Once, they had a son; the Führer murdered him; now they are writing postcards. A new chapter in their lives. On the outside, nothing has changed. All is quiet around the Quangels. But inside, everything is different, they are at war…

She gets her darning basket and starts darning socks. Now and then, she looks across at Otto slowly drawing his letters, not ever changing his tempo. After almost every letter he holds the postcard out at arm’s length and studies it with narrowed eyes. Then he nods.

Finally, he shows her his first completed sentence. It occupies one and a half very generous lines of the postcard.

She says, “You won’t get much on each postcard!” He answers, “Never mind! I’ll just have to write a lot of postcards!”

“And each card takes a long time.”

“I’ll write one card every Sunday, later on maybe two. The war is far from over, the killing will go on.”

He is unshakable. He has made a decision, and will act on it. Nothing can reverse it, nothing can deflect Otto Quangel from his chosen path.

He says, “The second sentence: ‘Mother! The Führer will murder your sons too, he will not stop till he has brought sorrow to every home in the world.’”

She repeats it: “Mother, the Führer will murder your sons too!”

She nods, she says, “Write that!” She suggests, “We should try to leave that card somewhere where a lot of women will see it!”

He reflects, then shakes his head. “No. Women who get a shock, you never know what they will do. A man will stuff it in his pocket, on the staircase. Later on, he’ll read it carefully. Anyway, all men are the sons of mothers.”

He stops talking, and goes back to his drawing. The afternoon goes by; they don’t think about supper. It’s evening, and the card is finished at last. He stands up. He takes one more look at it.

“There!” he says. “That’s that. Next Sunday the next one.”

She nods.

“When will you deliver it?” she whispers.

He looks at her. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Let me come with you, the first time!”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “And especially not the first time. I have to see how things go.”

“Come on!” she begs him. “It’s my card! It’s the card of the mother!”

“All right!” he determines. “You can come. But only as far as the building.