Silbermann acted as though he hadn’t noticed his partner’s admonishing gaze and chiding glances. He studied the menu for a long time and then ordered a steak and a half-bottle of red wine, in a natural if somewhat faltering voice. He had slept through the whole morning and by the time he woke up it was practically one in the afternoon. Now it was nearly 2:00.

The evening before had gotten very late. Becker hadn’t been in the hotel when Silbermann arrived, and after waiting a long time in vain, he went to look for a place to spend the night. He hadn’t dared to ask for a room in the Vier Jahreszeiten—the doorman’s “Heil Hitler” had sounded too sincere. So he had gone to a guesthouse for foreigners that he knew of, where he was able to sleep undisturbed. However, when he filled out the official registration just as he was leaving, and they saw his name, he was told that in the future he’d be better off staying in a guesthouse reserved for Jews. The comment did not exactly improve his mood.

Silbermann cast sullen glances at Becker.

That man sitting there, he thought, that friend of mine—at least I hope he’s my friend—has my fortune in his pocket. Then he wondered whether their Hamburg business associates might have tried to change the terms of the deal. In actuality everything had been clearly spelled out and agreed to, he told himself. But nothing was so clear it couldn’t become murky again. On the other hand, Becker was a capable businessman and also a reliable one. Reliable, without a doubt. Absolutely. Together they had netted seven thousand marks from dismantling that ship: if they had taken on the actual scrapping as well, they would have likely earned even more. As it was, they’d put in a lot of work and had had their share of troubles. In any case I’ll be happy and content just to get my money back, thought Silbermann.

He raised the wineglass to his mouth. That was my last deal in Germany, he promised himself. To earn three thousand five hundred marks I risked seventy-eight thousand. He shook his head. Never again. Was it a sure thing? He was about to find out. He didn’t want to consider it a sure thing as long as Becker had the money. Then again, clearly Becker was someone he could rely on. He gave his friend another anxious, distressed look. Why didn’t the man come up with some pretext to leave the others and join him? And what on earth was he doing with two Sturmführers?

When you think about it, what reason do I actually have to trust him? Silbermann worried. Trust is something I really can’t afford. Not that I have to be suspicious all the time, no—but I do have to be careful. Trust or caution? My brother Hans fell in the war, fighting for Germany. He had trust. But that’s just nonsense—what does one thing have to do with the other?