“My last name is Silbermann!”

“I see. These days that’s not a very fortunate name to have, is it?”

“No. Incidentally even if I were named Meier it wouldn’t help. My passport is stamped with a big red J.”

“That can’t be!” she said, indignant. “I don’t understand why. It may sound strange, and people don’t usually say things like this, but I find you quite likeable.”

He bowed slightly in her direction, then laughed. “Unfortunately the government doesn’t share your opinion. It does not find me at all—likeable. It simply says: You, Silbermann, are a Jew! And with that it’s declaring that my character and my qualities are entirely unimportant. It all boils down to either you are a Jew or you’re not a Jew, not whether you’re likeable or not likeable. The headline decides. The content doesn’t matter.”

“That’s terrible.” She sighed, and Silbermann thought she was growing somewhat tired of the topic.

He was surprised and annoyed at himself for having been so open. How is it, he wondered, that I’m telling so much about myself to a woman I have nothing to do with, who has nothing to do with me, and who at best might have a passing interest in the peculiar fate of a chance travel companion? Does it help me in any way to bemoan my situation to her? And even if I considered her curiosity a sign of genuine interest, what good does it do me? A woman will say “That’s terrible” to everything. She’d say the same thing if she heard about a train wreck, or if an acquaintance sprained his ankle, or if she didn’t make the streetcar on time. “That’s terrible!”

My fate is turning into a figure of speech, that’s all.

He felt an immediate urge to tell her that he could happily forgo her pity and that he had only said as much as he had because he wanted to talk, to hear his own voice, to gain some clarity, but certainly not to elicit from her a “that’s terrible.” He had no interest in that and could very well do without it.

“Why such a fierce look?” she asked, smiling.

“What’s that?”

“You looked irritated. I can easily understand why you might be, but surely you realize I don’t have anything to do with all that. I mean personally. I am not an anti-Semite.”

“And if you were?” he asked sharply. “What difference would that make?”

She shot him an angry glance. “You may be on edge,” she answered, offended, “but I have to insist…” She didn’t know how she ought to continue and was silent for a moment. Then she said, no longer angry, but with a smile that seemed oddly naive, “If I were an anti-Semite, I could make things pretty difficult for you, couldn’t I?”

“I’m not afraid,” Silbermann declared, almost scornfully. “I’m really not. I am no longer afraid!” he repeated, as if he wanted to convince himself.