Silence, a ringing silence stands in the house where Herr Neumann lives. The house is far from his own, no, certainly not his family's, the Germans have cleaned out half of the occupied Belgian city, sweeping the survivors under their thumb. But do you really care? The spoon in your cup of tea taps against the porcelain rim in time with the antique clock, stirring the reluctant sugar cube, rhythmically, almost annoyingly, making Albert grit his teeth and relax only when you stop, immersed in the tension of the clock's endless ticking. Second by second, his fists are already clenched, the knuckles turning white, the gaze of his cold eyes still lingering on your relaxed face. You bloody bastard, you real bastard! A couple of weeks ago you had him, a superior officer running around the homes of the remnants of the locals, looking for someone to help you get rid of your fever, the running around Oberleitenant only reinforced the rumours of your shared intimacy, which doesn't even exist! You're just a journalist, a fucking reporter from the United States, who got under his skin, annoying him, purposefully always close to his side for any new theme for your article.