“And so you’ll keep living in Dortmund while he’s in Berlin?” Silbermann asked.

“I’d gladly move to Berlin, but you can’t get work there if you’re from out of town,” the girl said. Her voice sounded displeased.

“What type of work do you do?” asked Silbermann.

“I’m a stenotypist.”

Silbermann looked at her closely. She doesn’t exactly seem to be an enthusiastic supporter of National Socialism, he thought, and an idea began taking shape—though for the moment it was still quite vague.

“So you’d be quite happy if you could get married?” he asked.

“Ach,” she said, sadly, “for now that’s out of the question.”

“Do you really have to have a whole apartment right away?” asked the stout man, astounded to hear such lofty aspirations given such limited resources.

“Yes,” she said, firmly. “We need an apartment and a typewriter. That way I could make copies and earn extra money.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Silbermann agreed. “You’d probably need a thousand marks.”

“Yes,” she said. “Then it would all work out. We’ve already saved two hundred fifty marks. We just need another seven hundred fifty.”

“And how long have you been saving up?” the other man felt comfortable enough to ask.

“Oh God,” she said, again becoming sad. “It could well take another two years before we manage all that.”

“And in the meantime a war might break out,” the man said, smiling. “The other countries won’t leave us in peace,” he added quickly. “And then what? Then you’ll be sorry! You’re making life unnecessarily difficult for yourselves! Instead of going and asking for a marriage loan…” He shook his head and went back to his newspaper. “There’s no helping you people,” he said ruefully.

“But Franz was in a concentration camp,” the girl said quietly.

They looked at her in shock.

The stout man cleared his throat and disappeared completely behind his newspaper. The old worker mumbled something unintelligible and lit a cigarette. And the young worker stared at the girl to the point that she turned away.

“And did he learn from the experience?” asked Silbermann, who was having more and more hope that he had discovered an ally.

The girl looked at him warily. “In any case he’s had it up to here with politics,” she said at last.

“He’s right about that,” said the old worker. “People like us, we’re just…” He made a gesture of tossing something away and was silent.

The girl stared out the window for a few minutes and then packaged up her knitting and stowed it in her purse. Then she took out the breakfast she had packed, carefully unfolded the paper, and began eating a sandwich.

“Is your fiancé also from Dortmund?” asked Silbermann. The sight of her food made him hungry.

“No, he’s from Aachen.”

“Then he must be happy to be back home again?”

“Yes,” was all the girl replied. She probably felt she’d said too much already.