Fitz came over to where the two of them were sitting. “Dave,” he said, “I’d like to see the grave before we return to West Berlin. Would you mind?”

“Of course not.” Dave stood up. “We should probably go soon.”

Karolin said to Dave: “If you do speak to Walli, please give him my love. Tell him I long for the day when he can meet Alice. I will tell her all about him when she’s old enough.”

They all had messages for Walli: Werner, Carla, and Lili. Dave guessed he would have to speak to Walli just to pass them on.

As they were leaving, Carla said to Fitz: “You should have something of Maud’s.”

“I’d like that.”

“I know just the thing.” She disappeared for a minute and came back with an old leather-bound photograph album. Fitz opened it. The pictures were all monochrome, some sepia, many faded. They had captions in large loopy handwriting, presumably Maud’s. The oldest had been taken in a grand country house. Dave read: “Ty Gwyn, 1905.” That was the Fitzherbert country residence, now Aberowen College of Further Education.

Seeing photos of himself and Maud as young people made Fitz cry. Tears rolled down the papery old skin of his wrinkled face and soaked into the collar of his immaculate white shirt. He spoke with difficulty. “Good times never come back,” he said.

They took their leave. The chauffeur drove them to a large and charmless municipal cemetery, and they found Maud’s grave. The earth had already been returned to the pit, forming a small mound that was, pathetically, the size and approximate shape of a human being. They stood side by side for a few minutes, saying nothing. The only sound was birdsong.

Fitz wiped his face with a large white handkerchief. “Let’s go,” he said.

At the checkpoint they were again detained. Hans Hoffmann watched, smiling, while they and their cars were thoroughly searched.

“What are you looking for?” Dave asked. “Why would we smuggle something out of East Germany? You don’t have anything here that anyone wants!” No one answered him.

A uniformed officer seized on the photograph album and handed it to Hoffmann.

Hoffmann looked through it casually and said: “This will have to be examined by our forensic department.”

“Of course,” Fitz said sadly.

They had to leave without it.

As they drove away, Dave looked back and saw Hans drop the album into a rubbish bin.

• • •

George Jakes flew from Portland to Los Angeles to meet Verena with a diamond ring in his pocket.

He had been on the road with Bobby Kennedy, and had not seen Verena since the funeral of Martin Luther King in Atlanta seven weeks earlier.

George was devastated by the assassination. Dr. King had been the bright burning hope of black Americans, and now he was gone, murdered by a white racist with a hunting rifle. President Kennedy had given hope to blacks and he, too, had been killed by a white man with a gun. What was the point of politics if great men could be so easily wiped out? But, George thought, at least we still have Bobby.