How much easier would his life be if he had no conscience?
Young Krieg man John knew the answer, but he was unwilling to lose it. For that, he had paid many prices. One of them was the only thin overcoat he owned.
He had bought it six and a half years ago, a week before his father's burial and a month before his mother died. Every winter since then, he had worn it.
Whenever it was not needed, it hung deep inside his tiny wardrobe, hidden tightly behind his other clothes.
To John, it carried nothing but pain—the sight of his father's coffin, of his mother collapsed on the floor when he returned home, and Krieg's unbearable winter cold...
He did not like it, but he needed it. This spiritual torment often left him in an absurd state of numbness. He imagined the coat talking to him, mocking him or sneering at him. For some reason, doing so made him feel a little better.
But sometimes, it would speak to him in the voices and mannerisms of his parents.
His father would say: "Take it easy. Don't become like those people at the factory."
"Yes, I understand."
His mother would say: "You should eat more, little John. You're thin again."
"I'm sorry, Mom."
John left home at first light, wearing his overcoat.
Today was his day off, one of the few days each month when he could escape the people and affairs of the factory.
Ordinarily, he should have rested at home, hiding beneath his blanket to save a little money on food. But today was different. Today was Sunday.
For poor people like him, it was a day not to be missed. They would put on their best clothes and hurry to church with their families in tow.