We are drinking punch under a gigantic, night-black copper beech. Tiny fireflies are dancing over the cobalt-blue lawn around the black shadow of the bushes. The host: in his late forties, corpulent, rosy, his sparse hair almost totally white (you can’t see much of him except, when he crosses his legs, you sometimes catch a dim reflection of his old patent-leather pumps, one of which is strangely inanimate, like the shoe on a wax figure). The hostess (on the narrow side of a white iron table, more speculative than visible): delicate, nimble, with huge, dreamy, hazel-brown eyes shimmering wet in the matte oval of her face. The son (first lieutenant in the Panzerjäger): his uniform occasionally glitters with its German Cross in Gold, Iron Cross I and II, Close Combat Clasp (he calls them his “Christmas-tree decorations”); now on furlough from Münsterlager, where he is a drill instructor. “You can imagine what a load off our minds that was; pourvu que cela dure, of course.” “. . . Possibly they’ll grant me one more little outing to the front lines . . .” “You see, he wants the Knight’s Cross à tout prix—for the property’s sake.” “In the end it didn’t help Horst any that he volunteered right off and went through the entire Polish campaign and lost a leg. Afterward, they fired him anyway . . .” “And when Ottfried died in action . . .” “And if you get killed, my boy, then the property won’t be of much use to you . . .” “Is that sheet lightning or a real thunderstorm—or what?” “Nope, the Leuna works.” “It’s a miracle anything’s left of it. They’re attacking twice a day now—” “That jasmine’s delightful.” “We’ve got all the time in the world to take care of the garden. We can’t go out anyway.” “Otherwise he’s a very decent sort. He’s the brother of the brother-in-law of our manager. He says, ‘All I can do for you is simply have you stay inside your own four walls. If you leave the area of the house—that is to say, the grounds, you know—you have to wear the star. I would avoid doing that if I were you.’ ” “No, the kids are not really quarter Jews. Herbert and I are each half. According to the prevailing algebra, that equals more than half—morally, I mean.” “It makes things a bit difficult with the help, of course. They hanged our old chambermaid because she had something going with a Pole here from the camp—” “We almost got mixed up in it ourselves—” “But ever since Jürgen got the German Cross in Gold—” “It does help, after all . . .”

The new chambermaid emerges from the thick darkness around the jasmine bushes. “Dinner is served, if you please.” The son gets to his feet. “Well, let’s do something about our slender figures.” “Please go ahead. We’re not allowed to sit at the same table with you all—we’re not Aryan enough . . .”