To be left alone with Carl all of a sudden is always jarring, like when a half-full box of rice is tipped over and the contents shift to one side. Without Carl having to say anything, he senses that his brother’s heart, like his, is beating faster.

Carl no longer says outright when something is bothering him. His face says it all. Josef starts to wonder what he could have done wrong this time. Was it that he walked barefoot through the kitchen? That he scratched his ear at dinner? That he found a station that plays jazz and cranked the volume? When Carl asked, “What is that?” he only answered, “Music.” Carl gave him a look, drained and disappointed. He clearly felt he’d been misunderstood, and turned away.

Carl has now been staring at his papers for a while without writing anything.

“Got all the invoices done?” asks Josef.

And Carl answers, “Tell me. Now. Or else you have to go.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is you’re hiding.”

Josef looks to the left and right, as if there were other people around. The next moment he feels like he did back then, when they came into his apartment, pushed him up against the wall, and put sharp handcuffs on him. Which nevertheless he barely felt—it was only when thinking back on it, because his wrists were bruised and hurting for days afterward. And suddenly it’s very easy. He just says what he said in court.

“I built a portable radio.”

“And what’s illegal about that?”

“For German military intelligence.”

When describing what happened, only say what everyone can agree on. Whatever else happened, and whatever you might think about it, omit at all costs.

“And what made you do it? How did it start?”

“With a lie. At first it was supposed to be about business. And then there was no getting out of it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They turned up the pressure.”

“So you went along with it out of fear?”

“If you want to put it like that, sure.”

Carl holds his empty beer glass at an angle, pondering this. “Fear. I was afraid too. But there are more important things.”

Josef nods. He can live with this result. And of course he hasn’t told him everything yet. He has something else up his sleeve, and that gives him a good feeling.

“But why didn’t you tell me this long ago?” Carl keeps probing; he too can sense that they’re not done yet.

“Fear.”

He ran out of cigarettes long ago. He sure could use one right now. They’re very expensive.

“Fear again? Come now, my dear man. What could I do to you?”

Anything you wanted, he thinks. “Throw me out.”

“Oh, forget about that. One more time, why did it take you so long to tell me?”

“I don’t know. Gandhi was shot last year. Bad things are happening all the time.”