But after he’d waited ten minutes and his call still hadn’t gone through, he gradually began to have misgivings. He wondered if his son might not be in, or whether a new regulation had been passed concerning long-distance calls, perhaps requiring the police to be notified whenever a number was requested for abroad. What if they stop me and ask me for the purpose of the call? Maybe they’ll search me, too, and find the money. Especially in a border town they’d think I was up to something. What do you need these forty thousand marks for? they’ll ask, and next they’ll confiscate my money and haul me off to the concentration camp!

He was annoyed by these fearful thoughts, which he blamed on Lilienfeld. To ease his nerves he started humming to himself.

The clerk waved him over. That was very nice of him. After all, even though Silbermann was standing just across from the counter, the man could have conspicuously called out “Connection to Paris!” and many eyes would have turned in his direction.

Silbermann stepped inside the booth, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and was about to light it when he remembered that he’d have to open the door during the call to let out the smoke. The burning match singed his finger before he managed to toss it away.

“Hello,” Eduard answered. “Father?”

“Yes, good morning. How are you? I just burned my finger on a match.”

“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?”