“I’m not Silber—” Theo Findler doubled over and fell to the floor. One of the men had kicked him in the crotch.

TWO

Silbermann hurried down the back stairs. They’re probably lying in wait for me, he thought. Ach, I should have stayed. What’s going to happen to Elfriede now? He wondered whether he shouldn’t go back. But Findler’s there, he reassured himself. A good thing that is, too. The man’s a decent person despite everything. If I’d stayed upstairs I’m sure I would have done something out of desperation. Resisted, or actually fired the gun, after all you have to do something, you can’t just let them do whatever they want to you. Not that it would have helped matters—on the contrary. Silbermann realized that if he had fired, it would have been out of fear. Fear, plain and simple. Fear of the concentration camp, fear of prison—and fear of being beaten.

Dignity, he thought, a person has his dignity and that’s something you can’t let anyone take away.

He stopped moving when he saw a man standing at the bottom of the stairwell, smoking a cigarette. Silbermann straightened up and approached the man with measured steps, calmly withstanding his gaze. As he came close, he asked the man for a light.

The man reached into his pocket, took out a pack of matches, lit one, and held it out to Silbermann.

“Here you go,” the man said. Then he asked, “Tell me, do a lot of Jews live here?”

“No idea,” Silbermann answered, amazed at how indifferent he sounded. “You should ask the doorman. I’m a stranger here myself.” He raised his arm and said, “Heil Hitler.”

The other man returned the greeting, and Silbermann walked past him without being stopped. Don’t turn around, he told himself. Don’t walk too fast or too slow. Because if you stick out precisely when you’re trying so hard not to, if you look suspicious because you’re trying to look as unsuspicious as you can … My God, what do these people want from me?

He had already left the hallway and crossed the courtyard. As he walked he reached up and felt his nose. How important you are, he thought. Now everything depends on what you look like, it’s up to you whether a person is a free man or a prisoner, you determine how a person lives, or even if a person stays alive. And if a person wasn’t lucky with how you happen to look, you just might get him killed.

Outside the entrance to the apartment building he ran into another shady character. “Well,” he said in a forceful voice, instinctively imitating Theo Findler, “what are you hanging around here for?”

The man gave a start and automatically assumed what weak people consider a strong stance.