They have your keys in their possession, and they will keep your flat under constant observation. You really would be putting yourself in unnecessary danger.”

“But I must be there when my husband comes back!” begged Frau Rosenthal.

“Your husband,” Judge Fromm said in a kindly tone, “your husband will not be able to visit you anytime soon. He is currently in Moabit Prison, accused of having secretly passed property abroad. He is safe, therefore, at least as long as he is able to keep the state prosecutors and the tax authorities interested in his case.”

The old judge smiled subtly, looked encouragingly at Frau Rosenthal, and then went back to his pacing.

“But how can you know that?” exclaimed Frau Rosenthal.

He made a dismissive gesture, and said, “Oh, even if he’s retired, an old judge gets to hear this and that. You will be interested to learn that your husband has a capable lawyer and is being reasonably well fed. Of course I can’t tell you the name of the lawyer, he wouldn’t welcome visits from you…”

“But perhaps I can visit my husband in Moabit!” Frau Rosenthal cried. “I could bring him clean clothes—who’s looking after his laundry? And some toiletries, and perhaps something to eat…”

“My dear Frau Rosenthal,” said the retired judge, laying his veined, liver-spotted hand firmly on her shoulder, “you can as little visit your husband as he can you. Such a visit would not be useful to him, you would never get in far enough to see him, and it would only harm you.”

He looked at her.

Suddenly his eyes were no longer smiling, and his voice sounded strict. She saw that this small, gentle, kindly man was following some implacable law, probably the law of that Justice he had referred to earlier.

“Frau Rosenthal,” he said quietly, “you are my guest—as long as you obey the conditions of my hospitality, which I will go on to explain to you. The first law of my hospitality: as soon as you do anything without consulting me, as soon as the door of this apartment has closed behind you a single time, one single time, you will never be readmitted here, and the names of you and your husband will be wiped from my mind. Do you understand?”

He touched his brow with his fingertips, and looked at her piercingly.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Only then did he take his hand off her shoulder. His expression lightened again, and he slowly resumed his pacing. “I would ask you,” he continued, a little more easily, “during the daylight hours not to leave the room I am about to show you, and not to stand by the window. My cleaning woman is reliable, but…” He broke off a little irritably, and looked across at his book under the reading light. He continued, “Try to do as I do, and make your nights into days. I will give you a sleeping pill every day. I will supply you with food at night. Now would you kindly follow me?”

She followed him into the corridor. She was feeling a little bewildered and frightened, her host seemed so changed toward her. But she told herself perfectly correctly that the old gentleman loved his quiet life and was no longer accustomed to the presence of strangers. He was tired of them, and longed to be back with his Plutarch, whoever or whatever that was.

The judge opened a door for her and switched on the light. “The blinds are down,” he said, “and I keep it dark. Please leave it that way, otherwise someone from the back building might be able to see you. I hope you will find everything you need.”

He allowed her to take in the bright, cheerful room with its birch-wood furniture, a side table well stocked with toiletries, and a four poster bed upholstered in flowered chintz. He looked at the room as at something he hadn’t seen for a long time and was now revisiting. Then he said, with deep seriousness, “This was my daughter’s room. She died in 1933—no, not here, not in this room. Don’t be alarmed!”

Quickly he took her hand. “I’m not going to lock the door, Frau Rosenthal,” he said, “but I would ask that you bolt it immediately from the inside. Do you have a watch? Good.