And he’s a Nazi, too. He’s never made any secret about that. Maybe he just wanted to wait for the right moment so he could grab everything at once. A gambler. How could I have ever trusted a gambler? But these days it takes a gambler to do business with a Jew—no one else dares.

Silbermann couldn’t sit still any longer. He stepped into the corridor and leaned out a window. The fresh, cool air did him good.

How could I possibly have thought that Becker wanted to betray me? he now asked himself. He was always a decent fellow, and we’ve known each other half our lives. It’s the times that make a person doubt everyone and everything. Still, you shouldn’t let them throw you off track.

He stepped aside to make room for a married couple who, having checked several compartments, finally sat down in his. The man could easily be a Jew, Silbermann thought, and leaned back out the window. The train was sparsely occupied, and Silbermann was glad not to have any other travelers choose his compartment.

I’ll be able to sleep, he thought, once again yawning. I’m certainly tired enough.

The train slowly started rolling, and Silbermann left the corridor. He settled comfortably in his seat, closed his eyes, and tried to fall asleep. But even though the rhythm of the wheels, which had always had a lulling effect on him, made him more tired than he already was, he stayed awake. Now and then he registered bits and pieces from his companions’ conversation, which from what he could tell moved from a critique of shared acquaintances to the pros and cons of air travel.

After ten long minutes of trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep, Silbermann righted himself in his seat. Only now did he notice that the man was wearing the gold party badge on his coat lapel. Silbermann automatically furrowed his brow and cast a sullen glance in his direction, then he tilted his head back into the upholstery but kept his eyes open and stared sleepily ahead, without thinking anything in particular.

First thing tomorrow morning I’ll call Elfriede and send her a telegram in addition to the postcard, he resolved. Maybe I should have called Fräulein Gersch again. And what about Becker—strange that I haven’t heard a single word from him. I’m eager to know if he picked up the money. Also I ought to write Eduard one more time, the boy has no idea what’s going on here … And what actually happened at home? I probably should have sent someone to check. Here I am sitting in this train and have no idea, they might have done something to her, my God. At least Findler was there—the man’s uncouth but he’s reliable. This display he puts on, this pretense of decency—that’s what Findler has—a phony uprightness like all these scoundrels. Ten thousand marks down payment, how outrageous can you get! Thank God Elfriede has money. Where’s it all going to lead? I’m as helpless as a little child. Who could have imagined anything like it? In the middle of Europe, in the twentieth century!