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and even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t have spoken a word.
    Again he heard ‘Hello?’ then he put the phone down.
    Well then. Fred wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was that simple. Now all he had to do was go to Berlin. What a terrific surprise! And what could they both do about the fact that his postcards hadn’t arrived? Sometimes he really was too suspicious.
    As he stepped on to a pavement that was glittering in the sunshine and set off for the woods, he was looking forward to the big city and a few days of high living before departing for Canada. If Annette and Nickel didn’t come to meet him, they would have had their reasons. He certainly didn’t want to be one of those jail birds who smell betrayal everywhere. Just because people on the outside were getting on with their lives. No, he was Magic Hoffmann, and what happened happened, and after that it was up to him.
    At home he packed his suitcase, then went to the station and bought a ticket. Luckily Grandma Ranunkel had left him a little money. Enough for the first few days.
    He pocketed the ticket and went to the phone booth to call his probation officer. She had visited him last week in prison. A short, fat busy woman, with a colourful skirt and frilly blouse, a round red face, and eyes that stared permanently, as if they were saying: ‘Don’t be deceived by my pleasant exterior, I know what goes down.’ During their brief conversation, Fred had assured her quite plausibly that he wanted nothing more than a job of work and some peace.
    â€˜I wanted to register for a week’s holiday.’
    â€˜But we have an appointment the day after tomorrow.’
    â€˜That’s why I’m registering.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, Mr Hoffmann, it’s not that simple. My time is limited, and in any case, you’re obliged…’
    â€˜Listen: I simply have to get out, find some peace, and ah…get to grips with the last few years. Surely you understand.’
    â€˜Get to grips - of course I understand, but…’
    â€˜I’ll stay in the neighbourhood. I just want to go walking through the woods a little, camping, swimming in the lake - you know, the absence of nature in prison is really cruel for a country boy. The way I see it, the soul atrophies.’
    â€˜Yes, hmhm, I can understand that.’
    â€˜I knew you would. You’re sensitive. Not many people are.’
    â€˜Well,’ she cleared her throat, ‘then we’ll simply postpone the appointment to next week.’
    â€˜Let’s say the week after next, then I’ll have time to prepare. I feel one’s probation officer shouldn’t be like some supermarket shelf, from which you can pick and choose. Rather you have to seize the opportunity yourself - that’s my opinion anyway. That’s why I’d like to have a rough idea of my future when I next come to you. Or do you think that’s the wrong approach?’
    â€˜No of course not, but… Very well then, in two weeks, but then it has to happen.’
    â€˜Who could want it to happen more than I do? After all it’s my life, isn’t it? So. Many, many thanks.’
    Fred hung up and looked at his new watch. He had an hour to wait till the train left.
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    5
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    The cemetery lay under a thick carpet of leaves. The greenish twilight was interrupted only by a few rays of light, dancing over moss and stone. It was pleasantly cool and, with the exception of Fred’s Walkman, quiet. He was listening to Johnny Guitar Watson’s A real mother for ya, and the music was turned up so loud that a soft chi-boom wafted over the graves.
    Fred looked at Grandma Ranunkel’s gravestone and remembered her last visit to the prison. He had asked for cigarettes and music and she had turned up with biscuits and pyjamas. A week later she was dead. Her house now belonged to him. Fred’s father had built it for her before the accident.