Beads of sweat on Schmuederrich’s forehead and cheeks. By the time the sun has sunk behind the trees, about two hundred guests fill the terrace and garden. Schmuederrich runs into acquaintances every now and then, mostly care-package subscribers, but he just gives a brief nod; he wants to keep himself free for the big shots. Josef asks if they all got here after the war. “Of course, what do you think?” Schmuederrich replies curtly. Josef just wanted to hear it said. Cigars are passed around. Dior chitchat to the left, war chitchat to the right. “What a mistake, blowing Germany to shreds, the only bulwark against the Red hordes!” “America’s got another thing coming to them!” A special fury is reserved for the cowardly generals, the cowardly suicides.

Something is wrong with Josef’s new shoes; the leather in the front has split off from the sole. Must be the heat. Cheap shoes, you end up paying for it later.

“Some crackers and cheese cubes, gentlemen?”

Schmuederrich sets down his empty martini glass, asks for cigars, and stares over at the men. He seems as lost as Josef, who notices that some of the men even seem to make a point of looking past them.

“What are they calling you here now, José?” Schmuederrich asks absently.

“I don’t care what people call me.”

“Don’t you go along with it. They keep trying to call me Juan here. No way. The putas say it all the time.”

“Putas?”

“Whores. Got some pretty kitties out here.”

One of the Schlüter children skips among the assembled guests in a nightshirt, hiding behind the ladies’ evening gowns. The nanny walks around in a crouch, arms outspread, searching, then gathers up the child, who bubbles over with laughter.

“How’s your job at Casa Schirmer?”

“They’re not keeping me on. End of the month, that’s it.”

“It’s because you run your mouth too much about America. How you’re saving your money and want to go back. It’s gotten back to me.”

“I might have my problems with the American government. But not with America.”

Schmuederrich rolls his eyes.

Frau Schlüter claps her hands and asks everyone to please join her in the salon for the Christmas festivities. He has to lift his foot well off the ground so the sole doesn’t drag on the floor. Schmuederrich doesn’t notice anything. In the salon, lined with fabric wallpaper, an old man is waiting at the piano, his face obscured by bushy white eyebrows. “Oh, du goldenes Meer!” he calls out. Oh, you golden sea! Some listeners close their eyes, gripped with emotion. “Oh, you stars!” he cries. “How you look down upon us and think of us, though we’re no longer here!”