Chapter Text
Ernst adjusted his shirt collar, uncomfortable. The coarse fabric chafed his skin, or perhaps it was simply the stifling heat of the attic. The air was stagnant, heavy with the smell of old, dry wood and burnt dust; the slightest movement stirred up invisible particles that irritated his throat. At only twenty-two, he felt like an intruder in this cramped, dimly lit space— a space that had never been designed to accommodate men, let alone for spending motionless hours listening to the lives of others.
Sergeant Udo Leye had only just arrived, his heavy footsteps making the floorboards creak beneath him, and quickly unwrapped a sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. Wiesler adjusted his gray jacket with a sharp movement, tapped his watch twice while casting a critical eye at his replacement, then disappeared without a word into the shadows of the stairs.
"Always so charming, isn't he?" Udo muttered after a few seconds, his mouth already full of dark bread and sausage.
He wiped his hand on his trousers before settling into his superior's still-warm seat. Unlike Wiesler, Udo exuded no threat. He possessed that somewhat coarse joviality of those who do their job without asking too many questions, a simplicity that Ernst secretly found reassuring amidst this bureaucratic madness.
"Want to try it for just a minute, while I get properly settled?" he suddenly asked.
He held the headphones out toward Ernst with a vaguely knowing smile, a glint of malice lighting up his hazel eyes.
"Just to see for a few seconds what it feels like to be in the big boss's shoes.
- … The Captain wouldn't like that," the young man murmured, taking half a step back and casting a nervous glance toward the stairs. "Regulations state that..."
His voice trailed off. He felt ridiculous, like a schoolboy reciting the code of conduct to his teacher.
"Gerd won't be back until tomorrow morning, you know that," the other replied with a shrug. "He won't know a thing, if that's what's worrying you. And besides, that's how you learn the trade, isn't it? It's a waste to be up here all the time and never hear anything."
The headphones remained suspended between them. Ernst hesitated, his throat tight. His hands, usually so steady when handling cables or screwdrivers, hung limply by his thighs. Curiosity crept into him; he wanted to understand. To know what Wiesler heard, what occupied his entire days, what could possibly justify this constant immobility and rigor. But this thirst for knowledge left a bitter aftertaste, a toxic cocktail of fear and guilt, as if he were about to cross a line from which there would be no return.
Finally, almost despite himself, Ernst reached out. The moment he brushed against the object, he was struck by its temperature. He recoiled instinctively before daring to take hold of it again. The leather was clammy, steeped in Wiesler’s cold sweat. When he finally dared to pull them apart and place them over his ears, the pressure caught him off guard. The headband tightly gripped his skull, and he had the absurd impression that the headphones were trying to adjust not to his head, but to what lay inside it, as if trying to crush his own thoughts to replace them with Dreyman's. Very quickly, his own sweat began to bead at his hairline.
Then came the sound. First, the rustle of a newspaper. Then, the clinking of a spoon against porcelain. And above all, Dreyman's breathing, so close that Ernst thought he could feel it against his own neck. His heart raced, pounding against his ribs with sudden violence. Every sound felt like a profanation, a violation of an intimate space he should never have entered.
He suddenly felt incredibly dirty.
"Well?" Udo asked with a foolish grin. "Special, isn't it? With the gear you maintain so perfectly for us, you'd almost think we were holed up right under their bed."
Ernst ripped the headband from his ears and handed it back, his hands shaking. He hurried back to his tape recorders, gripping the metallic edge of the console to find an anchor. One had to be made of steel, or have nothing human left inside, to endure such an experience on a daily basis.
"It's... it's grueling," he stammered, rubbing his aching temples where the vice had left a faint mark.
The word felt ridiculously weak against the nausea turning his stomach. The Sergeant let out a hearty laugh. He put the headphones over his own ears without paying much attention and went back to tackling his sandwich, already accustomed to these sensations. Ernst, however, turned toward the stairs where Wiesler had vanished.
How did he do it? How could that man sit there, twelve hours a day, motionless, carrying this sensory and moral weight without ever letting the slightest crack show? And above all, how long did it take to become like him— all while praying not to sink into madness in the process?