“The radioman,” said Schmuederrich, and Josef felt himself sitting up straighter. He was being sized up; it was a test.

“Let’s speak in private, Nikolaus.” The man had addressed Dr. Ritter, speaking with an accent that Josef had never heard. The two men went to a spot over by the wall that was screened by a curtain, then they disappeared through the wall like something in a magic trick, and he had the feeling that whatever the test was, he hadn’t passed.

It was silent at the table. Everyone seemed to know who the man was, just not him.

“That’s Duquesne,” said Schmuederrich finally, as if that explained everything. Had he missed something?

They drank their beers very slowly. Dr. Ritter’s glass was still half full. Max kneaded a piece of bread and hummed along to the music.

Who hasn’t spent a mild summer’s night dreaming of delight

and drinking wine on the Rhine.

The soul intoxicated . . . The sick heart healed.

A little later a woman appeared, the kind of woman he had only ever seen in the movies, wearing a fur stole and a silk dress, stunningly beautiful. She swept past them and likewise entered the back room. This time he noticed the leather-padded door.

“Tell us a bit more about your radio equipment,” Dr. Ritter said when he came back to the table. Josef placed the photo on the table. He didn’t show it to women anymore; they imagined nights being left sitting alone on the couch while squeals and strange voices floated through the room. He had never been able to get a woman to share in his excitement at how small the world truly was. The men, however, saw the picture and started asking questions. Yes, of course he knew Morse code. And yes, he could also transmit speech. Headphones, microphone—he had everything. He played it cool, enjoying the attention and the fact that he was finally in a position to answer questions to their satisfaction. He spoke at length of making single-layer solenoidal coils and electrical loads with variable resistors. He confirmed that it was possible to transmit as far as Hamburg and to receive signals from there. “This would speed up the firm’s communications enormously, Herr Dr. Ritter,” said Schmuederrich assiduously.

But he didn’t tell them the most important thing. What it was like to listen at night to the crackle and static as he carefully turned the tuning knob. To send out a signal and wait for someone to respond. Someone in Toronto, Helsinki, or Cairo. He was just a call sign and a voice; they were all just call signs and voices.