Schmuederrich was beloved. He created this flattering atmosphere of exclusivity and importance. But what was Josef’s role? What did Schmuederrich want from him? He turned to look around, and a pair of kids in the row behind them, a girl in a dirndl, a little boy in a man’s suit, stuck their tongues out at him.

He withdrew deeper into himself. Suddenly regiments of flagbearers flooded the aisles. Onstage a group of storm troopers appeared, their gaze directed at nothing. The drums played a march. Enforced solemnity all around, he scarcely dared breathe. “This is incredible,” said Schmuederrich. “This is like Nuremberg!”

Josef nodded. The wiry beard hair, when his fingertip passed over it, was capable of filling his entire consciousness. He could concentrate on a tiny point, allow himself to be absorbed by it. He could, like he’d done in the church pew with his parents, when a bit of lint from his sleeve danced in the light flooding in through the windows, exchange the big for something small.

Applause roared from the bleachers. A speaker assured the people that they weren’t doing anything evil here. More applause. That the American press slandered them because they told the truth. Because they, like the best minds in Germany, warned against the dangerous mixing of the races—that was their duty. For everyone knew that a “standard human race,” such as Communism advocated for, was an illusion, a blasphemous error that only served the goal of making the world the same everywhere, in order to more easily control it. No one here had anything against other races. But each race should protect and honor its particular God-given qualities.

He knew it all by heart. He’d had to proofread it again and again before printing it. Every time he read it he had the same thought, that the qualities they were talking about weren’t something that held true for all eternity. After all, he himself had gone from being a Rhinelander to being a New Yorker.

Where was Fritz Kuhn, anyway? Kuhnazi. Chief of the Ratzis. That’s how he was mocked in the press. Schmuederrich had said that they were mainly here for Kuhn.

An hour had already passed. He thought about whether he should go to Sam’s Pizza on the corner of 125th afterward or get out a stop early, then he could buy Chinese dumplings and heat them up at home. Work at the print shop didn’t start until eleven tomorrow morning. They had been working nonstop the past couple of days, printing flyers, brochures too. You could buy them at the tables all around, plus, despite the ban, swastika pins paired with little American flags.