“The new agent from Germany has a large office in the Newsweek Building on 42nd Street. It’s listed under some company as cover. He orders every agent to come there alone. Me included.”

“We know about Sebold. You’d do better not to go.”

“I’m happy to skip it. But why?”

“Stay away from Sebold.”

The sunburned deckhand was already holding the rope ready.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

Ettinger gave him a disapproving look. “We could just deport you, you know. Then once you got back home you’d go straight to the front.”

“So I am going to be arrested, then?”

Ettinger nodded. “Of course.”

“When?”

“When the time comes.”

“And will you offer me a deal?”

“I’ll put in a good word for you.”

32

New York, September 1940

HE DID THE DISHES, LISTENED TO THE RADIO, AND WONDERED why he owned only two of everything—two plates, two mugs, two glasses. They all saw a lot of use, though, especially when Lauren was over, and so the dishes never piled up. Josef gave himself over to the thought that it now made even less sense to buy more dishes. He counted the days, days that all felt the same, like they were all a single, drawn-out day, and he didn’t even know what he was waiting for—for them all to get arrested? For America to start dropping bombs on Germany? For Hitler to come marching into America? In any case for something big and final that would make it possible to have a new beginning, instead of this tangible sense that he was headed toward the end. Lindbergh was on the radio warning the US about getting mixed up in the “European conflict” when Lauren came into the kitchen with her hair dripping.

“The blow-dryer is broken.” Her eyes leapt over to the radio. He immediately turned the volume down. “It’s unbelievable that they keep letting him speak!”

“Apparently Lindbergh Drive in Buffalo is going to be renamed soon,” he said.

She nodded and sat down at the kitchen table with a book.

“Do you think if there were a Joe Klein Street it would have to be renamed too?” His desperate jokes didn’t play well with her. She just grimaced. He set a cup down in front of her and poured her some coffee.

She buried herself in her book. She disappeared completely, crawled right into the pages. Lauren’s face always looked different depending on what angle he was looking from. When he thought of her, he saw several faces; none had emerged as the one sole face.

“Why haven’t you left me?” he asked.

She smiled teasingly and laid her hand on his. “Because then you’d be alone.”

The question was meant to be playful, but something dangerously serious had now crept in, and he tried to break it up: “You snore, by the way.”

She laughed, taken aback. “Excuse me?”