I too cannot escape the magical happening in the tiny courtroom. I have to come. These events are too interesting. I must not miss them. So long as I’m here I at least want to get something out of it . . . I’ve been listed as a witness, true. But I have every reason to doubt that I’ll ever be called: I have only one murder to testify about, whereas here they are dealing with hecatombs. Stella’s death is a private digression, so to speak, nothing to write home about: here you probably won’t be questioned for fewer than ten thousand corpses. (John knew this, must have known it, but it was presumably his last good deed for me: to get me out of the German starvation world and shelter me in opulence among the grave worms.) The great moment will most likely not come: me on the witness stand eye to eye with Göring (after all, he’s the one, the bastard)—me, an extra in World History . . . nevertheless, I have to be ready for it, I have to get my hair trimmed every week. After all, you can’t enter World Events looking sloppy, with a gigolo’s mane. (Plus the dark-haired girl from the Warsaw Ghetto said that long, neglected hair reminds her too much of old times—though wouldn’t shaved heads be even worse?) Anyway, it’s fun going to the barber. Way over there, in the farthest wing of the courthouse, I know a barbershop for guards—our boys so prim and proper, aren’t they an example for everybody? Life in the jungle demands such knowledge. At the Excelsior I would have to spend good vouchers on a haircut, whereas here, for a couple of cigarettes, I can get shorn, shaved, powdered, massaged, and Brylcreemed. With the money I save I can buy the most wonderful things at the PX: nylons, for instance, for which certain girls will do certain things, or else quite simply cans: of corned beef, meat and vegetables, pork and beans: the last seven years have pretty much emaciated everybody, even with the Fräuleins you’re not always at the top of your game . . .

Besides, the barbershop isn’t far from the corridor where the black-haired girl is working on the statistical survey of the victims in the ghetto uprising. You might stick your fragrant and freshly Brylcreemed head in the door and casually ask how things are going (she’s shown me the number tattooed on her arm, a barely legible blue spot on the very smooth skin with tender-blue veins; still and all, it’s a sign of intimacy, an earnest of a burgeoning human relationship). Perhaps you can offer her the happiness of falling in love with her: Love bade me welcome, and the dead soul lived again . . .