end they just become monsters? Oh, Karlemann, what a sweet blond boy he was! She remembers how she took him to the Busch Circus, and the horses were made to lie down in the sand, and he felt so sorry for the poor hossies—were they ill? She had to comfort him, promise him the hossies were only sleeping.
And now he is going around doing things like that to the children of other mothers! Eva Kluge doesn’t doubt for a second that the story about the photograph is true: Enno really isn’t capable of inventingsuch things. No, it seems she has now lost her son as well. It’s much worse than if he had merely died, because then at least she could mourn him. Now she can’t take him in her arms again, and she must keep her doors closed against him too.
The man rummaging around in the bedroom has found the thing he has long suspected was in his wife’s possession: a post office savings book. Six hundred and thirty-two marks in it, thrifty woman, but why so thrifty? One day she’ll get her pension, and with her other savings… He’ll start tomorrow by putting twenty on Adebar, and maybe another ten on Hamilcar… He flicks through the book: not just a thrifty woman, an admirably tidy one. Everything in its place—at the back of the book is the card, and there are the credit slips…
He is about to put the savings book in his pocket when the woman shows up. She takes it out of his hand and drops it on the bed. “Out!” she says. “Get out!”
And he, who a moment ago thought he had victory in his sights, now leaves the room under her furious glare. Silently and with hands shaking, he gets his cap and coat out of the wardrobe, and without a word he slips past her into the unlit stairwell. The door is drawn shut, and he switches on the stair lights and climbs down the stairs. Thank God someone has left the street door unlocked. He will go to his local; if push comes to shove, the landlord will let him bed down on the settee. He trudges off, reconciled to his fate, used to receiving blows. Already he’s half forgotten the woman upstairs.
She, meanwhile, is standing by the window staring out into the night. Fine. Awful. Karlemann gone, too. She’ll make one last attempt with her younger son, with Max. Max was always the colorless one, more like his father than his dazzling brother. Perhaps she can win Max over. And if not, then never mind, she’ll live by and for herself. But she will keep her self-respect. Then that will have been her attainment in life, keeping her self-respect. Tomorrow morning she will try to find out how to go about leaving the Party without getting stuck in a concentration camp. It will be difficult, but maybe she’ll manage it. And if there’s no other way of doing it, then she’ll go to the concentration camp. That would be a bit of atonement for what Karlemann has done.
She crumples up the tear-stained beginning of the letter to her older boy. She spreads out a fresh sheet of paper, and writes:
“Max, my dear son, it’s time I wrote you a little letter again. I’m still doing all right, as I hope you are, too. Father was here a moment ago, but I showed him the door—all he wanted was to rob me. I am also breaking off relations with your brother Karl, because of atrocities he has committed. Now you are my only son. I beg you, please keep your self-respect. I will do all I can for you. Please drop me a line or two yourself, if you have a chance. Kisses, from your loving Mother.”
Chapter 6
OTTO QUANGEL GIVES UP HIS OFFICIAL FUNCTION
The part of the furniture factory where Otto Quangel was foreman once employed eighty male and female workers and turned out single pieces to order; all the other sections of the factory made only mass-produced articles. At the beginning of the war, the business was put on a war footing, and Quangel’s workshop was assigned to make large, heavy crates that it was thought were used to transport bombs.
As far as Otto Quangel was concerned, he didn’t have
And now he is going around doing things like that to the children of other mothers! Eva Kluge doesn’t doubt for a second that the story about the photograph is true: Enno really isn’t capable of inventingsuch things. No, it seems she has now lost her son as well. It’s much worse than if he had merely died, because then at least she could mourn him. Now she can’t take him in her arms again, and she must keep her doors closed against him too.
The man rummaging around in the bedroom has found the thing he has long suspected was in his wife’s possession: a post office savings book. Six hundred and thirty-two marks in it, thrifty woman, but why so thrifty? One day she’ll get her pension, and with her other savings… He’ll start tomorrow by putting twenty on Adebar, and maybe another ten on Hamilcar… He flicks through the book: not just a thrifty woman, an admirably tidy one. Everything in its place—at the back of the book is the card, and there are the credit slips…
He is about to put the savings book in his pocket when the woman shows up. She takes it out of his hand and drops it on the bed. “Out!” she says. “Get out!”
And he, who a moment ago thought he had victory in his sights, now leaves the room under her furious glare. Silently and with hands shaking, he gets his cap and coat out of the wardrobe, and without a word he slips past her into the unlit stairwell. The door is drawn shut, and he switches on the stair lights and climbs down the stairs. Thank God someone has left the street door unlocked. He will go to his local; if push comes to shove, the landlord will let him bed down on the settee. He trudges off, reconciled to his fate, used to receiving blows. Already he’s half forgotten the woman upstairs.
She, meanwhile, is standing by the window staring out into the night. Fine. Awful. Karlemann gone, too. She’ll make one last attempt with her younger son, with Max. Max was always the colorless one, more like his father than his dazzling brother. Perhaps she can win Max over. And if not, then never mind, she’ll live by and for herself. But she will keep her self-respect. Then that will have been her attainment in life, keeping her self-respect. Tomorrow morning she will try to find out how to go about leaving the Party without getting stuck in a concentration camp. It will be difficult, but maybe she’ll manage it. And if there’s no other way of doing it, then she’ll go to the concentration camp. That would be a bit of atonement for what Karlemann has done.
She crumples up the tear-stained beginning of the letter to her older boy. She spreads out a fresh sheet of paper, and writes:
“Max, my dear son, it’s time I wrote you a little letter again. I’m still doing all right, as I hope you are, too. Father was here a moment ago, but I showed him the door—all he wanted was to rob me. I am also breaking off relations with your brother Karl, because of atrocities he has committed. Now you are my only son. I beg you, please keep your self-respect. I will do all I can for you. Please drop me a line or two yourself, if you have a chance. Kisses, from your loving Mother.”
Chapter 6
OTTO QUANGEL GIVES UP HIS OFFICIAL FUNCTION
The part of the furniture factory where Otto Quangel was foreman once employed eighty male and female workers and turned out single pieces to order; all the other sections of the factory made only mass-produced articles. At the beginning of the war, the business was put on a war footing, and Quangel’s workshop was assigned to make large, heavy crates that it was thought were used to transport bombs.
As far as Otto Quangel was concerned, he didn’t have
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