He sent the boy home, headed back to the print shop, and found Arthur smoking in his office. When he stormed inside, the jolt caused the door of the cabinet against the wall to open—suddenly Josef was looking at rosy, ample thighs and bare breasts. He was about to ask Arthur where he got off signing him up for the rally at Madison Square Garden without asking him first when Arthur beat him to the punch: “Mrs. Dollings canceled her order. What happened?”

“What did she say?”

“That she’s lost her trust.”

Trust. The word cut strangely deep. As if he were a crook. Only then did he hear the radio, Father Coughlin’s singing cadence, as if the priest was savoring every syllable. “We have nothing against Jews,” and then: “But . . .” Several million listeners.

“Turn the radio off, please. I can’t listen to that guy anymore.”

“Oh-ho, since when are you so sensitive?” mocked Arthur and turned it off. “We’re going to another Christian Front meeting tomorrow. Think of it like church. We don’t have to believe any of it. The important thing is that we’re there.”

“I’m already looking forward to it.”

“Try making a little more of an effort, Joe.”

Josef opened his mouth to say something but then just swallowed. He didn’t like the way Arthur had been talking recently. He knew that Arthur was under a lot of strain, but everyone was under a lot of strain. The city seemed like it was about to combust. And it was at times like this that friendship was most important.

They smoked a cigarette together. Josef told him about Schmuederrich, though he didn’t mention that Schmuederrich had floated the prospect of a job as a radio operator. He toyed with the thought of telling Arthur he was quitting if this new job was a good one. Then they could just be friends.

* * *

It’s getting close to noon, and the truck still isn’t empty. He’s sweating. He’d like to take his jacket off, but he doesn’t know if he can handle the look Carl would give him.

Carl stops in the shade of an empty facade that rises up like a ghost. They both get out. “It’s quiet here,” Carl says and hands him a buttered roll.

Josef feels the bread stick in his throat. As he chews he looks at the cracked pavement. Grass and dandelions grow in the gaps.

Carl tells him about neighbors who had twins—“Thank God that’s all behind us now!”—and about the extra ration of butter that has been approved for their daughter; Täubchen is certifiably underweight. Carl jumps from one subject to the next. Josef mumbles agreement to all of it.