The knife. Where’s the knife, his pocketknife? He always has it on him, in his back trouser pocket. It’s been a fixed habit since the day he was first given that knife.

He can still remember every detail; he got it the day he was confirmed. A present from his sponsor at his confirmation. A clasp knife, a beautiful, useful knife with a brown handle. It was in a box. He remembers every detail.

He remembers the gift wrapping of the box. Thin tissue paper printed with flowers, garden flowers in bright colors. And the package was done up with a red bow. He was so eager to undo it, he tore the paper. A brown cardboard box came into sight. His hands trembled with excitement and delight as he opened that box. And there it lay, a pocketknife. His pocketknife. From that day on, he proudly took the knife around with him everywhere he went. It was his most precious possession.

None of the other village boys had a knife like that. He still sensed the good feeling he had when he took the knife in his hand or just had it somewhere on him. He often liked to hold it, passing it from one hand to the other. It gave him a sense of security. Yes, security.

Over the years, the knife became worn with much use. But the feeling stayed with him.

And now he’s been looking for the knife all day. When did he last use it? Where had he left it?

He goes through this last day again in his mind. Slowly, as if emerging from the mist, a picture comes before his eyes. He sees himself, knife in hand, cutting off a piece of smoked meat. Sees himself putting the pocketknife down beside the plate with the meat on it.

He feels uneasiness rise slowly inside him. His heart is racing; his heart’s in his mouth. He didn’t put the knife back in his pocket. He was sure of that. He left the knife there. His knife. His knife is in the larder next to the smoked meat. He sees it there in his mind’s eye quite clearly. He feels he only has to reach for it.

Panic seizes him. He must go back to the house. He must retrieve the knife, his knife. He can’t wait until evening, can’t wait for nightfall. That will be hours, it will be too long. So much can happen before evening.

Why didn’t he think of that this morning? He was feeding the animals, he was in a hurry. He left without checking that everything was back in its proper place. That was his mistake. Why didn’t he think of it until now? Never mind that, there’s nothing for it, he must go to the house. He must run the risk of entering the place in broad daylight.

He sees the bicycle leaning against a fruit tree. Sees the open door of the shack where they keep the root-slicing machine. He hears someone humming, whistling. Cautiously, he comes closer to the shack. He peers in. The man is so busy repairing the machine that he doesn’t notice him. From where he lurks by the door, he watches the unknown man.

Something drops from the man’s hand, falls on the floor, rolls over the ground and into the cistern. The stranger curses, looks searchingly around. Finally he climbs into the cistern.

This is the moment he’s been waiting for. He hurries past the open door. He’s already around the corner of the house before the other man can climb out of the cistern. Takes the key out of his jacket pocket and disappears through the door. The pocketknife is right where he left it. He waits a few more minutes. They seem to him like an eternity. He wants to wait for a good moment to leave the house again. The engine of the root-slicing machine begins turning over. He hears the noise. Quickly, he leaves the house without being seen.