I FOUND MRS. CHARALAMBIDES STANDING in front of the KaDeWe, staring intently at a new Bosch gas-engine washing machine with a built-in wringer-roller. She wasn’t the kind of woman I could ever imagine using a washing machine. She probably thought it was a phonograph. It looked a lot like a phonograph.

“You know, when reason fails, a fist comes in very handy,” I said.

She met the reflection of my eyes in the window glass for a moment and then stared some more at the washing machine.

“Maybe we should buy it so that fellow in the gym can wash his mouth,” I offered feebly.

Her mouth stayed tight, as if she were trying not to spill what was really on her mind. I turned my back on the window, lit a cigarette, and stared across Wittenbergplatz.

“This used to be a civilized place, where people always behaved with courtesy and politeness. Well, most of the time. But it’s people like him who make me remember that Berlin is just an idea that a Polabian Slav had in a swamp.”

I snatched the cigarette from my mouth and stared up at the blue sky. It was a beautiful day. “Hard to believe on a day like this. Goethe had his own theory about why the sky is blue. He didn’t believe in Newton’s idea that light is a mixture of colors. Goethe thought it was something to do with the interaction of white light and its opposite: darkness.” I puffed hard for a moment. “Plenty of darkness in Germany, eh? Maybe that’s why the sky is so blue. Maybe that’s why they call this Hitler weather. Because it contains so much darkness.”

I laughed at my own idea. But I was babbling.

“You know, you really should see the Grunewald Forest at this time of year. In the autumn, it’s very beautiful. I thought we might take a drive out there now. As it happens, I also think it would be very useful for your newspaper story. Apparently the Turk is living there now. In a tent. Like a lot of other Jews, it seems. Either they’re just hardened naturalists or the Nazis are planning to build another ghetto. Maybe both. Tell you what. If you’re willing to try naturalism for a while, then so am I.”

“Do you have to make a joke about everything, Herr Gunther?”

I threw away the cigarette. “Only the things that really aren’t very funny, Mrs. Charalambides. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much everything these days. You see, I’m worried that if I don’t make jokes, then someone will mistake me for a Nazi. I mean, have you ever heard Hitler tell a joke? No, neither have I. Maybe I’d like him better if he did.”