They walked to the park entrance and then down 86th Street toward Park Avenue. He could barely follow the conversation at first. She spoke at a frantic pace, telling him all about her stressful night shifts. She had the hardest job in New York, she said—talk about backbreaking labor. There was a note of amusement in her voice, as if, on the other hand, she didn’t take any of it seriously. They passed the Rathskeller, Café Hindenburg, and Der Schwarze Adler. He would have liked to find her pretty, but she wasn’t today either. She had an inharmonious face with a small, short chin and slightly bulging gray eyes. But he liked her voice. He felt himself putting on his crooked grifter’s smile, which women said made him look attractive. That’s how he knew that he wanted her to like him.

How was his trip? Where did he go? He waved his hand dismissively and gave a brief shake of his head. “I’ll tell you later.” Was everything all right? she asked. Her directness shook him. He froze, his throat tight. Then he took a deep breath, told himself she had no idea what she was asking. She was young. She was simply trying everything out, just like her backbreaking job and just like this city. She was trying him out.

They went past the Berlin Bar and the Old Heidelberg. The anti-fascists’ protests were having an effect; only occasionally could a defiant little swastika flag be seen in one of the shop windows.

Lauren told him that she had applied for a spot in a scholarship program and had been rejected. Just what was it she wanted to study? “American history and literature.”

“And why these particular subjects?” he asked, unsure of himself, and as they passed another restaurant he peered in the open door. From inside came the smell of roasted meat.

“I actually want to be a journalist,” she said quietly.

“A journalist?” he said.

In response, she went down a list of famous women journalists: Frances Sweeney, Nellie Bly, Dorothy Day, Dorothy Thompson. All names he had never heard. She seemed to take note. Thompson had interviewed Hitler in Germany years ago, she told him. And now she was collecting money for refugees at different charity events in New York. A fantastic person. He nodded agreement and tried to come up with a response. His mouth was dry.

“No rain this time,” he said finally and noted her look of bewilderment.

They went past the Yorkville cinema. Lauren read off the German titles with great effort and the wrong pronunciation. “Fünf Millionen suchen einen Erben.” He said it properly for her—Five Million Look for an Heir—and also “Olympia, Fest der Völker”—Olympia, Festival of Nations—by Leni Riefenstahl.

He took a closer look at the poster. So that was Heinz Rühmann, the regular-guy type that he was supposed to resemble?