“By the way, Josef, in the next few days we have to go to city hall and get you registered.”

“I think they know I’m here,” he answers with a crooked grin, his teeth showing a bit on the left side of his mouth. It’s his special Joe grin, and he closes his eyes for a second. It’s gone. It doesn’t belong here, this grin, he can tell.

“It’s about the ration stamps,” Carl explains. “They have to verify who you are.” He grabs his beer glass and drinks, keeping his eye trained on Josef as he does.

“Josef?” Edith is standing next to him. He nods, and she gives him another ladleful of soup. He is now distinctly aware of Edith’s scent. It’s the same plain soap smell that envelops the whole family, but there’s something else there too, something that is uniquely hers, and if he could touch the smell, it would be as soft as velvet.

“Did you never think about getting married?” Carl asks suddenly.

“Thought about it, sure.”

“But never found the right one?”

“Might well have found the right one, but something got in the way.”

Carl nods and doesn’t probe any further. Now it’s Josef’s turn to speak. But Josef sees no point in speaking of a love that by Carl’s standards would be a useless love, completely useless and even harmful.

“Do you like it?” asks Edith.

“Very much, thank you,” he says without hesitation and smiles.

Does he like it? Food had always been important to him. Yes, very important. Eating could be revelatory for him, as if there were dead recesses of his being that could be resurrected by the aromas of a given meal, as if an unusual herb could tickle something in his brain awake.

“Do you know what Mama called you when you were away?”

“No, what?”

“Jö!”

Josef doesn’t understand but smiles. Edith laughs, though; she seems to understand.

“You wrote to her back then and said that in America they called you Joe now. Mama came over to us with your letter and said, ‘Our Josef has a new name, Jö!’ I told her, ‘No, Mama, you say it like this: Dscho.’ That’s right, isn’t it?”

He nods. He finds the story funny, but something about it hurts. As he keeps eating he gets more and more tired and doesn’t mind when Carl starts conferring about various things with Edith—a table that has to be moved, a dresser down in the cellar that has to be repaired and painted. The girl keeps looking at him the whole time, and he asks quietly, in English, “How are you, my little dove?” She smiles and murmurs, “Good, thank you,” and keeps looking at him.