He’s utterly harmless.

The only ones left are the two drunks lying there. Of course you could hand them over to the police, and deny whatever Borkhausen might say about your having tipped them off. They’ll never believe him, if he’s up against members of the Party, the SS, and the Hitler Youth. And then report the case to the Gestapo. That way you might get a piece of the action perfectly legally, and without risk. And you’d get some kudos for it, too.

Tempting. But it might be best to handle everything informally. Patch up Borkhausen and that Enno fellow and send them packing with a few marks. They won’t talk. Lock up the apartment as it is, whether Frau Rosenthal comes back or not. Perhaps there’ll be something to be done later on—he has a pretty certain sense that policy against the Jews is going to get tougher. Sit tight, relax. Things might be possible in six months that aren’t possible today. As things stand, the Persickes are somewhat compromised. They won’t suffer any consequences, but they’ll be the subject of gossip within the Party They’ll lose a little of their reputation for reliability.

Baldur Persicke says, “I’m almost tempted to let the two rascals go. I feel sorry for them, your honor, they’re just small fry.”

He looks round, he’s all alone. Both the judge and the foreman have vanished. As he thought, neither of them wants anything to do with this business. It’s the smartest thing they could do. He, Baldur, will do the same, no matter what his brothers say.

With a deep sigh for all the pretty things he has to say good-bye to, Baldur sets off into the kitchen to restore his father to his senses and to persuade his brothers to put back what they’ve already earmarked for themselves.

On the stairs, meanwhile, the judge says to Foreman Quangel, who has silently followed him out of the room, “If you get any trouble on account of Frau Rosenthal, Herr Quangel, just tell me. Good night.”

“What do I care about Frau Rosenthal? I barely know her,” protests Quangel.

“Very well, good night, Herr Quangel,” and Judge Fromm heads off down the stairs.

Otto Quangel lets himself into his dark apartment.

Chapter 9

NOCTURNAL CONVERSATION AT THE QUANGELS’

No sooner has Quangel opened the door to the bedroom than his wife Anna calls out in alarm: “Don’t switch the light on, Papa! Trudel’s asleep in your bed. I made up your bed on the sofa.”

“All right, Anna,” replies Quangel, surprised to hear that Trudel has got his bed. Usually, she got the sofa when she stayed. He asks, “Are you asleep, Anna, or do you feel like talking for a bit?”

She hesitates briefly, then she calls back through the open bedroom door. “You know, I feel so tired and down, Otto!”

So she’s still angry with me, thinks Otto Quangel, wonder why? But he says in the same tone, “Well good night anyway, Anna. Sleep well!”

And from her bed he hears, “Good night, Otto!” And Trudel whispers after her, “Good night, Papa!”

“Good night, Trudel!” he replies, and he curls up on his side to get to sleep as soon as he can, because he is very tired. Perhaps overtired, as one can be over hungry. Sleep refuses to come. A long day with an unending string of events, a day the like of which he has never experienced before, is now behind him.

Not a day he would have wished for. Quite apart from the fact that all the events were disagreeable (aside from losing his post at the Arbeitsfront), he hates the turbulence, the having to talk to all kinds of people he can’t stand.