The Safety Net by Heinrich Böll

most vulnerable, rendered even more conspicuous by family connections with those “others”—elect him, at a moment when everyone knew that family connections meant increased threat; and he still, neither in private conversation nor secretly, much less publicly, did not dissociate himself from Rolf. That was the question to which his public reply was feared most by his enemies and friends and least by himself, his stereotype answer, identical on video and audio tape: “He is my son, he broke the law, paid the penalty, and since then has lived within the law,” and was tempted to wax biblical and say: “He is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” He was not even afraid of being asked about Veronica: “She was my daughter-in-law, is suspected of serious crimes, and has disappeared. My grandson, of whom she was given custody after the divorce, which took place before the alleged crime, has disappeared with her. He bears our name, the name of his father, my son.” No, he didn’t think “bad egg” was the right term, he sometimes thought they might be the true immigrants from the distant stars, satellite dwellers for whom no yardsticks, no words, had yet been found. Insane? That was too earthbound a description. Yes, he had also known Beverloh, who had beenhis guest, frequently, he had found him a nice fellow. Nice? Yes. The terms “nice” and “niceness” said nothing, nothing whatever, about what a person was capable of. It was just that one shouldn’t trust nice people too much. After all, criminal behavior was nothing new either, and there was nothing new about murder since the days of Abel.
    They’d get him all right. Who? How? No, the fear didn’t return, it had been completely thrust aside by curiosity, and behind that in turn hovered the pressing fear of being driven out of Tolmshoven. It wasn’t even inconceivable that Bleibl had assigned him the role of decoy bird, released to be shot down, tired, old, so worn out that the role of victim was just about all he was good for: shot down in his wheelchair on the top step.
Potemkin
. And himself shot down, the kindly, cultured, white-haired, nice old man; no business tycoon. Invested with the martyr’s crown. He didn’t wish for this crown, he wanted to drink his tea and watch the birds in flight: the wide, elegant, arrogant wingbeats of the great predators, the short-winged flutter of insect eaters, among whom the swallows were his favorites. Käthe knitting or playing the piano—albeit inexpertly—in the background; three grandchildren, of whom two were called Holger, one of them aged seven, somewhere down there in Iraq or Lebanon, the other aged three, twenty kilometers from Tolmshoven, in Hubreichen, a lively youngster who might or might not bear his name.
    To this day he had never found out whether Rolf was just living with Katharina or was married to her, and he didn’t like to ask Holzpuke of security about it or ask him to find out for him. Käthe could do that, she could do something he daren’t risk: ask Rolf or Katharina outright, and he knew the answer: “If you are actually interested in something so totally irrelevant, if you find something so trivial of even the slightest importance, we will do you the favor of hereby declaring: we are (or are not) married. Kindly delete what is not applicable!” It was possible that such a question might become important to themfor tactical reasons—temporarily, of course—for the sake of some papers or other, but beyond that it was of no real interest, was not even worth mentioning. It was fairly certain that they weren’t married, because Katharina was probably receiving some kind of support; but the question of marriage
per se
was of no interest, didn’t exist. Technically, yes, and hence politically, but on no other level. It was exactly the same with Church and religion. They existed, of course, there was no doubt about that, but it was enough for him to say “like potatoes, which