The Hubertus was something out of a Lehar operetta: an ivy-clad, cozy villa with a garden where a crown prince and his young baroness might stop for a quick knuckle of veal on their way to some grand but doom-laden hunting lodge. Surrounded by a chorus of rather well-fed Berliners, we did our best to look like a leading man and his lady, and to hide our disappointment at our waiter’s ignorance of the local area.

After lunch we drove farther to the south and west, and asked at a village shop on the Reitmeister See, then at the post office in Krumme Lanke, and finally at a garage in Paulsborn, where the attendant told us he’d heard of some people living in tents along the left bank of the Schlachtensee, in a place that could best be reached by water. So then we drove to Beelitzhof and hired a motorboat to continue our search.

“I’ve had a lovely day,” she said as the boat cut through the chill Prussian blue waters. “Even if we don’t find what we’re looking for.”

And then we did.

We saw their smoke first, rising above the thick coniferous trees like a pillar of cloud. It was a small village of army-surplus tents, about six or seven of them. During the Great Depression, a large tent shantytown for the poor and unemployed had been built rather nearer home, in the Tiergarten.

I cut the engine and we approached carefully. A small, ragged group of men, several of them obviously Jewish, came out of their shelters. They were carrying clubs and slingshots. If I’d been alone, it’s possible I might have met with a more hostile reception, but, seeing Mrs. Charalambides, they appeared to relax a little. You don’t go looking for trouble wearing a set of pearls and a sable coat. I tied up the boat and helped her to step ashore.

“We’re looking for Solly Mayer,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “Do you know him?”

No one spoke.

“My married name is Noreen Charalambides,” she said. “But my maiden name is Eisner. I’m Jewish. I’m telling you that so you can be sure we’re not here to spy on you or to inform on you, or on Herr Mayer. I’m an American journalist and I’m in search of some information. We think Solly Mayer might be able to help us. So please don’t be afraid. We mean you no harm.”

“We’re not afraid of you,” said one of the men. He was tall and bearded. He wore a long black coat and a broad-brimmed black hat. Two long curls of hair were hanging off the sides of his forehead like lengths of seaweed. “We thought you might be Hitler Youth. There’s a troop of them camped around here somewhere and they’ve been attacking us. For fun.”

“That’s terrible,” said Mrs. Charalambides.