“And how do you know they’re not going to do just that?”

Lauren looked at him again. Then she said, “You’re right. We don’t know.”

Later, in the lobby, he was silent as Lauren talked. He suspected that after so much ridiculed German he wouldn’t have his accent under control. He stared at the film poster: YOUR GERMAN NEIGHBOR—WHERE ARE HIS ORDERS COMING FROM? WHO’S HE REPORTING TO?

He heard Lauren saying that the movie had won a prize, it had beaten The Wizard of Oz in a contest. “Granted, it’s a propaganda film. Still, though, the issue of how frustrated immigrants are easy to manipulate is well presented, don’t you think?”

She was still mid-sentence when he grabbed her by the elbow and led her outside.

It was dark by now. The air on Broadway smelled of dust and gas fumes. He liked this smell. They threaded their way among the people and neon signs. SCHAEFER BEER, PEPSI COLA—gold and red letters glowing against the night sky.

They walked in silence, side by side, strangely lost and yet, because of this, oddly connected. He took her hand, caressed the palm with his thumb, and felt reminded of another woman; he tried to remember which.

“Don’t expect so much of me,” she said quietly.

“What do you mean?” he asked and let go of her hand.

She was silent.

“What a joke,” he said. And finally: “It’s late. I’ll get you a taxi and take you home.”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is, Lauren.”

He knew that he had to take her home, and suddenly he felt like God, all-knowing. He grandly hailed a cab, though he didn’t even know where Lauren lived. She looked at him quizzically, a bit hostile, but this too he just let slide right off him. He held the door open for her. She got in on the other side.

“Lauren, I’m taking you home. I’ll need your address.”

She leaned forward and told her street and house number to the back of the driver’s head. It was an address in Brooklyn, a long ride.

They turned off Frankfort Street and onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Lauren looked out the window, her face turned away from him. Lauren’s instincts were working. After all, he was keeping something secret from her, something essential.

It had started raining; a pedestrian opened up a newspaper and held it over his hat.

Suddenly Lauren exhaled loudly and looked at him: “Really, it’s unbelievable how the Germans here act.”

He agreed with her, but said, “They haven’t been back home for many years. Maybe they’re homesick.”

“For Germany?”

“Yes. For the country as they remember it.”

“But they’re supporting today’s Germany.”

“Maybe they’re confusing homesickness with patriotism.”

“But patriotism isn’t any better, Joe!” she said. She was getting worked up now.