Only when Schmuederrich says something about a job does Josef start paying attention—sure, at the Casa Schirmer print shop. They’re in urgent need of extra help for Christmas card production, what with Christmas being just around the corner. Josef sits up and has Schmuederrich give him precise directions for how to get there, Schmuederrich adding that he could start tomorrow. Schmuederrich raises his bottle: “To freedom!”

Josef drinks in large gulps. He hopes Schmuederrich will leave soon. Then he hears him say, “You should make yourself useful to us at some point. We’re overthrowing the German government.”

Josef looks away. “Not interested.”

“We helped you out.”

“Without you and your friends I wouldn’t have needed any help.”

“You know what I think? That little girlfriend of yours. She was FBI.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh no it’s not.”

“No, Hans. She wasn’t FBI.”

He leaves the room, walks outside through the piercing light of the afternoon sun. Lauren is in the past. An eternity ago. But the pain is fresh. It’s there with him every second.

34

Buenos Aires, Christmas 1949

HE WATCHES THE MEN CLOSELY. FACES TURNING GROTESQUE when they laugh, neighing like horses. These are the men Schmuederrich looks up to. That he eagerly stares at. They, on the other hand, don’t seem to notice Schmuederrich, even though two of them are his customers at La Plata Aid.

Schmuederrich swirls the martini in his glass expectantly and points out the fantastic view they have out here on the terrace. They can see all the way to the Rio de la Plata, which glitters golden in the setting sun. True, it is nice at the Schlüters: stately palm trees adorn their garden, a wreath of deck chairs wraps around the circular pool, a Christmas tree drowns in tinsel.

Herr Schlüter, the successful German industrialist, appears before his guests in folk costume, complete with staghorn buttons. He nods at them—he is also a La Plata customer—but joins the more important gentlemen. Frau Schlüter, a slender vision in green silk, her posture ramrod straight, smiles graciously as she walks past them and vanishes back into the villa; the doorbell is ringing every minute now. The terrace fills up. A pair of young ladies wearing hats draped in netting park themselves next to them and start chatting away without even a glance in their direction. They’re complaining about the beautiful but impractical New Look from Dior, which they themselves have shown up wearing: high heels, long flowing skirts, cinched waists. A Yuletide boys’ choir is playing on the record player.

“There, you see what all I can offer you outside the penitentiary?”