“Jazzhounds go to jail.” Max smiled, and it wasn’t clear whether he approved of this rule or was making fun of it.

“Should we start?” asked Josef.

“Easy does it, now. Calm down. The appointment is in half an hour. Can you make some coffee?”

Easy does it, now. Calm down. No one ever said that who was actually calm.

Max used one finger to transmit instead of placing three fingers on the Morse key and using his index finger to press the knob. His code didn’t have any rhythm, was downright unmusical. He had a long line of numbers in front of him. Encryption was prohibited for amateurs. Josef didn’t know what problem he should point out to Max first. He was sitting there with his mouth all twisted up and sending nonsense out into the ether.

“They’re going to send you back a question mark.”

“Really?”

“You’re not leaving a clear space between signals, no one can understand you. How long have you been sending Morse code?”

“During training in Hamburg they convinced me to use my right hand. I’m left-handed. It’s hard with my right hand.”

“Was there a test?”

The look on Max’s face turned into a sneer; there was no answer. Again the question mark came through to them: dit-dit-dah-dah-dit-dit.

“You have to relax your arm more. Look, this is how you do it.” Josef pulled the key closer and demonstrated.

“I can’t learn it that quickly.”

“Then use the microphone.”

“They only want Morse code. Can’t you take over for today?”

“Encryption is prohibited. If somebody recognizes my handwriting, I’ll be in for it.”

Max pulled out two ten-dollar bills. Josef rubbed his neck, then he nodded and took the money. “For today. But I’ll have to think about whether I can keep doing it in the future.”

“You go ahead and think about it.”

Again the scornful look. Josef hesitated, then he pulled the row of numbers closer and started transmitting. After ten minutes he received a confirmation. Max sat down on the couch and lit himself a cigarette—Bremaria, from Germany—but only when Josef looked over did he offer him one. Josef took a drag. The taste filled his senses, took him back to Düsseldorf, back to the fields by the Rhine, the sight of ships, back to being young at that time, a youth without a future.

“At one o’clock they’re expecting the next transmission, this time on another frequency,” Max told him.

“Why are you sending in code?”

“Should just anybody be able to find out who our customers are and what we’re selling them?”

“And why aren’t we sending everything at once?”

“Security measures. This way they can’t track our coordinates.”

Max swirled his cold coffee. Next door Mrs. Meeropol was yelling at her kids.

“What is it we’re sending?”