That’s right, he thought: you need luggage if you’re spending the night in a hotel, otherwise you might stick out.

“No, thanks,” said Silbermann, trying to appear absentminded. “May I first have a look at the room?”

The waiter, who was evidently also taking on the role of concierge, grabbed a key from the numbered board, led Silbermann to the elevator, and accompanied him upstairs.

“Bad weather,” he said.

“That’s for sure,” Silbermann answered, reluctantly.

“Excuse me, sir,” the waiter continued, “but is there something going on in town today?”

“Such as what?” asked Silbermann, at pains to keep calm. “What’s supposed to be going on?”

“So many Jews are staying here. I wonder if we aren’t making things difficult for ourselves.”

“Really?” Silbermann muttered. “How so? Have they now declared it’s illegal to host Jewish guests?”

“I don’t exactly know,” the waiter replied. “Anyway, I couldn’t care less. After you.”

The elevator had stopped at the fourth floor. As far as I’m concerned we can go right back down, Silbermann thought to himself, as he stepped into the corridor to let the waiter show him the room.

At first Silbermann couldn’t make up his mind, so he paced up and down the room with the disgruntled expression of a disapproving guest. The waiter’s remark had made him distinctly wary and had set off a chain of anxious thoughts. But in the end Silbermann took the room, having decided that other hotels would be no less dangerous.

He rode back down with the waiter and, as he had feared, the man handed him a registration form.

“Yes, yes,” he said gruffly, as though preoccupied with other matters. “Later … what was the room number again? Forty-seven?… Ah, right … forty-seven.”

As he left the hotel he bumped into someone on the street. He mumbled a brusque “Excuse me”: recent experiences had convinced him that a rude and impolite demeanor offered the most effective protection.

“Excuse me,” the other man apologized with an excessively polite, almost abject voice. But then he added in amazement, “Silbermann, thank God, Silbermann. You’re the first real human I’ve met.”

It was Fritz Stein, the former proprietor of Stein & Co., and an old business friend. They shook hands. Stein was so excited, he clung to Silbermann’s hand and wouldn’t let go, despite the latter’s attempts to wrest it back.

“What do you think?” Stein asked. The short, chubby man was greatly distraught. “Have you already heard?” Silbermann finally managed to free his hand from Stein’s grasp.

“I know everything,” he explained. He found Stein’s jumpiness disconcerting, even though he realized it was more than justified, given the circumstances.

“Then you know more than I do,” Stein responded.

“Did they also pay you a visit?” Silbermann inquired with a smile.

“You might say that.” Having found a companion in misery with whom he could speak openly, Stein’s inner posture grew more erect and less cowering. “What are we going to do?” he asked. “I’ve often wanted to call you these last days about a business proposition. Actually now would be a very good time to talk about it. I think it could be extremely interesting for you.”