found myself acting as an interpreter. Dr. Meier would speak the language of excessively professional detachment, and I would deliver his words to patients through a lighthearted filter.

I managed to first worm my way into the clinic due to Dr. Meier's exasperation. At some point, after rejecting perfectly decent candidates on his own stinginess, he grew desperate enough to settle for me. I had an acceptable amount of understanding and no choice but to embrace it with eagerness, so I took to his instruction well. I chose my questions carefully, navigating the thin, easily broken web of his patience.

When I arrived, Dr. Meier met me with such a disapproving expression that I instantly thought that I had made a foolish decision, that I had wasted precious time and money letting a bus cart my corpse to that place. But I soon found that he always looked that way. He found my technical knowledge sufficient and quickly took to training me. I prepared his instruments, instructed his patients on post-procedure care, and bore the brunt of his criticisms with polite, necessary silence and obedience.

Throughout the first month of working with him, he often seemed irritated that I had come to work at all. One evening, while I laid his tools in order and checked his workspace for imaginary filth, Dr. Meier disposed of his gloves and glanced sideways at me.

"You smell of a crypt," he commented. His tone lacked any venom– he spoke it as a simple fact. I paused in the motion of setting down a drill, unsure of how to respond.

I settled on a quiet, "How?"

"Very dry, like dust. It is that coat you wear. Dead man's coat, that thing," he murmured, trailed off. Then, "And you speak like a foreigner; I think that you amuse my patients with it."

I gave him no reply, setting the tool down only to fill the silence with a soft clatter. I thought: was it criticism? Praise? An invitation?

He answered his own question. "Your accent may amuse them, but I do not want you using words the way you do. You are difficult to understand. I should like to teach you to speak Swiss German properly," he told me. "I live on your ground floor. Apartment forty-five. You should come an hour after we leave, so that we will both have time to ourselves."

He did not pretend to ask, but I did not mind his demands either. I felt glad, even, to be relieved of my boredom. If he did not share his space, as most residents on the ground floor did, I hoped that his apartment was larger than mine and adequately heated. Dr. Meier wore clothes of decent quality– he seemed to live modestly, by his manner of dress, but he seemed comfortable in his financial situation. It gave me hope that I would find a comfortable evening in his apartment, even if the man himself exuded as much comfort as a fly does.

"Thank you for your… opportunity," I said, finding the word. "I am happy to learn from you."

Dr. Meier continued to clean the space as if I had said nothing. I took his silence as acceptance. He left some minutes before I did; he always moved to and from the clinic by bus, which I could not afford then. I walked back to my block. Despite the perpetual chill of the streets, which my coat failed to ward off completely, an odd sense of warm security brewed in my chest.

When I returned to my apartment, I considered resting a few hours. I had recently bought a sleeping mat and a decent blanket. In my mind, I was moving up in the world, and my insect living style would soon come to an end. I set my day-clothes aside for my meeting with Dr. Meier and changed into the more comfortable ones that I had saved from my home country. The white shirt and pants were light silk, obviously made for a much warmer climate, but they comforted me enough to keep them.

I sat on my sleeping mat, imagining the day that I would have a proper bed, more to eat than my work rations, and perhaps a small table where I could set my writings. I even felt lucky at times, fortunate enough to have my own room. The floors below mine were constructed in the old style, for the most part: several people shared a full apartment. I felt some gratitude for my privacy.

The hour passed. I dressed myself again and left, wondering about my speech as I walked through the narrow hallway. Before coming to Switzerland, I had devoted my time to studying its form of German, as well as Standard German. While others could typically understand when I spoke, I knew that I sounded like a foreigner. I had the appearance of one, regardless. While Dr. Meier seemed to view my situation through an objective, practical lens, many other Swiss-born citizens met me with quiet judgment. It seemed everyone thought that I did not belong there, not quite.

I stepped into the elevator. Its single light cast a sickly yellow tint on the small space, complementing a stale scent. It groaned and shivered as it lowered itself, only to stop at the next floor. Someone stepped inside; I saw the polished black shoes first, then the eyes.

It was him. The pale eye landed upon me and glinted in recognition, yet he pretended not to know me. He wore a long overcoat and, in contrast to the rest of his ice, carried a shiny violin case snug against his back. The elevator resumed its shivering.

As a child, I had been taught that dark eyes were a mark of evil. Of course, I came to see the irrational nature of that belief, but this stranger… I hated how pale his eye was. His pupil seemed small in comparison, intensified by the contrast. It saw into me.

And he had the gall to walk out of the elevator with such nonchalance. I kept a relatively slow pace behind him, unwilling to tear my sight from him, until finally he left the building. I found myself glancing over my shoulder as I walked towards Dr. Meier's door, as if the stranger would burst back inside to pounce on me. I kept my brisk knocking on the door from becoming anxious pounding. Dr. Meier opened it a sliver, saw me, and allowed me inside.

The apartment was indeed larger than mine. It even had space for a dining room, which held a long mahogany table. Two chairs waited on either end of it. Against the wall sat a bookshelf, an old, carved luxury filled with medical texts and even apparent novels. He was wealthy.

Dr. Meier moved the chairs so that we could sit side-by-side. As I sat down, I heard the creak of a door and the voice of a child.

"Father?"

Dr. Meier and I turned to see a young girl, a pale face framed by thick black curls. Her eyes were honey-colored and round, two shiny pools of curiosity and timidity. People would have considered her appearance perfect; she looked odd next to Dr. Meier's bony form and crooked features. Dr. Meier gestured for me to sit before he addressed the girl.

"Back to your room, Elke," he said evenly. "Do not bother our visitor."

"He stayed in the sun too long," Elke blurted, in the manner young children often do. The smallest hint of color crept into Dr. Meier's typically pallid face; I did not even realize that he was embarrassed until he scolded her.

"Elke, that is not polite! Back to your room. Now."

The girl wrinkled her nose at him, trading her doll's face for that of a real child. Dr. Meier waited with stony patience until she gave in and left. His expression wilted back into calm detachment as he turned back to me and sat down.

"My apologies. I told Elke to stay in her room while you were here," he said.

"I am not bothered," I replied. The girl was more endearing to me than anything. "She seems pleasant."

Dr. Meier gave a slight frown, as if disappointed that I was not angry with his daughter, saying, "Well, I will make sure she does not bother us. She must learn manners."

I responded with a vague nod. I wondered where Elke's mother was, who she was– a dead wife, an absent mother, one night without precautions? No, Dr. Meier seemed the marrying type; she must have been either absent or dead.

In his neutral manner, Dr. Meier presented me with a Standard- to Swiss-German dictionary, as well as a short pencil and wide slip of paper. I glanced at the back and saw some dry letter written to him by an aunt, talking of money.