But this is the last time I’m getting mixed up in other people’s affairs. I get no thanks from anyone.”

With that she has talked her way out of the apartment; she’s pleased to be away from the two silent figures—her conscience is pricking her somewhat.

No sooner is the door shut behind her than the little man springs into action. With an air of routine and entitlement, he opens the closet, frees up a coat hanger by bunching two of his wife’s dresses together on one, and hangs up his coat. He drops his cap on top of the dresser. He is always very particular about his things, he can’t stand being badly dressed, and he knows he can’t afford to buy himself anything new.

Now he rubs his hands together with a genial “Ah!” and goes over to the gas and sniffs at the saucepans. “Mhm!” he says. “Boiled beef with potatoes—lovely!”

He stops for a moment. The woman is sitting there motionless, with her back to him. He quietly puts the lid back on the pot and goes to stand over her, so that he is talking to the back of her head: “Oh, don’t just sit there like a statue, Evie. What’s the matter? So you’ve got a man in your flat for a few days again, I’m not going to make any trouble. And I’ll keep my promise to you as well. I won’t have any of your potatoes—or just the leftovers, if there are any. And only those if you freely offer them to me. I’m not going to ask you for anything.”

The woman says nothing. She puts the basket with the darning back into the dresser, sets a bowl out on the table, fills it from the two pans, and slowly starts to eat. The man has sat down at the other end of the table, pulls a few sports gazettes out of his pocket, and makes notes in a thick, greasy notebook. From time to time he casts a swift glance at the woman eating. She is eating very slowly, but he is sure she has refilled her bowl a couple of times, so there won’t be very much left for him, and he is ravenous. He hasn’t eaten anything all day, no, not since the night before. Lotte’s husband, returning on furlough from the field, drove him out of their bed with blows and without the least regard for his breakfast.

But he doesn’t dare to talk about his hunger to Eva: her silence frightens him. Before he can feel properly at home again here, several things need to happen. He doesn’t have the least doubt that they will, any woman can be talked round, you just need to be persistent and take a lot of nonsense from her first. Eventually, usually quite suddenly, she will cave in, because she’s had enough of resisting.

Eva Kluge scrapes both saucepans clean. She’s done it, she’s eaten the food for two days in one single evening, so now he can’t beg her for any leftovers! Then she quickly does the little bit of washing up, and embarks on a wholesale removal. Before his very eyes, she moves everything of the least value to her into the bedroom. The bedroom door has a lock; he’s never yet managed to get into the bedroom. She lugs the provisions, her good coats and dresses, her shoes, the sofa cushions, yes, even the photo of their two sons into the bedroom—all before his watching eyes. She doesn’t care what he thinks or says. He tricked his way into the flat, he’s not to profit from it.

Then she locks the bedroom door and puts the writing things out on the table. She’s dog-tired, she would much rather go to bed, but she’s decided she’s going to write Karlemann a letter, and so she does.