Those words seemed to best capture his mood. He said them out loud to himself three or four times.

Now I’m ready for adventure, he determined. I’ll make it over the border yet, it’s all manageable …

But he couldn’t rid himself of the conviction that something would once again get in the way, that he simply wasn’t up to the demands of the situation and would ultimately have to give in.

“Ach,” he growled. “Other people are doing the same thing. And they manage to make it!”

He propped both elbows on the table and took his head between his hands. There’s absolutely nothing more I can do, he thought, devoid of hope. The only thing I can do is think …

He stared dully at the tabletop.

How dirty it is, and how scratched, he thought. Why don’t they refinish it? Probably because third class isn’t worth the trouble.

He looked around the waiting room. A few workers were standing at the bar, drinking beer and making a lot of noise, which Silbermann noted with disapproval.

If I were to give each of them a hundred marks, he wondered, would I then have friends? For a few days perhaps—a hundred marks doesn’t go very far.

He stood up and headed to the platform, trudging rather than walking.

More and more train rides, he thought, farther and farther away, and meanwhile I’m already dog tired. Back and forth and forth and back. I’m so fed up with it all already.

He sat down on his suitcase and waited for the train.

Who or rather what am I now anyway? he asked himself. Am I still Silbermann, Otto Silbermann the merchant? Undoubtedly, but how did he wind up in such a situation?

He took a deep breath. “I’m living with loss,” he said quietly. Then he made a clumsy movement, and the suitcase he was sitting on began to totter. With difficulty he regained his balance and got on his feet. He heard the train approaching and picked up his suitcase.

Actually all I have to do is jump in front, simply drop right in front of the train, he thought. Then everything would be over and nothing would matter anymore.

The train came nearer.

Silbermann stepped close to the edge of the platform.

Just fall, he thought, just let yourself fall …

“Stand back,” a voice beside him thundered.

He gave a start and took three steps back. Then the train was there.

Have I completely lost my wits? he worried, surprised by his own weakness. To the point I would take my own life? I, Otto Silbermann? On account of the Nazis? The idea is laughable. I have thirty-six thousand marks on me. What reasonable human being takes his life with thirty-six thousand marks in his pocket? For fear of difficulties, for fear of the border, on account of a ridiculous border, which can be crossed in two minutes if a person can pluck up the courage? Impossible! A person simply can’t do a thing like that! Why should a person commit suicide when he’s carrying a briefcase full of life?