HE LIES IN HIS ROOM, COMPLETELY ENCASED IN CARL’S LIFE, down to his underwear. But his body seems not to want to let go of American time. His arms and legs are heavy with sleep. He could always sleep more. The sheets are warm and fragrant—he has never slept on such good sheets.

How long has he been here? The heat seems to blur everything together, make it all indistinguishable, like newsprint smudged under his fingertips.

He plays with the tassels of the white curtains. He makes little knots in them, and when he realizes, he undoes them again (but only for Edith’s sake). When he stands up the floorboards creak. And so he stays in bed. He wishes the family would forget him. That they would move on with their lives so he could move on with his. But then again, what life?

Here he is, suddenly back in his homeland, but it’s in ruins. The streets full of rubble and children playing. He could go to work for Carl, but that’s the last thing he feels like doing.

He imitates Carl’s voice: “I listened to Radio London. Tell me now, were you, over in America—were you able to educate yourself about what was happening here? No? Why not? Oh, so maybe you did after all?”

He thinks of the curiosity in Edith’s voice: “What’s it like to walk through New York? I mean, what’s it like when the buildings are so tall—isn’t it scary?”

There is something delicate, and yet at the same time strong, about Edith. It’s as though while Carl keeps ratcheting things up, she keeps dialing them back, lapsing into simple existence, an existence that has her bending down, picking up, passing around, bringing, clearing away, pouring, asking, nodding, with scarcely noticeable resentment.

They talk about everything but say little. “It’s like an oven outside,” said Edith yesterday.

“I’m only breathing through my mouth, like a dog,” he said.

She smiled. Then she asked, “Does it ever get this hot in New York?”

“Yes, and then people go to the air-conditioned department stores.”

“Air-conditioned?”

“Cool air from a cooling system.”

“That must cost a fortune.”

“We Americans will do anything for the customer.” We—he had actually said “we.”

“One of the hens died. Do you know how to butcher a hen, Josef?”

“Unfortunately that’s not something I learned in New York.”

“I’ll take the hen to a neighbor.”

“Carl can’t do it?”

They looked at each other. He laughed first; she laughed with him. Then she turned around, shamefaced. Pulled the knot of her apron a bit tighter before she bent back over the oven.

* * *