Up here by the window-pane he can hear nothing. It is inside the wall, in the stones. He jumps down again and stretches out on the bench with his ear to the wall.

Yes, there it is. From the wall or the floor. Someone knows what is going to happen and is telling the others about it. Telling them many things. It passes from the one to the other. They are in touch.

But he cannot join in and understand it, for he has thrown away the key. He can only listen to it in a different way. It is about my son.

Let me join in! Give me back the knowledge to understand it, he wishes. I had it once, why can’t I get it back now that my mind is clearer?

No use. The key is lost. It cannot surface out of the dust.

What sorts of lives and struggles are being played out in the cells round about? An inkling of it passes through him. They are here, around me, those who are rich enough in themselves to be able to exist here too. Now they are knocking. There is fight in this knocking.

What is all this going on here? All this tramping past? All this leading up and down of people, that I have been listening to as long as I can remember?

He throws himself down on the bench and tries to understand the meaning of this dulled knocking he can hear. In vain.

Demented with grief he begins striking the wall as well. The sounds are meaningless, since he lacks the key. But he is able to join in in his own way.

Something will happen soon.

The footsteps have died away long ago.

I know where they’re going, he thinks.

Listen to the rhythm they are knocking out now!

‘Yes, here I am!’ he says aloud, and knocks in reply. But he can get no further.

But something will happen soon. His face is flickering and alive. He knows without any doubt that everything is in a state of fearful tension, listening, waiting, terror-struck. And all the while the knocking that binds them together continues.

They are sharing a kind of life all the same, he thinks, hammering helplessly like a child.

But it seems to him that his knocking makes no sound. They can’t hear me, so I might as well stop. Perhaps that’s the end of it? Perhaps it’s over now? He is trembling.

He listens. He can hear nothing, he has gradually become so agitated.

Is it over?

No. When he lies down and forces himself to be quite quiet it can be heard beating like a living heart through the stone. They are here, the ones who have such rich minds. Listen to their hearts beating through the stone when they knock in order to communicate. Perhaps it’s my son’s heart? he thinks, without logic or reason.

Time is shortened. He holds his breath. My son is one of them. It must happen soon. The knocking is so quiet now, and so much further away.