They hadn’t called him up to the boardroom after all, to hear his suggestions for technical improvements. So much the better!

Anna Quangel, in bed but not yet asleep, still thinks of her husband as cold and heartless. The way he reacted to the news of Ottochen’s death, the way he threw poor Trudel and Frau Rosenthal out: cold, heartless, only concerned for himself. She will never be able to love him as before, when she thought he at least had something to spare for her. Clearly, he hasn’t. Only offended by her blurted “You and your Führer,” only offended. Well, she won’t hurt his feelings again for a while, if only because she won’t be speaking to him. Today they didn’t exchange a single word, not even hello.

The retired Judge Fromm is still up, because he’s always up at night. In his neat hand, he is writing a letter that begins, “Dear Attorney…”

Open under the reading lamp, his Plutarch lies waiting for him.

*Commonly used abbreviation for the Alexanderplatz, a square in central Berlin that was the site of one of the city’s major train stations, as well as Berlin’s imposing, seven-story police headquarters.

Chapter 13

VICTORY DANCE AT THE ELYSIUM

The floor of the Elysium, the great dance hall in the north of Berlin, that Friday night presented the kind of spectacle that must gladden the heart of any true German: it was jam-packed with uniforms.

While the Wehrmacht with its grays and greens supplied the background to this colorful composition, what made the scene so vibrant were the uniforms of the Party and its various bodies, going from tan, golden brown, brown, and dark brown to black. There, next to the brown shirts of the SA* you saw the much lighter brown of the Hitler Youth; the Organization Todt was as well represented as the Reichsarbeitsdienst; you saw the yellow uniforms of Sonderführer, dubbed golden pheasants; political leaders stood next to air raid wardens. And it wasn’t just the men who were so delightfully accoutred; there were also many girls in uniform; the Bund Deutscher Mädel, the Arbeitsdienst, the Organization Todt—all seemed to have sent their leaders and deputies and rank and file to this placed.†

The few civilians present were lost in this swarm. They were insignificant and boring among so many uniforms, just as the civilian population out in the streets and factories never amounted to anything compared to the Party. The Party was everything, and the people nothing.

Thus, the table at the edge of the dance floor occupied by a girl and three young men received very little attention. None of the four wore a uniform; there wasn’t so much as a party badge on display.

A couple, the girl and a young man, had been the first to arrive. Then another young man had asked for permission to join them, and later on a fourth civilian had come forward with a similar request. The couple had made one attempt to dance in the seething mass. While they were away, the other two men had started a conversation in which the returning couple, looking hot and crushed, participated from time to time.

One of the men, a fellow in his early thirties with thin, receding hair, leaned way back in his chair and silently contemplated the crowd on the dance floor and at the other tables. Then, barely looking at his companions, he said, “A poor choice of venue. We’re almost the only civilian table in the whole place. We stick out a mile.”

The girl’s partner smiled at her and said—but his words were meant for the balding man—”Not at all, Grigoleit, we’re practically invisible here, and if they do see us, at the most they despise us. The only thing on the minds of these people is that the so-called victory over France has secured them dancing rights for a couple of weeks.”

“No names! You know the rules!” the balding man said sharply.

For a while no one spoke. The girl doodled something on the table and didn’t look up, though she could feel they were all looking at her.

“Anyway, Trudel,” said the third man, who had an innocent baby-face, “it’s time for whatever you wanted to tell us. What’s new? The next-door tables are almost all empty, everyone’s dancing. Come on!”

The silence of the other two could only indicate agreement. Haltingly, not looking up, Trudel Baumann said: “I think I’ve made a mistake. At any rate, I’ve broken my word. In my eyes, admittedly, it’s not really a mistake…”

“Oh, come on!” exclaimed the balding man angrily. “Are you going to start gabbling like a silly goose? Tell us what it is, straight out!”

The girl looked up. She looked at the three men one after the other, all of them, it seemed to her, eyeing her coldly. There were tears in her eyes.