It doesn’t bother him, but it’s sometimes embarrassing when people come.

There’s nobody in the stairwell, and Borkhausen takes the stairs quietly and quickly. There’s a wild racket coming from the Persickes’ apartment, laughing and shouting, they must be celebrating again. He really needs to get in touch with people like that—they have proper contacts. If he did, things would start to look up for him. Unfortunately, people like that won’t even look at a part-timer like him, especially not the boys in the SS, and that Baldur is full of himself like you wouldn’t believe. The old fellow’s different; when you catch him good and drunk, he’s good for five marks.

In the Quangels’ apartment everything’s quiet, and at Frau Rosenthal’s one floor up, he can’t hear anything either, though he presses his ear to the door for a good long time. So he rings the bell, quick and businesslike, like a postman, say, someone who’s in a hurry to move on.

But nothing stirs, and after waiting for a minute or two, Borkhausen decides to try again, and then a third time. In between, he listens, but can’t hear anything, and finally he hisses through the keyhole, “Frau Rosenthal, open up! I’ve got news of your husband! Quickly, before someone sees me here. I can hear you, Frau Rosenthal, open the door!”

He keeps ringing, but without results. Finally, he falls into a rage. He can’t go home empty-handed—there’d be an almighty scene with Otti. The old Jewess should just hand back what she stole. He jams his finger into the bell and yells through the keyhole, “Open the goddamned door, you Jewish bitch, or I’ll smash your face in so badly you won’t be able to see out. I’ll haul you off to the concentration camp today, if you don’t open the door, you fucking kike!”

If only he had some gasoline, he could torch the bitch’s door.

Suddenly Borkhausen goes all quiet. He’s heard a door open downstairs, and he presses himself against the wall. No one must see him here. They’re bound to be going out, he just needs to keep really quiet.

But the steps are coming closer, ever closer, even if they’re slow and halting. It’s one of the Persickes, and if there’s anything Borkhausen doesn’t need, it’s a drunken Persicke. Whoever it is is making his way toward the attic, but the attic is secured with an iron door, and there’s nowhere to hide. Now he’s only got one hope, which is that whoever it is is so drunk, he’ll walk straight past without seeing him; if it’s old Persicke, it could happen.

But it’s not old Persicke, it’s the loathsome boy, Bruno or Baldur or whatever he calls himself, the worst of the lot. Prances around in his Hitler Youth uniform all day long, looking to you to greet him first, even though he’s a little snot. Slowly Baldur climbs up the last few steps, gripping the banister—that’s how drunk he is. His glassy eyes have spotted Borkhausen against the wall, but he doesn’t address him till he’s standing directly in front of him. “What are you doing hanging around in the front building? I’m not having you here, get down to your basement hole with your whore! Get lost!”

And he lifts his hobnailed boot, but quickly puts it down again: he’s too unsteady on his pins to kick anything.

Borkhausen simply can’t cope with a tone like that. If he gets barked at, he curls into a frightened ball. He whispers back, “Terribly sorry, Herr Persicke! I was just looking to have a bit of fun with Frau Rosenthal!”

Baldur furrows his brow, thinking. After a while he says, “Stealing is what you came to do, you sonofabitch. Well, on your way.”

The words are crude, but the tone has something a little more gracious or encouraging about it. Borkhausen has a sensitive ear. So, with a grin that craves indulgence for the joke, he says, “I don’t do theft, Herr Persicke—at the most I might do some spontaneous reorganizing from time to time!”

Baldur Persicke doesn’t smile back.