Now that he’s said his piece, they put their heads together on the rostrum to talk about him. The speakers are asking who the fellow in the blue shirt is. Then the major or colonel gets up and tells Quangel that the technical directors will discuss the machines with him, but what does he mean about the six or eight people who ought to be thrown out?

Slowly and obstinately Quangel replies, “Well, there’s some who can’t work, and some others who don’t like to. There’s one of them sitting there!” And with his big stiff index finger he points directly at Carpenter Dollfuss, sitting a few rows in front of him.

A few people in the hall burst out laughing, among them Dollfuss, who has turned his head round to look and is now laughing at him.

But Quangel goes on, not batting an eyelid, “Yes, talking and smoking cigarettes in the john, and skipping work, that’s all you’re good for, Dollfuss!”

On the rostrum, they have put their heads together about this peculiar eccentric. But nothing can hold back the speaker in the brown uniform, who leaps to his feet and shrills: “You’re not in the Party—why are you not in the Party?”

And Quangel answers the question the way he has always answered it: “Because I need every penny for my family to live. I can’t afford to join any Party.”

The man in brown roars, “Because you are a selfish dog! Because you won’t do anything to help your Führer and your nation! How many are in your family?”

Coldly Quangel answers to his face, “Listen, mate, don’t talk to me about my family today. I’ve just had news that my son has fallen.”

For an instant there’s a deathly hush in the room, the brown official and the old foreman stare at one another across rows of chairs. Then abruptly, as though everything was settled, Otto Quangel sits down, and a little later the Nazi sits down, too. Once more, Director Schröder rises and offers the Sieg Heil! to the Führer. It sounds a little thin. With that, the meeting is at an end.

Five minutes later, Quangel is back in his workshop; with raised head, he slowly allows his eyes to travel from the planing machine to the band saw and then on to the nailer, the drills, the conveyor belts… But it is no longer the old Quangel standing there. He can sense it, he knows it, he has outfoxed them all. Maybe he did it in an ugly way, by capitalizing on the death of his son, but where does it say you have to play fair with those monsters? No, he says to himself, almost aloud. No, Quangel, you’ll never be the same again. I’m curious what Anna’ll have to say to all this. Perhaps Dollfuss won’t return to his workstation? Then I’ll have to take on another man, we’re shorthanded…

But no need to worry, here comes Dollfuss. He’s even accompanied by a junior manager, and Foreman Otto Quangel is instructed that, while he will technically remain in charge of the workshop, he will be replaced in the Arbeitsfront by Herr Dollfuss, effective immediately. “Understood?”

“You bet I understand! I’m glad you’re taking the post off me, Dollfuss! My hearing is getting worse, and having to keep my ears peeled the way the gentleman told us to a little while ago, I don’t think I can do that in all this noise.”

Dollfuss nods curtly and says, “What you saw and heard a moment ago, not a word to anyone, or else…”

Almost offended, Quangel replies, “Who am I going to talk to, Dollfuss? Have you ever known me talk to anyone? I’m not interested in all that, I’m interested in my work, and I know we’re significantly behind today. It’s high time you were back at your machine!” And with a look up at the clock: “That’s one hour and thirty-six minutes you’ve missed already!”

A moment later, Carpenter Dollfuss is back at his saw, and in no time, no one knows from where, a rumor has started up that Dollfuss was given a carpeting for his incessant smoking and chitchat.

But Foreman Otto Quangel walks alertly from machine to machine, takes a hand here, glowers at a chatterbox there, and thinks to himself, That’s the end of that, for good and all. And they haven’t got a clue: as far as they’re concerned, I’m just a doddery old fool! When I called that Nazi “mate,” that did it for them! I wonder what I’m going to do next. Because I will do something, I know. I just don’t yet know what it will be…

Chapter 7

BREAK-IN AT NIGHT

Late in the evening, almost nighttime, and properly speaking far too late for the matter in hand, Emil Borkhausen did indeed run into his Enno in an establishment called the Also Ran. (The righteous fury of the postie Eva Kluge may have had something to do with that.) The two gents sat down at a corner table over a beer, and whispered and whispered—all over that single glass of beer—till the landlord brought it to their attention that he had called for last orders a long time ago, and didn’t they have wives to go home to?

The two men continued their conversation outside in the street; first they went in the direction of Prenzlauer Allee for a while, and then Enno wanted to go back the other way, because it occurred to him that it might be better to try his luck with an old flame of his who went by the name of Tutti. Tutti the Gorilla. Better off staying with her than pulling some cowboy stunt…

Emil Borkhausen almost leapt out of his skin at so much foolishness. He assured Enno for the tenth, for the hundredth time, that this was not a cowboy stunt. It was an SS-approved and practically legal confiscation, and the victim was an old Jewish woman that no one cared what happened to. They would make enough to tide themselves over for a while, and the police and the courts would have absolutely nothing to say on the matter.

Whereupon Enno again: No, no, he had never gotten involved in business like that, it wasn’t his thing at all. Women, yes, and bets anytime, but he had never done anything crooked like that. Tutti had always been pretty good to him, despite being called the Gorilla, and she surely wouldn’t hold it against him that she had helped him out previously with a little money and a few ration cards, without knowing it.

And with that they were on Prenzlauer Allee again.

Borkhausen, always veering between enticements and threats, says crossly, tugging at his long, wispy mustache, “Who on earth asked you to understand this operation? I can do it all by myself, if need be, and you can just stand and watch with your hands in your pockets! I’ll even pack a case for you, if you like! The only reason I’m taking you, Enno, is for insurance, in case the SS doublecross us, as a witness that we’ve divvied up everything properly.