Psalm 44

That had been her first meeting with Jakob, immediately after her arrival in the camp. And that’s the reason she was able to answer him a few days later: “Yes, I do,” when he asked her if she trusted him. That’s why she was able, without embarrassment, to bring out the words: “Yes, I do. I believe I do.”

Quietly she came to the door and signaled that she was ready. Then he turned off the already dimmed light of the lamp with the shade.

“Žana,” she said now in a whisper. “Did I ever tell you: switching on the lamp with the shade was actually a signal for Maks. That’s why Jakob had put a lightbulb in it that evening.”

“No,” said Žana absently. “You never told me about that. . But sleep now. It’s still early. I’d say it’s just past midnight. If I haven’t completely lost my sense of time.” Marija could hear the rustling of the straw beneath Žana and she realized, without opening her eyes, piercing the gloom with them, that Žana was still lying on her stomach in the straw, propped up on her elbows, her eyes fixed on the crack. This position of alertness and the tension in her muscles, like in a cat ready to pounce — this Marija could only interpret as the result of the experience that Žana had gained in the resistance movement, which was hinting something to her again now. Although she had great respect for this sense of caution, so unknown and so nearly masculine to her, a respect likewise inspired by Žana’s reflexes, and although she now felt a bit uneasy because of her own passivity, she also considered at least telling Žana about what had happened afterward, but all she said was: “Once I almost saw him. Maks, that is”; Žana repeated her statement from before: “Devilishly clever fellow. That Maks.”—Therefore Marija couldn’t tell her — anyway not in just a few words — what it was like. That same evening, after the surprise visit from Dr. Nietzsche. Less than an hour afterward. As soon as she had left Jakob’s room.