Ehmke Does he have a wife and children, Willy?

Wehner He probably can't remember any more.

Ehmke Or Günter. Does he? You don't know, do you, Willy. You've never talked to him.

Brandt I asked you to get rid of Herr Guillaume.

Ehmke Talk to him, Willy. He's devoted to you. All those upturned faces gazing at you adoringly from the hall — he's one of them. Talk to him. Find out what they're thinking down there.

Brandt He always reminds me of another Berlin speciality: meatballs cooked in fat. Very leaden and very greasy.

Wehner (to Guillaume) Wives and children, yes . . . Grabert. G. Grabert would fit the bill. Horst Grabert. He a family man? You know all about us, Herr Guillaume. Does Horst Grabert have any children?

Guillaume A boy and a girl. Why?

Wehner Idle curiosity. Like to keep abreast of my colleagues' personal lives. Gaus. How about Herr Gaus?

Guillaume Günter Gaus? One daughter.

Wehner One daughter? Less trouble, perhaps, than a couple of sons . . . (Goes.)

Ehmke (to Brandt) Talk to him!

Kretschmann - So, now you're alone with him.

Brandt No wife to go home to, then, Herr Guillaume? No children?

Guillaume I'll wait till you've finished, thank you, Herr Chancellor. Make sure the spoons are locked up for the night.

Brandt Though I gather you still find time to make yourself agreeable to one or two of the secretaries.

Guillaume Oh . . . Just trying to be friendly . . .

Brandt The Frankfurt party?

Guillaume Me? Yes, I was.

Brandt Know this man? Standing for party office down there.

Guillaume Communist.

Brandt Thank you. Helpful to know . . .

Guillaume A wife, yes. I have a wife. You asked.

Brandt In the same line of business as yourself, I believe?

Guillaume She's transferred from Wiesbaden. We've found a flat in Bonn at last . . . You know there's something we've got in common, Herr Chancellor? You have a son called Peter - I have a son called Pierre. Fourteen. Somewhat different political views, though. Great lefty, your Peter, I know. Every time you open the newspaper - there he is, out on the streets again with his chums, protesting against his Dad's government. You must feel very . . . very proud of him . . . Whereas my Pierre is a tremendous fan of yours. Plastered 'Vote Willy' stickers all over the house.

Brandt In bed by now. You never see him.

Guillaume On Sundays. I try to make it up to him then. Our Sunday morning ritual - we jump in the car and drive out to the airport to fetch the papers. Wander round the airport together. Chat. I don't know what about. Watch the planes taking off. Imagine we're on one of them. Lifting away through the clouds. Up into the sunlight. Where are we going? No idea. Somewhere warm. Somewhere where the skies are blue and life is simple.