“How are you and Mother doing? I’ve been worried sick!”

“I’m here in Aachen,” Silbermann said pointedly. “Mother’s in Küstrin with your uncle. Have you finally managed to get the permit?”

“No! I haven’t—things don’t happen that quickly. And it’s unlikely I’ll get anything very soon. I’ve already tried every possible approach, but … I’m very glad that you both … that you managed … I’m happy to hear your voice.”

“You might not hear it so often much longer.” He grimaced in pain as he rubbed his burnt finger on the cool metal of the telephone box.

“Can’t you get to Belgium, Father? Or Holland? You could wait there.”

“There’s no chance. My only hope was that you could somehow make it possible. But you aren’t the French government. I understand that. I’m sure you’ve done everything you could.”

“I’m still trying and will keep doing what I can. It might come through yet. I’m just glad that you’re in Aachen.”

“That’s no reason to be glad.” Silbermann examined his burned finger, which hurt so badly he had a hard time concentrating on anything else, despite his urgent circumstances. “Yes, ma’am, we’re still talking,” he said to the operator who had cut in to ask. “So Eduard, see to it, all right? Be well … and I’ll send on a few patterns.”

“What kind of patterns?”

“You know, patterns,” Silbermann said, in a forceful voice.

“Don’t worry, Father. It will work out somehow.”

“Let’s hope so. Meanwhile I’m getting burned in more ways than one. My finger really hurts.”

“Aha! I guess if you’re able to quip about it, you’re a little less worried about everything else.”

“Rubbish. Just because you have worries doesn’t mean you can’t feel pain at the same time. So you think the prospects are pretty dim, right?”

“For what?”

“The permit. Don’t be so dense!”

“They’re not completely hopeless, but…”

“That’s all right. I see there’s really no point in hoping! Nevertheless for me everything depends on getting it! So then, good-bye!”

“I’ll see you soon, Father. I will…”

“Good-bye.”

Silbermann left the phone booth. The pain in his finger had let up. Suddenly a man appeared out of nowhere a few meters away from him. Aha, he thought, with a calm that bordered on indifference: so now it’s come to this, I’m going to be arrested!

“Where is the exit?” asked the man.

“To the right,” answered Silbermann, without giving it a moment’s thought, and without really knowing. But he had sensed the man’s beady eyes had been sizing him up, and he felt he needed to shake him off right away.

Silbermann sat down on a bench, overcome with despair. Of course it’s all going to end badly. What possessed me to think I could ever pull this off? He leaned back and stared with dull disinterest at the people around him. So here we are in Aachen, he thought. In Aachen with forty thousand marks, or more precisely forty-one thousand—loaded, as they say—but with no clear path or destination.