He won’t sink to the level of people like that, even though they have their uses. He cautiously follows Borkhausen downstairs.

Both of them are so preoccupied with their thoughts that they fail to notice that the Quangels’ door is slightly ajar. And that it opens again once the men have passed. Anna Quangel darts over to the balustrade and listens down the stairwell.

Outside the Persickes’ door, Borkhausen extends his arm in the “German greeting”: “Heil Hitler, Herr Persicke! And thank you very much!”

He’s not sure what he has to be thankful to him for. Maybe for not planting his boot on his backside and kicking him downstairs. He couldn’t have done anything about it, little pipsqueak that he is.

Baldur Persicke doesn’t return the salute. He fixes the other man with his glassy stare, until he starts blinking and lowers his gaze. Baldur says, “So you wanted to have a bit of fun with Frau Rosenthal?”

“Yes,” answers Borkhausen quietly, not looking at him.

“What sort of fun did you have in mind?” comes the question. “A bit of smash and grab?”

Borkhausen risks a quick look up into the face of the other. “Ach!” he says, “I would have given her a good beating-up!”

“I see,” Baldur says. “Is that so?”

For a moment they stand there in silence. Borkhausen wonders if it’s okay for him to go, but he hasn’t yet been told he can. He continues to wait in silence with his eyes averted.

“Get in there!” says Baldur Persicke, suddenly, in a thick voice. He points through the open door of the Persicke apartment. “Maybe we’re not finished yet! We’ll see.”

Borkhausen follows the pointed index finger and marches into the Persicke apartment. Baldur Persicke follows, a little unsteadily, but still upright. The door slams behind them.

Upstairs, Frau Quangel lets go of the banister and sneaks back inside her flat, softly letting the lock click shut. She’s not sure what prompted her to listen to the conversation between the two men, first upstairs outside Frau Rosenthal’s, then downstairs outside the Persickes’. Usually she does exactly what her husband says, and doesn’t meddle with the other tenants. Anna’s face is still a sickly white, and there’s a twitch in her eyelid. Once or twice she has felt like sitting down and crying, but it’s more than she can do. Phrases go through her head: “I thought my heart would burst,” and “It came as such a shock,” and “I felt as though I was going to be sick.” All of them had some truth about them, but also there was this: “The people who are responsible for my son’s death aren’t going to get away with it. I’m not going to let them…”

She’s not sure how she’s going to go about it, but her listening on the stairs might be a beginning. Otto’s not going to decide everything by himself, she thinks. I want to do what I want some of the time, even if it doesn’t suit him.

She quickly prepares dinner for him. He eats the lion’s share of the food they buy with their ration cards. He’s getting on a bit, and they always make him work past his strength, while she sits at home with her sewing, so an unequal distribution is perfectly fair.

She’s still wielding pots and pans when Borkhausen leaves the Persickes’ place. As soon as he’s on the steps, he drops the cringing posture he adopted in front of them. He walks upright across the yard, his stomach has been pleasantly warmed by a couple of glasses of schnapps, and in his pocket are two tenners, one of which should be enough to sweeten Otti’s temper.

As he enters the parlor of the so-called lower ground floor apartment, Otti isn’t in a foul temper at all. There’s a white cloth on the table, and Otti is on the sofa with a gentleman unknown to Borkhausen.