“Joe Klein, born in New York,” one border guard reads to the other.

“Wanted to see Aachen,” he says, putting on a strong American accent.

“Then you’re pretty far off track. Germany is in the other direction.” One of them raises his arm toward Germany, ready to help. Waits. Josef also waits. The two of them—this much is certain—have seen all kinds of strange ducks come out of the woods by this point and are always glad to encounter a new variety.

“I’m actually trying to get to Brussels.”

“But you need a visa for Belgium.”

They stare at each other. Should he make them an offer?

“Let’s see your bag. Cigarettes, change of clothes, seems like you’re planning on going away for a while.”

“Care for one?” He holds out a pack of American cigarettes. Dörsam thought of everything.

“Gee, that’s nice of you.”

He can’t tell if they’re making fun of him. “I might also have five dollars,” he says carefully.

The border guard takes the bill and the cigarettes from his hand. “Let’s leave something for the others. You’ve got a long trip ahead of you, right?”

He nods. A car approaches. The guard steps in front of it. “Going to Eupen? Take our friend here with you. He’s an American.”

He whistles Josef over, claps him on the shoulder. “Good luck. Have a nice life.”

The buildings are dark. The driver doesn’t speak, only nods whenever Josef makes an attempt at conversation. Is it because he was introduced to him as an American? Josef clenches the handle of his bag till his fingers hurt. In Eupen the man drops him off at the train station. Josef checks the timetables for trains to Herbesthal. The next one doesn’t leave until morning.

He picks the most run-down hotel in the square, the Hotel Boston, and pays in advance. An old man takes him to a small room with no windows and damp walls, and when he lies down the bedsprings howl and squeak. The wet coat he draped over the radiator waits like his loyal servant and double.

He embraced Edith in front of the rest of the family. He breathed in the smell of her, which flooded into him like the words that she would never be able to find. What she said was something different. “You’re making the right decision. There’s no way of knowing if Germany will ever get back on its feet.”

And Carl agreed with her: “It could take decades!”

In the morning he drinks grain coffee in the breakfast room, spreads margarine and marmalade over the roll a surly young woman has brought him.

“You’re no American,” she says as he’s headed for the door.

“How’s that?”

“They don’t stay here. They can afford someplace better.”