He’s maybe just gone for a pee.’

Piekbusch turns to leave. ‘Hold it! And I want to see Frerksen. What’s keeping him?—Ah, Frerksen, there you are.—Now, Piekbusch, whoever’s in the outer office, send them along to Stein. He can hold the fort for me. If it’s very important, I can deal with it in fifteen minutes.—Now, Frerksen, sit yourself down, something’s come up, it looks as though we’ll at last be able to make a favourable impression on Comrade Temborius in Stolpe.’

3

The First Bomb

I

The inner sanctum of District President Temborius is a long, dark, wood-panelled room. The lights are always turned down low there. The windows decorated with coats of arms and gaudy putti are enough to tone down the brightest summer day.

This official, kept in power by the support of his party, a modicum of administrative expertise and a lot of string-pulling, is no friend of loud noises. Quiet, soothing, chiaroscuro murmur suits him better. Quietly, soothingly and murmuringly is how Comrade Temborius has steered the fortunes of his district, and quiet, discreet murmur also describes the conversation between him, his militia colonel and Revenue Councillor Andersson. Somewhere in the darkest recess a fat little adviser is minuting the remarks of the three gentlemen for subsequent filing, to the security of his boss.

‘It remains regrettable,’ murmurs the softly spoken provincial representative of the Minister of the Interior, ‘regrettable that the lawyer was not contactable at such short notice. What happened at Gramzow was not a chance incident, but a sign of things to come.’

Colonel Senkpiel is pining for a cigar. ‘We should hit them, and hit them hard.’

‘If the pictures do what Gareis promises, then we will be able to nab the ringleaders at last.’

‘Yes, from one place. The movement has long since ceased to be local.’

‘That’s right! So we’ll see if there were emissaries from other places around.’

‘Gentlemen . . .’ The president begins, falters, stops. And then again, with an irked twitch of the shoulders: ‘The views of the prosecution would have been extraordinarily valuable to me.’

‘It’s all in the open,’ Revenue Councillor Andersson comforts him. ‘If the identities of the guilty parties can be confirmed from the photographs, heavy penalties will be handed down.’

Temborius remains unhappy. ‘But will it help? Will it deter others?’

The colonel looks at the revenue councillor, the revenue councillor looks back at the colonel.

Then they both turn their heads and stare into the corner, where the completely insignificant adviser is sitting.

First to speak is the colonel: ‘Deter them? I should think so. If they get six or twelve months, it should help them think straight.’

The president raises his hand, a narrow, bony, long-fingered hand with thick veins. ‘You say it will. But will it really? Gentlemen, I must confess, I see this movement as highly dangerous, extremely dangerous, potentially much more dangerous than the KPD or NSDAP. It’s the worst thing that can happen: the administrative machinery grinds to a halt. I tell you, I can see the day when the countryside becomes ungovernable.’

Consternation among the gentlemen: ‘Oh, President.’

‘Indeed. Our district headman left much to be desired. Compliance was sluggish. Invariably there were delays. Today, these delays have turned into full-blown passive resistance. Files remain out in the villages for weeks, if not months. Written warnings are a waste of time, fines can only be collected in the context of an overall confiscation process—’ He breaks off.

And starts again: ‘The district already has at least two dozen headmen who fail to pass on tax demands to their community members, no, who return them to us. As unfair.