Lauren looked him in the eye as they talked. She had none of the self-consciousness of other women, the kind who played with their hair a lot, laughed too loud, and locked both themselves and him into a perpetual smile.

“The Catskills. That’s where New Yorkers go for vacation, right?”

“My parents run a hotel in Woodstock. No vacation for us. Our vacation was coming to New York City.”

“Got it,” he said.

“Was it the same for you, back then? That you felt you just had to get away? You’re not from here, right?”

“No, I’m not from here.”

A pause set in. She waited for him to keep talking.

“It was different. I didn’t have a choice.” She looked confused, ready to object—as if he didn’t understand how serious her situation was. But he didn’t want to talk about war and hunger. He wanted instead to hear her voice, a voice that was more familiar to him than her face. “Tell me more about the hotel.”

“A small family hotel. With a ballroom, a dance orchestra, and a swimming pool outside with a view of the mountains.”

“Sounds horrible. I’d take off too.”

“Cut it out, Joe,” she said with a laugh. “You’re not in my shoes.”

He felt the sleeve of her coat brush against his when she took a step back, away from the rain, and he used the moment to glance down. She wore shoes with tall heels. If she took them off she’d be the same height as him.

He lit up another cigarette, held the pack out to her again, but this time she shook her head.

“And where are you from, Joe?”

“Germany.”

“Germany,” she repeated and paused in case he wanted to elaborate.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to give in to the indignity of having to state where he stood on things, as had been expected of Germans for some time now. Finally he said, “You know, Lauren, in America you’re actually supposed to act as if you were always here. I always liked that. It’s only recently that things are different.”

She nodded and took a step out from under the awning. “It’s stopped.”

They went south, the majestic Plaza Hotel in sight ahead of them. He told her that he particularly liked Central Park at this time of year, when the trees were bare, the view of the surrounding buildings clear. Lauren liked the park’s hills and dales, the winding paths, and she explained that the architects who designed it in the nineteenth century had tried to reproduce the natural American landscape rather than the manicured parks of Europe. He gave her a look to show he was impressed. She pulled a New York travel guide from her pocket: “It’s all in here.”