He said good-bye, went to the elevator, and rode up to his room. A waiter, who was holding a full tray in his hands, went with him.

“Did you do away with your concierge?” asked Silbermann on their way up.

“He was arrested this afternoon. He was a Jew, after all.”

Silbermann was taken aback and said nothing.

Once in his room, he quickly locked the door and then threw himself on his bed to think. “He was a Jew, after all,” he heard the waiter’s sober explanation. “He was a Jew, after all…” Obviously the waiter found this explanation sufficient. As though he viewed the arresting of Jews as something utterly normal, as much part of the daily routine as collecting a tip from a guest. A Jew was arrested, but then again: he was a Jew. Was any further explanation necessary? Evidently not, as far as the waiter was concerned.

I’m not staying here, Silbermann decided. He jumped up and looked around the spacious room. It’s absolutely impossible for me to sleep here. They might drag me out of bed in the middle of the night, and if that makes a racket and bothers the guests enough, they’ll open their doors to ask a maid what’s going on, and she’ll say, “Oh, nothing. They’ve just arrested a Jew, that’s all.” And perhaps the guests will answer, “Oh, is that it?… But do they have to make so much noise in the process?” The only thing these people want is not to be disturbed, that’s all they’re concerned about.

Of course once I’m arrested it makes no difference what the other people say or how they say it. Only that’s not true, because if they weren’t so apathetic … In any case I’m not safe here. They’re going to arrest me, possibly even kill me. If only so I won’t protest and become a bother and disturb the good citizens who are entitled to their rest. Because what they care about more than everything else is their sleep.

Silbermann paced up and down his room.

It’s a wonder I’m even still alive, he thought. I no longer believe they’ve merely forgotten about me. But perhaps they’ll carefully undress us first and then kill us, so our clothes won’t get bloody and our banknotes won’t get damaged. These days murder is performed economically.

He straightened his tie in the mirror and ran a comb through his hair. Then he cautiously opened the door to his room and peered out into the broad corridor, without seeing a soul.

Look how spooked you’re getting, he thought. Just now I imagined I heard steps. And to think I fought in a world war. But that was different. Many against many. Now I’m completely alone and have to wage my war all by myself. Am I a conspirator? That would be good—at least then I would know how to act. But I’m just a businessman, nothing else. I have no energy, no momentum, that’s it. Even a thief on the run with his loot has a smirk on his face—whereas all I have is fear.