TWO

Silbermann hurried down the back stairs. They’re probably lying in wait for me, he thought. Ach, I should have stayed. What’s going to happen to Elfriede now? He wondered whether he shouldn’t go back. But Findler’s there, he reassured himself. A good thing that is, too. The man’s a decent person despite everything. If I’d stayed upstairs I’m sure I would have done something out of desperation. Resisted, or actually fired the gun, after all you have to do something, you can’t just let them do whatever they want to you. Not that it would have helped matters—on the contrary. Silbermann realized that if he had fired, it would have been out of fear. Fear, plain and simple. Fear of the concentration camp, fear of prison—and fear of being beaten.

Dignity, he thought, a person has his dignity and that’s something you can’t let anyone take away.

He stopped moving when he saw a man standing at the bottom of the stairwell, smoking a cigarette. Silbermann straightened up and approached the man with measured steps, calmly withstanding his gaze. As he came close, he asked the man for a light.

The man reached into his pocket, took out a pack of matches, lit one, and held it out to Silbermann.

“Here you go,” the man said. Then he asked, “Tell me, do a lot of Jews live here?”

“No idea,” Silbermann answered, amazed at how indifferent he sounded. “You should ask the doorman. I’m a stranger here myself.” He raised his arm and said, “Heil Hitler.”

The other man returned the greeting, and Silbermann walked past him without being stopped. Don’t turn around, he told himself. Don’t walk too fast or too slow. Because if you stick out precisely when you’re trying so hard not to, if you look suspicious because you’re trying to look as unsuspicious as you can … My God, what do these people want from me?

He had already left the hallway and crossed the courtyard. As he walked he reached up and felt his nose. How important you are, he thought. Now everything depends on what you look like, it’s up to you whether a person is a free man or a prisoner, you determine how a person lives, or even if a person stays alive. And if a person wasn’t lucky with how you happen to look, you just might get him killed.

Outside the entrance to the apartment building he ran into another shady character. “Well,” he said in a forceful voice, instinctively imitating Theo Findler, “what are you hanging around here for?”

The man gave a start and automatically assumed what weak people consider a strong stance.

“Oh,” he said, in a way that was both chummy and respectful, “just a little Jew-hunt.”

“Ah,” said Silbermann, with apparent disinterest. Then he walked on, casually raising his arm in the official greeting. Once more he was not stopped. When he reached the street he paused for a moment to take everything in. What’s happening upstairs? he worried. If only I knew. Surely they won’t … Yes they will. But Findler is there.

Suddenly he felt very afraid. The thugs could come down any minute and leave the building, or one of their lookouts might suddenly get suspicious and decide to stop him after all. So he again set off, quickening his pace.

It’s strange, he mused, as he crossed the street, thinking he’d be safer on the other side. Ten minutes ago it was my house that was at stake, my property. Now it’s my neck. Everything’s happening so quickly. They have declared war on me, on me personally. That’s what it is. War has just been declared on me once and for all and right now I’m completely on my own—in enemy territory.

If only Becker were here. Hopefully the business won’t go to pieces. That’s all I need. I absolutely have to have that money in easy reach. Hopefully Becker isn’t gambling it away. Oh well, he’s the only one I can count on after all. And what if he does lose a few hundred marks at cards, what does that matter? More important things are at stake.

But I do need that money. Money means life, especially in wartime. A Jew in Germany without money is like an unfed animal in a cage, something utterly hopeless.

He passed a phone booth, then turned around and went back. I’ll just make a call, he thought, and then I’ll know what’s going on.

The idea cheered him up, but the phone was occupied, and he had to wait awhile. The lady’s voice was too loud to be contained by the booth, and Silbermann learned all about a fur coat that needed mending, about the film Love in the South, and about some man named Hans who had a sore throat.

Silbermann paced nervously up and down. Finally he tapped on the glass pane to signal he was waiting. The lady turned her face toward him, and that made such an impression that he granted her another five minutes’ conversation before deciding to give the glass another tap.

Finally the phone was free and he hastily dialed his apartment. No one answered. He tried twice more to connect, but without success.

Findler must be still dealing with them, he reassured himself, and hung up. Those boys are hard to get rid of. Calling was a dumb idea anyway, because as long as those people are there nobody can say anything to me. Silbermann then dialed his lawyer.

A tearful female voice answered. “Herr Doktor Löwenstein and his wife aren’t here.”

“Where is he then?” No answer.

“He isn’t here…”

“I see, and who are you?”

“I’m the servant girl.”

“Then please tell Herr Doktor Löwenstein that…”

“It would be better if you called another time,” she interrupted. “There’s no telling when he’ll be back.”

Silbermann hung up.

“No doubt they’ve rounded him up, too,” he mumbled.

He dialed the number of a Jewish business friend, but no one answered there, either.

Silbermann grew more and more dismayed. Hilde was right, he concluded, all Jews have been arrested, and I may be the only one who’s escaped.

He rang up his sister.

“It’s Otto,” he said. “I’m calling from a phone booth. They showed up at my…”

“I don’t want to hear about it, Otto.” She cut him off. “Our whole apartment is one big heap of ruins. I wish I’d been there when they came. As far as I’m concerned they could have taken me, too. Now I’m stuck here wondering what’s happened to Günther. A fifty-six-year-old man, fifty-six. And he can’t take getting upset like that. This is the end…”

“But surely they’ll let him go.” He tried to calm her down. “Can I help you somehow? Although I don’t particularly want to come over.” He heard a crackle on the line. “Good-bye,” he called out, startled. “I hope things go well with you, very well. I’ll be in touch.”

They’re tapping the lines, he thought. He quickly left the booth and looked around. The arresting officers will be here right away. Is it still even possible to telephone?

He climbed on one bus and rode to the Schlesischer Bahnhof, where he had to change for another. As he stood on the platform wedged between many other people, he noticed a young man and woman next to him pressed tightly together. He observed them closely, first examining the relaxed face of the girl and then that of the man.

Peace! he thought. They still have peace. Their small world is shielded by millions of lives just like theirs … and together they love and together they hate—and always in the majority. Although in the end it won’t do them much good, either.

He asked for a ticket, and after he had paid for it, he leafed through the bills in his pocketbook to see how much money he had on him.

One hundred eighty marks, he determined. Enough to leave the country—assuming that was possible. But even if it was, he thought, he wouldn’t do it. He wanted to save his fortune. He wasn’t about to let that get snatched away so quickly.

If everything goes well, he thought optimistically, Becker will bring eighty thousand marks tomorrow. Then—he calculated further—I’ll get another ten thousand in cash for the house, and if I’m lucky I can sell the mortgage note with a discount. He smiled weakly. I’m still a pretty wealthy man, he concluded. And there are plenty of poor anti-Semites—if there still is such a thing as a genuinely poor anti-Semite—who despite everything would happily trade places with a rich Jew like me. There was something about the idea that cheered him up a bit. They really ought to take a poll to find out, he thought. But why should they trade anything at all? They’ll simply take my money and then they’ll be rich anti-Semites.

The bus stopped, and Silbermann bought a newspaper from one of the vendors who were mobbing the exiting passengers. He frowned at the headlines: “The Murder in Paris.” “Jews Declare War on the German People.” Shocked and angered, he crumpled the paper and threw it away.

I was fully aware that war had been declared, he thought. But that I’m the one declaring it is news to me. It all sounds like a bad joke, like “Robbers Severely Wounded in Attack by Cash Courier” or “Patient Robs Doctor to Pay His Fee.” As if the pike declared war on all carp and accused them of being accessories to attempted murder just because one he ate gave him a stomachache.

Silbermann lit a cigarette.

So a seventeen-year-old boy resists the suggestion he do away with himself and instead fires in the general direction of the source of such advice. And in so doing he, and therefore all of us, have attacked the German Reich.

Silbermann left the bus and pushed his way through the people thronging the streets until he reached the hotel where he had often stayed when he lived in a suburb that had no nighttime transport. To this day he always ate his midday meal there if he happened to be in the neighborhood.

He walked past the concierge, whom he’d known for years, and was annoyed at the unresponsive expression of the man, who had averted his eyes as soon as Silbermann had entered, undoubtedly to avoid having to greet him.

I remember a quite different welcome, Silbermann thought, and he felt a small, hollow twinge in his stomach.

He searched for a familiar face as he walked slowly through the lobby and entered the reading room. Only a few men were sitting there, mostly traveling businessmen who were leafing through the magazines, studying the stock prices on the last pages of the newspapers, or busying themselves with writing letters. Silbermann glanced around the comfortably furnished room, and for a moment he had a pleasant feeling of security.

Everything is just the same, he thought. Then, again feeling anxious, he repeated the sentence: everything is just the same. And nevertheless I have the feeling that something must be different, and not only for me.

Morosely he looked over at the others.

There you sit, he thought. In your countries it isn’t customary for law-abiding citizens to be attacked in their homes and hauled off to prisons or concentration camps. In your homelands the chair of the board of directors doesn’t have a machine gun next to him when he asks for a vote of confidence. But when these things happen here in Germany, when all is said and done you find it rather novel and quaint. Because no one does anything to you, and the same hotel that for me has now become a jungle full of dangers is for you a peaceful abode where you can happily drift along according to your custom. And when you go back home, you will report that one can dine quite well there in the Third Reich.

Silbermann sat down, picked up an English newspaper, and began leafing through the pages, every so often casting a grim glance at the people he had decided were foreigners. Then he lit a cigarette and began to read an article.

Suddenly he felt someone nearby and looked up. Standing in front of him was Herr Rose, the hotel manager, whom he had known for years. Judging from the man’s sheepish expression, Silbermann could guess what he was after. Nevertheless he greeted him with an unselfconscious “Guten Tag” and held out his hand.

Rose first tried to ignore the gesture but then whispered, “Please don’t.”

Silbermann quickly retracted his hand. His felt his face turn red and was ashamed of his shame.

“Herr Silbermann,” Rose said as quietly and politely as could be expected from a man who had spent his whole life in the hotel business, no matter what the situation. “This is extraordinarily embarrassing for me. You are an old and dear guest of the hotel. But … you understand? It isn’t my fault, and things surely won’t stay this way, but…”

“What’s going on?” asked Silbermann, who knew very well where Rose was heading but had no intention of letting him off the hook. Instead he felt he needed to hear a candid admission of what Silbermann saw as a lack of character. And the other man’s embarrassment almost did him good, or at least helped him get past his own.

“So you wish to throw me out?” he finally asked, his voice dry, and looked at the hotel manager.

“Please don’t put it that way,” Herr Rose implored, straining to cope with the demands of the situation—the snubbing of a valued client with impeccable credit. “We were always very happy,” he continued, hastily, “to have you here so often as our guest, and if in the present moment we are obliged to ask you, it is very much against our will, and we hope…”

“It’s all right, Rose.” Silbermann cut him off, realizing that the man’s meek manner made him feel better than he wanted to admit. “I understand.”

Silbermann brushed off any further explanation with a wave of his right hand, nodded to the manager, who bowed slightly in return, and left the reading room. He passed through the lobby and paused as if he wanted to say something to the concierge, who now also made a slight bow, but then went on his way. When he reached the revolving door that led outside, he stopped once again.

Where can I possibly go? he wondered. The Jewish guesthouses have undoubtedly been ransacked by the SA. And the small hotels are absolutely unsafe: many of them are storm trooper hangouts or the like. Should I simply find some flophouse and stay there? Those should still be open to us. But are they really? Even those aren’t worth the risk, because if I show up at one by myself and ask for a room, I’ll look suspicious. And whatever I do, I can’t let that happen.

Nevertheless he decided to look up a small hotel he had sometimes used to host business friends from out of town, and after waiting awhile in vain for a streetcar, he decided to take a cab. When he pulled up to the hotel, he noticed a storm trooper standing by the entrance, but after a moment’s hesitation Silbermann stepped calmly past him and entered the small lobby.

“I’d like a room,” he told the waiter who was coming to meet him.

“Shall we have your luggage brought from the station?”

That’s right, he thought: you need luggage if you’re spending the night in a hotel, otherwise you might stick out.

“No, thanks,” said Silbermann, trying to appear absentminded. “May I first have a look at the room?”

The waiter, who was evidently also taking on the role of concierge, grabbed a key from the numbered board, led Silbermann to the elevator, and accompanied him upstairs.

“Bad weather,” he said.

“That’s for sure,” Silbermann answered, reluctantly.

“Excuse me, sir,” the waiter continued, “but is there something going on in town today?”

“Such as what?” asked Silbermann, at pains to keep calm. “What’s supposed to be going on?”

“So many Jews are staying here. I wonder if we aren’t making things difficult for ourselves.”

“Really?” Silbermann muttered. “How so? Have they now declared it’s illegal to host Jewish guests?”

“I don’t exactly know,” the waiter replied. “Anyway, I couldn’t care less. After you.”

The elevator had stopped at the fourth floor. As far as I’m concerned we can go right back down, Silbermann thought to himself, as he stepped into the corridor to let the waiter show him the room.

At first Silbermann couldn’t make up his mind, so he paced up and down the room with the disgruntled expression of a disapproving guest. The waiter’s remark had made him distinctly wary and had set off a chain of anxious thoughts. But in the end Silbermann took the room, having decided that other hotels would be no less dangerous.

He rode back down with the waiter and, as he had feared, the man handed him a registration form.

“Yes, yes,” he said gruffly, as though preoccupied with other matters. “Later … what was the room number again? Forty-seven?… Ah, right … forty-seven.”

As he left the hotel he bumped into someone on the street. He mumbled a brusque “Excuse me”: recent experiences had convinced him that a rude and impolite demeanor offered the most effective protection.

“Excuse me,” the other man apologized with an excessively polite, almost abject voice. But then he added in amazement, “Silbermann, thank God, Silbermann. You’re the first real human I’ve met.”

It was Fritz Stein, the former proprietor of Stein & Co., and an old business friend. They shook hands. Stein was so excited, he clung to Silbermann’s hand and wouldn’t let go, despite the latter’s attempts to wrest it back.

“What do you think?” Stein asked. The short, chubby man was greatly distraught. “Have you already heard?” Silbermann finally managed to free his hand from Stein’s grasp.

“I know everything,” he explained. He found Stein’s jumpiness disconcerting, even though he realized it was more than justified, given the circumstances.

“Then you know more than I do,” Stein responded.

“Did they also pay you a visit?” Silbermann inquired with a smile.

“You might say that.” Having found a companion in misery with whom he could speak openly, Stein’s inner posture grew more erect and less cowering. “What are we going to do?” he asked. “I’ve often wanted to call you these last days about a business proposition. Actually now would be a very good time to talk about it. I think it could be extremely interesting for you.”

“Listen,” said Silbermann, somewhat taken aback by the other man’s change of mood. “Do you really believe that at the moment I feel like making any kind of deal? Clearly my constitution isn’t as hardy as yours, my friend.”

“Let’s just say it doesn’t need to be. For months now bankruptcy has been circling over me like a vulture crowing ‘seizure of assets.’ I truly feel sorry for my creditors. Their things were all smashed up in my wife’s apartment, as if it all still belonged to me.”

After briefly pacing back and forth, they stopped in front of a shop window.

“I admire you,” Silbermann said thoughtfully. “You’re a brave fellow. If I had more of your optimism I wouldn’t be so apprehensive.” He laughed. “You’ll even manage to make money off the rope they hang you with.”

“I should hope so,” Stein hurried to answer very cheerfully. “Otherwise how would my wife be able to pay for her widow’s veil?”

“Are things really that bad, or are you just joking? You shouldn’t do that.”

“I’m not—I mean every word in earnest,” said Stein. “As you know, I sold my business, and now the buyer isn’t paying. What am I supposed to do? I have to chase up a living somehow. But to get to the point, if you’re willing to risk putting up thirty thousand marks…”

“No, stop,” Silbermann responded. “Forget about that. Right now I really do have other worries.”

“I wish I were in your shoes,” Stein answered slowly. “You’re just unhappy. Whereas on top of everything else, I don’t have anything to eat.”

Silbermann looked at him in surprise, then took out his billfold.

“Would fifty marks be of help?” he asked. “Sadly, I don’t have much on me.”

“Of course it would be of help. I’ll take it. I’ll pay you back next week. Every now and then the man who took over my business gives me a small partial payment, but naturally that depends on his mood.” He stashed the money in his pocket. “What are we going to do?” he asked again, and looked around, eager to do something.

“I have to call Becker. Unfortunately he’s gone to Hamburg.”

“And how are you coming along with your house? You better hurry and sell, if you want my advice.”

Silbermann described the negotiations. Stein nodded his head at every sentence, as if he had expected that everything would turn out the way it did.

“I wish I were in your shoes,” he finally said again, with that quiet note of envy that counts as a compliment for the person envied. “You look so Aryan. At least people aren’t afraid of you, the way they are of me. There’s no place to turn, and people avoid me as if I had the plague. I keep saying: people are afraid I might infect them with my Jewish nose.” He gave an unhappy laugh.

“Admittedly I have two Aryan friends left,” said Silbermann. “Becker and Theo Findler.”

“Calling Findler a friend,” said Stein, “strikes me as a bit rash. Friendship with that man isn’t something anyone’s ever been able to boast about.”

“You may be right, but if you no longer have any real friends left, you sometimes just have to squint and pretend you do. At least that can be a little reassuring. But what are you planning to do now?”

“I’ve taken a room there,” Stein pointed to the hotel that Silbermann had just left.

“In that case … perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

They said good-bye.

Silbermann watched the other man leave. There was something calming about Stein’s gait, something confident and life-affirming. He didn’t place his feet straight on the ground, but at an angle, and his body had an almost imperceptible sway as he walked. As usual, his bowler was tilted back on his neck, and as he watched, Silbermann forgot all about the time and circumstances. He felt as though they’d just made a deal after all, neither particularly good or bad, merely something to keep connected, to stay in business together.

And to think that once I backed him up for credit in the amount of fifty thousand marks, Silbermann recalled wistfully. Stein & Co., serious people, not a big firm, but solid. And now on the verge of ruin.

He stepped into a restaurant to have a bite for supper. I ought to have invited Stein, he thought, as he looked over the menu, but then I, too, was afraid of his Jewish nose.

He ate with relish. After supper he lit a cigar and spent a few peaceful moments thinking of nothing. Then he remembered what he had to do and hurried over to the telephone. He dialed his home number and grew increasingly anxious as the ring tone kept sounding in short intervals. Minutes passed. No one answered. Finally he hung up.

Maybe there’s something wrong with the phone, he thought, searching for a benign explanation. That happens every now and then, so why not today? On the other hand, why should that happen precisely today? he then thought. That would be very strange indeed.

He tried again, but with the same result. He grew more and more worried, and wondered if it wouldn’t be better to go there and see what was happening firsthand, despite the danger that would entail for him as well as for his wife. Then he had the comforting thought that his wife must have decided to play it safe and was spending the night with one of her female friends. This was all the more likely given the fact that under the present circumstances she would be in need of company as well as protection. Of course in that case the servant girl ought to have picked up the phone, but Silbermann simply assumed she must have taken advantage of the opportunity to go to the movies, for which she had a pronounced fondness.

So he was calmer, if not entirely reassured, when he dialed the number of one of his wife’s good friends, thinking she might have gone there. And even when Fräulein Gersch informed him that she hadn’t seen his wife in weeks, he wasn’t too distraught, because this did not disprove his theory. Fräulein Gersch, he now learned, had had a falling out with his wife. But she did offer to go to the apartment right away to keep Elfriede company, if she was at home. Fräulein Gersch was probably even glad to have an excuse. She also assured Silbermann that as far as she knew, women had in no way been harmed in the events of the day.

Silbermann asked Fräulein Gersch for the names and telephone numbers of his wife’s other friends, so that he could call them as well. For his part, he had always been much too caught up in his business dealings to know who his wife’s current bridge partners were.

As it turned out, Fräulein Gersch didn’t know all of his wife’s friends, either, so after he had dialed the given numbers with no result, he still believed it was possible she was staying with a different acquaintance.

To distract himself from worries about his wife, he asked to be put through to Hamburg. After just a few minutes he was connected to the Vier Jahreszeiten hotel, where Becker, who had put on certain airs of late, was newly accustomed to staying. Silbermann had to wait on the phone for a long time, and he was annoyed that he hadn’t booked a person-to-person call, because even now he was still opposed to unnecessary spending. Finally he was told that Herr Becker was not in.

He’s out gambling, Silbermann concluded, appalled. At this very moment he’s gambling away my money, my chance to survive. Silbermann left the restaurant and went back to his hotel.

I should have gotten hold of a suitcase somewhere, he thought as he entered. This is making a horrible impression. Hopefully they’ll think I’m some husband whose wife has kicked him out. That’s an acceptable kind of misfortune—one that isn’t considered a crime.

Should I even sign the registry with my real name? Silbermann wondered. If there’s an inspection they’ll haul me in right away, but if I give a false name I’d be breaking the law. It’s terrible. The state is practically forcing a person to commit an offense.

This time they didn’t give him the registration form but simply handed him his room key and let him know that a Herr Stein was waiting for him in the vestibule. Stein really could show me a little more consideration, Silbermann thought, and was immediately ashamed of his reaction.

“Good news?” asked Stein, who was sitting with another gentleman with similarly Jewish features.

“None at all.”

“No news is good news. But why don’t you sit down?”

“I’m pretty worn out from all the commotion. All I really want to do is go to bed and sleep.”

He said good-bye, went to the elevator, and rode up to his room. A waiter, who was holding a full tray in his hands, went with him.

“Did you do away with your concierge?” asked Silbermann on their way up.

“He was arrested this afternoon. He was a Jew, after all.”

Silbermann was taken aback and said nothing.

Once in his room, he quickly locked the door and then threw himself on his bed to think. “He was a Jew, after all,” he heard the waiter’s sober explanation. “He was a Jew, after all…” Obviously the waiter found this explanation sufficient. As though he viewed the arresting of Jews as something utterly normal, as much part of the daily routine as collecting a tip from a guest. A Jew was arrested, but then again: he was a Jew. Was any further explanation necessary? Evidently not, as far as the waiter was concerned.

I’m not staying here, Silbermann decided. He jumped up and looked around the spacious room. It’s absolutely impossible for me to sleep here. They might drag me out of bed in the middle of the night, and if that makes a racket and bothers the guests enough, they’ll open their doors to ask a maid what’s going on, and she’ll say, “Oh, nothing. They’ve just arrested a Jew, that’s all.” And perhaps the guests will answer, “Oh, is that it?… But do they have to make so much noise in the process?” The only thing these people want is not to be disturbed, that’s all they’re concerned about.

Of course once I’m arrested it makes no difference what the other people say or how they say it. Only that’s not true, because if they weren’t so apathetic … In any case I’m not safe here. They’re going to arrest me, possibly even kill me. If only so I won’t protest and become a bother and disturb the good citizens who are entitled to their rest. Because what they care about more than everything else is their sleep.

Silbermann paced up and down his room.

It’s a wonder I’m even still alive, he thought. I no longer believe they’ve merely forgotten about me. But perhaps they’ll carefully undress us first and then kill us, so our clothes won’t get bloody and our banknotes won’t get damaged. These days murder is performed economically.

He straightened his tie in the mirror and ran a comb through his hair. Then he cautiously opened the door to his room and peered out into the broad corridor, without seeing a soul.

Look how spooked you’re getting, he thought. Just now I imagined I heard steps. And to think I fought in a world war. But that was different. Many against many. Now I’m completely alone and have to wage my war all by myself. Am I a conspirator? That would be good—at least then I would know how to act. But I’m just a businessman, nothing else. I have no energy, no momentum, that’s it. Even a thief on the run with his loot has a smirk on his face—whereas all I have is fear.

He sighed quietly and stepped into the corridor, then walked quickly to the elevator and rang to call it up. Once back in the lobby, he went over to Stein, who was still sitting with the other gentleman, discussing past or possibly future business dealings.

“Listen, Stein,” Silbermann said quickly and quietly. “I’m leaving this hotel. The Jewish concierge was arrested today. I assume some member of the staff is in contact with the police, or even worse, with the party. And they might very well sic the SA on us.”

“Where do you intend to go?” asked Stein, rather calmly taking in Silbermann’s report.

“I don’t know yet, but I’m not staying here under any circumstances.”

“I’m staying,” Stein declared. “After all, I won’t be getting out of the German Reich tonight. Nor will you. What purpose does it serve to make yourself meshuga on top of that. Anyway, things always turn out differently than you think.”

“If you want to be a fatalist, that’s your business,” Silbermann interrupted. “I intend to do what I can to avoid falling into their hands.”

“But where do you want to go? It’s the same in every hotel. All a matter of luck. Even in the cemetery a Jew isn’t safe from getting shoved around. What are you going to do?” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation.

“So are you coming or not?”

“Listen, Silbermann, if you take me along, with my nose, you might as well stay here,” he said, dismissing the thought with an almost scornful laugh. “Flee, with my nose? Absurd.”

“You could be a South American, or an Italian,” Silbermann said to console him.

Stein brushed off the idea with a wave of his hand. “I could be, but I’m not. I have a German passport.” He shook his head. “No,” he said, “there’s no help for me. I have to see to my business, that’s all I can do. A rich Jew is still worth more than a poor one. So don’t let me detain you. Farewell and take care. I’ll call you in a few days, once the anti-Semites have calmed back down. I’d like to make this deal with you, you know? By which I mean that you’ll make the deal and pay me a commission. I’m telling you, what you get off those scrapped ships is nothing by comparison. This is a positive gold mine.”

“I don’t think I’ll be making any more deals,” Silbermann said slowly, “but feel free to call me in the next few days.”

He paid for his room and explained his sudden departure more or less neatly with an unforeseen trip, gave the waiter who was filling in for the concierge a handsome tip, without really knowing why, and left the hotel.

I’ll take a train to Hamburg, he decided when he was out on the street. That’s the best thing. I have a fine man there, that Becker. I can talk things over with him and he can intercede, too. Surely today was a case of things getting out of hand. Tomorrow the government might well declare it all happened without their knowledge. Even if it is full of anti-Semites, it’s still the government, and this is something they simply can’t allow. On days like this the task is simply to survive with body and soul intact. Whoever gets hurt is always wrong. Whoever comes through unscathed is right. I want to be right.

He took a streetcar to Bahnhof Zoo. On the way he counted his cash: he had ninety-seven marks left.

He marveled at how quickly it went. From one hundred eighty to ninety-seven. From now on he had to be thrifty, at least until he caught up with Becker, since being short of money in this situation really would be the last straw.

Once at the train station he purchased a ticket to Hamburg and went straight to the platform, even though the train wasn’t due to depart for another hour. He bought a pack of chewing gum from a vending machine, and, thinking that this could calm and distract him, he stuck one piece after the other into his mouth, slowly and meticulously chewing away as he had often seen others do, until the tough substance gradually released its peppermint flavor.

He chewed vigorously for some time, with the intended mindlessness, and without deriving any pleasure—he was merely following a self-imposed task. As he did so he paced up and down the platform. He tried thinking about something pleasant, and finally imagined that his wife was likely already in bed and sleeping. But this thought brought others in its wake and, instead of reassuring him, only made him more anxious and afraid.

She’s bound to be worried, he thought. At least I ought to send her a card.

He went to the waiting room, approached the buffet, and asked for a postcard. Then he sat down, ordered a coffee, and began to write, careful not to interrupt his deliberate chewing:

Dear Elfriede.

I’ve gone to Hamburg for a business meeting. I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m doing fine. I tried calling but unfortunately couldn’t reach you. I very much hope you’re doing well.

Many heartfelt greetings,

Otto.

He looked over the contents of the card and decided it was in no way suspect, though he couldn’t imagine what he might have written that would have aroused suspicion. He left the waiting room, passed through the ticket barrier to mail the card, then returned to the platform and resumed his pacing. He was cold, and shivered as he rubbed his hands together. He had left his gloves at home. Suddenly he saw a Sicherheitsdienst officer appear next to him.

Bahnpolizei—railway police, he thought, startled. They’re going to search the train for Jews. Silbermann couldn’t remember ever having been so nervous. And it was hardly an unfamiliar sight: after all, how many SS and SA men had he encountered every day without really thinking anything of it? But now he sensed that every uniform was out to get him, and whenever he caught sight of a party member he felt: “That man is my sworn mortal enemy,” and “He has complete power over me.” He had reacted the same just after the Nazi “takeover”—but now it was even worse.

Silbermann resumed his pacing. When he was twenty meters away from the SS man he again turned in his direction. Am I really more anxious than other people? he asked himself. How would an SS man feel if he were forced to move about inside a Bolshevik state? And what if he had some additional marking, some feature that made him stick out like poor Fritz Stein?

These thoughts allowed him to feel his fear was justified. It was also comforting to imagine his enemies encountering their own day of dread, and Silbermann, who had always viewed the party of expropriation with disapproval and disgust, now found himself almost sympathizing with it, as his possible avenger. The idea was tremendously satisfying, and he clung to it for some time.

From a safe distance, Silbermann darted a glance at the unsuspecting man in uniform, as though to say: just wait, this is a long way from being over.

The train pulled into the station hall, and Silbermann, who had positioned himself in front of the sign marked 2ND CLASS, got rid of the gum he had been faithfully chewing the entire time—which suddenly struck him as very silly. Then he boarded the train. He entered a smoking compartment, took a forward-facing seat by the window, and looked out at the platform, which was still quite empty. He yawned, checked his watch, and determined that it would be quite a while before the train departed. The idea of waiting was hardly a pleasant one, since he didn’t think he would recover his inner peace until the train was moving.

In any case I’m looking forward to speaking with Becker, he thought. He felt a growing desire for that man’s company—although more as his business partner than for the person himself.

Hopefully he’ll still be awake, Silbermann thought, but even if he’s already in bed it doesn’t matter. I’ll simply wake him. I absolutely have to speak with him today. How come he didn’t warn me? Usually he always knows everything in advance.

Suddenly Silbermann had a horrifying suspicion.

Becker had known. And it suited him this way. Now he has me at his mercy. He can rob me of my entire fortune in one fell swoop. The truth is I never fully trusted him. Maybe he’s just as much a scoundrel as Findler! Here he’s already pocketing half the revenue, but that’s not enough for him. He wants the capital. He’s already hinted at that. What did he say recently? “I need something to build on, Otto. When I think about it, I realize I don’t have anything at all that I can build on.”

And he’s a Nazi, too. He’s never made any secret about that. Maybe he just wanted to wait for the right moment so he could grab everything at once. A gambler. How could I have ever trusted a gambler? But these days it takes a gambler to do business with a Jew—no one else dares.

Silbermann couldn’t sit still any longer. He stepped into the corridor and leaned out a window. The fresh, cool air did him good.

How could I possibly have thought that Becker wanted to betray me? he now asked himself. He was always a decent fellow, and we’ve known each other half our lives. It’s the times that make a person doubt everyone and everything. Still, you shouldn’t let them throw you off track.

He stepped aside to make room for a married couple who, having checked several compartments, finally sat down in his. The man could easily be a Jew, Silbermann thought, and leaned back out the window. The train was sparsely occupied, and Silbermann was glad not to have any other travelers choose his compartment.

I’ll be able to sleep, he thought, once again yawning. I’m certainly tired enough.

The train slowly started rolling, and Silbermann left the corridor. He settled comfortably in his seat, closed his eyes, and tried to fall asleep. But even though the rhythm of the wheels, which had always had a lulling effect on him, made him more tired than he already was, he stayed awake. Now and then he registered bits and pieces from his companions’ conversation, which from what he could tell moved from a critique of shared acquaintances to the pros and cons of air travel.

After ten long minutes of trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, Silbermann righted himself in his seat. Only now did he notice that the man was wearing the gold party badge on his coat lapel. Silbermann automatically furrowed his brow and cast a sullen glance in his direction, then he tilted his head back into the upholstery but kept his eyes open and stared sleepily ahead, without thinking anything in particular.

First thing tomorrow morning I’ll call Elfriede and send her a telegram in addition to the postcard, he resolved. Maybe I should have called Fräulein Gersch again. And what about Becker—strange that I haven’t heard a single word from him. I’m eager to know if he picked up the money. Also I ought to write Eduard one more time, the boy has no idea what’s going on here … And what actually happened at home? I probably should have sent someone to check. Here I am sitting in this train and have no idea, they might have done something to her, my God. At least Findler was there—the man’s uncouth but he’s reliable. This display he puts on, this pretense of decency—that’s what Findler has—a phony uprightness like all these scoundrels. Ten thousand marks down payment, how outrageous can you get! Thank God Elfriede has money. Where’s it all going to lead? I’m as helpless as a little child. Who could have imagined anything like it? In the middle of Europe, in the twentieth century!

The conductor came and checked the tickets.

Silbermann felt a need to say something and asked when they were due to arrive in Hamburg, even though he knew.

Before the conductor could reply, the man with the gold party badge answered the question. Silbermann thanked him for the information, and a conversation developed. After a few remarks about the weather, the speed of express trains and automobiles, the man with the party badge asked if Silbermann played chess.

Silbermann nodded amenably, and the other man immediately pulled a small travel set out of his briefcase and began arranging the pieces. This was a novel situation for Silbermann, but he didn’t see any reason not to accept the challenge. Besides, he assumed the game would make him focus on other things, which would be helpful as well as relaxing. It would also occupy the other man enough to keep him from talking.

It soon became clear that Silbermann was by far the better player. For a moment he wondered whether he shouldn’t let the other man win, just for the sake of caution, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and after an hour of silent combat he put the other man in checkmate.

“Very nice,” acknowledged the man with the party badge, and began to explain to his wife, who had dozed off during the match but was once again awake and drowsily sizing up Silbermann, why he had lost his king’s pawn and what other mistakes had led to his defeat.

“If I had moved my rook to a3 instead of g4, then you would have … no, I should have castled beforehand, but then you would have taken your knight and, no … obviously I should have first moved my queen back. I have no idea, normally I play much better. But I’m exhausted, that’s what it is.”

Silbermann nodded to everything.

“Your opening impressed me,” the man said, with the authority of an expert. “Oh well, I just wanted … but shall we perhaps play another round?”

It was clear he desperately wanted to make up for his loss.

“I’m not sure we’ll finish before we get to Hamburg,” Silbermann pointed out.

“We can play a blitz game. Incidentally, if I may, my name is Turner.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Silbermann answered dryly.

He now expected the question: And with whom do I have the pleasure?

I’ll just say Silb, he decided.

But the other man didn’t ask, and so they began their second round. This time the man with the party badge tried very hard and managed to gain a slight advantage over Silbermann. But Silbermann also concentrated and played with a dogged earnestness and a fervent inner rage, as if something extraordinary depended on their game.

His opponent’s face reddened, and the man blinked excitedly as he pressed his lips together and kept nudging his wife to call her attention to the various positions. At one point he wanted to take back a move but abandoned the idea when he caught sight of Silbermann’s slightly raised eyebrow. Then he made two different moves than he had intended, and ultimately he lost this match as well.

“You’re a very skillful player,” he said, but this time his voice sounded more reproachful than respectful.

“I played poorly,” Silbermann lied, aware of the arrogance implied by this self-belittlement. The hostile remark further humiliated the defeated man, who could at least claim to have made Silbermann exert himself.

The man shuffled about uncomfortably on the seat cushion, looked at his fingernails, then at the chess set next to him, and finally said, “All good things come in threes. Don’t you want to beat me a third time?”

“I’m not at all that confident in my ability,” Silbermann said by way of restraint, and so they began their third match.

I’m going to be reasonable, Silbermann decided. I’m going to lose. But he won once again. They played a fourth and fifth match, and as the train pulled into Hamburg the man with the party badge had just lost his sixth. His regard for Silbermann was now practically boundless.

“I must see you again,” he requested as they said good-bye. “It’s been a long time since I encountered a player as good as you.” He gave Silbermann his calling card.

Silbermann read: Hermann Turner, chief engineer, Kleiststraße 14, and glanced at the telephone number.

“I just might give you a ring in the near future,” he said, good-humoredly.

“Yes, please do,” the other said, with all the humility of a mediocre player trying to entice a grandmaster to a game.

They shook hands and parted company.

A real human being, Silbermann thought happily. That was a real human being despite his party badge. Maybe things aren’t all that bad. People with whom you can play chess, and who can lose without being offended or insolent, are hardly robbers and killers.

His chess victories had given him quite a boost, and when he left the station, he no longer had the feeling he was fleeing, that he was weak and all alone. He had proven that he could still win. He wondered whether he should take a taxi, but then decided to go on foot, since the hotel wasn’t all that far away. Few people were on the streets, and there were almost no cars. When he came to the Jungfernstieg, he looked out over the Alster and spent a while staring at the gray water. He studied the reflections of the streetlamps on the dark flowing surface and inhaled deeply the refreshing, moist, cool air.

“What actually is the matter?” he asked himself. Things are hard, and there’s harassment, that’s certain. But sooner or later they’ll leave us alone again, and I’ll just emigrate. Things aren’t all that bad, when it comes down to it. Despite everything, I’m still alive.