A few rows of chairs had been set up to accommodate the small group that had gathered: the priests Krause and Urbanek, a few of the workers from the cathedral staff, the porter from Alois’s building across the plaza, and Franz Krenner, the proprietor of the bookshop where my old friend and I had first met. I sat in the front row next to Krause, who would lead the service. “Poor Father Bayer.” He sighed. “I did not realize how much I would miss him. We had such heated debates about theology. He was a worthy sparring partner.” Felix Urbanek came over. “We might as well start,” he said to Krause. “I think everyone is here. I’m not expecting Father Dauer to attend.” His jaw tightened. “He said he would try to make it, but that he had meetings all day. One of the noble families is considering donating a large collection of sacred art to the cathedral treasury.” “‘How brief the comedy of vanity that is committed to fortune,’” Krause murmured. “It is a shame,”
