It’s dim inside the shed, but Carl doesn’t turn the light on. Once his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, Josef can see shelves lining the walls filled with boxes of detergent, tubes, bottles, and little packages of soap. It’s all neatly organized, but there’s still a sense of chaos, maybe owing to the strong smell of medicine, of lavender, lemon, and toothpaste.

There’s a telephone on the desk. He’ll call Dörsam from here.

He hears his brother’s voice. “Josef? Will you come over here, please?” He finds him in a back room, an office.

“It’s not heavy, just bulky,” says Carl as they get ready to carry the table on its side through the shed.

“Do you want me to carry the front end?” he offers. He can feel his brother’s body through the table. His hesitation.

“I can do it,” Carl answers gruffly and starts easing his way backward through the door until his hands get caught in the doorframe and prevent him from going any farther. Josef doesn’t say anything.

“The table is too wide,” sighs Carl.

“Grab the tabletop from the inside. Then your hands won’t be in the way.”

Carl laughs. “My goodness, of course.”

Outside in the yard Carl insists on being able to continue walking backward all the way to the house. When they’re finally there, Carl wipes his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Thanks for your help.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Carl hesitates, then he takes a deep breath and says, “We listened to Radio London.”

“Radio London,” Josef repeats.

“The so-called Feindsender—enemy radio. If it’d gotten out, I’d have been facing prison or worse.”

Josef nods.

“We always kept ourselves informed about what was really going on in this country. The American press must have been critical as well?”

“Yes, always. Always critical.”

Carl nods, apparently satisfied with the result of the conversation.

4

Neuss, June 1949

HE WOULD LIKE TO TELL CARL AND EDITH ABOUT IT. HIS life in New York as a free man. But they don’t ask. Are they worried he might tell them something alarming or indecent? He has to laugh. Maybe they figure he’s got nothing interesting to tell. Also possible. He does what’s expected of him, doesn’t draw attention to himself. Maybe they confuse that with insignificance? He was never able to get across what was important to him, not well.

Lauren was surprised that he had hardly any books. “But I do, on amateur radio.” He pointed shyly at the stack. Finally she found an explanation: “Do you know why you’re not a reader? You don’t need the double consciousness.”

What did she mean by that?

“You’re always completely present wherever you are, and that’s enough for you.”

“And for you too, apparently.”

She laughed, loudly. She laughed like a kid.

“And what about Thoreau?” he asked.

“You and your Thoreau.”