Chapters (43)
He had asked Arthur for a week off. His hopes of being able to quit his job with Arthur as a way of escaping the political tumult of the print shop hadn’t really worked out. The new job was no alternative, which, really, he could have guessed. He was mad at himself. He had wanted to prove his abilities as a radio operator and had ignored everything that didn’t add up.
He found Arthur in his office, hazy with cigarette smoke, poring over magazines and flyers. It was just nine o’clock in the morning, the shop floor was still quiet. Arthur smoothed out his Chaplin mustache.
“Have a good break?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got two strange characters in my apartment who have commandeered my radio to use for a Hamburg textile company—and pressed me into service too since they can’t do anything themselves, not even get their own food, and in exchange for all of it I’m making a pile of money.”
Arthur put his cigarette out very slowly.
“Did the job come through Schmuederrich?”
He nodded.
“You know you can go to jail for this, don’t you?”
He could see through the frosted-glass door that the ceiling lamps in the shop had come on. Something tightened in his throat. He heard Arthur saying, “I’m not going to claim that my activities with the black Hitler fans aren’t without risk. But working for the Germans is extremely reckless.”
“I’m not working for the Germans,” said Josef quietly.
“Oh yes you are.”
Now it had been said aloud. He could barely breathe by this point. The oxygen seemed not to reach his lungs.
Arthur said quietly, “Whatever you do, just don’t make a big scene in front of them. If at some point they mention it themselves, act like it had been obvious from the get-go. Which if you ask me, it was. How can you be so naïve?”
“I’ll stop.”
“Good luck. I know Schmuederrich and his men. He wears that uniform of his for a reason.”
Panic flooded his body, brief flashing moments of horror that reached down to his toes. As if his body already knew everything, knew the true magnitude of the situation. He accepted a cigarette from Arthur. They smoked in silence. The machines were clattering loudly by now, they could hear voices.
“Sorry. I can’t offer you any reassurances. You’re in a heap of shit,” said Arthur before he left.
“I suppose I’ll need to extend my time off from the print shop a little bit longer,” he answered hoarsely.