He knew he would eventually have to become somebody, but he still had time for that. He could start fresh—yes, he was starting fresh. He wandered through the streets feeling invincible. Invincible, as if he hadn’t been born yet.

He had stopped thinking about Carl.

After a few days, Arthur found him. Josef was lying on his suitcase; Arthur looked him up and down. “German. I can tell by the cigarettes.”

Josef sat up. “Hardworking people,” he said, pitching himself, and smiled, because Arthur had something trustworthy and kind in his gaze, and he wore a red-blond Charlie Chaplin mustache. Josef gave him his last Bremaria; Arthur offered him a Chesterfield in exchange.

“I’ve been seeing you walking down Vandam Street for days. I’ve got my shop there. I’d have a place for you to stay. A couch. What’s your name?”

“Josef.”

“Give Joe a try.”

He ordered himself to trust Arthur. He followed him into the subway, his red-blond hair always in sight, let him lead him around the city, through its countless entrances and exits, its noise. Often he didn’t know where the noise was coming from. At some point they were back aboveground. This was the Bronx, Arthur said.

The apartment was right next to an elevated train track, on the sixth floor. Arthur locked the door behind them. Darkness, the smell of wet wool. He could barely see a thing. “You can have the couch. The bathroom is down the hall. Two dollars a week. You can earn it from me at the shop. A print shop.”

Everything in this apartment shook whenever a train thundered past. He had never heard such a noise. He lay on his back, and the noise sent vibrations throughout his body. He felt the full extent of it, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, and realized that for the first time this body belonged to him, as if this city had given him shape, footing, however much it might rattle him.

13

New York, March 1939

MAX WAS VERY TALL. AS HE STEPPED INSIDE JOSEF’S APARTMENT he stooped a little, shoulders slumped, as if ever since he’d gotten his first growth spurt he’d also been bowing apologetically to others. Princess started barking.

“Does he bite?”

“She doesn’t bite. She doesn’t usually bark either.”

Max tossed his wet hat and wet coat on the couch. Rain had been falling in Harlem for hours, blurred light outside the window. “Rough neighborhood. I was afraid I’d wind up with a knife in my back. Before I went back to Germany I lived in Bushwick. It was better there.”

He thought about how to respond. “Here we’ve got the best jazz in the world,” he finally countered.

“In Germany that’ll land you in jail.”

“Oh yeah?”