No, that’s it—no more weakness! Twenty-four hours from now I may be saved, and if not, then I’ll travel on, I’ll crisscross all of Germany until I make it. As long as I have money in my wallet and even if it’s a single thousand-mark bill, I’ll have both the strength and spirit to live, and I can subsist for a long time off the energy I have stored.

And so, in a smoke-filled third-class compartment on the train from Dortmund to Aachen, Silbermann swore that he would go on living, under—and despite—all circumstances.

He repeated this vow in silence over and over and felt much calmer. He now sensed he’d gotten a grip on himself, that he was ready for all contingencies. He opened his suitcase and, after some cumbersome rummaging, managed to retrieve his razor. Then he went to the toilet to shave his beard, which was showing a handsome growth. When he sat back down his travel companions noticed the transformation.

“Made yourself pretty?” an older worker sitting across from Silbermann jibed. The disdain in his voice was obvious: being an unpretentious sort himself, he clearly didn’t think much of such procedures.

“I merely made myself human,” Silbermann joked.

His travel companions laughed. Silbermann now observed them: a young worker, a rather stout man who Silbermann thought was very intent on playing the important gentleman, as he cast commanding glances around the room, and a young, rather plain-looking girl of about twenty-two, who was knitting.

Silbermann’s gaze returned to the young worker. He was struck by the man’s sunken face and drooping shoulders. Undoubtedly a miner, he thought. They age quickly. Those people don’t get much out of life, although they go through a great deal—they probably don’t even realize how much. They keep fighting for work, for better wages, for their bare lives—without noticing how time goes slipping through their fingers. They don’t have any youth, these people. The struggle starts when they’re fourteen years old and from then on it’s a fight for sheer survival, with everything at stake.

It’s the same with me. I can sense how closely death is nipping at my heels. It’s just a matter of being faster. If I stop I’ll go under, I’ll sink into the mire. I simply have to run, run, run. When I think about it I’ve been running all my life. But then why is it so difficult all of a sudden, now that it’s more necessary than before? Greater danger ought to bring greater strength, but instead it’s paralyzing, if the first attempts to save yourself fall through.

He shook his head at the thought. I’d be better off talking! he decided, instead of just sitting here thinking and brooding.

“The weather seems to have taken another turn for the better,” he remarked to all his companions.

At the same time he was telling himself: You’re in a comfortable place, you can relax. Being around people is almost always nice, almost always … In any case he felt warmly reassured by the companionship, even if it was that of a train compartment, haphazard and unintended.