FOUR

Silbermann’s coat pockets were bulging out from all the bills, so he went to a shop to buy a briefcase. After making the purchase he realized it was already 6:55, so he dashed to the nearest post office, where he took a form from the telegraph counter and sent a local telegram to his wife. Because he was worried about returning to his apartment, he asked her to meet him in a café closer to home.

When he left the post office he wondered what he should do with the forty-one thousand five hundred marks he had recovered. He decided not to dwell on the matter of Becker and how deeply his former friend had disappointed him, although that did little to stave off his painful, depressing reflections.

He took a streetcar to the place where he was expecting Elfriede. For some strange reason he was convinced that she would come. Once inside, he set his hat on a chair and went to the men’s room to transfer the money to his briefcase. On his way back to his table he noticed that the place was full of men in uniform, and he instinctively hugged his briefcase close to his body. Half an hour passed. By then Silbermann had drunk his third cup of coffee and was becoming increasingly nervous.

Hopefully the telegram was delivered right away, he thought. How long does that usually take? I should have asked. If she had received it, she could be here in five minutes. Assuming she was at home. After all, she had to go back to the apartment sooner or later. I’m sure I’ve been waiting here at least an hour, he thought, but a glance at the clock told him it had been only thirty-five minutes.

Mulling over his situation, he wondered: what am I supposed to do now? Because they’re still going after Jews. I can’t stay a single night in my apartment—not with forty-one thousand marks!

We have to leave Germany, but no place will let us in. I have enough money to start a new life, but how to get it out of the country? I don’t have the nerve to try to smuggle it across. Should I stay or go? What to do?

Should I risk ten years in prison for a currency offense? But what other choice is there? Without money I’d starve out there. Every road leads to ruin, every single one. How am I supposed to fight against the state?

“Waiter, please bring me a glass of water.”

Other people were smarter. Other people are always smarter! If I’d realized in time what was going on, I could have saved my money. But everyone was constantly reassuring me, Becker more than anybody. And fool that I am, I let myself be reassured. Which is why I’m stranded here. The devil take the hindmost. An old but true saying. And this time I happen to be the hindmost. But aren’t there still six hundred thousand Jews living in Greater Germany? How do they manage? Oh, they’ll know how to take care of themselves. Other people always know better. Just not me, even though I wasn’t born yesterday, either!

Maybe things aren’t half so bad, and the whole business is one big psychosis. But no, I should finally acknowledge the reality of the situation: things are going to get worse—much, much worse! Moreover, the fact that it takes someone like Becker to disabuse me shouldn’t come as a surprise. The scoundrel. But what good does it do to get worked up? I have to get out of Germany! Only there’s no place to go! To make it out of here you have to leave your money behind, and to be let in elsewhere you have to show you still have it. It’s enough to drive a person mad! If you dare do anything, you risk getting punished, and if you do nothing you’ll be punished all the more. It’s just like in school. If you did the math problems completely on your own you’d get an “unsatisfactory,” while if you copied off a better student you’d get a “good”—unless you were caught, and then you’d get a “fail.” Which is what you would have gotten in the first place if you’d been entirely honest and hadn’t even attempted to solve the problem: one way or the other, you always wind up with the same result.

He smiled sadly and lit a cigarette.

Nevertheless I have to try to make it out, he thought, and sighed. Except I know I’ll wind up right inside the barbed wire. I see it coming.

He reached for his briefcase and placed it behind him, against the back of his chair, just to feel secure.

Forty-one thousand marks, he thought, that’s still something! Even in the Third Reich. I count myself lucky that I recovered that much. If I’d been a little more sensible when I spoke with Becker, I probably could have salvaged even more. But when faced with such despicable behavior, who could avoid getting riled up, let alone be able to coolly assess the situation?

Silbermann only now realized that for some time he’d been looking a few tables away at an attractive woman of about thirty who was wearing a green dress. The woman smiled faintly—just enough to encourage him.

“Well,” said Silbermann, then he looked away. My type, went through his head, and: she looks very charming, refreshing … He recalled days long gone when he had been somewhat of a “ladies’ man,” and without intending to, he once again observed her. I’m letting my guard down, he thought, relaxing my internal discipline. That’s a bad sign! I get mesmerized by a pretty face and let myself be cheated by idiots. Am I starting to go senile? Is she actually smiling, or am I just imagining? That would have to be determined. Now she’s turning away. And she’s right to do so. Not only am I married, but I have plenty of other worries.

He turned serious again and let out another sigh, which attracted the woman’s attention.

They always think everything is meant for them, he thought, with reproach as well as amusement. Naturally anytime a man sighs it must be because of a woman.

He looked at the clock.

What’s keeping Elfriede? I’ll try reaching Findler again, he decided.

He stood up and walked past the woman. She didn’t smile at all, which was also fine as far as he was concerned.

Inside the booth he searched through the phone book to find the number of the guesthouse where Findler had been living. A maid answered who not only did not know Findler’s new telephone number but had no idea he even existed. He asked her to check with the others, but the landlady, who might have been able to tell him, was absent, and the rest of the staff didn’t know.

With all the back-and-forth, the phone conversation lasted about ten minutes, and afterward Silbermann hurried back into the café since he still hoped his wife might have turned up, but she hadn’t.

Meanwhile the lady in green had left, a fact that he only noted in passing, but which further dampened his mood.

He had the impression that the place had emptied out, and soon the waiting became unbearable. Then he was horrified to realize that he’d left his briefcase on the chair when he went outside to phone. His absentmindedness worried him greatly, and he forgot all about the lady in green. Keeping an anxious eye on the other guests, he hurried to stash some of the money back in his suit pockets, so that at least he would avoid a total loss.

It was already eight o’clock. He ordered a meat platter and ate with good appetite. However, every time the door of the café opened, he gave a start and turned around, hopeful but also expecting another disappointment. By twenty minutes after eight he’d finished his meal and asked the waiter for the bill.

That’s it, he decided, I’m going to go. I simply have to know what’s happening. Then he remembered that at nine o’clock he could call Fräulein Gersch, but after a moment’s hesitation he decided to leave after all. He was so impatient that instead of going on foot he took a taxi.

The eighteen-year-old son of the doorman was standing in front of the building, dressed in the uniform of the SA. When he saw Silbermann climbing out of the cab, he turned around and hurried inside.

That’s a bad sign, thought Silbermann, pausing for a moment to weigh his options. In any event I’ll have to be very quick and leave the apartment right away, he concluded.

He rushed up the stairs. He rang several times and, since he didn’t hear any footsteps, he unlocked the door. He was distraught to see glass splinters on the rug. Then he noticed that the large front-hall mirror had been shattered.

Calling card of the master race, he thought, incensed, and hurried into the dining room. Seeing that the furniture was still intact, he concluded that yesterday’s visitors hadn’t ventured into this room. And even though they must have posed a great temptation for such robust hands, the crystal bowls were also still intact.

“Elfriede!” Silbermann called, and rang immediately for the maid. Obviously they’re not here—I knew it, he thought, and once again called out his wife’s name. He opened the door of the parlor. Here the marks of heavy feet were evident. The floor was littered with shards of porcelain. Silbermann saw the étagère standing amid the shattered tea service.

He again called out, “Elfriede!” Then he sensed that was pointless. She isn’t here, they’ve taken her away, it’s possible they’ve done something to her. And meanwhile I took a train to Hamburg … I ate and I drank coffee and chattered away and saw to my business deals. I was everywhere but here, which is where I should have been.

He went to the back part of the apartment to look for the maid. He called out for her, checked in the kitchen and in her room, but of course she wasn’t there. Of course! How on earth could he have thought that everything would be normal and exactly the way it had been except for the telephone being out of order?

“I made it too easy for myself,” he groaned as he moved quickly to the bedroom and then the dressing room. “My optimism was nothing but cowardice! If only I’d come back sooner, but instead I chose to sit down with Becker—as if I couldn’t just have easily waited until later to let myself be cheated. What use are the forty-one thousand marks to me now!”

He looked at the objects lying on the floor, the overturned tables and chairs, the slashed paintings and torn-down curtains. Then, in an act of hopeless, unrestrained fury, he kicked a pile of books that had been pulled off the bookcase, sending them flying in all directions, and collapsed onto a leather armchair that had withstood all attempts at destruction, and stared expressionless at the floor.

“The end of the song,” he mumbled, “the end of the song.” He didn’t know exactly what he meant by that.

Something gleamed on the carpet. He picked it up. It was a party badge that one of the intruders must have lost. Silbermann studied the small swastika. “You murderer,” he whispered, “you murderer…” He put it in his jacket pocket.

“This is evidence,” he said out loud. “Sufficient evidence!” He reached into his pocket and clasped the badge tightly, as though he wanted to crush it. Then he took it back out and studied it once again. Finally he stood up.

“I’m going to examine everything,” he said. “I’m going to make sure everything is substantiated and then…” He didn’t know how to go on. He saw that they’d broken into his desk and the money stored there was gone. “Yes indeed,” he said, “yes indeed”—as if that gave him great satisfaction. But then he was overcome with despair.

If only I’d stayed, he thought. If only I’d stayed here! It would never have ended so badly. I would have talked to them, given them money. Because what else are they after? Nothing. I was never politically active. Never in my life. Only once did I buy a forbidden newspaper, but not a soul on earth knows about that.

Suddenly he had an idea. He hurried to the dining room and lifted the large Delft bowl off the credenza. Underneath he found her letter. He was so excited that when he tore open the envelope he damaged the contents. He pulled up one of the tall carved chairs, sat down, and read:

Dear Otto.

The people just now left the apartment, and they intend to come back. I called the doctor right away, because Herr Findler was badly hurt. Tonight I’m going to Ernst’s in Küstrin. I have no idea what I should do, but I’m not staying here another hour. I took the money from the desk. I’m giving Frau Fellner the key to the apartment and in Küstrin I’ll hire a carrier to retrieve the things. Please write immediately to Ernst’s address, but it’s better if you don’t come. Jews in the small towns are being treated even worse. The best would be if you went to Eduard right away!!! After all, I can come later. Please write at once, because I’m terribly worried about you …

The ending was hardly decipherable.

“I ought to be glad now,” Silbermann said to himself quietly. “So why aren’t I?”

So, she has the money, he then thought. Why didn’t they steal it? People break into houses in order to steal. He shook his head and went on speaking his thoughts out loud. “I don’t understand. The whole thing is simply unreal. They come, they break in, they chase people away—it doesn’t make sense for them not to have stolen things.”

He stood up.

Still, it’s all good, he forced himself to think. “Everything’s fine,” he then said. “It was just a false alarm. She’s safe—of course I’ll go to Eduard. Actually I ought to be dancing with joy, when I think about how lucky I’ve been.”

He sat back down. I have to check again to see if they really didn’t steal anything, he then decided. That had to have been their motive. What else could it be? Hate? They don’t even know me. And out of the blue like that. In one day? Following orders? Strange.

He went through the apartment.

No, they hadn’t stolen anything, as far as he could see, only destroyed things. The government, he thought, knows why it does what it’s doing. The government needs money. But why did these individual people do this? Why?

Then he remembered Findler. Poor man, he thought. It turns out that transacting business in this particular milieu isn’t so simple after all. Silbermann couldn’t help smiling, though at the same time he felt it wasn’t very nice of him to do.

He had entered the bedroom and let himself drop onto his bed. I have to leave, he thought, as he closed his eyes. “Ach,” he said to himself. “I’d really like to stay. To sleep … But instead now I have to head to the border … I’ve never been capable of that sort of thing, I simply don’t know how. Secretly slipping past the guards…” He shuddered at the thought. “What do they want from me anyway,” he asked quietly. “All I want is to live in peace and earn my bread … The border! Me, sneaking over the border—my God.”

He jumped up.

It’s no use, he thought. Now is no time to let myself go! I have to pull myself together!

Newly resolved to do whatever he must, Silbermann vigorously smoothed out his jacket. Then he started packing his suitcase, taking only what was absolutely essential for the journey, and his mood again became more hopeful. A quarter hour later he was finished and took one last walk through his apartment. We had such a beautiful, comfortable life here, he thought, and now I have to leave everything behind and run away from my old life, because … because …

Succumbing to his worries, Silbermann sighed and again sat down on the chair, until the bell of a passing streetcar startled him back to his plan of action.

From underneath a pile of magazines that were stacked in a side shelf of the bookcase, he retrieved some hidden papers, including his military service book, the membership cards of various Jewish organizations, as well as the land registry deed for his building.

He felt sad as he stared at the certificate. That once meant money, he thought: seven thousand marks in rent. And fool that I am, I had the whole building repainted last year. Another thing I could have done without.

In an attempt to shrug off his melancholy mood, he strived to discern a certain pathetic irony in the new circumstances. It’s actually quite simple, he thought: I’ve been declared to be in the service of a hostile power, which means I’m back to being a soldier. Only now my mission is to smuggle myself and my briefcase through both German and French lines.

But no matter how emboldening his thoughts, his mood could not be lifted.

He stowed the papers in his briefcase and took out six thousand marks to put in his suitcase. Then he debated whether he shouldn’t also quickly pack his suits, his wife’s fur coat, and her evening dresses. In the end he decided not to, since he felt he’d already spent too long in the apartment.

We’re losing so much, he consoled himself, that these things no longer matter. He contented himself with locking the cabinets and drawers and taking the keys. Of course I forgot the most important thing, he thought, as he carried his suitcase through the apartment for the fifth or sixth time. Did Elfriede at least take her jewelry? She should have written about that, now I have to … Why didn’t she—I don’t understand!

He set down his suitcase in the front hall and went back into the bedroom. He opened the drawers of the nightstand but found nothing except a receipt for the milk delivery. Then he hurried into the dressing room, forced open the door of the small medicine cabinet, since he couldn’t find the key, and looked for the small case that was usually stored there. When he didn’t find it he sighed with relief. She had taken it with her. Of course, a woman never forgets her jewelry, not even if she’s in mortal danger. Anyway, it’s a very good thing she thought about that. She can live for a while off of that if something should happen to me—until I’m settled abroad.

He left his apartment. Slowly and very calmly he climbed down the stairs.

If only I were already downstairs, he wished. If only I were already in the taxi. Hopefully the doorman’s son won’t be standing outside.

He was.

Silbermann raised his hat, the other man raised his arm.

“I’m going away for a few days,” Silbermann felt obliged to explain. “Would you please tell your mother that I’d be very grateful if she would look after the apartment?” His voice sounded hoarse and husky.

The young man didn’t answer but eyed him brazenly, so it seemed to Silbermann—or downright insolently.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-mark bill. “Would you give that to your mother? For her trouble?”

But the other man seemed to regard the gesture as attempted bribery. He turned around without saying a word and with excessively dignified bearing went inside the building, leaving Silbermann standing there.

Silbermann stared blankly as the young man walked away. Now there’s someone who really is being guided by hate, he thought, taken aback. He shrugged his shoulders and hurried to the nearest taxi stand.

But where should I go? he wondered. After all, a person ought to know where he wants to go. A person needs a destination. France? That would be the logical choice. But how do I get there? Perhaps through Switzerland? As if it were easy to get into Switzerland. Luxemburg? No, Goldberg tried that last week. And failed, and he’s younger than I am. So if he didn’t manage … Where shall I go? Where can I go?

For now I’m still free, I’ve managed to keep a portion of my wealth, and nevertheless I don’t know what to do. Despite all that, I’m a prisoner. For a Jew the entire Reich is one big concentration camp.

If only I’d gotten a visa early on! But who could have foreseen any of this, and Eduard’s certainly taking his time. I would have … Would have! What do I have? A passport with a big red J on the first page. But I also have money—thank God!

He took a cab to the Charlottenburg Station.

The first thing I’ll do is get a timetable for the trains, he decided. Then I’ll have to see. I’ll simply take the first train that’s leaving. No, that won’t work. I really do have to figure out where to. So I’ll head in the direction of France. First to the Rhineland. Then I’ll be closer to my destination. And tonight I’ll sleep on the train.

Anyway I can call Eduard again in the morning. Perhaps in the meantime he’s … managed to … hard to imagine. But not impossible. Then everything would happen legally. Otherwise it won’t work. I’m not a risk taker. I’m a businessman, I make deals. These times are demanding too much of me!

He was happy that for now at least his wife had escaped all trouble. She has her brother, he thought. A good thing that is! I wish I had someone, too.

He checked his suitcase at the baggage counter and then very carefully studied the departure times listed in the timetable. As he searched, he ran his finger down the columns. At last he believed to have found the right train.

“Aachen, eleven forty-eight, from the Potsdamer Station,” he said quietly. Aachen, he thought, is near Belgium. I’ll travel to Aachen! In any case it can’t hurt. Once I’m in Belgium, I can get to France. And in Aachen I can still think things over and figure out which border is easiest.

He purchased a detective novel at a newsstand, bought a first-class ticket to Aachen, and retrieved his suitcase. Then he went to the platform for local service. In just two minutes one of the electric trains arrived, and Silbermann climbed aboard.

After he stowed his suitcase on the storage rack and placed his briefcase behind him, he opened the book he had just purchased and began reading, hoping this would distract him and bring some measure of calm. As a rule Silbermann enjoyed letting himself get entangled in literary crimes, and he found murders every bit as engaging as bank robberies. He also felt reassured by the ultimate arrests. But even though the prose read quite fluently and two corpses were discovered on London Bridge on the very first page, the book couldn’t distract him from all his worries and problems. He kept reaching for his briefcase and checking to make sure his suitcase was still there. Finally he set the book aside.

I should have packed the silverware in a box, he thought. It now also occurred to him that he should have looked in the buffet for his wife’s jewelry case, because he remembered that she was always searching for new hiding places where possible intruders wouldn’t think to look. Once she’d even hidden the case under the plates on the lowest shelf. But then he figured that because she’d thought of the money in the desk, she must have remembered her jewelry as well, and felt relieved.

And what’s going to happen to my company? he asked himself, and tried to calculate how much money he’d already lost. But then he broke off this unpleasant accounting and went back to the question of how he could get his money out of Germany. Even if they don’t check anyone else at the border, they’re bound to check me, because I’m much too agitated. And it’s impossible to hide forty-one thousand marks on your person.

But of course—he was intending to cross the border illegally. Wasn’t it old man Wurm who’d recently told a story about two Jews from Breslau who’d been shot attempting to do just that? No, it was Löwenstein. Why would he even say something like that? As if people didn’t already know what’s going on! Besides, getting shot was preferable to being stuck in this condition for the foreseeable future. But perhaps he’d get arrested, and then: concentration camp, confiscation of property, prison … And what would become of his wife?

He wondered how her brother had received her, considering that he, too, was a Nazi. Ernst was probably afraid of compromising himself because of her. But he was her brother, after all, and Silbermann had served as a guarantor when he settled with his creditors. Otherwise he would have gone bankrupt, plain and simple, reckless as he was. No matter. In any case, he’s in my debt.

They arrived at Potsdamer Station and Silbermann stepped off. Only when the train started moving again did he realize he’d left his book behind. The loss upset him. He was not so much irritated by the fact that he’d now likely never discover the circumstances surrounding the double murder on the Thames, because of course he’d also forgotten the novel’s title—all he could remember was that it contained the word “secret.” What he really found distressing was that he’d caught himself forgetting something for the second time that day, and he could only expect that his anxiety would cause additional and perhaps more sensitive losses.

As he was heading to the platform for the train to Aachen, he reflected on the fact that he really should have said good-bye to his wife. This is like a ship going down, he thought, or a volcano erupting, or an earthquake ordered from above. And the earth really is shaking, but only under us.

After he’d climbed the stairs and passed through the ticket barrier, he sat down on a bench to wait for his train. She’ll be so worried and afraid, he then thought. I have to write her right away. What a good thing it is that she’s a Christian—at least nothing can happen to her. I can hardly imagine if I had that worry on top of everything else, as it is I’m worried about something happening to her anyway. It also occurred to him that he hadn’t said good-bye to his sister and that he hadn’t found out anything certain about the fate of his brother-in-law, Günther. And to think I’m actually someone with a real feel for family, he wondered. But when all is said and done, people are simply hard-boiled egoists.

Nor did he now feel at all inclined to call his sister again. It’s too depressing, he thought. We’ll just talk back and forth, she can’t help me and I can’t help her, and all we’d do in the end is unnerve each other further. What’s the point in that? Things are already hard enough! I’ll write her tomorrow and send her some money. She’ll need that before long, because Günther will soon stop receiving his pension, or else it will be assigned to cover his rations in the concentration camp. The truth is that I’m still relatively well off, he thought, and sighed.

Maybe I ought to divide the money and leave ten thousand marks for Elfriede. Who knows how long she’ll still have to stay in the country. But then the Nazis will end up taking it away from her, or else Ernst will talk her out of it for some dubious business deal. Besides, she has to join me in the next few days, no question about it. As soon as I’m out of the country I’ll get her the permit. As long as she’s living in Germany I won’t have any peace. People will help me. Everybody will understand! I’ll manage in eight days what Eduard couldn’t achieve in his entire life.

Besides, if I leave her the money, she’ll try to smuggle it across the border herself, and she’s far less capable of that than I am. Ach, whatever I do is a mistake. Everything is all wrong. Even if I do manage to get the money out of the country, it’s entirely possible that they’d hold her hostage until I turned myself in along with the money. Maybe I’m dragging her down with me into misfortune. The best thing would be for me to wait and spend the next few days in Aachen or Dortmund or perhaps go back to Berlin later and try to get a visa. But there’s no chance of that working out, either.

By this point he felt so hopeless that he didn’t react at all when the train pulled up, but simply stayed slumped on the bench.

What do I want to do? he asked himself. Is there anything left for me to do at all? Every choice is an unwise one. But he couldn’t simply stay on the platform, and more than anything else it was the hope of at least being able to sleep on the train that finally motivated him to climb on board.

He’d chosen first class because he believed that there he would be safest from suspicion and the ensuing harassment.

After looking into a few compartments that were partly occupied, he found one for smokers that was empty. He sat down and closed his eyes. Sleep, he thought, all I want is to sleep.

He hadn’t dared purchase a berth in a sleeping car. Being deep asleep in bed puts you completely at the mercy of others, he had thought. A few minutes passed, then the door to his compartment was opened, and with great deference the conductor pointed out seats for two gentlemen.

A spirited “Heil Hitler” was proclaimed.

“Heil Hitler,” Silbermann returned the greeting, starting up from his half-sleep and then resuming his position, while making an effort to maintain his composure. He quickly turned his face to the window so the others wouldn’t notice how terrified he looked. But it turned out they weren’t Gestapo men, as he had first suspected, but bona fide travelers.

“Did you notice,” one was saying to the other, “that the whole first class is full of Jews. Half of Israel is on tour.”

“No, really?” the other man seemed surprised. “I didn’t notice at all.”

Silbermann began feeling very uneasy.

“Then again maybe I’m just imagining things,” the first one continued. In any case, this morning in the train from Munich I easily counted about twenty head.”

“What are the people supposed to do?” the other asked, disinterested. “Do you have the papers? I want to look them over one more time.” The man who had first spoken rummaged through his coat pockets and ultimately fished out a manuscript. He handed it to the other man, who Silbermann guessed was his superior, based on each man’s respective attitude, and who began reading contentedly.

“Is everything set?” the man asked as he leafed through the draft. “Are we being picked up from the station? Has the press been adequately informed? Do you have a decent photograph of me on hand? Because recently the Köln Illustrierte ran a picture of me that made me look ancient. Kindly make sure I’m not made into an old man ahead of my time.”

The other man eagerly pulled some pictures from his pocketbook and handed them over. His superior looked through them.

“This photo is out of the question. It shows me with a mustache. Good grief … Here, this will work! Take this one.”

“Yes of course,” the other agreed. “That’s the one I wanted to use as well. First simply on account of the SA uniform.”

His boss read further in the manuscript. “This needs to be re-transcribed,” he said after a while, during which the train had started moving. “Here, instead of ‘the new Reich’s mission vis-à-vis Europe,’ it should say ‘concerning Europe.’ All such foreign expressions should be deleted. And instead of the word ‘culture’ you should, wait a minute … I had found a better expression—what was it?”

“Nobility of mind?” the other hurried to interject.

“Nonsense. Think for a moment!”

“National advancement?”

“No!”

“Community spirit?”

“I didn’t say that! I had come up with a new expression. Make an effort!”

Silbermann stood up and left the compartment, making sure he took his briefcase with him.

I recognize the gaunt one, he thought, believing he had seen pictures of him, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name. He now regretted having followed his impulse to step out. I should have stayed and listened, he thought, wondering what new word the gentleman had come up with for “culture.” He went back inside the compartment.

But either they had found the lost word, or the supposed author had given up the search. Perhaps he’d solved the dilemma by simply leaving out the concept of culture altogether. Whatever the case, both men were now silent.

After about ten minutes the conductor came back, opened the door, and said, with the same deference, “Everything is all fixed up and ready!” Both men stood up, collected their belongings, and left the compartment, having amiably taken their leave of Silbermann. They’d probably just been waiting for their beds to be made.

Silbermann was very contented to be alone. He drew the curtain, spread a newspaper on the seat cushion where he wanted to place his feet, and stretched out. The whole first class is full of Jews, he thought as he fell asleep. If only it goes well … He didn’t sleep very deeply, and frequently woke with a start, frightened and bewildered. Then he would glance around the compartment, where he’d left the light on, before falling back asleep.

The train stopped and soon started up again. The door was shoved aside, and a man peered into the compartment. His attire was very run-of-the-mill, as Silbermann, who had woken up when the train resumed its movement, immediately noticed. He also sensed there was something distraught about the new arrival, and he had the impression that the man was not accustomed to traveling first class. The newcomer politely removed his hat and took the window seat opposite Silbermann.

“Excuse me,” he said, almost meekly. “I’m afraid I may have woken you. Please go on sleeping. I’m going to make myself comfortable as well.”

He took off his jacket, hung it carefully on a hook, and once again took off his hat, which he had put back on after greeting Silbermann, and placed it on the luggage rack.

Silbermann yawned. “I’m already feeling a little refreshed,” he said. He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. “Do you smoke?”

The other thanked him and reached into the case. Silbermann couldn’t help noticing the man’s hand. It was red and chapped, and several nails had been split and hadn’t grown back properly. Suddenly Silbermann realized that the other man had no suitcase.

Perhaps he’s running from the law, he thought for a moment. But then he observed the man’s ruddy cheeks and anxious expression, and when he noticed his brown eyes Silbermann decided instead that he was sharing the compartment with a Jewish tradesman trying to escape. He considered it unlikely that the man was a con artist, given his staid, petit-bourgeois demeanor, but Silbermann nevertheless decided he needed to make sure.

“Hard times,” he said, quite slowly.

The other man eyed him suspiciously.

“Indeed,” he concurred, with a serious tone, but then quickly added, probably to be on the safe side and neutralize his agreement, “depending on how you look at it.”

“Are you traveling on business?” asked Silbermann with polite interest.

The other man reached below his ankle to scratch, bending so low that his face could no longer be seen. “Yes,” he muttered. Then he sat up and said, without looking at Silbermann, “Well then, good night.”

“Good night,” Silbermann replied.

“Shall I turn off the light?” the man asked.

“It can stay on as far as I’m concerned.”

“That’s fine with me, too.”

For a few minutes both men were silent, but then the newcomer asked, very quietly, as if he were afraid Silbermann might already be asleep, “When do you think the train will be in Aachen?”

“Sometime around twelve, I think,” answered Silbermann, also instinctively whispering.

“Thank you.”

More minutes passed. Then Silbermann asked if the other man would mind if he opened the door to the corridor, to let the smoke out.

As if he’d been given an order, the other man leapt to his feet. “Not at all,” he said, and slid the door about ten centimeters to the side. He sat back down and asked, now more bravely, “Are you traveling abroad?”

“No,” said Silbermann, “and you?”

“Me neither,” the other was quick to reply. “I’m traveling on business,” he then quickly added, as if he’d already forgotten Silbermann’s earlier question and his own answer, and as though traveling on business necessarily meant staying in the country.

“That’s right, of course,” said Silbermann. The other man had turned to face him, but when Silbermann tried to look him in the eye he averted his gaze. “What line of business are you in, if I might ask?”

I’m making him afraid, thought Silbermann. But I have to know! If he’s not trying to get out of the country, then he must be a criminal. And I don’t want to fall asleep in the same compartment as a criminal. After all, I have my entire fortune in my briefcase.

“I deal in furniture,” said the other man quickly. Too quickly, it seemed to Silbermann, who had now grown suspicious.

“Do you have good sales agents?” he asked.

“They’re all right,” said the man, and looked out the window.

“I was guessing that you’re the head of a firm…”

The man gave Silbermann an anxious look. “What made you guess that?” he asked.

“Well, I thought that since you were traveling first class. Not many agents can afford that. You must do very well.”

I’m behaving like a perfect inquisitor, Silbermann thought. And how easily the situation could be reversed. But now he felt that he was the stronger person, and he was resolved to be merciless in his quest for information.

“I usually travel second class,” the man answered, as though he had to explain himself. “But they told me there were no seats available in second class. That’s why I’m traveling first class.”

This is exactly how people get trapped in lies, Silbermann thought to himself. If the man had any imagination he surely wouldn’t try to make me believe something as ridiculous as that. There are more open seats in second class than anyone could ask for. And why did he even answer my question? Why is he lying? Why is he taking something that requires no justification whatsoever and offering up an improbable explanation? He isn’t a crook, he’s far too clumsy for that. Only people who are used to speaking the truth give themselves away like that when they’re forced to lie. A Jewish tradesman, of course, my first impression was right!

Silbermann fixed his gaze on the man and quietly asked, “Are you Jewish?”

“What makes you think that?” the other asked back, distraught, and it was clear how much he wanted to get up and escape the interrogation. But he probably lacked the courage to do so.

“So, I take it you are Jewish! Do you know where you want to go? Do you have a particular destination in mind?”

For a moment, the other man was silent, then he again asked, “What leads you to think that I’m a Jew? Do I look like one?”

“Not necessarily,” said Silbermann, who was now fully confident and secretly proud of his psychological prowess. He was so convinced of the validity of his premise that he returned to his sleeping position.

The other man seemed emboldened by this movement, which was clearly not directed against him. “They stormed my store,” he began whispering. Then he jumped up and shut the door, even though the corridor was empty. “I had a cabinetmaking shop.” He resumed his report, then stopped and asked, “But please tell me what led you to believe I’m Jewish? You aren’t Jewish yourself?” The return question was inevitable, and his voice betrayed hope as well as fear.

“I had the impression you were agitated,” said Silbermann.

“Are you an Aryan?” the other asked, rephrasing the question. Silbermann’s lack of response to his first question had probably led the man to conclude that he was dealing with a comrade in misfortune.

“I’m also Jewish,” Silbermann declared.

“Thank God,” the other man said, relieved.

“So where do you plan to go?” asked Silbermann.

Now it was the other man’s turn to be suspicious.

“I’m not planning to go anywhere,” he said evasively. “I’m just traveling. I was advised to travel first class because that was safer, but it wasn’t good advice. I can see how badly I stick out here. Tomorrow I’ll take a train back to Magdeburg. Things are bound to have calmed down by then.”

“You don’t want to leave the country?” asked Silbermann.

“No, no,” the other was quick to reply. “I’m staying in Germany. Despite everything I am a German!”

“Good night,” said Silbermann.

For a moment he had hoped his companion might give him a useful tip, but he realized that he couldn’t expect such confidence unless he himself was willing to open up, which he was not inclined to do. He tried to fall asleep, but after a few minutes the other man started talking again.

“Did you manage to save your money?” he asked quietly.

Silbermann muttered something incomprehensible.

“Because if you had money,” the other man continued, “it would be easier…”

“What would be easier?” Silbermann sat up, now interested, and lit another cigarette.

“Well … you know…” the other man hesitated.

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Silbermann, who thought he understood quite well and felt a new sense of hope.

“I only kept a hundred marks. That’s not enough to get out of the country—assuming that’s what a person wanted to do.”

“Do you want to get out?”

“Do you?”

“Perhaps. Do you know a way?”

“We don’t know each other at all. I mean, even if I did know something … You understand what I mean?”

Silbermann flicked the ash off his cigarette. “First I’d have to have a clear idea of what we’re talking about,” he said, businesslike. “The rest can all be sorted out.”

The other man thought for a moment and looked at Silbermann, unable to decide. He had his doubts, but he realized that Silbermann would only show his cards after he did.

“I was given an address. Supposedly it’s someone who can arrange something. From what I’ve heard he asks for a lot of money. And in addition to that he’s a Nazi.”

“But basically you think he might be able to get someone out of the country? I’m not necessarily speaking for myself, of course, but in general the matter interests me.”

“They say that he takes anything of value at the border. You’re completely at his mercy, but he’ll see that you get across!”

“Who is this he?”

“I don’t know exactly, and even if I did, as I said before, I don’t know you at all…”

Silbermann nodded. “Of course,” he admitted. “Of course I could easily prove to you who I am and that I’m Jewish, but I don’t know…”

“What don’t you know?”

“If there’s any point.”

“Oh,” the other said eagerly, and it was clear that he, who had disclosed so much, was now also asking for some show of trust. “Surely we could help each other out somehow. You obviously have money, and I have a way out, but not the money it requires. We could complement each other.”

“But if, as you say, your man robs people at the border, I don’t find the prospect very enticing.”

“So is it a lot of money you’re carrying around?”

“No, definitely not.”

“I’ve told you everything. But you’re not telling me anything! Don’t you trust me?”

“I do, but as you rightly pointed out earlier: we don’t know each other, and it’s also debatable if we’d be of any benefit to each other even if we did.”

“My name is Lilienfeld, Robert Lilienfeld.”

“Silbermann.”

“So, Herr Silbermann,” said Lilienfeld, now grown bolder. “I trust you, even if just because I very much need you. Listen: we could get off together in Dortmund and look up the man together. I would introduce you, and in exchange you would pay my way.”

“We could do that. And I’m happy to give you the money. But you’ll have to pay him yourself.”

“Agreed.”

“And assuming a person had a little more money that he needed to have sent on very quickly, do you also know how that can be arranged?”

“You’re not allowed to take anything,” Lilienfeld insisted. “In no case are you permitted to have more than ten marks on you. Otherwise if we get caught we might be accused of smuggling currency. Besides, I already told you that you have to expect the man to pat you down at the border. If you’re lucky, all he’ll do is take your money.”

“You don’t know any other way to…?”

“I have no idea! Just don’t tell the man that you have money, and under no circumstances should you hide the money on your person. Or any valuables!”

“But…”

“We simply have to be glad if we manage to make it across with our bare lives.”

“Even out of the country you need more than a bare life to survive. You need money! Or do you think they feed Jews there for free?”

“I’ll find some work,” Lilienfeld assured him hopefully.

“As far as I know, immigrants aren’t allowed to work without a special permit, and by the time you get one of those you’ll have long died of starvation.”

“That remains to be seen!”

“No,” said Silbermann emphatically. “For me it’s out of the question.”

Lilienfeld jumped up. “And how am I supposed to pay the man?” he asked, agitated. “I’m short two hundred marks. My life depends on two hundred marks! If I’d only traveled third class…”

“Calm down.” Silbermann interrupted him. “You’ll get your two hundred marks! And in exchange you’ll give me the address of the man. I may come back to the idea.”

Lilienfeld tore a page from his notebook and wrote out the name and address in large, clumsy letters. He genuinely seemed to have come to trust Silbermann. In any case, he handed Silbermann the paper even though he hadn’t received any money for providing it.

“Hermann Dinkelberg, Bismarckstraße 23,” Silbermann read in a low voice. “Is that enough?” he asked. “Or do I have to refer to someone?”

“That isn’t necessary. Just tell him that you want to leave the country, and if he asks how much money you have, say: two hundred marks. You can give that to him right away, because he’ll get you over the border!”

Silbermann stuck the note in his pocketbook and handed Lilienfeld three hundred-mark bills. “You might need a little extra after all,” he said. “If you like you can give me back the hundred marks at some later date.”

“No, no.” The cabinetmaker declined. “All I need is two hundred marks exactly! What am I supposed to do with the rest? Tomorrow afternoon I’m leaving Germany. Then I won’t be able to get rid of the money and that will be my downfall. I know you mean well, that’s very generous, and I thank you, but please just keep it!”

He handed the extra hundred marks back to Silbermann.

“That’s never happened to me before in my life,” said Silbermann, shaking his head.

“Me neither! But now let’s really try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I have a pretty strenuous hike ahead of me. I’m just happy that I met you. It looks like there really is such a thing as a silver lining.”

“Only because the cloud is as dark as it is,” said Silbermann pessimistically.

“You shouldn’t despair,” Lilienfeld replied, gently running his hand over his billfold. “You see how things are going with me…”

“You’re also in an enviable position! You can move about freely. But I have to haul my money wherever I go. Under the circumstances, that’s a real millstone around my neck.”

“Just leave it in Germany.”

“And what am I to live off abroad?”

“You’ll have to work!”

“I’ve worked my entire life, my friend. I’m a merchant, and a merchant has to have capital. These days a tradesman is a lot better off.”

“Then you just have to start all over again once you’re there.”

“That’s easy to say. I’m no longer young, and I also have my wife and son to take care of!”

“You’re right,” sighed Lilienfeld, almost with a note of contentment, “it’s a bad situation…”

Silbermann realized he wasn’t going to fall asleep again so soon. He pulled aside the window curtain and for a while looked out at the pale dawn, gazing at the landscape, the bare fields, small forests, isolated houses, the monotonous autumn tableau of the flat countryside. He stretched a bit, then turned out the light since it was already bright enough.

“What time is it?” he asked his companion, who had also not yet fallen asleep and who’d been watching Silbermann with his big brown eyes, following every movement with drowsy interest.

“Six thirty,” said Lilienfeld.

“I’m dead tired but I can’t fall asleep,” Silbermann explained. “I feel a sense of looming catastrophe in my stomach.”

“That’s because you haven’t had any coffee yet,” Lilienfeld said, and turned around to go back to sleep.

Silbermann continued looking out the window. I’ve passed this way before, he thought. On our honeymoon. To distract himself, he tried recalling the time and circumstances. He’d just been promoted to corporal and had received eight days’ leave to get married. Five days were taken up with wedding preparations, and they hadn’t been able to leave until the evening of the sixth day. He still remembered all the details fairly exactly, down to what his wife was wearing and how she looked. Elfriede had been very excited. Never again did he see her laugh and cry as much as she had on that trip. They had held on to each other in a way that now seemed to him more clenching than clinging. But the conditions hadn’t been favorable for a simple, innocent honeymoon, because the country was at war.

And then there were the fantastic plans she’d concocted! She suggested they flee to Switzerland because she didn’t want to let him return to the front. Deep down she probably realized this was impossible, but she refused to accept that and had to be consoled. He promised her that the war wouldn’t last much longer, and then she sighed and said: yes it will. Which prompted him to explain why the enemies of Germany were on the verge of collapse and how life in a dugout was relatively safe.

In the end she believed him, and then everything was wonderful once more, although the fear of separation gnawed away at every happy minute. Finally, as if by mutual agreement, they only spoke about the two days they had left, about what they had planned to do but wound up not doing because the wedding had been more important than the honeymoon.

We were so happy and so unhappy at the same time that we couldn’t even tell the difference, Silbermann reflected—that was how jumbled all their feelings and sensations had become.

Of course the last day had been a terrible ordeal, and ultimately all they ended up doing was waiting for the moment when they had to part. Looking back, Silbermann didn’t think it was all that bad, since they’d been young and could believe in the future, and despite everything they’d been able to live in the moment.

How happy I was, Silbermann thought, with a quiet feeling of self-envy.

He stepped out of the compartment and walked down the corridor, then came back, sat down, and observed the cabinetmaker, who had fallen asleep and was shifting fretfully as Silbermann watched until he finally woke up. Before he opened his eyes, he felt for his breast pocket, where he’d hidden the money and most likely his passport as well.

“Are we close to Dortmund?” he asked quietly.

“You still have a long time,” Silbermann replied. “Get some sleep.”

But Lilienfeld sat up. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m so restless. I have such a strange feeling. I need a glass of brandy. I don’t think I can take being hounded like this. Normally by this time I would have already swept out my shop and rolled up the shutters. I had to let go of my journeyman assistant, the business was doing so poorly, and my apprentice never showed up before eight. There’s someone for you—completely inept!”

He looked at Silbermann. “I talk too much, don’t I?”

“Not at all,” Silbermann replied. “Keep going. It does me good to listen to you.”

“I told the boy a hundred times,” Lilienfeld continued, “not to hold the board with his hand when he’s using the plane. But no matter how often you say it, he doesn’t hear it. And as you can guess, one day the thing slipped and then the lout couldn’t work. So for a whole month all he did was stand around. Apart from that he was a good kid! I wonder if he’s found a new apprenticeship. I still have to send him his certificate. When I told him I was leaving, he wanted to come with me. He’s Jewish, too, you see … I’m so anxious. I dreamed about the war for the first time in years. I was just hanging there, stuck in the barbed wire and freezing. That’s a feeling, let me tell you!”

“I turned off the heat earlier,” Silbermann explained. “You know, I’ve been thinking about the war too for the past few days. It’s no wonder.”

“Do you think we should move to second class?” Lilienfeld asked. “That might be safer.”

“And when the conductor comes and sees you have a ticket for first class, that will really look fishy!”

“But it’s always less nerve-racking to be around a lot of people. At least for me. Do you think there are Gestapo officers on the train?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe we should get off and take third-class seats on the next train?”

“What do you think that will do? You won’t be any safer there. You might get involved in a conversation that I wouldn’t wish for you, and besides…”

“… and besides, I chose to pay for first class, too, you were going to say,” Lilienfeld interrupted, finishing Silbermann’s sentence. “Except I’ve never traveled first class in my life. If only I’d been able to go on traveling third class in peace for the rest of my days!” He looked around admiringly at the compartment. “All very finely done,” he concluded. “But it’s plenty expensive! Probably nothing new for you, am I right?”

“I usually travel second class,” said Silbermann. But listening to Lilienfeld about traveling third class made him wonder exactly why he had done so all those years. Then he added, almost apologetically, “Also on account of my business associates.” He wrinkled his forehead, surprised at his own explanation.

“Well, you wealthy people have it easy,” Lilienfeld said wistfully. “You always manage to wriggle out of everything. Tell me, are you a millionaire?”

Silbermann smiled. “No, I’m really not,” he said.

“I thought you might be. You look like one. So calm. I think as a rule rich people have smooth faces without a lot of wrinkles, right?”

“There are as many different types of faces as there are types of worry. If you don’t have one kind you have another. Is my situation any better than yours?”

“Maybe not at the moment, but otherwise it is! I don’t begrudge you, either. I don’t envy anybody! At most my brother, he’s in South America. He managed to get out of Germany and he’s earning good money there. But he’s also been through a lot. We all have. You, too. I’m really happy that you’re a rich man. Because otherwise how else would I have managed to come up with the two hundred marks?”

“They stole two hundred thousand marks from me, if I include the apartment house!” said Silbermann, more to himself than to the other.

“Two hundred thousand marks,” Lilienfeld sighed reverently. “And here I thought I shouldn’t have asked for two hundred in exchange for nothing more than an address. But two hundred thousand! How does that make you feel? I can only imagine. I lost five or six thousand marks myself—that’s how much my shop was worth. But this. It must be absolutely horrible. It would be better if you’d never had it, I think. And here you wanted to give me an extra hundred! That shows that you’re a noble soul. But maybe you’re also thinking it no longer matters.”

“Maybe,” said Silbermann, holding back his smile with effort.

“Still, you meant it very well,” Lilienfeld decided. “You must be in complete despair, losing two hundred thousand marks—I think I’d do something to myself!”

Silbermann shook his head. “The amount itself doesn’t matter,” he said. “After all, losing your business was…”

“Yes, my wonderful shop,” Lilienfeld interrupted, wistfully. “I had two display windows, you know? Sure they were small all right, but they brought in a lot of business! I even fashioned pews for the church, despite the fact that I’m a Jew! Incidentally, the Jewish community still owes me three hundred marks!” For a moment Lilienfeld seemed lost in thought. “And now it’s all gone, everything, just like that! The windows smashed, and the landlord gave me notice. Then they wanted to arrest me on top of that. If only I’d been able to pack my tools! All gone, everything…” He propped his elbows on his knees and buried his head between his hands. “I wasn’t even able to take my Sunday suit!” he said gloomily.

“You see, I’m no worse off than you,” Silbermann said, picking back up the thread of the conversation. “Whether you lose two hundred thousand marks or your shop, it’s not that big a difference. As it is, I managed to save some money.”

Lilienfeld looked up. “Which is getting in the way of your own safety and security,” he said, as if to insist that Silbermann was more unfortunate than he himself.

“Security,” said Silbermann. “There’s no security without money.”

“But right now your money isn’t making you secure. On the contrary, it is putting you in danger.”

“There are always two sides to everything,” Silbermann admitted. Then he laughed. “I find it amusing how we’re both pitying each other and how each of us is trying to prove that the other is worse off, as though that were some kind of consolation.”

“I don’t pity you at all,” Lilienfeld contested. “Not in the least! You were always well off, but not me. I’ve been through a lot, but because of that it’s easier for me now!”

“Exactly,” said Silbermann, laughing. “It’s easier for you!”

“You don’t need to laugh about it. That’s just the way it is. I haven’t lost two hundred thousand marks, and I don’t need to sneak any money over the border. I’m happy as a clam!”

“You’re a nice person.” Silbermann grinned. “Really!”

“You’ve always had it pretty good, am I right?”

“That’s not a question for which there’s a simple answer. In one sense you’re right, but then again, I was in the war.”

“The war wasn’t good,” Lilienfeld admitted. “But it wasn’t all that bad, either. We were always just one of many, part of a group. And now we’re alone. There’s no longer someone giving commands, there’s no order you can stick to. You have to run and there’s no one telling you where to. The pressure’s a lot worse now than it was under the Prussian officers. The war wasn’t pleasant, by any means! But we were soldiers. Soldiers among soldiers. And now we’re filthy Jews and the others are Aryans! They’re living in peace, and we’re being hounded, only us. That’s the worst thing! The other carpenters are doing their business and getting on with their lives. While I have to get out, go away! That’s the thing! The war was also a unique situation, but not just for us, not just for me! There was a community. Everybody was affected.”

“Be glad you don’t belong to the new community! It’s hard to imagine one that’s worse or more stupid and brutal. A good minority is still better than a bad majority.”

“So you say! But I had to sit in my shop and watch them march past, with flags and music. At times I could practically scream, let me tell you. They were all people I knew. The veteran’s association, the skat club, the guild. All former friends, and suddenly you’re sitting there completely alone. No one wants to have anything more to do with you, and if they do happen to run into you, then you wind up being the one who looks away just so you don’t have to see them doing it. That’s why I didn’t dare set foot outside. I kept thinking: you’ll end up bumping into someone and then get worked up all over again. This person was in your class at school, that person trained alongside you or was one of the regulars at your table in the pub. And now? Now you’re just air, and bad air at that!”

“But all of that only reflects on the others!”

“It doesn’t matter who it reflects on! The fact is that I’ve been through hell. They smeared the word ‘Jew’ all over my shop windows, and then I had to wipe it all off while the whole street was watching. The thing is that it was mostly the work of Willi Schröder, whose father I once had to take to court because he didn’t want to pay. But this wasn’t just some silly boy’s prank, either. And it’s not something you can really get over. What can I do about that, tell me. It’s not a feeling you can ever get rid of, once it’s there. If I were a pious Jew, I would say none of that matters. But I’m not. I was in the war, and I’ve seen it all!”

Lilienfeld paused a moment before continuing.

“And then you become so sensitive. You start smelling meanness everywhere. Whereas all you want is to be able to work in peace, have a glass of beer in the evening, play a nice game of skat, just like everybody else. And you can tell me all about the chosen people and how God is testing them. I couldn’t care less about that. I’m perfectly happy being a tradesman. And now I have to put up with being treated like a robber and murderer! The only thing missing is for them to start spitting on us.”

Lilienfeld stared dully ahead.

“So, it all just comes because I have a better head on my shoulders,” he then said, convinced and relieved. He now looked as though he expected Silbermann to pat him on the shoulder and say, “Cheer up, Lilienfeld!”

Silbermann, who had been quite gripped by Lilienfeld’s story, had to smile at his companion’s naive conclusion.

“I’m thirsty for some coffee!” Lilienfeld declared, now that he had said his piece and was probably also afraid of falling into too melancholy a mood. “At the next station I’m definitely hopping off for a coffee and some brandy, that’s my usual routine. Do you know when the dining car is open?”

“I’m not sure if there is one yet: it might get added at Dortmund. We can go through the train and check.”

They both got up and went into the corridor. A man was standing at the window in front of the neighboring compartment. He politely stepped back to let them pass, and they went on.

“I hope he didn’t hear our conversation,” said Lilienfeld, after they were out of earshot. “You were speaking so loudly. One has to be very careful. I’ve heard these trains are full of informers.”

They made their way to the next car, which was second class, and where the corridor was completely empty. As they passed through two sleeping cars they ran into a member of the staff but no one else. Finally they wound up in a third-class car, where the corridor was full of people smoking, chatting, and looking out the window.

Lilienfeld stood on the coupling that was swaying back and forth under their feet and grabbed Silbermann by the arm.

“I’m not going any further,” he whispered. “There are too many Christians here for my taste!”

“But why are you so afraid?” asked Silbermann.

“Why? Yesterday they attacked my shop. Once you’ve been through everything I have, you’ll start thinking differently!”

“Come on, you just have to stay calm and keep going. No one can tell by looking that you’re Jewish.”

“Except you noticed right away!”

“Only because you were so uneasy.”

“Well, in any case I’m turning around,” Lilienfeld announced. “I don’t have to prove how brave I am for a cup of coffee. Having the nerve to do something is all well and good, but having your peace is even better.”

“What do you think might happen to you?”

“I don’t know. All it takes is running into a single acquaintance and there you have it. Sure, that’s not going to happen—but what if it does?”

They turned around.

“I don’t understand you,” said Silbermann on their way back. “Earlier you wanted to be in third class so you’d be surrounded by people.”

“Call it paranoia,” said Lilienfeld, enlightened. “I feel as if I were somehow branded. Besides, I don’t think Jews are allowed in the dining car.”

“Jews aren’t allowed to live their lives,” Silbermann answered. “Do you want to be ruled by that?”

Lilienfeld didn’t speak again until they had reached their compartment. “Sometimes I feel utterly discouraged and fainthearted,” he said, a little ashamed of his explanation. “It took me days before I was willing to leave my shop. Because I was afraid that someone might start shoving me around or insult me. Even though business was bad, I didn’t chase after any new orders. You know sometimes I have the sense that nothing’s going right anymore, nothing at all!”

“Come on,” said Silbermann encouragingly. “I much preferred that nice optimism you had before. Don’t give up on yourself like that! I’m sure you lived through far more dangerous situations in the war. And there you were lucky and came out of it safe and sound. Maybe in eight days you’ll have already found work abroad, and then all of this will be behind you. Just don’t give in, my friend! Don’t break down. Keep your eye on the goal, and you’ll be sure to reach it! Weltschmerz isn’t something you can afford! That can come later, when you’re digesting a good meal—then you’re allowed to be melancholic.”

“You’re right,” said Lilienfeld, noticeably brighter. “If you want we can go again!”

How great is the power of words, Silbermann marveled, not at all feeling the same encouragement he had talked his companion into.

“No, no,” he said. “Let’s leave it. You aren’t completely wrong, either. A waiter is likely to show up soon, and if not we’ll share a cup of coffee at the next station.”

“I wonder if I’ll make it,” asked Lilienfeld, once again very downcast.

“Make what?”

“I mean, if I’ll make it over the border. If I won’t get caught. I could just as easily run right into the guards on the other side and get sent back. In which case I’d do myself in.”

“Man!” said Silbermann with feigned jauntiness. “Stop all that shilly-shallying! And don’t even think such crazy thoughts. If it doesn’t work out the first time, then it will the second. I don’t understand you!”

“Aren’t you at all afraid?” Lilienfeld defended himself.

“I am. Of course. But I refuse to give in to my fear!” said Silbermann, nice and firmly.