In the evening Friedrich, the signalman, came by. He sat down and blew clouds of smoke from his pipe. He was as drunk as he had been the last time. When he tried to speak, he could only utter fragments of words. He spoke to Emil and Karl, straining to make himself understood, but everything came out of his mouth so strangely that they kept laughing.
The signalman laughed with them. Between fits of laughter, he tried one more time to say something, but his tongue wouldn’t do what he wanted.
And so he began to mumble to himself. It seemed as though he was asking himself a question that he himself didn’t understand. When the boys burst out laughing, he couldn’t help laughing, too.
Hans sat on the threshold. From time to time Emil and Karl looked at him, as if they expected something unusual to happen.
Then the signalman made a huge effort to say something. He struggled fiercely, until he was able to get a word out.
“Matilda?”
He punctuated the question with his pipe, using it to point at the room where Matilda usually slept.
“She’ll be back soon,” Karl answered.
The signalman was so happy that they understood him that he tried once more and asked, pointing to Karl.
“Better?”
“Yes, I’m all better now,” said Karl.
The man took a penknife out of his pocket and offered it to him.
“Here, take it. A gift for you!” He opened it up and showed the boy that it had three blades and a corkscrew.
Karl looked at the shiny penknife and wanted to take it. But before he did he asked, “What about Emil?”
The signalman puffed on his pipe, pleased.
“Good boy! That’s a good boy! Look—” and he took out another penknife, just as shiny as the first one.
“Two boys, two knives,” he said, opening all the blades of the second knife as well.
Karl waited for Emil to take his penknife, but his friend didn’t even move from his place.
“Here!” the signalman said to Emil. “It’s yours.”
“I don’t want a knife. I don’t need it,” said Emil, lowering his head. Karl stopped, surprised.
“Strange,” said the signalman quickly, as if he had suddenly sobered up. “All boys like penknives, and these are nice ones, with corkscrews.”
“I don’t want a penknife,” said Emil, his head still bowed. “You took those knives from someone.”
The signalman jumped up.
“May God punish me if I’m not telling the truth. I bought these knives, one for Karl, and another for Emil. I haven’t stolen any more things. That suit is still hanging in my closet, like a dead man. I’ve only put on these yellow shoes. The soles of my own shoes are completely worn out. I even put the watch away. It’s just lying there like a sleeping monster, the hands stopped at ten after twelve. Look, this is still my old watch.”
He took out his pocket watch and showed them. Suddenly he said, “Damn it, the ten o’clock train will be here soon.”
And he ran out of the house, leaving both penknives on the chair where he had been sitting.
“He didn’t steal the knives,” said Karl, looking longingly at the open blades. “You heard, he swore that he didn’t.”
“I don’t want them,” Emil said, looking away from the chair. “He said that he stole some money, and he probably used that money to buy them. You can have your knife, if you want.”
Karl went over to Emil. He wanted to say something, but he just stood there and looked at him, his eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t need my penknife, either. My mother once bought me a penknife with four blades. It even had a little scoop for cleaning out your ears.”
Emil didn’t respond.
“You’re my only friend,” Karl continued, “and I’m the only friend you have.”
“Yes,” Emil answered. “Of course you’re my only friend.”
“Even though I really wanted to have my knife, I didn’t take it,” Karl said, apologetically.
“Yes, we’re friends,” Emil answered happily. “And we can play without knives.”
Hans was still sitting on the threshold. He was leaning his head against the doorjamb. He breathed heavily.
Karl bent over and said softly, “He’s sleeping. He’s sound asleep.”
Emil also bent over.
“He’s asleep, all right. He must be very tired.”
“He sat by my bed all night when I was sick. He must be worn out,” Karl said, guiltily.
“I miss Matilda very much,” said Emil, sighing. “She’s so good; like Berta, maybe even better. Like my mother. When you were sick she cried, I saw it myself. Once she said to me, ‘You know, Karl is very ill.’”
“I was really that sick?” Karl said, feeling important.
“Oh, you looked like you were dying. Do you know what I did?” Emil said softly, feeling embarrassed. “I said a prayer that my father taught me. I said it a few times before I went to sleep.”
Karl sat down on the chair where the signalman had been sitting. Then he jumped up again, as if he had suddenly been bitten by something.
“I sat down on those stupid penknives. The blades almost cut me.”
“We’ll get rid of them tomorrow. He’ll have to take them back,” said Emil. “If not, we’ll bury them in the ground.”
“It’s late. Let’s go to sleep. Don’t forget our plan,” Karl said quietly, and he looked to see if Hans was still asleep.
“Of course I remember. I’ll remind myself three times, and then I’ll get up. I’m a little bit afraid, so don’t get angry if I pull on your hair too hard. That’ll be a signal that I’m scared.”
“But not too hard, because I’ll wake up and scream and that’ll ruin everything. Hans will find out that we’re watching him.”
They both got into the bed that Emil slept in while Karl had been sick.
“I wish there was someone to tell me a story now, or to sing me a nice little song. My mother knew a lot of lullabies,” said Karl, and he began to hum a melody:
“Oy, yo, te, ti-di-di, daylom, daylom.”
And Emil began singing along, “Ti-di-di, daylom, daylom.”
“That’s the Zeyde’s tune,” Emil said, happily. “Go on, sing it. I forgot all about it.”
“Not me. I remember Zeyde’s song really well,” Karl said, humming the melody. “I’m never going to forget it.”