He’s glad when, soon afterward, the Spaniard sends him to clean the giant pots, scraping the burnt remnants of thick soups off the bottom, an unpopular job. When the Italian comes around he tries to act invisible and not to breathe.

“Josef? José? Joe? Which is your real name?”

His tongue feels thick, his throat tight. He manages a smile, one that is no longer crooked like a grifter’s. Not since Neuss, not anymore.

30

New York, June–July 1940

TIMES SQUARE. THE CALLER HAD ALMOST WHISPERED IT—“The entrance to the Apollo Theater”—and then hung up.

Josef went back to the printing machine, weaving a garland of red roses through black calligraphy. The Christian Front had been disbanded. Yet another important client gone. More greeting cards and wedding invitations since then.

At half past two he headed out, walking purposefully, but not hurrying. The newsboys waved photographs of tanks and steel helmets. In Times Square the news ticker wrapped around the Times Building. Paris had fallen last week. The passersby stared at the moving text.

He loosened his tie. He felt an itch in his throat and a feverish sensation rising from his legs up to his shoulders. If he hadn’t emigrated, he might be stalking through the forests of France right now. The thought triggered anxiety. He had almost forgotten this feeling, even though it had been with him constantly in the last year, when the two Germans had taken over his apartment—feelings were something to be forgotten and only remembered when they came back.

Things had been going well for him. Lauren was in his life. Sometimes Lauren showed him newspaper articles that she thought were especially important; even that made him happy.

He still made an effort to look and act his best around her. He always made sure his shoes were shined, took care shaving and put on expensive aftershave, even thought about what he would say when he first greeted her. He always had time for her. If she called while he was busy tinkering with something, he didn’t even mention it. On evenings when he expected her to call, he didn’t leave the apartment so that she wouldn’t have to call more than once. He suspected she wouldn’t appreciate that.

He bought a paper off a newsboy. The swastika flag was flying from the Eiffel Tower. The streets deserted, the Parisians had fled.

A sharp pain sat just beneath his skull. He smoked and hoped it would help, waited for the numbness to set in. Two office girls were standing in the entrance of the Apollo Theater, sharing a cigarette. They looked over at him; he ignored them.