I slid the two paperbacks out of the bag and laid them on the counter. He glanced down at them. He had a thin face that sloped from his temples to a weak and hairless chin. His mouth was small and seemed perpetually pursed. Lines plowed across his forehead over sparse black eyebrows and earth-colored eyes. His hair was the color and thinness of silver threads. He wore a navy blue suit jacket over a white shirt with a subdued red stripe and a blue necktie. He did not seem to be bothered by the heat.

"You finished them both. Good, good." Goldberg not only found satisfaction in reading himself, but also in books being read by others. "As to your question, some books have come in that I thought you'd enjoy, though I do wish you'd let me slip you something different this time. Some Victorian literature, perhaps?"

I hated to tell him no, but I did just that. The corners of his mouth drooped, but then he shrugged.

"Well, maybe next time."

"Maybe."

He set the two books I had finished aside and bent to look behind the counter. Scratching his head, he muttered, "Now where did I—here they are."

He straightened and laid three slim paperbacks on the counter. All three had creased covers and spines. One had pages that were the color of desert sand. That was another thing about Goldberg. He would buy and sell books in almost any condition so long as no pages were missing. In his store, one could find leather-bound first editions occupying the same shelves as well-thumbed paperbacks.

The three covers had some elements in common. All were colorful, dramatic, and featured a weathered-face cowboy armed with a gun and a steely gaze. One of the books showed an armed woman as well, and I immediately thought of Mira Roth. Two of the books were in English; the third—by Karl May—was in German. I pushed the latter back to Goldberg.

"You don't want it? It's an exciting story. You can read German, can't you?"

I could. Like many Hungarians, I had learned a number of languages in my childhood. Hungarian, naturally, but also Romanian and German. After the war, tens of thousands of ethnic Germans were expelled from Hungary. Germans were also expelled from Poland and Czechoslovakia. In an ironic, or perhaps tragic, twist of fate and history, many European countries emptied of Germans shortly after the Germans had emptied them of Jews.

"I don't want to read anything in German," I said.

Goldberg stole a peek at my arm. His frown might have been for my number, or the purple stain beneath it, or both. "The language is not at fault for the deeds of those who speak it," he said. "And German is a beautiful language."

Not anymore it wasn't. Now it was the language of ashes and fire and death. A language of cruelty and wickedness. I shook my head. "Not for me, Erwin."