It was to have been Munich's gaudiest, bawdiest Fasching ever. In preparation for the pre-Lenten bacchanal that traditionally enlivens the gray Bavarian midwinter, scores of halls had been decorated with tinfoil, blinking lights, papier-mache figures of fun, and corners intentionally left dark. No fewer than seven carnival princes and princesses had been named, complete with courts and shapely girl guards. All was ready for Milnchner to abandon themselves, as they always had, to a month of drinking, swiving—judges do not consider adultery grounds for divorce during Fasching—and foolery unequaled anywhere else in...
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