On the wall hangs a framed metal engraving with a quote: TO YOU, MY HOMELAND, SMOKE ON THE HEATH, I SHALL REMAIN TRUE TILL MY FINAL BREATH.

In the hall bathroom he dabs shaving cream onto his chin and shaves carefully. Then he lies down in the freshly made bed. He thinks of Edith as the strange noises fill his ears, the rattling of a streetcar, the trilling of a canary, and somewhere a radio. He doesn’t even know the name of the young man who led him here. So this is what he is now: a Nazi on the lam.

The next day Schmuederrich is standing at the door to his room, two bottles of cold cerveza in his hands, beads of condensation dripping off them. He wears a pale suit and a straw hat, he’s lost a little weight. “There you are, little man!” Schmuederrich laughs, showing the gap in his teeth.

For the span of a second, nothing happens—no handshake and of course no embrace. Then Schmuederrich simply barrels his way inside, opens the beer bottles, and starts talking. He works at La Plata Aid; they send care packages to Germany: cooking oil, lard, bacon, beef, meat extract, cheese. He handles the advertising and new client acquisition—very much his métier, but still, a step down for him. There’s nothing to be done about it. Yes, a rather large step down. He’s got his eye on something better, but he can’t say anything about it just yet. The German community in Buenos Aires is very well respected and sticks together, no matter what. There is a universal desire to wrest Germany back from the Allies, to liberate Germany. Josef frowns.

“Now don’t go pissing yourself. This time we won’t run into any trouble with the government. Perón loves the Germans! German expertise is going to help Argentina become the major power in South America. We’re trying to make the tail wag the dog. Nothing’s lost yet. It’s simply a matter of pulling the Germans up out of their depression and getting them excited again!”

Schmuederrich sips his beer contentedly, prattles on, and every now and then calls out for “Irma, doll!” He means the goodly Frau Griebel. With great gusto she brings beer and sandwiches, opens the windows, and hauls a large fan into the room, which churns up the humid mixture of heat, paint, beer smell, and cigarette smoke. Josef feels dazed. Through a fog he hears words like “rocket scientists,” “air squadron generals,” “physicists,” “doctors,” “military advisers,” “representatives of German industry,” “former diplomats”—in short: big fish, but they couldn’t stay in Germany. Despite their proud past they would be persecuted there.