The German House

Part Two

I SWEAR TO TELL THE TRUTH, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

It was the twenty-third day of the trial, and today the first testimonies from Polish-speaking witnesses would be heard. Eva was no longer seated in the outermost spot at the rear of the gallery, but now stood at the witness stand in the middle of the large auditorium. She was flanked by two older gentlemen in dark suits, the Czech translator and the English translator. Eva placed her left hand—which now bore a ring with a blue stone—on a heavy black book with a small stamped golden cross, and lifted up her right hand. Eva addressed the chief judge, who regarded her amiably, and his two associate judges. Her raised hand shook slightly. Her heart beat fast and hard, from her chest up into her throat.

“Please speak a little louder, Fräulein Bruhns.”

Eva nodded, took a deep breath, and started over. She swore to translate carefully and faithfully all documents and testimonies delivered in Polish and examined in the trial. She would neither add nor omit any details. As Eva spoke, she thought she caught David Miller turning away in disdain, but the blond man calmly watched her take the oath. Eva could feel the looks coming from her left. From the defendants’ tables. Some of the men and their attorneys regarded her with favor. Because she was a healthy young woman with bright blond hair. Because she looked decent and respectable in her high-collared, dark blue suit and flat shoes.

“… so help me God,” Eva finished. The chief judge gave her a tight nod. The two other interpreters were then sworn in. Eva’s nerves quieted some, and her gaze fell upon the large map behind the bench. From this distance, she could make out the inscriptions. Block 11. Main Camp. Crematorium. Gas Chamber. “Arbeit macht frei” was printed at the bottom. One of the other interpreters smelled strongly of alcohol. Probably the Czech. O Lord, preserve my judgments, Eva thought sardonically. Her own breath was undoubtedly stale and sour, because she had hardly managed breakfast this morning. This morning—it seemed so long ago. Yet only two hours had passed. At seven thirty, Eva sat at the kitchen table with Annegret and Stefan and nervously stirred her coffee, the spoon clinking inside the cup. Their mother came up from the cellar with a jar of preserves labeled “Blackberry ’63.” She handed the screw-top jar to Annegret, who opened it effortlessly, without so much as glancing up from her newspaper. A hiss escaped from under the lid, and for several minutes Stefan tried to mimic the sound. “Pfiiiifffffff” was the closest approximation. Edith scraped off the layer of greenish-white mold into the trash. She joined her children at the table and spread jam on a piece of bread for Stefan. Then they all recalled how late last summer, Edith had ridden her bicycle up the local mountain, two tin pails hung from either side of the handlebars, with another large bucket secured to the rear rack. On the mountain, Edith filled the three pails with jet-black, sun-ripened berries. The sisters were in the living room, watching the show On Sundays, It’s My Treat when their mother returned from her outing, and they jumped up in horror as she entered. “Mummy! What happened? Did you have an accident?!” Eva ran to the phone to call the doctor, while Annegret tried to take Edith’s pulse. Edith didn’t understand what all the fuss was about, till she saw her face in the hallway mirror—she looked terrifying. Blackish-red berry juice was smeared over her lips and chin, and her pastel blouse was covered in dark stains. Edith had snacked as she picked, and the sticky juice ran down her chin. Patting her face with her handkerchief only worsened things. It looked like she’d fallen on her face and was bleeding heavily from the mouth. All three women had broken into laughter of relief that summer day. But no one laughed that morning at the breakfast table. A dark gray cardboard folder lay beside Eva’s plate like a poisoned letter. It contained evidence the witness Jan Kral had provided to the prosecution’s investigator two years earlier, which Eva would translate today in court. Eva had read through the documents twice the previous evening. If everything Herr Kral claimed to have experienced and seen was true, it was a miracle he was still alive. As she took a sip of coffee, she wondered what he must look like. Bent and full of sadness. At the same time, Stefan was whining about the sandwich his mother was making him for recess.

“I don’t like crone beef. It’s gross!”

“Mettwurst?”

“That’s even grosser! Ew! That makes me sick to my stomach!”

“Well, I have to put something on it. Or do you just want butter?”

“Yuck, butter is gross!”

At that, Eva took her folder and lightly hit Stefan on the back of the head. “Stop being a baby!” Stefan looked at his sister in surprise, but she got up and left the room.

“Don’t you want to take a sandwich, Eva?”

“I can eat there, Mum, there’s a cafeteria.”

Eva pulled on her wool coat in the hall. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was pale, her face almost white, and her knees felt like pudding, her stomach as though some furry creature were carving it out from the inside. As she listened to the quiet emanating from the kitchen, the silence of her mother and sister, she admitted to herself that what she’d felt creeping up inside her for days now was fear. She tried to puzzle out what it was she feared most: the fact that she would be speaking in front of all those people, or was it the responsibility she had to find the correct translation? Was it fear of not understanding the witnesses properly? Or, indeed, of understanding them exactly? Eva placed the folder in her leather briefcase, which she had given herself as a gift for earning her certification three years earlier. She put on her hat, called “Auf Wiedersehen!” toward the kitchen, but only received a response from Stefan.

“See you later, alligator!”

It was one of those days that has no weather, no sunrise and no sunset, a day that remains utterly gray, that turns neither warm nor cold. The snow was no more than a memory now. Eva walked all the way to the municipal building. With every step, her courage waned, seeping away like snowmelt in the gutter, and by the time she reached her destination it had vanished almost entirely. But the moment she entered the packed foyer and took in the countless reporters and two men with heavy cameras, recognized several defendants shaking hands, noticed policemen saluting the white-haired main defendant—the moment she witnessed the sense of self-evidence these men exuded and heard their strident voices, and then spotted individuals or small groups of tense, quiet, and knowing women and men standing round, Eva knew she was in the right place.

The hall never really brightened, even as midday approached, the foggy glass panes gleaming a soft gray. An attendant turned on the overhead lights, and the spherical fixtures floated over their heads like great glowing bubbles. Although several windows were cracked open, the air was thick. It smelled of damp wool, leather, and wet dog. Following their swearing-in, the interpreters were seated on the side of the prosecution. Eva took a seat directly behind David Miller. She pulled the dark folder from her briefcase and placed it on the table in front of her. She looked at the back of David’s head, at his reddish hair that was just a little too long at the nape of his neck. He looked like a boy from behind. Like Stefan when he occasionally succumbed to childish brooding. David was reading through papers that he passed on to the blond man after a quick perusal. On the other side of the room, a tall man stood up. He fished through the folds of his robe and withdrew a silver pocket watch on a chain, which he popped open to check the time, somewhat absentmindedly. His long, soft features and white tie reminded Eva of the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, a book neither she nor Stefan had liked because this wonderland was inhabited exclusively by unfriendly characters. The man was representing seven of the defendants. He made a motion to hear witness testimony from the wives of Defendant Number Four and the main defendant. Eva turned toward the gallery to look for the woman in the little hat, who smelled vaguely of roses, but couldn’t spot her in the crowd. The blond man stood and stated that the prosecution rejected the motion. There was no knowledge to be gained from such testimony, he argued, as the wives were biased. They could also refuse to give evidence, should such details serve to incriminate the defendants. A clash ensued between the defense attorney and the lead prosecutor about the number of witnesses for the defense. Eva knew that the first witness to be called today was Jan Kral. She opened her folder and reflected that Jan Kral’s wife, in any case, would not be called to the stand. The last time he had seen her was November 1, 1942.

The chief judge accepted the motion of the defense. Visibly pleased, the lawyer snapped shut his pocket watch. The blond man sat back down, took a drink of water, although he wasn’t thirsty, and crossed his arms. His colleagues exchanged looks. David Miller leaned in and whispered something to him, but the blond man shook his head gruffly in response.

The chief judge then announced, “The court will now commence the hearing of evidence. Please call to the stand the witness Jan Kral!” The blond man turned to signal Eva, but she had already risen and was headed for the witness stand. A police officer led a dignified elderly man into the room. Kral came across as suave in his dark blue suit, as though he were an attorney himself, or even an American film star. Eva knew from his file that he worked as an architect in Krákow. Kral held himself remarkably erect. Eva watched him approach and tried to catch his eye. But Kral looked past her, through his angular eyeglasses, straight at the bench. He did not look at the tables of the defendants to the left, either. When he reached Eva, she expected him to shake her hand. But he didn’t seem to notice her; his focus was now on the chief judge, who invited him to take a seat. Kral sat on the long side of the table, facing the judges. Eva did not sit beside him, but pulled up the chair at the end of the table, as she’d been instructed. On the table were two microphones, a simple carafe of water, and two glasses. The court began reviewing the witness’s personal details: name, birth date, place of residence, profession. Kral knew some German and delivered curt responses to these simple questions in a loud voice. Eva didn’t have anything to do yet. She pushed her notebook and pencil back and forth until perfectly positioned. She regarded the witness from the side, taking in his profile and distinctive eyeglasses. Kral had a slight tan and was clean-shaven, with a small nick on his strong chin. Eva noticed that he’d missed a bit of shaving cream beneath his right ear. She tried to breathe and smelled fresh soap.

David Miller observed Eva from where he sat, with a view of her in half profile from the back, of her feminine shoulders and tight chignon that just had to be real. Not padded with one of those strange round cushions that mostly older women used. Yet again, her appearance somehow infuriated him. He knit his eyebrows. He had a headache. He’d overdone it the night before with colleagues from the prosecution—only their boss and the blond man had not joined in the revelry. In the merry section of Berger Strasse, they had started with drinks at the Mokka Bar and watched the women slowly remove their clothing to the music. David then continued on his own and found his way into an establishment called Suzi’s, where loud Schlager music played. Half-naked women sat at the bar, and after twenty minutes, David wandered into a back room with the one who reminded him least of his mother. The room—number six—was windowless and overly perfumed, and someone had carpeted the walls. The woman, who said her name was Sissi, quickly undressed and opened his pants. David had been with plenty of prostitutes in the past. It wasn’t about desire. The act of intercourse was invariably mechanical and joyless. The women never smelled the way he hoped. But he could always tell himself afterward that he was a contemptible human being. His mother would be appalled. The thought pleased him in a strange way. The double bed had such a soft mattress, he thought he might sink into it and eventually emerge in Australia. Or, rather, what was the antipode of this German city? He thought of the globe he’d had in his bedroom as a kid, and how he had pierced it with a long knitting needle to see what was on the other side of the world. Where will I come out if I dig a tunnel? He recalled this as he lay down on top of Sissi: he’d have drowned in the Indian Ocean. Sissi smelled a bit musty and sweet, like raisins, which he didn’t like and had fished out of desserts since he was a boy. As he penetrated her, he mused that she must have had at least one child. The review of personal details had now concluded in the auditorium. David turned his mind back to the trial.

“Herr Kral, when exactly did you arrive at the camp?”

Jan Kral now responded in Polish. He spoke rapidly, without any discernible pause for breath.

Thankfully, Eva thought, he doesn’t speak in a regional dialect. She took notes. Ghetto, boxcar, bucket, straw, children, three days, son… Kral spoke faster and faster. Men. Officers. Trucks. What was that last word? Red Cross? He said that in German, didn’t he? Eva could not keep up. She quietly addressed Kral in Polish.

“Please! Herr Kral. I’m sorry, you’re speaking too fast. Please, you must take short breaks.”

Jan Kral fell silent and turned to the side. He looked at Eva in confusion, as though he didn’t understand who she was. Eva repeated her hushed plea, and the chief judge leaned in to his microphone.

“Is there a problem?”

Eva shook her head, but turned so red, it must have been visible to the spectators in the gallery. Some of the defendants, who all had a clear view of Eva’s face, grinned and snorted—it was the less educated of the men, the stoker and the medical orderly. Kral had now realized what Eva’s task was, and gave her a quick nod. He started from the beginning and spoke more slowly. Eva intently studied his lips, which blurred before her eyes. Her hands went cold. The blood began to roar so loudly in her ears, she could no longer hear Kral properly. I can’t do it. I’ve got to get out of here! I’m going to get up and leave. I’ve got to run… I’ll run… But then Eva noticed how, one after the other, small beads of sweat were appearing on Kral’s forehead. His chin began to twitch. Only Eva could see it. She felt ashamed. What were her nerves compared to his hardships? She calmed down. Kral stopped speaking and looked at his hands, which rested on the tabletop. A drop of sweat ran down his right temple. Eva referred to her notes and translated what Jan Kral had said up to that point. She noticed that she was trying to mimic his tone.

“On October twenty-eighth, ’42, I was deported from the Krákow ghetto with my wife and son. We traveled for three days by freight train. In a locked boxcar. There were no sanitation facilities. Just a bucket in the corner for eighty people. We had no food or water. People died along the way, at least ten. The elderly in particular. When we arrived, on November first, at the ramp, they pulled us out of the boxcar. Then the survivors were split up. Women, children, and the elderly to the left, men to the right. Two SS officers argued over whether my son—he was eleven, but already big—belonged on the left or the right. I thought that those on the left would be sent to a less strenuous camp. And I didn’t want him to have to work. I got involved. I told one of them, my son is still too young, he can’t work. He nodded, and my son climbed together with my wife into a truck. It was from the Red Cross, which reassured me. Then they drove away.” Eva fell silent. The chief judge leaned forward to ask a question, but Kral started speaking again. It was only a few more sentences, and he spoke rapidly, his words tumbling out by the end. Then he stopped, as though he were finished. Eva looked at Kral from the side, at his Adam’s apple above his starched white collar. She watched him swallow and swallow and swallow.

Eva whispered in Polish, “Could you please repeat the final sentence one more time?” Everyone was waiting, and someone drummed his knuckles impatiently on a tabletop. But Kral shook his head imperceptibly and looked over at Eva. Behind his glasses, his eyes were red. His chin was trembling. Eva sensed that it was impossible for him to continue. She paged through her dictionary and looked up two words, “slup” and “dym.” Pillars and smoke. She leaned toward her microphone and stated what she believed to have heard at the very end. “At the camp later that evening, another prisoner pointed out a smokestack on the horizon. He said, ‘Look. Your son and wife are climbing into the heavens.’”

Kral removed his glasses and pulled out a checkered handkerchief that was freshly pressed and folded. Eva thought, He bought that for the trial. Kral used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Then he hid his face in it.

For a moment, no one spoke in the hall, even among the defendants. A number of them had closed their eyes, as though dozing. The blond man jotted something down, then asked, “Herr Kral, why did you think your family would be sent to a less strenuous camp?”

Eva repeated the question in Polish. Jan Kral blew his nose, swallowed once more, and responded.

“One of the SS men on the ramp promised me it would happen,” Eva translated.

“Who?” the blond man wanted to know. Kral didn’t move. “Was it one of the defendants? Do you see him here?”

Kral put his glasses back on, then turned to face the defendants’ tables. His gaze lingered briefly on Defendant Number Four’s haggard face. Then he indicated Number Seventeen, the pharmacist in dark glasses. He snorted, practically amused, as though he’d been chosen to perform some prank in a parlor game. He stood calmly, and as he responded, Eva translated for Kral.

“That’s a lie. The witness must be mistaking me for another person.” The pharmacist sat back down.

His defense attorney, the White Rabbit, stood up. “Herr Kral, you claim to have arrived at the camp on November first, ’42? The defendant was not even on site that day, as he was visiting Munich from November first through fifth. He underwent surgery there. We have documentation.”

Eva translated. Kral replied, “It may have been October thirty-first when we arrived. One loses his sense of time when locked in a boxcar.”

The chief judge addressed his associate judges. “Are death certificates available for the Kral family?” Head-shaking.

“Maybe the entire story is untrue. I doubt the witness’s credibility,” the defense attorney said, which Eva translated for Kral. He looked at Eva and went white in the face.

At the same time, the blond man countered sharply, “Many of the victims’ names were not even known, as I am sure the defense is well aware! Your Honor, we have here the witness’s registration at the camp.” David Miller produced the document in question. The blond man quoted, “The witness was registered as prisoner number 20117 at the main camp on November first, ’42. It was not uncommon for arrivals not to be processed until the following day. An arrival on October thirty-first is therefore entirely plausible.”

Eva translated for Kral. The chief judge asked, “Herr Kral, do you remember when, exactly, you were registered after your arrival? Was it the same day? Or later?”

“I don’t remember.” Following a pause, he added, “To me, November first is the day my wife and son died.”

The defense attorney declared, “I repeat: you therefore could not have seen my client on the ramp, Herr Kral.”

Defendant Number Seventeen now took off his sunglasses and gave the witness almost a friendly nod. “I’m sorry, sir, but I was never on this so-called ramp.”

Someone let out a cry of indignation from the gallery, and the crowd whispered. The chief judge called for order, then asked the witness to describe his arrival at the camp again, step by step, to allow for a better understanding of the timing. Eva translated for Kral. He gave her a quizzical look, and she repeated the request.

“Once more, from the beginning.”

Kral began to shake; a giant invisible hand appeared to have seized him and was shaking every bone in his body. Eva turned toward the prosecution for help. The blond man saw that the witness needed a break, and motioned to the chief judge.

A windowless, low-ceilinged room behind the auditorium, which was normally used as a green room for performers, served as a waiting area for the witnesses. The lead prosecutor, together with David Miller, was there questioning Kral, who had declined to sit. He stood, swaying, with his back to an illuminated mirror and his face drained of color. His suit appeared to have become too big for him, his collar too wide. Any trace of his initial stateliness had vanished. Eva translated: his testimony was important, he had to try and remember. But Kral stated that he would no longer subject himself to this situation. He had realized that it would not bring his wife and son back to life. David grew more insistent and told Kral that he also had a responsibility. A responsibility to the other victims! He grabbed Kral by the shoulder, but the blond man pulled David back.

“You can’t force me,” Kral said. The blond man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the witness. Kral took a cigarette. He and the blond man smoked. All four were silent. A few open-face sandwiches sat on a tray by one of the mirrors, left over from the day before. The slices of meat on top were sweating and had turned up at the edges. Like the others, the mirror was framed by a wreath of glowing white lightbulbs. One clearly had a loose connection and flickered alarmingly. Eva could see that David was fit to burst from impatience and aggravation. He had dark bags under his eyes, as though he had barely slept.

With strained self-control, he now said, “Herr Kral, you are not only an important witness with regard to the pharmacist. You are also critical in the case against Defendant Number Four, the Beast—”

“Herr Miller, I’ve already told you—” the blond man interrupted him.

David waved it off. “Yes, fine. Herr Kral, you are one of the few to have survived the tortures of Block Eleven. You must testify!” Then he barked at Eva, “Translate that!” Eva was about to speak when Kral’s knees suddenly buckled and he fell like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Eva and David barely managed to catch him and helped him onto a chair. Eva took his half-smoked cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray.

The blond man gave David a long look and said, “We already had our doubts during the pre-trial interviews. I don’t think we should insist any further if he’s crumbling already. We’re just wasting time.” He addressed Eva, “You needn’t translate that, Fräulein Bruhns!”

David started to respond, but the blond man looked at the clock, nodded at Kral, and exited the room. David followed him sulkily, without another glance at either Kral or Eva. He left the door open. Eva was outraged. How could those two simply leave this man sitting here like a broken appliance? She turned to Kral, who sat hunched over on the chair.

“Would you like something to drink, Herr Kral? A glass of water?”

He turned it down with a wave of his hand. “No, thank you.”

Eva studied the man indecisively. He also seemed unsure of what came next. It looked like he was waiting for directions. Eva rested her hand on his lower arm, to her own surprise.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to reconsider?”

Kral didn’t look at Eva. “How old are you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Such a young person shouldn’t concern herself with the dead. She should live.” With that, he struggled out of the chair, murmured a good-bye, and left the room. Eva watched the flickering lightbulb and wondered whom Kral blamed for the death of his son: the men out there or himself.

IN THE NURSERY, where—like in court—the electric lights had been on all day, Annegret prepared the infants for their second feeding. She placed the tiny bundles, which screeched with hunger, into small carts that she and Nurse Heide wheeled to the maternity ward. There Frau Bartels, a young mother, was already sitting up in bed in her private room—Herr Bartels had money—and waiting for her little Henning. Frau Bartels looked quite fresh again, after two weeks battling childbed fever. She and her boy were going to be released soon. Annegret lifted Henning from the carriage and laid him howling on his mother’s bare breast. His cries quieted immediately and he began to suckle loudly. Annegret gazed at the back of his tiny, lightly bobbing head and smiled. Frau Bartels looked over her child at Annegret and decided that, although the nurse was a little too fat and wore too much makeup, she liked her. And that would be the case even if she hadn’t saved her son’s life. Frau Bartels had developed a high fever shortly after his birth, and breast-feeding was out of the question—the nurses had had to feed little Henning formula from a syringe. On Christmas Day, however, Henning suddenly began vomiting violently, and later developed diarrhea. He shed weight by the day, until his little arms were as thin and pliable as reeds. Every half hour, Annegret gave him a spoonful of sugar water, which immediately ran out the sides of his mouth. But she didn’t give up. And after three days, Henning—more dead than alive, weighing just fifteen hundred grams—kept more of the solution down for the first time. Bit by bit from that moment on, things had started looking up. He now weighed almost as much as he had at birth. Frau Bartels was immensely grateful, which she repeated to Annegret yet again. As Annegret started for the door, however, Frau Bartels grabbed her arm and whispered, “There’s something else I have to tell you, Nurse. My husband is suspicious and wonders whether Henning might have been given spoiled formula. He submitted a written complaint to the hospital. I just hope this won’t cause you any trouble. I would be so sorry for that, after everything you’ve done for Henning.” Frau Bartels looked at her apologetically. Annegret smiled in reassurance.

“That’s perfectly all right. I would do the very same in your husband’s position. I’ll be back for Henning in half an hour.” Annegret left the room. The moment she stepped into the corridor, the smile vanished from her face. I have to stop doing this, she thought, and not for the first time.

AT LUNCHTIME, most of the people involved in the trial went to the cafeteria in the municipal building. Members of the prosecution, spectators, witnesses, and family members chose between meatballs in caper gravy or goulash and ate at long tables in the impersonal, utilitarian space. Some of the defense attorneys, including the White Rabbit, also carried around their trays, searching for a spot. A group of defendants sat at a table to the side and satisfied their hunger like everyone else. People either ate in silence or spoke in low voices about the weather forecast, the terrible traffic, or the meat, which was generally considered dry or even rubbery. Eva took her tray to a table the other girls—the secretaries and stenotypists—had occupied. A rosy young lady in a pale suit, whom Eva had seen before at the public prosecutor’s office, smiled at her in welcome. Eva sat down across from her and began to eat the meatballs, which her father would never have allowed to leave the kitchen, lukewarm as they were. Eva didn’t have much of an appetite, anyway. Another two witnesses had testified before lunch, and both were from Poland. They had, however, spoken German well enough to testify without Eva’s help. Still, Eva had sat by them, to provide assistance if needed. She’d only had to translate a single word: canes. Because that’s what SS officers had carried on the ramp, instead of cudgels, to give new arrivals a sense of security when they stepped off the train. But if anyone spoke, asked a question, became defiant, or if children started crying—then the canes were used as clubs till quiet was restored. Both witnesses had seen Defendant Number Seventeen on the ramp. One of the witnesses also identified the main defendant, who denied as unequivocally as the pharmacist, ever having been at that place. Let alone having performed any of those so-called selections. Eva looked at the table across the cafeteria, enveloped by a cloud of cigarette smoke. She thought the defendants had all sounded like they were telling the truth. They all seemed surprised. Incredulous, almost incensed that one could think them capable of looking into people’s mouths and squeezing their biceps, and separating the able-bodied individuals from their relatives, tearing families apart forever. They convincingly denied sending those deemed useless straight to the gas chambers. Eva set aside her silverware. Ten thousand people a day. That’s what the witness Pavel Pirko, who’d been in a work unit responsible for cleanup on the ramp, said. Eva scanned the room for the mischievous little man, whose testimony was as animated as if he were recounting a boat tour on the Rhine. She couldn’t find him. All she saw was David Miller at the other end of the room, quickly and carelessly shoveling food into his mouth and addressing a colleague with his mouth full. Eva tried to visualize it: ten thousand women, children, men. Ten thousand weakened humans, who climbed one after the other into trucks and were driven off. The only thing she could imagine, however, was their hope for a warm shower and a piece of bread.

ON BERGER STRASSE, Eva’s mother, Edith, had gone downstairs to the laundry room, her arms laden with German House’s dirty linens. She stood before the new machine in her blue checkered smock and watched the first wash cycle. The closed white box pumped and thumped, as if a big heart were beating inside. Edith couldn’t break away from the sight, although she had plenty to get done in the kitchen. She had a vague sense that a new age was waltzing in. Or better yet, lumbering in, she thought, remembering how this monstrosity had required three men to carry into the cellar. Every Tuesday up till today, she had boiled aprons, tablecloths, dishtowels, and napkins in a large tub, stirred and churned them with a long wooden paddle, and finally drawn the soaking wet laundry from the lye, which made her eyes tear. Now she stood here and had nothing to do. She felt useless and sighed. Her hair was starting to thin and go gray, her body was losing its shape, becoming blurred, softer, weaker. Some nights, before putting on her face cream, Edith would sit in front of the mirror and pull her skin back, till her face appeared as smooth as it once had. She would sometimes skip dinner for days, to fit back into her velvet skirt. But then more creases would appear on her cheeks. At a certain age, every woman’s got to know whether it’s a cow or a goat she wants to become! Edith read that once in a women’s magazine. Her mother had indisputably turned into a goat. Edith couldn’t decide. She could be either onstage. And more: mistress, daughter, mother, grandmother. With makeup and a wig, she could play Lady Macbeth, Juliet, Schiller’s Joan of Arc…. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the cellar door opening, and Ludwig came in wearing his white chef’s coat.

“What’s keeping you, Mother?”

Edith didn’t respond, and Ludwig could tell she was processing something inside. Just like the new washing machine.

“The whole point of that gadget there is to make use of your time elsewhere.”

“I always liked doing the laundry, I liked stirring the vats, I liked scrubbing on the washboard, and I liked beating and wringing out the wash. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this thing.”

“Sure you will. Now come on, you left me in the lurch up there with my potato salad.”

Ludwig turned to go, but then Edith said, “Don’t we need to talk to her?” Ludwig looked at his wife and shook his head.

“No.”

Edith was silent for a moment while the drum inside the washing machine spun faster and faster on its axis. Whoom-whoom-whoom. “He lives in Hamburg now. He’s a businessman and owns a really big company.”

Ludwig knew immediately whom Edith meant. “How do you know that?”

“It’s in the paper. And his wife, she’s in the city too.” The washing machine hissed loudly and then began to pump, gurgling. Husband and wife gazed at the appliance in silence.

AFTER ANOTHER EYEWITNESS HAD BEEN HEARD, who as a thirteen-year-old had seen her mother and grandmother for the last time ever on the ramp, the chief judge adjourned court for the day. Eva headed for the ladies’ room, where she had to wait for an empty stall. There was a line of women, like at the end of a theater production. Missing today, though, was the lively chatter all about how who had performed. The mood was restrained, and the women politely held the doors open, passed the towel, and acknowledged one another with a nod. Eva felt dazed herself. When a stall freed up, she locked the door and had to pause for a moment to recall what she was doing there. Then she opened her briefcase and pulled out a folded, pale-patterned dress. She took off her dark skirt, her blazer. It was tight in the little stall, and she kept bumping into the walls. As she pulled the dress on over her head, she nearly fell over. She swore under her breath and contorted her body reaching between her shoulders for the zipper, which she finally managed to zip up. The restroom emptied out in the meantime, and silence fell outside the stall door. Eva folded her work clothes and tried to fit them into her briefcase. She couldn’t get the clasp to fasten, though, and left the bag open. She was about to leave the stall, when she heard the restroom door open. Someone entered, sniffled, maybe even cried. Then blew her nose. There was a faint smell of roses. A tap was turned on, and the water rushed. Eva waited behind the door, hugging her briefcase and holding her breath. But minutes passed, and the water was still running. Eva opened her stall door and stepped out.

The wife of the main defendant stood at one of the sinks, washing her hands. She was wearing her little felted hat again, and her dark brown handbag was on the windowsill. The woman dabbed her blotched face with dampened fingertips. Eva stepped up to the second sink beside her. The woman didn’t look up, but her body stiffened. Evidently Eva was now her enemy. Side by side, they washed their hands with curd soap that didn’t foam. Eva peeked out of the corner of her eye at the woman’s wrinkled hands and thin, worn-out wedding band. I know this woman. She once slapped me. With that very hand, Eva thought, and was startled by the absurd idea. She shook it off, turned off the faucet, and turned to leave. The woman abruptly blocked Eva’s way, while in the background the water continued streaming.

“You can’t believe everything they’re saying in there. My husband told me all they want is restitution—they want money. The worse the stories they tell, the more money they get.”

The woman retrieved her purse from the windowsill and before Eva could say anything, she had left the ladies’ room. The door closed with a snap. Eva looked at the running water and turned it off. She peered into the mirror and touched her cheek, as though feeling the memory of a blow she had received a long time ago.

After retrieving her coat, hat, and gloves from the coat check in the almost deserted foyer, Eva stepped out of the municipal building. It was just before five. The daytime gray had transitioned into the bluish gray of twilight. The headlights of passing cars threw long bands of light into the evening haze. The municipal building was on a busy street.

“You did well today, Fräulein Bruhns.” Eva turned around. Standing behind her was David Miller; he was smoking and, like always, not wearing a hat. Eva smiled in surprise at the sound of praise coming from his mouth. “The lead prosecutor told me to tell you that.”

David turned away and joined two other men from the prosecution, who had just left the building. Eva hung back, feeling somewhat snubbed. Why did this Miller fellow go out of his way to be rude to her? Was it because she was German? He didn’t appear to take issue with anyone else, though—at least not his colleagues. Or the stenotypists.

EVA’S THOUGHTS WERE INTERRUPTED by the sounds of honking. Jürgen’s yellow car had pulled up beside the row of parked vehicles. He left the engine running, jumped out, and opened the passenger door for her. Eva climbed in. In the car they kissed each other quickly and bashfully on the mouth. After all, they were engaged. Jürgen merged into traffic. Eva, who normally provided the lively, disjointed commentary of a child about what she saw to the left and right on the street as they drove, remained silent. She seemed blind to the people walking home at this hour, weighed down with shopping, dragging their children by the hand past the illuminated shopfronts that kept catching their attention. Jürgen looked over repeatedly, as though searching for a visible change, a mark that the day had left on her. But her appearance was unaltered. Then he asked, “So, you nervous?”

Eva turned to face him and couldn’t help but smile. She nodded. “Yes.” Because they had a plan that felt almost forbidden.

Twenty minutes later, Eva had the feeling the car was entering a different world. They passed through a tall, white metal gate that swung open and then closed behind them, as if by magic, and then followed the curves of an endless-seeming driveway dotted with squat lampposts. Eva squinted into the darkness, past the trees and bushes that were still bare, and detected an expanse of lawn beyond. She thought of how perfect it would be for Stefan to play soccer. And she thought of the two big flowerpots her father lugged up from the cellar every spring, which her mother filled with red geraniums and set outside to decorate the entrance to the restaurant. The house emerged suddenly in the darkness. It was long, modern, and white. It seemed as impersonal as a garage, which Eva found strangely comforting. Jürgen pulled up in front and briefly took her hand.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

They got out. Jürgen wanted to show her his house, which would soon be hers as well. Jürgen’s father and Brigitte were still on their island in the North Sea. And as they took their daily seaside walk before dinner, bracing themselves against the gale, they never suspected that at the same time, their son was leading his blond fiancée through the rooms of the family estate. Jürgen even opened his father’s austere but tastefully appointed bedroom for Eva. She was overwhelmed by the number of rooms, the liberality, the elegant colors. She gazed up at the high ceilings, which had been important to his father, Jürgen explained, because he needed space above his head to think. Eva’s heels alternated between clicking brightly on the smooth marble floors and sinking deep into the thick, cream-colored wool carpet. The pictures on the walls also made a much different impression on Eva than the Friesian landscape at home. She studied the painting of a house composed of severe forms bordered in black, beside a weirdly erected lake, which had been painted wrong on purpose. That much was clear to Eva. She thought of her cows at home. When she was six or seven, she had given them all names. Eva tried to remember them and recited to Jürgen, “Gertrude, Fanni, Veronika….”

“Good evening, Herr Schoormann. Fräulein….” A buxom, middle-aged woman in a beige housedress had entered the room. She was carrying a tray with two filled flute glasses. Jürgen took the glasses and handed one to Eva.

“Frau Treuthardt, this is Eva Bruhns.” Frau Treuthardt, with her slightly bulging eyes, stared openly at Eva.

“Welcome, Fräulein Bruhns.”

Jürgen held a finger to his lips and said “Shhh” to her. “This remains a secret. Today is a first, unofficial visit.”

Frau Treuthardt screwed up her eyes, which was probably meant to be a sly wink, and flashed a row of small, healthy teeth. “By all means! I won’t make a peep. I’ll tend to dinner now, if that’s all right.” Jürgen nodded, and Frau Treuthardt turned to leave.

“Is there anything I can do to help in the kitchen, Frau Treuthardt?” Eva asked courteously.

“That’s all we need, our guests having to cook for themselves!” Frau Treuthardt left the room.

Jürgen, amused, told Eva, “She’s a little rough around the edges, but she does her work very well.”

The two clinked glasses and drank. The tingly cold liquid was dry and tasted of yeast to Eva.

“It’s champagne,” Jürgen said. “Now, how would you like to see the height of decadence? Bring your glass.”

Eva was curious and followed Jürgen. They crossed a tiled corridor to the “west wing,” as Jürgen sardonically called it. The unsettling odor, which Eva had noticed the entire time and thought was her imagination, grew stronger. Jürgen opened a door, turned on the ceiling lights, and Eva stepped into a huge room tiled in sky blue. The swimming pool. A long glass front made up the sidewall to the right and provided a view of the dark green lawn. A couple of scattered outdoor lamps created hazy coronas of light. It looks like a poorly maintained aquarium, Eva thought, that hasn’t held any fish in ages. By contrast, the water in the pool seemed pristine. It sat there untouched, its surface gleaming.

“Would you like to take a dip?”

“No, no thank you.”

Eva was in no mood to change her clothes and get wet. Jürgen seemed disappointed.

“Jürgen, I don’t even have a swimsuit.”

In response, Jürgen opened a cabinet that contained at least five options on hangers. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll leave you alone too.” Eva again tried to protest, but Jürgen continued, “To be honest, Eva, I’ve still got a call to make, which might take a while. You’ll find swim caps in the shower over there.”

Jürgen pulled a suit off its hanger, handed it to Eva, and left. Eva was alone. She noticed little bubbles floating to the surface from the bottom of the pool. Like the sparkling wine in her hand. Oh, right, it’s not sparkling wine. It’s champagne. Eva took another sip and shivered.

Ten minutes later, Eva—wearing the pale red swimsuit, which was a bit tight—climbed down the metal ladder into the pool. She had painstakingly stuffed her thick hair into the white rubber cap and obediently took one rung after the other. She created small waves, and the water surrounding her was warmer than she’d expected. When the water reached her breasts, she let go of the ladder and began swimming. She turned onto her back. Hopefully the swim cap would hold. When Eva’s hair got wet, it took half an hour to blow-dry. Eva spread her arms and legs, lay at the surface, and gazed up at the humming tube lights on the ceiling. How odd, swimming in an unfamiliar house. With expensive champagne in her belly. In a bathing suit that wasn’t hers. Eva had never felt less able to imagine leaving her old life to live here with Jürgen. But that was the way things worked. Eva thought of Jan Kral, who might already be on his way home. At this very moment, he might be flying away in an airplane high above the house with the swimming pool, going back to Poland. By way of Vienna. Eva had taken this trip once herself, two years earlier, to an economic congress in Warsaw. That’s where she had lost her virginity. Eva rolled onto her front and dove down into the water. She swam to the bottom of the pool and could feel the water slowly seeping into her swim cap. But she stayed under till she could no longer take it.

Jürgen paced silently on the thick carpet in his office. He wasn’t on the phone—he had lied to Eva. He didn’t have a call scheduled. Jürgen wanted to know what it felt like to have Eva here, next door, somewhere, in a different room, but not be able to see her. What would it feel like when she was living here with him? He had to admit, it was nice knowing Eva was in the house. Like a small new organ pumping fresh life into an old body.

Later, Eva and Jürgen sat together at the corner of the long dining table. “No, not across from each other, Eva. We’re not royalty,” Jürgen had joked. Eva had undone her hair, and it was still damp where it hung down her back. There’s something wicked about it, Jürgen thought as he studied her out of the corner of his eye. Something wild. But he immediately suppressed his desire to kiss her. Not in his father’s house, not before he knew about Eva. They ate a venison stew Frau Treuthardt had cooked. Jürgen was giving a detailed account of the renowned architect who had built the house eight years ago “as a meditation on early Mies van der Rohe.” Eva thought of the doilies at home and tried to picture the architect in her living room. Then she asked Jürgen what the architect might say if he stopped by and found the furniture here suddenly covered in doilies. Jürgen looked at her blankly.

“I’m warning you, that’s my dowry. Fifty-six doilies for all your needs.”

Jürgen caught on and responded gravely, “Doilies too are known to reflect the architectural principle of symmetry.” Jürgen started laughing like a child who’s played a naughty trick. Eva joined in, then laughed even harder when she heard the architect’s name was Egon Eiermann. And how would Herr “Egg Man” react if he suddenly discovered the Friesian landscape, with its so very saturated sunset, hung over the mantel in his house? If he saw the cows? Amid the chuckles and giggles, though, Eva imagined her father and the way he sometimes gazed at the picture and sighed heavily. He felt homesick in those moments. And she saw the way her mother anxiously dusted the frame, because the painting had been expensive. And all it did was hang on the wall. Eva’s mood turned serious, almost sad.

“I feel like I’m betraying my parents.”

Jürgen stopped laughing too and took Eva’s hand. “You don’t need to be ashamed of them.”

After dinner, they withdrew to Jürgen’s office. Jürgen put on a record and sat down next to Eva on the wide gray sofa. It wasn’t the first time Eva felt jazz was lost on her. She didn’t know where one song ended and the other began. She didn’t know what was happening in the middle, either. She liked music where she could tell what was coming before the next note was even played. That wasn’t the case with jazz. Eva asked Jürgen for a little more wine, which comfortably clouded her mind and made everything in the room look even nicer—the warm light, tall bookcases, the endearingly messy desk and floor-to-ceiling windows behind it. Eva blinked drowsily and closed her eyes. An image of people with suitcases appeared before her. There was a lot of jostling, and men in uniform hissed terse orders. An old woman with a yellow star on her coat pulled something out of her pocket, thrust it into a younger woman’s hand, and said, “Hold tight to your dignity!” The old woman was then torn away, and the young woman looked in her hand. Eva opened her eyes and sat up on the sofa. She didn’t want to think about what the witness had told them today, about the one thing of her grandmother’s that had been left to her and that was then stolen in the camp.

“Which room do I get, anyway?”

Jürgen, who had tipped his head back and was listening to the music, smoking, responded distractedly, “The housekeeping room. Do you want to see it? And the kitchen? If nothing else, it’s big—”

“That’s not what I mean. I’ll need a desk too!”

“You can use mine whenever you need to write a letter.”

Jürgen stood up and flipped the record. Eva felt the onset of a stomachache. Game didn’t agree with her. Frau Treuthardt had also overcooked the venison. The chunks of meat, which were dark as it was, had been almost black. They weighed down her stomach like coal. Or rather, she was like the wolf whose belly was filled with rocks instead of little goslings, a fairy tale Stefan had asked her to read to him earlier today, even though he was big now. Jürgen returned to Eva’s side and placed a thick photo album on her lap.

“I’d like to show you pictures of my mother.”

Eva tried to ignore her stomachache and paged through the album. Jürgen’s mother was a delicate, black-haired woman who appeared blurry in almost every photo. There was one photo of his parents laughing and holding their little Jürgen between them. They were standing in front of a beer garden. Eva recognized Jürgen’s stern expression. And she knew where the picture was taken.

“That’s on the Lohrberg, in front of the tavern.”

“Yes, that was the summer of ’41, and two days later my father was arrested.”

“Why?”

“He was a Communist. I didn’t see him for another four years.”

Jürgen fell silent and stubbed out his cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray. He evidently didn’t want to linger on the subject. Eva got the feeling he regretted having handed her the album in the first place.

“Your mother was beautiful. And looks friendly. I would have liked to meet her.”

Eva turned the page, but no more photos had been pasted there. A loose picture slid out. Eva caught it—it was a postcard depicting a mountainous landscape. She flipped it over, and the back was covered in writing. It was a child’s scrawl. “Dearest Mummy…” Before Eva could read any further, Jürgen had snatched away the card.

“I was sent to the countryside, to the Allgäu region,” Jürgen said, and after a pause, added, “I’ve hated the smell of cows and milk ever since.”

“What was so awful about it?” Eva wanted to know. Jürgen placed the card back in the album, closed the book, and set it on the glass table.

“I wanted to stay with my mother. I felt I had to protect her. Like little boys do. Then she died.”

Eva stroked Jürgen’s cheek. Jürgen looked at her, and suddenly a small but unmistakable fart escaped her. That damned venison. Eva’s face turned bright red. How embarrassing. Jürgen smiled gently. And kissed her anyway. They slid down onto the sofa, their breathing ragged, looked at each other, smiled shyly, then kissed again. Jürgen’s hand wandered up Eva’s bare arm. Then he carefully grasped her hair, which was nearly dry and smelled faintly of chlorine. Eva pulled Jürgen’s shirt out of his pants and slid her hands under it. He abruptly jerked back.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Or is it the other way ’round?” Eva laughed.

But Jürgen growled, “I’ve told you where I stand on the matter. Not before we’re married…”

“But isn’t that a little old-fashioned?” Eva wanted to embrace Jürgen again. Not because she was overcome with desire—she just wanted to consummate the relationship already, to enter that final bond as a sort of vow of their commitment, as she saw it. But Jürgen gripped Eva’s hand, and she was shocked by his dark expression. For a brief moment, Eva thought he might hit her. She sat up straight and did not speak. The music ended on a held note that slowly faded out. The record ended. Eva said, “I don’t understand you.”

“I’ll give you a ride home.”

AS EVA AND JÜRGEN DROVE through the late-night city streets, and Eva tried to stifle her worsening flatulence, the lights were still on in the offices of the prosecution. David Miller and the other clerks were in the conference room preparing the questions and documents for the following day of hearings. In the murky circle of light thrown by a desk lamp, the blond man sat smoking in his office with the attorney general, conferring quietly about rumors that the judges had received threats from old SS associates of the defendants. And at City Hospital, Annegret was finishing her shift. She crossed the front courtyard, straight into an icy wind. Was it going to frost again? The question had dominated break time conversation among Annegret’s colleagues. The weather didn’t interest her; she almost never got cold, and even today she hadn’t bothered buttoning her tent-like, navy blue coat. She was headed left, toward the streetcar stop, but she noticed that someone appeared to be waiting for her: Doctor Küssner was leaning against his dark-colored car and pushed himself off as he saw her approaching. Annegret pretended not to see him at first. But he gave a small wave and even called quietly, “Nurse Annegret?”

Annegret walked over and waited silently in expectation, while the wind tore at her open coat. Küssner was sheepish, babbling something about “just happened to discover we live in the same direction” and “happy to bring you along.” Annegret let him talk. She knew that this was the start of a new affair. She had sensed it coming for some time, registered his glances and intimations such as “My wife never has time for me.” And for several days, the cards had spoken clearly, turning up the king of diamonds in the appointed position. It was always the same.

Annegret climbed into Doctor Küssner’s car. “Would you like to go straight home? Or might you be interested in a little something to drink?” He did not wait for her response, but started driving and continued nervously, “I’ve got to tell you again how well you managed things with the Bartels boy. The father still wrote to management, though. They’re hounding me now, but there’s nothing more we can do but hygiene, hygiene, hygiene…. Or are we overlooking something?”

Rather than simply answering, however, something unusual happened to Annegret: she began to sob. She sounded like a sick cat caught in a drainpipe. Her round face turned pink as she grunted and wailed. It was not an especially attractive sight. Doctor Küssner slowed the car and kept looking at her. He finally pulled over and somewhat helplessly turned on the hazard lights. He had pictured this differently. But Annegret couldn’t stop. Never had she felt so acutely what a mess her life was. Over before it began. Doctor Küssner handed her his unused handkerchief, which his wife had ironed, and said, “We’re blocking traffic.”

That made Annegret smile, and she calmed down. “It’s okay. I’d be happy to get something to eat now. At the little wine bar.”

JÜRGEN HAD BROUGHT EVA home in the meantime. As they said good-bye, they agreed to meet that weekend—they planned an outing to nowhere in particular, a drive to the Taunus hills, perhaps, to take a little walk. “If the weather cooperates,” they said, almost in unison. Then they parted, both somber and skeptical. When Eva reached the darkened hallway of the apartment, she noticed light emerging from under the door to the living room. It was strangely quiet behind the door. Eva knocked gently but received no response. She entered the room and was alarmed by what she saw: her father lying flat on the floor, his feet and calves elevated on Edith’s armchair. His eyes were closed.

“Daddy! What on earth happened?”

“My back will be the death of me. I haven’t told your mother—she’s already asleep.”

Eva closed the door quietly behind her and moved over to him. “Don’t you have any pills left?”

Ludwig opened his eyes, which were red and strained. “They do such a number on my system.” Eva sat down on the sofa in her coat and regarded her father. She felt sorry for him. She almost felt the pain in her own back.

“Lenze suggested I do this. Her husband’s got back problems of his own. Lie down on the floor and elevate the legs… it’s supposed to relieve the discs, those damned discs,” Ludwig groaned. He didn’t look at Eva, nor did he ask about her day, something he normally always would: So? Anything major happen today?

Eva thought of the two fathers she had encountered earlier. Unprompted, she said, “There were two men today who both lost their families.”

For a moment, Ludwig lay there quietly. He pulled his legs off the chair and turned painfully to the side, got onto all fours, then to his knees. He cursed. He still didn’t look at Eva. “Lots of people lost their families during the war—daughters and especially sons,” he said.

“But this, this is something different. The people there were sorted…”

Ludwig got to his feet with a final lurch and stood up fully. “Yes, well, I am glad I was never sent east. Now, daughter, tell me: how many rooms do the Schoormanns have?” Ludwig asked, his tone suddenly playful. Eva frowned at her father, who turned off the floor lamp by pulling the chain twice. Once for each bulb. Click. Click. It was dark in the room. A hint of light came in from the street, and her father looked like a big, shadowy ghost.

“Daddy, thousands of people a day were killed in that camp.” Eva was surprised to find her tone almost accusatory.

“Says who?”

“The witnesses.”

“People’s memories can fool them after all these years.”

“Are you actually suggesting these people are lying?” Eva was shocked. She had rarely seen her father be so deprecating.

“I’ve already said my piece on whether you should even do that job.” Ludwig turned to leave and opened the door.

Eva got up, followed him, and hissed, “But this has to be brought to light. And these criminals, they’ve got to be punished. They can’t be allowed to just roam free!”

To Eva’s complete bewilderment, Ludwig replied, “Yes, you’re right.” Then he left her where she stood in the darkened living room. Her father had never seemed so alien to her, she realized. It was a horrible feeling that she hoped would pass quickly. She heard a noise behind her, a sort of rhythmic brushing. Then a whimper. It was Purzel, sitting on the carpet and wagging.

“Purzy… do you need to go out again? Well, come on then.”

Out in front of the house, Eva waited for Purzel to finish his business. Her stomachache had subsided. She took a deep breath and exhaled, following the cloud of air with her eyes, then breathed out again, blowing an even bigger cloud. Purzel was sniffing here and there, even around his lamp post, but he wouldn’t relieve himself. Something’s wrong with him, Eva thought. She pulled her coat more tightly around herself. It would freeze overnight. Frost was already forming on the parked cars, like a layer of powdered sugar. There was just one car there with a dark exterior untouched by the cold. Inside were two people, whose heads kept merging into one. Eva recognized her sister Annegret kissing someone. Eva turned away and yanked Purzel, ready or not, by the collar into the house. Another married man, no doubt.

It was already past two. Eva had put a second blanket on the bed, but she couldn’t warm up. The images kept swirling in her mind’s eye. Her father on his back—Jürgen spurning her—the witness sitting by the coat check, bent over like a bird that’s flown into a window and is now listening to its body, trying to detect whether it will live or die—the young woman on the ramp, who opens her hand after her grandmother disappears, to find a piece of soap lying there—the wife of the main defendant in the ladies’ room, washing her hands beside Eva. Eva tried to establish an order to her feelings, to the unknown, the love, the shock, the incredulity, the peculiar affinity. Like her parents and sister, she lay awake for a long time. Only Stefan slept soundly, sprawled diagonally in bed, an army of toppled soldiers and cake crumbs on the carpet. When she fell asleep at about four, Eva dreamed of Frau Treuthardt cooking venison stew in a massive pot in an outsize kitchen. Towering beside the pot was a pile of meat chunks almost as tall as Frau Treuthardt. “That’s far too much for two people,” Eva said to her. Frau Treuthardt glared at Eva impatiently and replied, “But I’m showing you right now. Just watch.” Frau Treuthardt took a single piece of meat from the pile and dropped it into the big pot, then another and another. One after the other.

They didn’t have another hard frost, although it had been widely anticipated. Winter was slipping off undetected, or “pulling a French good-bye,” as her father said. Wide anticipation was now reserved for the proper arrival of spring. Eva went to the municipal building Tuesday through Thursday and spent Mondays in the office of the prosecution, where she translated written documents. She was dreaming with unusual frequency. At night, she encountered the people she had sat beside at the witness stand during the day. They would speak at her and not allow her any time to find her own words.

The camp was becoming incredibly familiar to her: the blocks, the departments, the procedures. There was no one at home she could talk to about it. Neither her parents nor Annegret wanted to hear a thing about the trial. They even paged past the articles that appeared in the newspaper almost daily. Eva began to record what she heard during the day in a blue school notebook at night. Her initial feeling that she had some connection to the camp—that she recognized people, the wife of the main defendant—passed. Eva became acquainted with the other girls at the trial, who worked as secretaries for the prosecution or stenotypists in court. They sat together at lunch and chatted about fashion and dance halls. What had been said in court was not discussed.

Eva and Jürgen spoke on the phone the evenings he didn’t pick her up and take her out. His father and stepmother had returned from their island and hadn’t discovered anything to betray Eva’s presence in the house. Frau Treuthardt kept quiet and, as Jürgen told Eva, frequently screwed up her eyes at him and clearly relished being his accomplice. His father’s condition had not worsened. On the contrary, the sea breeze had “blown away the cobwebs,” Jürgen said he repeatedly declared. To his son’s delight and dismay, he was meddling in the layout of the new catalog. Jürgen favored picturing a woman in mink on the cover. “We’ve got to start moving away from your cheapo Communist angle, Father!” But Walther Schoormann decided the cover would feature children playing in the snow. “Children are the future, something you clearly don’t understand, Jürgen!” That had been the cutting exchange. Eva waited every day for Jürgen to introduce her to his father and his father’s wife. But the invitation didn’t come, and Eva didn’t dare ask. They went dancing or to the movies, and they kissed when they knew no one would see. Sometimes Jürgen placed a hand on her hip or bust. But it seemed to Eva as though they didn’t have much of a future planned as a couple. One evening they went to see a Swedish film everyone was talking about, from the stenotypists and secretaries in court to Annegret’s colleagues in the nurses’ lounge, their wide-eyed commentary whispered from behind shielding hands. The film was restricted to viewers eighteen and over; Eva had insisted they see it and watched with growing arousal as the woman onscreen demonstrated her lack of inhibition with regard to sexual matters. The second time the woman’s naked breasts were displayed on the large screen, Jürgen stood and left the theater. Eva followed him angrily and cornered him in the dark entrance to Willi’s Gun Shop.

“Is this still the priest inside you? You’re a prude, Jürgen. Uptight!” Jürgen spat back that the sex in that movie had nothing to do with the intimacy and fulfillment he associated with the act. Nothing to do with love. “I thought what you needed was marriage, now suddenly it’s love? In which case we could do it? Or maybe you just don’t find me desirable?! I’d appreciate if you’d tell me the truth!” Eva fumed. Jürgen called her “lustish” in response. And although Eva knew the word didn’t actually exist, she was outraged. She couldn’t believe that she had to beg a man to sleep with her. “How could you humiliate me like this?”

“You’re seeing to it yourself!”

When Eva got home from the movies that evening, she knocked on her sister’s door. Annegret, with all her experience, ultimately concluded that Jürgen was gay and that Eva had to decide whether this was something she could live with. Eva cried a lot that night, but the next morning Jürgen showed up at the door with flowers and such an unhappy expression that she forgave him. She looked into his eyes and felt sure that he loved and desired her. Clearly there was something inhibiting him, but Eva dismissed the possibility that it could be any kind of otherness.

ONE EARLY MORNING, while the city was still dark, the first mild spring breeze blew in from the west. At the Sun Inn, Otto Cohn had been lying awake for some time; every few minutes, the elderly Hungarian man reached for the pocket watch he had set on the bedside table, opened it, and read its face. The gentlemen from the prosecution had kept putting him off, because everything was unfortunately taking longer than anticipated. Because something had been rearranged in the order of the hearings. He had waited patiently for many days. But today was the day. It was slowly brightening outside the orange curtains, and a bird began to chirp. The bird earnestly and persistently repeated the same three tones: foo fa fee, foo fa fee. When his watch read seven o’clock, the Hungarian man got up. Like every night, he had slept in his clothes. Like every morning, he put on his black hat with the narrow brim and took out a dark blue velvet bag embroidered with Hebrew characters from his suitcase. He looked in the mirror and was pleased to see that his beard had already grown past his shirt collar. When he walked through the lobby in his coat moments later, and wordlessly placed his heavy key on the counter as he passed, the proprietor didn’t bother inviting him to the breakfast served in the small room behind reception. He had only tried the first few days: “Breakfast is included in the price.” A waste of breath each time. After Cohn left the boardinghouse that day without eating, the owner said to his wife, as she stepped out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee, that that kike was probably off to pray again. His wife quieted him. They had been through enough already, he didn’t need to pile it on. She had read in the paper that the people had been “sectioned, or whatever it was called,” upon arrival. Some to die and the others to work, which killed them soon enough. They really hadn’t deserved that either. Her husband shrugged. He wasn’t bothering the Jew. He was providing him with shelter, wasn’t he? For weeks now! Even though he was certain they’d have to delouse the room after. “Deep down, you are really just a good person, Horst,” his wife said and slipped into the breakfast room. The innkeeper wasn’t sure if she was mocking him. It wasn’t worth taking his time to find out, though. He had to review the quote from a plumber to install new sinks in four rooms. The man had named an outrageous price. And they were friends, no less.

The Hungarian man had reached the Westend Synagogue by this point. He gave the uniformed guard at the door a quick nod and entered the soaring, whitewashed sanctuary. More than a dozen older men were gathered here. The cantor, a small, energetic man in a black hat, prayed out loud to the congregation in Hebrew:

One of the worshippers was a young man with an embroidered yarmulke resting on his red hair, which was just a little long in the back. The Hungarian man recognized him. It was one of the members of the prosecution. The redhead kept looking around, studying the other congregants’ behavior. The Hungarian man removed his prayer shawl from the velvet pouch and uttered the appropriate verse as he wrapped it around himself. He murmured and his upper body fell into a gentle, rhythmic swaying. Today, though, he was not praying with the congregation. He was asking God’s forgiveness for what he intended to do. What he had to do.

David Miller didn’t notice the Hungarian man. He also wasn’t following the cantor, who now recited, “Are not heroes as though nothing before you, and men of fame as though never born, and the wise as though without understanding, and intellectuals as though without reason? For their works are confused, the days of their lives vain before you, and man has nothing over the beast, for all is vain.”

David Miller was not praying with the congregation, either. He prayed to God for gruesome vengeance upon the defendants. Especially upon the haggard man with the face of a ferret, Defendant Number Four. The Beast.

ALTHOUGH EVA WASN’T SCHEDULED until afternoon, she took her seat in the row behind the prosecutors’ table half an hour before court was called to order. She enjoyed the almost reverent atmosphere in the hall. Not many people were there yet. And the few who were there, preparing for the day, placing documents and folders on the tables of the court, moved about cautiously and quietly, at most whispering to one another. Even the light seemed muted, like in church. The tall floodlights—which had been installed in every corner of the hall several days ago, to supplement the daylight and overhead fixtures and to help the judge spot nuances in the defendants’ facial expressions—had not yet been turned on. Eva was wearing a new, pale gray suit made of a lightweight material that had cost nearly 100 marks. But she was earning 150 marks a week now, and her dark blue suit had made her sweat. The hall was usually overheated, and the many bodies in the room—there were always at least 200 people—further warmed the space and spent the oxygen. By midday, despite the high ceilings and cracked windows, and even after hall attendants turned off the heat, the room was stifling. Women sitting in the gallery had even fainted. Although that may have been caused by the witnesses’ horrific descriptions, Eva thought as she pulled out the two dictionaries from her briefcase. She didn’t understand why some of the spectators came to the hearings. The reporters, mostly young, unkempt men in dusty suits, could be identified by their notebooks and strangely impassive expressions, and Eva was by now familiar with the wives of the main defendant and of Defendants Number Four and Eleven, who never missed a day of proceedings. The other spectators must be relatives of the deceased. Or friends. They listened to the accounts with wide, horrified eyes, shook their heads, cried, and even exclaimed in rage when the defendants maintained, “I knew nothing! Saw nothing! Did nothing! That is beyond my knowledge!” Then there were the men who followed everything unresponsively but whose sympathies clearly lay with the defendants—men who gathered during the breaks and automatically clicked their heels when the main defendant passed. But there was also a group of spectators Eva couldn’t classify. Some of them came every day and hung on every word. Eva had invited Jürgen to come listen sometime. He’d said he was too busy with the autumn/winter catalog. Eva knew it was an excuse. But she understood, and she even understood her family. Why should anyone voluntarily open themselves up to this chapter of history? So why am I here? Eva asked herself. She didn’t know the answer. Why did she want to hear the testimony of the Hungarian man she had brought to his hotel that time? Why did she want to know—need to know—what had happened to him? Since the first day of the trial, Eva had repeatedly seen him in the foyer, with his big black hat and bearded face. As a witness, he was barred from following the trial. He often sat beside the door to the auditorium during proceedings, on a chair he had positioned there, as though he were keeping guard. He and Eva had exchanged glances a few times during the breaks, but he gave no indication as to whether he still knew who she was.

An attendant wheeled a cart into the hall with the help of one of the technicians. On the cart was a boxy device that had a short tube with a lens protruding from the front. It looked like a little tank without tracks. An episcope. Eva recognized it from her days in girls’ school, when their geography teacher had projected photographs of alien worlds onto the wall. Usually naked savages standing before their smoking huts. “Is this race more ape or more human? Fräulein Bruhns?” Herr Brautlecht had loved that question. Sometimes, before he arrived, Eva and her classmates would turn on the machine and place pictures, which they had snipped from the papers, underneath of the stars they were currently swooning over. Young men in playful poses with pointy shoes. By contrast, Herr Brautlecht’s painted Pygmies fell short of the mark. Eva smiled a little at the memory and watched the technician position the cart opposite a large white screen that had been hung beside the map of the camp. Holding the cord, he searched between the defendants’ desks for an electrical outlet. They were probably hoping the device would help save time. Up till now, photographs and other pieces of evidence had been passed around and reviewed in turn by the court, defense, and prosecution, which was inconvenient. The technician turned on the machine. A quivering square of light appeared on the screen. At the technician’s instruction, the hall attendant placed a sheet of paper on the projector’s glass plate and closed the lid. Blurry words appeared on the screen. The technician turned the lens, and the letters grew more illegible.

“Don’t we not need you till this afternoon?” David Miller walked past Eva to his table in the second row.

“Good morning, Herr Miller,” she responded.

“We’ll see if it turns into one.”

Eva tried to craft a clever retort but couldn’t think of anything. David took out several colorful folders from his briefcase and arranged them on the table in a specific order. A round, embroidered piece of fabric fell onto the table as he moved. A little cap, which David put back in his pocket.

“What is it you have against me, anyway?”

David did not turn around, but kept sorting his papers. “What makes you think I have anything against you?”

“You don’t even say hello to me.”

David still refused to look at Eva. “I didn’t know you thought it so important: a very good day to you, Fräulein Bruhns.”

The technician had finally managed to focus the projector: Please do not flush sanitary napkins! Toilet will clog! This sign hung over every ladies’ room toilet in the building. The hall attendant and technician grinned.

The lead prosecutor, already suited up in his black robe, entered the auditorium and greeted Eva with a quick but friendly nod. His light-colored hair, which was as fine as an infant’s—“angel hair,” Annegret said it was called—shone damply. Had it started to rain? It was impossible to tell through the glass panes. David handed the blond man a folder.

“If we don’t nail the pharmacist today… here’s the arrest warrant. He’s not waltzing out of here again! And if our man in the moon doesn’t comply…”

The blond man waved a dismissive hand. “Then what? Then you’ll arrest him yourself, is that it? I have repeatedly asked you to exercise greater discretion, Herr Miller. And yet you continue to behave as if you were the hero of a Western.”

The blond man turned away from David and stalked across the room toward the chief judge, who had entered through a side door with the two associate judges. His face more closely resembled the full moon than ever, it was true. “Our man in the moon” was fitting, Eva thought. She smiled. David glanced at her over his shoulder.

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

He was clearly irked that she had witnessed the rebuke.

“I’m not looking at all.”

“I’m not blind.”

“I fear you may be suffering from delusions of grandeur, Herr Miller!” Eva had read an article about psychological disorders once that mentioned this term. David angrily opened a dossier. One of the stenotypists appeared in the entrance to the hall, Fräulein Schenke. She was wearing a new suit too, hers a tight fit and softly gleaming pink. She smiled at Eva as she took her seat. Eva flashed a quick smile in return. She didn’t especially like Fräulein Schenke, who had a certain shiftiness about her—or “something Catholic,” as her father would say. But Eva liked David Miller, she was surprised to realize at that moment. She looked at the back of his head as he bent deeply over the file. She regretted her comment and felt the need to place a hand on his shoulder. Like a friend.

A short time later, the spectators, followed by the prosecution, and then the defendants and their attorneys, flanked by eight policemen, had taken their seats. The last to enter were the judges, and everyone in the courtroom rose upon their appearance. The police lined up behind the defendants’ tables, where they more closely resembled a guard of honor. As on every day of the trial, not a single open seat in the gallery remained. Otto Cohn stood rigidly at the witness stand and lightly braced himself against the tabletop with three fingers of his right hand. His big, jet-black hat with the narrow brim made him appear taller than he was. He had refused to take it off. He was wearing his thin leather shoes, no socks, as Eva could see, and his shabby coat. Cohn’s beard reminded Eva of the Christmas tree her father and Stefan had carried up to the attic the day after Epiphany for keeping till spring, when they would burn it in the yard. It looks like he hasn’t washed since I spoke to him at the Christmas market. At the very least, why didn’t he shave? Eva thought. Eva was almost ashamed of the man’s disheveled appearance, even though she scarcely knew him. Eva couldn’t have known that Otto Cohn not only wanted to be heard and seen—no, he intended for those guilty men sitting at the defendants’ tables to smell him too. Cohn spoke in German with a loud voice. Strongly accented, perhaps, but easily intelligible. He had insisted. “So that those people there hear me!” And he spoke fast. Fräulein Schenke and the other two girls could barely keep up on their little clicking stenotype machines. Like a mountain stream splashing over rocks, he recounted how he had been deported with his wife and their three young daughters in September ’44 from the Romanian city of Hermannstadt, which had at that time belonged to Hungary. “When we arrived at the ramp, got out, there was a crush of people moving forward. I was with wife, three children—three daughters—and I said to them, ‘Most important is that we five are together. Everything will be fine.’ No sooner had I said that than a soldier stepped between us: ‘Men to the right, women to the left!’ They broke us from each other. I had not the time to embrace my wife. She screamed after me, ‘Come kiss us!’ Perhaps some womanly instinct told her the danger that threatened us. I ran to them, kissed my wife, my three children, and then I was pushed back to the other side, and we kept moving forward. Parallel but separated. Between the two platforms. Between the two trains. Suddenly I hear, ‘Doctors and pharmacists gather here.’ So I join this group. There were thirty-eight doctors from Hermannstadt, and several pharmacists. Suddenly two German officers turned to us. One of them, a high-ranking, handsome, young-looking man asked us nicely, ‘Where did you gentlemen study? You, for example, you, for example?’ I said, ‘In Vienna,’ the next said, ‘In Wrocław,’ and so on. The second officer we recognized immediately, and we whispered to each other, ‘Why, that’s the pharmacist.’ He often worked with us doctors as a fill-in. I said to him, ‘Sir, I have two twins, and they require closer care. If you would allow—I’ll do whatever work you like, if you would only allow me to remain with my family.’ Then he asked, ‘Twins?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Where are they?’ I pointed and said, ‘There they go.’ ‘Call them back,’ he said to me. And then I call my wife and children loudly by their names. They turn around, they come back, and the pharmacist took them by the hand, my two daughters, and led them to another doctor. At his back, he says to me, ‘Well, tell him.’ I said, ‘Captain, sir, I have two twins,’ and was about to say more, but he said, ‘Later. I don’t have time now.’ He sent me off with a wave of his hand. The pharmacist said, ‘In that case, they have to return to their side.’ My wife and my three children went on their way. I began to sob, and he said to me in Hungarian, ‘Ne sírjon. Don’t cry. They’re just going to bathe. You’ll see them again in an hour.’ So I went back to my group. I never saw them again. The pharmacist was Defendant Number Seventeen there. The one with the black glasses. At that second, I was grateful in my soul to the pharmacist. I thought he wanted to do something good for me. I only discovered later what it meant to hand over twins to that doctor for his experiments. I also got an explanation for why the doctor hadn’t been interested in my girls. My twins were fraternal—they weren’t identical. They were very different. One was just a delicate little thing and—”

The chief judge interrupted him. “Herr Cohn, are you certain that you recognize Defendant Number Seventeen as the pharmacist you spoke to on the ramp?”

Instead of answering, Otto Cohn reached into his coat pocket, searched around a little inside, then pulled something out. It was two photographs. He moved toward the bench and placed the pictures before the judge. The chief judge signaled the attendant who had been trained in operating the episcope. He approached earnestly and took the photographs. He turned on the episcope and solemnly placed the first picture on the glass plate. He briefly adjusted the lens, and the enlarged image appeared on the white screen for everyone in the auditorium to see. Eva had seen the photo before, for a fleeting moment, in the open suitcase in the small hotel room. She could study it properly now. Pictured was a family in a yard, gathered there on any other day in life. Just then, the school bell rang next door to the courtroom. The windows in the glass panes wall were open a crack, but the schoolyard behind the municipal building remained quiet. Eva knew that vacation had begun. Stefan had been put on the train to Hamburg to visit Grandma the day before, laden with admonitions and snacks enough for five trips.

Now, on the witness stand, Otto Cohn gazed at the picture and recalled how his oldest daughter, Miriam, hadn’t wanted her photo taken. He and his wife had first implored her, then bribed her with hazelnut chocolate. It was clear in the image that her cheeks were still stuffed with it. Her lips were pressed together and all she could manage was a droll smile. Cohn thought that it was right, what he had planned.

The chief judge turned to the defendants’ tables. “Does the defendant know this family?”

“No.”

The pharmacist opened the daily paper and began to read, as if none of this applied to him. The attendant placed the second photograph into the device. Even in the blurry projection, one could identify Defendant Number Seventeen in the same yard. After the attendant focused the image, Otto Cohn and the pharmacist could be seen in the light of what was probably the setting sun. After a good day’s work, with a good glass of wine. Beside each other.

“Does the defendant recognize this photograph? Do you admit to knowing the witness? Remove those sunglasses!” The pharmacist reluctantly took off his glasses and shrugged indifferently. He leaned toward his attorney. They whispered. Eva noticed that the White Rabbit seemed at a loss. He stood up.

“My client does not wish to comment on this matter.”

At that, the blond man rose and read aloud the prepared arrest warrant.

“The statements provided by the witness are indubitable. The defendant’s participation in the selections on the ramp has been attested…”

Eva could see the papers shaking in his hand, something David spotted as well, and he briefly turned around to Eva. They shared a look—they were equally tense.

“Your Honor, it is no longer in keeping with our laws that the defendant remain at liberty,” the blond man continued. “We demand his transfer into custody!” Silence.

The chief judge withdrew to confer with his associate judges. Barely anyone used the quarter-hour break to visit the restroom or purchase refreshments in the foyer. Eva stayed in her seat too. In front of her, David was scribbling long rows of letters in a notebook. The people in the gallery either waited silently or whispered quietly among themselves. The blond man stood in the open doorway to the auditorium and spoke with the attorney general, who had been like the little man in a weather house during this trial, arriving on the scene periodically, then disappearing inside his little house for days on end, or so it seemed to Eva. Both men were looking at Otto Cohn, who had sat down at the witness stand. He had moved his chair to give himself a direct view of the defendants, who were using the break to doze or review documents. The pharmacist ignored Cohn and had turned around in his seat by extending an arm over the back of his neighbor’s chair. He was saying something to the raptor-faced man, the main defendant, who—as during any short recess—sat motionless and erect while keeping a close watch on the people in the room. He now nodded at the pharmacist and said something in reply; both men appeared calm. Eva could not take her eyes off the pharmacist. He looked like a frog, a fat, happy frog ribbiting at his former boss. She was staring over at him when he suddenly turned back around and looked straight at her. The main defendant had also turned his attention toward her. They both studied Eva from across the room. She held her breath, as though someone else’s foul breath were wafting over her. The pharmacist bowed ironically in her direction. Eva quickly grabbed at her general dictionary and began to page through it busily. She discovered what the word for “pedestrian crossing” was in Polish.

After the judges had returned and the courtroom had quieted back down, the chief judge announced that he would grant the prosecution’s motion. Based on sufficient evidence regarding the charge of “aiding and abetting murder,” Defendant Number Seventeen would be detained and transferred to custody at the conclusion of the day’s proceedings. The pharmacist put on his sunglasses and crossed his arms across his expensive suit. He remained silent. Some of his fellow defendants protested, including the main defendant: “This lacks any basis whatsoever!” The blond man betrayed no emotion, but Eva caught him making a quick fist with his right hand under the table. A few people in the gallery applauded. David Miller impulsively spun around and whispered to Eva, “And this is just the beginning!” Eva nodded. She felt as happy as if it were her own victory. The chief judge then asked Otto Cohn, who had followed this development blankly, to detail his arrival at the camp and the following months. Cohn stood, again rested three fingers on the table, and described everything he had experienced. He spoke for more than an hour, and was only occasionally asked for quick clarifications. He had frequently seen the main defendant, the camp adjutant, who rode his bicycle from block to block, and he had heard about Defendant Number Four, whom everyone feared, and who had been dubbed the “Beast.” He had seen the medical orderly, Defendant Number Ten, rest a cane over the throat of a prisoner lying on the ground, then place his feet on either end and thus strangle the man to death. “That’s a dirty lie!” bellowed the man, whose patients lovingly called him “Papa” when he entered their hospital room, brought them breakfast, or changed a dressing. Eva was starting to feel nauseous. Cohn was now spouting on about everything they hadn’t had at the camp: bread, warmth, protection, quiet, sleep, and friendship. And about what, by contrast, had existed in excess: dirt, roaring, pain, fear, and death. Cohn was sweating, and he took off his hat, revealing a partially bald head that made his beard appear all the more unruly.

“The day of liberation, I was naked, weighed thirty-four kilograms, was covered in a grayish black rash, and was coughing up pus. When I looked down at my body, it was like looking at an X-ray of myself. Just a skeleton. But I swore I’d survive, because I had to let people know what happened.” Cohn placed his hat on the table and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the threadbare sleeve of his coat. David thought that, although no longer gaunt, he still appeared doomed to die. Cohn looked at the defendants, as though expecting an answer. But the men kept quiet.

The medical orderly alone got to his feet, drew himself up, and brayed in all directions, “I strongly object! I have never done anything like that! I’m not even capable of such things! Ask my patients—they call me ‘Papa,’ because I’m so good to them! Ask them!” There was an outburst of indignation among the spectators, and the chief judge called forcibly for order. Eva was still fighting her nausea; she swallowed and swallowed, but her mouth was dry and her heart kept beating faster. The defense attorney stood and asked Cohn who this prisoner was, whom his client had allegedly killed with a cane. And when this had supposedly occurred. Cohn didn’t know the name and could no longer remember the date, but he had seen it. The attorney, pleased with this response, took a seat, pulled out his pocket watch from the folds of his robe, and checked it.

“No further questions.”

The prosecution had concluded their questioning as well, and the chief judge dismissed the witness. Eva was relieved that it was almost time for the lunch break; she was still swallowing and breathing through her mouth. But then Otto Cohn raised his hand.

“There’s one final thing I must say. I know that all of the gentlemen here claim not to have known what was taking place in the camp. By the second day I was there, I knew everything. And I wasn’t alone. There was this boy—he was sixteen. His name was Andreas Rapaport. He was in the eleventh barracks. He wrote in blood, on the wall, in Hungarian, ‘Andreas Rapaport, lived sixteen years.’ Two days later they came for him. He screamed to me, ‘Uncle, I know that I’m going to die! Tell my mother I thought of her until the very last moment!’ But I couldn’t give her the message. The mother died too. This boy knew what was happening there!” Cohn took a few steps toward the defendants and shook both his fists at them. “This boy knew. And you didn’t?! You didn’t?!”

Cohn appeared to Eva like a figure from the Bible. Like the wrathful Lord. Were she one of the defendants, she’d have been frightened. But the men sitting there in their suits and tasteful neckties simply regarded Cohn with scorn, amusement, or indifference. Defendant Number Four, the “Beast” with the face of a ferret, even covered his nose with his hand, as though trying to block out a bad odor.

“Thank you, sir, the questioning has concluded. Herr Cohn, we no longer need you.” The chief judge had leaned in, to the microphone. Cohn turned around and appeared confused, as though he’d suddenly forgotten where he was.

“You are dismissed.”

At that, he gave a terse nod, turned, and walked toward the exit. Eva noticed immediately that Cohn had left his hat on the table. Without thinking, she stood up and headed for it while an associate judge announced the lunch break. She took the hat and followed Cohn into the foyer.

Several reporters were already queueing at the three small telephone booths that had been installed for the trial. People were speaking on the phones in the booths, one of which was white with cigarette smoke, entirely obscuring the smoking man inside. But as she passed, Eva overheard him saying, “Yes, that’s what I’ve been explaining to you: the pharmacist has been arrested… he was part of the selection!” The air was stale and smelled of cafeteria food—potatoes and stuffed cabbage rolls, which were served almost daily. Eva still felt nauseous, which she forgot for the moment.

“Herr Cohn! Wait, you forgot your hat…” But Cohn did not seem to hear Eva. He strode toward the exit with the double glass doors, opened them effortlessly, and left the building. Through the window Eva could see Cohn march on without pause, straight ahead, step by step. She hurriedly wrenched open the heavy doors. She ran into the courtyard in front of the municipal building and was horrified to see that Cohn, without a glance to the left or right, was walking straight into the broad, busy street.

“Herr Cohn!! Stop right there! Stop!” Cohn did not respond, but continued moving like one of Stefan’s colorful wind-up tin toys. A harlequin. Eva wished she could run faster, but her new skirt was so fitted that she couldn’t take bigger steps. She stumbled forward. Cohn was between parked cars now. She had almost reached him. And then he stepped into the lane, into traffic, as though wading into a rushing river, one second before Eva could have grabbed him by the coat sleeve. Cohn immediately was struck by the hood of a white vehicle. Eva heard the collision. He staggered back, spun about, and fell forward like a sack. Eva swooned briefly, as if she were trying to fall with him, then she knelt down beside him and turned him onto his back with trembling hands. The car had braked a few meters on, tires screeching, while other cars honked and some drivers rolled down their windows to yell for having to swerve. They didn’t see the man on the side of the road as they passed. Cohn was white in the face, his eyes were closed, and Eva stroked his forehead. “Herr Cohn, can you hear me? Hello, open your eyes. Can you hear me?” Eva took his hand and searched for his pulse, but all she could hear was her own heart. Someone crouched down beside her on the asphalt. David.

“What happened?” David lifted Cohn’s head slightly. The driver of the white car had gotten out and approached them; he was a very young man, a new driver. He stared at the unconscious bearded man in terror.

“Is he dead? My God, what a sound! It wasn’t my fault!” A rivulet of blood trickled out of the corner of Cohn’s mouth and into his wild, filthy beard. Eva stood up, took a few steps to the side, braced herself against the back of a parked car with her right hand, and pressed her other hand, which still held the hat, against her belly. It looked like she was taking a bow after a performance, but instead she vomited onto the pavement in several small bursts. David appeared beside her and handed her a tissue. A paper tissue! Typical Yank! Eva thought in a daze. No, wait, he’s Canadian! And for the first time, David looked at her warmly.

Twenty minutes later, an ambulance snaked its way through midday traffic, blue lights flashing and siren howling, toward the municipal building. A small cluster of people had formed around the man on the street. Several muttered about how horribly he reeked—he must be a tramp! Probably drunk too! A policeman with an absurdly small notepad was questioning the young driver, who kept shaking his head. A second officer was asking reporters, who had eagerly streamed out of the building, to refrain from taking photographs. Eva knelt down beside Cohn again and held his hand, which felt limp and cold. She didn’t notice the main defendant standing directly behind her and scowling at Cohn with his raptor’s face. “This street is too busy! There should be a crosswalk here!” he said to his wife, whose nose, poking out from under her little hat, looked even pointier than usual. The ambulance stopped beside them, the siren cut out, and Eva watched helplessly as Otto Cohn was quickly examined by a doctor, then loaded on a gurney into the ambulance by two paramedics.

“How bad is it?” she asked the doctor.

“We’ll see.”

“Can I ride with him?”

The doctor looked at Eva. “Who are you? His daughter?”

“No, I’m… I’m not related.”

“I’m sorry, but in that case, no.”

“Where are you bringing him?”

“City Hospital.”

One of the medics slammed the doors shut. The ambulance drove off and was soon out of sight, but the sound of its sirens lingered for some time. The crowd dissipated. David gave Cohn’s name and home address to the policeman with the tiny notepad. Then the officer turned to Eva: “You were an eyewitness?” He took Eva’s name, and she explained that Cohn was at fault for the accident. As she said it, a large truck hurtled past. The policeman didn’t hear her, and she had to repeat, “He caused the accident himself.” The officer thanked her and joined his colleague. Eva realized she was still holding the hat.

AFTER LUNCH, during which no one spoke about the accident, as if in secret agreement, Eva translated testimony provided by a Pole who had been a prisoner functionary in the storerooms. The old man described how everything was taken from people as soon as they arrived at the camp. The witness enumerated the foreign currencies, jewelry, furs, and securities that had accumulated over the camp’s five years. He recalled most of the numbers exactly, and although this was what Eva had first mastered in the Polish language, she had to focus to avoid making a mistake. She forgot about Cohn for the moment. But when she reached the Berger Strasse apartment just before six that evening, she placed the black hat on the shelf above the coat rack and headed straight for the telephone, without taking off her coat or turning on the hallway light. In the half darkness, she dialed the number for the hospital. As she listened and waited to be connected, she spotted a small, reflective puddle on the floorboards by the door to the living room. Purzel was nowhere to be seen and hadn’t come to greet her, as he normally did. A pleasant female voice sounded on the other end of the line: “City Hospital, reception?”

Eva asked about an old man—Otto Cohn, from Hungary—who had been admitted that afternoon. He’d had an accident, at the municipal building. How was he doing? The friendly lady on the other end of the line declined to provide Eva with any information. Eva then asked to be connected with the nursery, with her sister.

In the dusky examination room of the nursery, Doctor Küssner and Annegret were in the middle of an argument. They had only turned on the light above the examination table, typically used to illuminate their little patients. The empty table below looked sad and abandoned. They were both upset, but whispering, so that no one in the corridor outside could hear them fighting.

“I don’t understand you, Annegret. This is such a rare opportunity!” Küssner’s wife had taken their two children on an impromptu trip to visit relatives, yet Annegret refused to meet up with him that evening.

“I don’t feel like it.”

“It doesn’t have to be at my house, although there would be nothing strange about a nurse visiting me at home to discuss something.”

Annegret leaned against the cupboard that provided the base for their oversized scale—the most incorruptible of pediatric instruments, with its pitiless dial and cold metal pan. Annegret crossed her thick arms over her nurse’s coat.

“Hartmut, I’m simply not interested in aligning my life to fit yours. We have plans for next Thursday. I’m not available before then.”

“You are so miserably stubborn.”

Doctor Küssner stepped toward Annegret and somewhat helplessly stroked her blond hair, which she had recently dyed and appeared almost white.

“Don’t you understand? I want to enjoy this brief moment of freedom. With you.”

“Get a divorce. Then you’ll be free forever.” Annegret didn’t really mean it, but she wanted to hear Küssner hedge and fall back on the old phrases she had so often heard from married men.

“I’ve told you, I just need a little more time.” Yes, that’s one of their favorites, Annegret thought, pleased. She smiled. Küssner pulled up her uniform and pressed his hand between her legs, where it then lingered, motionless. He was an inexperienced lover. Annegret pushed off his hand and moved away from him. He sat down on a metal swivel stool and suddenly looked very tired.

“I pictured this differently.”

“What, having an affair? All you need is a little practice. People are machines, after all. Anyone can turn their feelings on or off. You just need to know which button to push.”

Küssner stared at Annegret.

“I worry about you.”

Annegret was about to make a funny face, but was alarmed to realize that Küssner was actually concerned. She went to the door.

“I need commitment from you, Hartmut, not feelings.”

Küssner rose and threw up his hands in defeat.

“Fine, then I’ll see you Thursday, as usual.”

“And don’t you dare fall in love with me!” Annegret warned him earnestly. Küssner laughed, as though he’d been found out, and was about to respond, when the door was torn open. Annegret and Doctor Küssner were standing at a harmless distance from one another, they were both relieved to see.

Nurse Heide peered in and said, with characteristic disapproval, “Your sister is on the line.”

Küssner addressed Annegret in an overly businesslike tone, “Thank you, Nurse, I think that covers it.”

Annegret crossed the hallway, where the night-light had already been turned on, and stepped up to reception. The phone receiver lay on the counter. She steeled herself for the conversation, because it was unusual for Eva to call her at work.

“Did something happen to Dad?”

“No, Annie, don’t worry, I just need your help.” Annegret leaned against the counter. Nurse Heide had sat down on the other side and was labeling forms and trying to look busy. Annegret was then astonished to hear that Eva wanted her to check on someone in emergency surgery.

“I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying, Eva. Who had an accident? Otto who? Who is that?”

“A witness. In the trial.”

Annegret fell silent. Her eyes focused on the wall behind Nurse Heide, at next month’s schedule hanging there. The days were clearly marked with colorful fields. Hers were light blue, like the armbands on the baby boys she liked so much. An especially sweet little nugget had been born two days ago and was now in the first nursery. Michael. He had weighed nearly three kilos at birth.

“I’ll check,” Annegret said into the receiver.

“Thank you. Please call me back as soon as you find out.”

Annegret hung up. Nurse Heide looked at Annegret quizzically, her expression surly as ever. Annegret ignored her. She crossed the hallway and paused at the threshold of the first nursery. None of the children lying here in the dark was crying yet. Annegret still had half an hour before feeding. She crossed the room to Michael’s bassinet and patted his little head; he was awake, and he stared past her with black eyes and shook his fists erratically.

AT THE BRUHNSES’ APARTMENT, Eva fetched a bucket and cleaning rag from the storage closet off the kitchen. She wiped up the puddle Purzel had left in the hallway. They hadn’t changed his walking schedule, but he had recently peed in the apartment a few times. He was already eleven, so it was probably a sign of old age. Eva tried not to think about the fit Stefan would throw if they had to put the dog to sleep. She washed and wrung out the rag in the kitchen sink, then looked at the clock. Her call with Annegret was half an hour ago. Did these inquiries really take that long? At that moment the phone rang. Eva dashed into the hallway and answered, “Eva Bruhns here?!” But it was Jürgen, calling from West Berlin. He was there for a few days on business, to visit a factory in East Berlin that manufactured bedclothes. Jürgen seemed cheerful. He told her he’d been positively surprised by the quality of the East German products. He hoped to get the linens for a good price. The Wall was an oppressive presence. He’d had an excellent Tafelspitz for dinner. He was staying at a hotel on Ku’damm, with a view of the destroyed Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. He thought it was a mistake not to rebuild the church. “We don’t need these memorials. People already carry them around within themselves. Within their souls.”

But Eva didn’t have the patience for one of Jürgen’s philosophical diatribes. “Jürgen, I’m sorry, but I’m expecting a call.”

“From whom?”

“I’ll tell you in person when you get back. Okay?”

Jürgen was silent, but Eva could picture his face plainly, the way his eyes darkened in suspicion, yet he was too proud to ask any more questions. Jürgen was a jealous person, something Eva had noticed a few times while out together, when other men would ask her to dance. But it flattered her. After all, it meant she was important to him.

“Fine, I suppose we’re hanging up now. Have a good night.” He really was hurt.

“All right. Well, you know we’ll see each other tomorrow. Sleep tight,” Eva responded. She waited for him to hang up.

But then his voice buzzed out of the receiver, “By the way, my father and his wife want to meet you. We’re going to dinner on Friday. To the InterConti. Agreed?”

Eva was stunned but answered happily, “Yes, of course! What did you tell them?”

“That I want to marry you.” Jürgen’s voice was strangely icy as he said it, but Eva didn’t care.

“What? And? What did they say?”

“Like I said: they want to meet you.” Jürgen hung up. Eva needed a moment to fully comprehend that the “breakthrough,” as she’d dubbed it for herself, had finally come. The fear of Jürgen leaving her was finally banished. The Schoormanns knew that she existed. That she was their son’s bride. Eva called loudly for Purzel, since there was no one else in the apartment she could hug with joy. But the dog didn’t come. Eva went into the living room and squatted down. There was Purzel, a black spot with two shining eyes, in his usual spot under the sofa. Considering how sly he could be, and how painfully he would nip people when they least expected, he had a highly pronounced sense of shame.

“Come on out, I’m not going to rip your head off.” Purzel didn’t move, but she could see the whites of his eyes. Eva reached out and slowly pulled the dog out from under the sofa by his collar. Then she picked him up. The phone rang again, and Eva carried Purzel into the hallway and answered for a second time. It was Annegret. She had spoken to the chief physician in the emergency department.

“That Cohn fellow, he’s doing fine.”

Eva exhaled in relief. “How wonderful. It really did look bad—”

“It was just a concussion.”

“Can I visit him? I have his hat—”

“He’s already been discharged. It was his idea.”

“What? Oh… thank you, Annie, I’m so happy. Thank you.”

Click! Annegret hung up. Or the connection was cut. Eva squeezed Purzel, who struggled in protest. “What do you think about that?! Today’s my lucky day!” Eva spun around the hallway with Purzel and kissed his short, wiry fur. “And I won’t tell anyone what you did. I promise!” Purzel snapped at Eva’s face in response. She dropped him. “You always were a little beast!”

AT THE HOSPITAL, Nurse Heide and a colleague wheeled the babies to their mothers in the maternity ward. Annegret was tending to Michael, whose mother was not yet lactating following the difficult delivery and was still too weak to bottle-feed him. Annegret was at the nurses’ station, filling a glass bottle with four tablespoons of powdered milk and boiling water from the kettle. From the pocket of her uniform, she pulled out the glass syringe containing the brownish liquid. She slowly added the contents to the milk mixture, screwed the nipple into place, and shook the bottle vigorously. Then she entered the first nursery, plucked Michael from his bassinet, and sat down with him in a cozy chair by the window. Michael flailed his head about and pressed his mouth against Annegret’s smock. She smiled—he was looking for his mother’s breast. She tested the temperature of the baby formula by pressing the bottle to her cheek. Then she put the rubber nipple in the boy’s mouth. He immediately began feeding hungrily and evenly. He made little chortling sounds as he did. Annegret looked down at him, and she felt the small, warm body and the trust it had in her. A great sense of peace spread through her body, a heavy, golden honey that flowed warmly into all of her limbs. She forgot everything—she forgot that she had just asked the head nurse in emergency surgery about Otto Cohn. She forgot that the older nurse, whom she knew casually, had taken her across the hallway to a special room. Her colleague described the imposition the patient had presented. His condition had been utterly squalid. He had smelled terribly. Annegret also forgot that the nurse had opened the door to that windowless room with a cross on the wall. There, covered by a white cloth, lay a figure on a gurney. The nurse explained that a rib had pierced his lung. He had already suffocated by the time the medics loaded him up. Annegret gazed at Michael suckling blissfully and no longer heard the nurse’s question: “Did you know him?” Annegret forgot that she had stepped up to the gurney, and that beside the body’s blanketed feet, she had seen the man’s small collection of possessions. A shabby wallet with several new bills peeking out, a flattened pocket watch, whose hands had stopped at ten minutes to one, and two old photographs. She forgot that she lied to her sister about this troubled man.

LATER THAT EVENING, just as David was leaving the office, the lead prosecutor informed him that the witness had died as a result of the accident. The men stood facing each other in the office door and shared a silent look. The thrill of the pharmacist’s arrest had taken on a bitter aftertaste. The blond man then asked that David tend to the formalities. Cohn had no one left in Budapest who would pay for his body to be brought back home. They would need to apply for a pauper’s funeral with the authorities. David assured him that he would of course see to it. The blond man watched him walk down the corridor and disappear through the glass door at the end. He couldn’t help it—he was starting to like the young man.

As David left the office building and stepped into the damp evening air, his legs felt unusually heavy. Cohn must have died as he and Fräulein Bruhns knelt beside him. His soul had slipped between them and climbed into the heavens. Or disappeared down a manhole. Depended on one’s views of eternity. David was tired. But he wasn’t ready to return to his room yet. He took a left, to visit Sissi. He knew that her shift at Suzi’s didn’t begin till ten, which would still give them a good hour together. He hadn’t returned to the bar after their first encounter, but had instead tried other establishments and their ladies.

Not too long ago, though, he’d been in a chilly, cramped fruit and vegetable shop buying three oranges, because he had a cold and his mother’s lectures about vitamins echoed in his mind. As the warmly bundled shopkeeper, who was wearing wool gloves with the fingertips missing, packed the fruit into a paper bag as carefully as if they were raw eggs, another woman—slender and somewhat pinched—entered the shop. She slowly took off her gloves and checked the potatoes in the crates by turning them over and over. She wore bright red nail polish, which didn’t match her otherwise colorless appearance. “These caught some frost.” “Now listen here! I only sell the best products!” The woman seemed strangely familiar to David. He stared at her while paying for his oranges and dug through his mind, trying to remember how he knew her. From the municipal building? From the prosecution? She didn’t look like one of the older typists. Or was she a cleaner in the office? She sensed his gaze, turned to him, and pleasantly said, “Guten Tag.” At that moment, he picked up a vaguely sweet smell. It was Sissi, whom he had been in bed with. Whom he had been inside, and inside whom he had burst. David turned as red as his hair. Sissi smiled, and her face was transformed into a web of fine wrinkles David hadn’t noticed in the darkened brothel room. He carried the potatoes home for her like a schoolboy hoping to earn a few pennies, and had visited her several times since. In her small apartment off a back courtyard, where she lived with her fourteen-year-old son—an “occupational mishap,” as she said—they would sit at the kitchen table, talking and smoking. Sometimes they watched a show on Sissi’s new television, which was her pride and joy. They were like two friendly dogs that liked each other and lay peacefully side by side. He hadn’t slept with her a second time. It would have felt inappropriate, now that he knew Sissi in her real life. She wasn’t interested in hearing about the trial. The war had been hard on her too. Especially after the war, when the Russians reached Baulitz, where she’d had a small farm with her husband. On the outskirts of town.

Tonight, Sissi noticed that David wasn’t behaving as superior as usual. He seemed shaken and started talking as soon as the door opened: about traffic, the weather, the strange smell just now in the front building. While Sissi washed her stockings in the sink, her back toward him in the narrow kitchen, David sat up tall at the table and leaned against the wall and talked—not about Cohn, but about himself. Himself and his big brother. They had been deported to the camp from Berlin. His brother had been in the resistance and was sent to the political department. He was tortured to death in an interrogation. And they called him, the baby brother, to dispose of the body. He hadn’t even recognized him anymore. The interrogation was performed by the head of the political department. Defendant Number Four. When David reached the end of his story, Sissi turned around and began hanging the wrung out, but still damp, stockings on a line she had stretched the length of the kitchen. David waited for her to say something in sympathy or outrage. But all she asked, without looking at him, was, “Have you told your boss yet?” David fell silent for a moment, snubbed, then snapped with disproportionate severity, “You really don’t understand, do you? I’d be out on my ear!” He elaborated that having a personal stake would bar him from working on the trial. They called that conflict of interest! He’d had to make a decision. And he had decided not to be a witness, but to convict the perpetrators by law. Dramatic music swelled in the next room. Sissi’s son was hunkered down in front of the television in the bed-sitter, watching a crime movie. David broke off. There were shots and someone screamed. Sissi continued hanging her stockings. David thought he must not have told the story properly. He cleared his throat and added that he’d never told this to anyone. Which was also a lie, because he had been out twice with Fräulein Schenke, the attractive stenotypist. He had confided in her the second time. And sworn her to absolute secrecy. Since then, Fräulein Schenke had sent him pitying looks from across the courtroom. And it wasn’t just her—the other girls had been acting more solicitous toward him too, all except for Fräulein Bruhns. The story apparently hadn’t reached her yet. Sissi had finished hanging her fourteen stockings. Several of the toes were dripping gently on the stone floor and David’s thighs. Sissi said she had a headache. It wasn’t good to think back on bad things. “You know,” she said, as she opened David a bottle of beer, “I have this little chamber in here.” She pointed at her belly, directly below her heart. “I piled everything in there and turned out the light and locked the door. The chamber aches sometimes, but then I just take a teaspoon of baking soda. I know it’s there. But luckily I don’t know what’s inside anymore. Five Russians? Ten Russians? My dead husband? And how many dead children? No idea. Door’s shut and light’s out.”

THE NEXT MORNING, right after breakfast, Eva packed the narrow-brimmed hat in a large paper bag and set out for the inn. The reception desk was deserted, and the murmur of voices and clatter of silverware emerged from a room behind it to the left. The guests were having breakfast, while the innkeeper’s wife strolled between the tables with the coffeepot. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen. Eva remembered which room Cohn had booked. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked down the dark, carpeted corridor. She stopped outside the door bearing the number eight. She knocked softly. “Herr Cohn? I’ve brought you something.” There was no response, and she knocked again, waited, and then tried the door handle. The room was empty, the window wide open, revealing a tall firewall, and the bright curtains moved in the breeze. Despite the fresh air from outdoors, a penetrating smell hung in the room. Like gas or the chloroform they give you at the dentist to numb the pain, Eva thought and involuntarily covered her nose and mouth with her hand. She drew back into the hallway.

“What are you snooping around for, Fräulein?” The innkeeper approached.

“I wanted to visit Herr Cohn.”

He looked her over with his slightly puffy eyes. “Weren’t you the one who first brought him here? Are you related to him?”

Eva shook her head. “No, I just have something of his…” Eva lifted the paper bag by way of explanation, but the man wasn’t interested. He stepped into the room.

“He stayed in here for weeks,” he noted and closed the window. “They just don’t know the first thing about personal hygiene and care. So now I need to clear the lice out of all the cracks. And it’s not like you can just ask nicely—you have to fumigate.”

“Did he leave?”

The innkeeper turned to face Eva. “No, he was hit and killed by a car.”

Eva gaped at the man and shook her head incredulously. “But… he was… I thought it was just a concussion.”

“Beats me. One of the prosecutors, or something, already stopped by early this morning, red-headed guy—he picked up his suitcase. Everything’s paid up. Except the fumigation. I’ve got to cough that up myself, of course. Unless you were planning to pay?” Eva turned and slowly made her way down the corridor without answering, the paper bag in her left hand. She brushed the wall with three fingers of her right hand. She felt she needed the support.

WHEN EVA GOT BACK to the Bruhnses’ apartment half an hour later, she was surprised to hear noises coming from her room. Voices and laughter. Her mother and sister were standing at her opened wardrobe and rummaging through her clothing. They had already pulled out two of her best dresses and hung them side by side from the wardrobe door. Eva frowned at the two women. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re trying to help you!” Annegret declared, without turning to face Eva.

“We’re looking to see what you should wear tonight, child. You’ve got to look stunning for the Schoormanns,” Edith added.

“But you can’t just come into my room and go through my wardrobe—” Eva protested. They both ignored her objection. Instead, Annegret pointed out the dark blue sheath dress hanging from the door.

“I prefer this one, because it’s so slimming, but Mum likes the light brown one. You know Mum’s taste can be a bit common, though.”

Edith playfully threatened Annegret with a raised hand. “You had better watch out!”

“Well, just look at you in that old sack.” Annegret tugged at the blue checkered smock Edith wore whenever she wasn’t working at the restaurant.

“How about that hair of yours? Like cotton candy. It defies the laws of nature—”

“Stop it!” Eva cried out so earnestly that Edith and Annegret immediately ceased their sparring. Eva placed the paper bag containing the hat on the bed and sat down heavily beside it. Edith eyed her searchingly and felt her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Are you getting sick?”

Annegret waved off her mother’s concern. “Nonsense, Mum, she’s just nervous. It’ll be fine, Evie! You’ll soon belong to high society yourself!” Annegret smiled somewhat spitefully and turned her attention back to the contents of the wardrobe. Eva looked at her sister’s broad back.

“You told me that all Otto Cohn had was a concussion.” Annegret, who was arranging a white cardigan over the dark blue dress to see if it matched, froze.

“I did what?”

“Who’s Cohn?” Edith asked, confused.

“He’s dead,” Eva said in Annegret’s direction, ignoring her mother. Annegret hung the white cardigan back up.

“All I did was pass along what the chief physician told me.”

“His injuries must have been more serious. He must have died on the street somewhere, after leaving your hospital. How could you let him go?”

“How should I know? How the hell is this any of my concern, Eva?!” Annegret spun around and glared hotly at Eva, her expression slightly walleyed in her indignation. Eva recalled that Annegret had sometimes looked like this when they were younger. It happened whenever someone accused her of having eaten something from the pantry. Eva was shocked to realize her sister was lying.

“Now would someone please clue me in on who you’re talking about?” Edith asked impatiently, as she ran a lint brush over the light brown suit.

“A witness from the trial, Mum. Yesterday he—”

“Oh, I see,” Edith interrupted brusquely and raised the hand holding the brush to stop her. It was clear she didn’t want to hear about it. Eva studied the two women, who had again turned their backs to her and were digging through her clothing, as if she weren’t there. Eva suddenly felt like she was no longer at home in her own room. She stood up.

“Could you please leave?” They both turned and hesitated for a moment, then Edith handed Eva the light brown suit.

“Listen to me, wear this one—it’s modest and tasteful, and you’ll make a respectable impression. You’re still going to wash your hair, aren’t you?” Edith left without awaiting a reply. Annegret also headed for the door and shrugged regretfully.

“We just wanted to give you some advice. There’s no helping some people.” With that, she left too.

Once Eva was alone in the room, she hung the dresses back in the wardrobe and closed the doors. She took the hat out of the paper bag and turned it over in her hands. The jet-black velvet had rubbed off in a few spots, and the violet lining had come loose. The inside band, once blue-and-white-striped, was now a shiny, greasy black from sweat and dirt. The words Lindmann Hats—Hermannstadt—Telephone 553 were embroidered in cursive on a cloth label sewn to the inside. Eva looked around the room. Then she pushed together a few books on her shelf and placed the hat on the spot she’d cleared.

SHORTLY BEFORE SEVEN THAT EVENING, Jürgen’s car pulled up beneath the streetlight outside the house. Eva was not wearing either the dark blue dress or the light brown suit under her wool coat. She had opted for a maroon silk dress with a plunging neckline, as it was the most elegant piece she owned. She wasn’t wearing a hat. She had styled her updo higher than usual. Her pumps made her seem even taller, which Jürgen was startled to discover as he opened the car door for her. He also noticed that Eva didn’t seem nervous, and he made a joke about it. She did not respond. She had felt strangely numb since that morning. As though she were wrapped in thick cotton wool. Jürgen’s nerves, meanwhile, were on edge, and he lit a cigarette and smoked as he drove, something Eva had never seen him do. They listened in silence to the news on the car radio. The announcer reported that demonstrations for racial equality had been held in several cities across the United States. A Sheraton hotel in San Francisco, in the state of California, had been occupied by protesters because hotel management discriminated against black job applicants. More than three hundred people were arrested. The weather forecast, which promised spring-like temperatures climbing over twelve degrees Celsius, was followed by a music show—The Friday-Night Record Bin, which Eva listened to whenever she stayed in. The young disc jockey’s voice cracked as he announced that the Beatles had released a new single. Listeners were hearing it here first! “Can’t buy me lo-ove! Lo-ove! Can’t buy me lo-ove!” the singers screamed ardently, and without any musical introduction, from the little car speakers. At the fourth “love,” Jürgen turned off the radio. They had argued about the Beatles before. Eva liked their songs. She thought their music was fun, and the four young Englishmen themselves cheeky and attractive. Jürgen had asserted that their music was little more than haphazard noise. Eva had replied that he was as uptight as her parents. She was not in the mood for another argument tonight and withheld comment. She secretly decided, though, to buy the new single in the music department at Hertie’s on Monday. Those few measures had just helped lighten her subdued mood.

A short time later, the InterContinental Hotel appeared before them like an unscalable wall blocking out the dark red evening sky. “Have you ever been inside?” Jürgen asked. Eva had not. “Seven hundred rooms. And every last one has its own bathroom and television set.” Jürgen turned the car directly toward the building, and for a brief moment, Eva thought they were going to crash into it, when suddenly the vehicle dove down, and they followed a ramp into the parking garage under the hotel. Eva had never driven underground in a car. The ceiling appeared to be sinking, a few dim lights glowed as they passed, and the colorful symbols and lines on the concrete floor were indecipherable and mysterious to her. She clung to the handle above her door. Jürgen steered the car confidently through the labyrinth of columns and parked by a steel door that read “Stairs to Hotel.” Jürgen helped Eva out of the car and held her for a moment, and she thought he might want to kiss her. Instead, he said, “Please don’t mention the trial. It could upset my father. As you know, he was imprisoned for years.” Eva was stunned. Ever since she started going to the municipal building regularly, Jürgen hadn’t said a word about her work. Evidently it was on his mind more than she’d thought. Eva nodded. “Of course. Has he been doing all right?” Jürgen nodded, but didn’t look at her as he did. They stepped into the mirrored elevator. The copper-colored panel beside the door had twenty-two light-up buttons. Jürgen pressed the top one. As the elevator climbed, Eva was captivated by their reflection as a couple, the way they appeared over and over, in big boxes that grew smaller and smaller, at once close then farther and farther away. Eva thought they looked good together: Jürgen with his black hair and navy blue wool coat, herself blond in pale checkers. Like husband and wife. She caught Jürgen’s eye in one of the reflections. They both had to smile. The elevator stopped a few times, and other guests entered. It got crowded. The elevator finally went ping, the uppermost light glowed, and the doors opened to the rooftop restaurant. Eva, Jürgen, and the remaining guests were all drawn first to the panoramic window, where they took in the view. “The lights in the houses look like fallen stars,” Eva said softly. Jürgen stroked her cheek and said, “Don’t worry, Eva. I think my father had a good day today.” But it sounded as if he were saying it more to calm himself, than Eva. She squeezed his hand. In the vestibule outside the coatroom, they were greeted by an employee in a dark suit. Herr Schoormann and his wife were already waiting in the Manhattan Bar, he informed them. He helped Eva with her coat. Jürgen’s eyes fell on her exposed cleavage. “Was that really necessary?” he hissed. Eva flinched; it felt as if he had slapped her. She laid her hand over her low-cut neckline. “Well, there’s no changing it now.” Jürgen offered her his arm, which she reluctantly took. The amicable mood was extinguished.

Walther Schoormann sat perched on a swivel stool at the luminous, ovoid chrome bar in the crowded lounge. Brigitte—in elegant, high-necked black—stood by him, dabbing a dampened napkin on a stain on the collar of his suit coat, which was too big for him these days. A man in a tuxedo played soft, cheery music on a black grand piano.

“Brigitte, leave it be!”

“It wasn’t there back at the house. How did you manage it this time?”

Walther Schoormann saw his son enter. On his arm was an attractive, perhaps not overly elegant, but seemingly upright young woman. Her dress looked a bit cheap, the neckline too low for the occasion. But there was nothing calculating to her gaze, Walther was relieved to note. Beautifully thick hair, Brigitte Schoormann thought, but what a horribly old-fashioned updo. But that neckline. Daring. Interesting contradiction. Eva sensed the couple’s penetrating, appraising looks. She formed her own first impression as she approached: she liked the Schoormanns. There was no doubt he was moody and gruff, the way he had just pushed off his wife. He seemed funny, though, alert and approachable. Not at all unwell. His wife kept a straight face—she didn’t immediately betray her opinion. But to Eva, she looked like someone who made an effort to be fair. “I’m pleased to meet you, Fräulein Bruhns.” And Eva knew Brigitte meant it. They shook hands. Eva hadn’t noticed the music till now. The pianist was playing “Moon River,” from the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which Eva had seen in theaters with Annegret a year ago. The sisters had cried through the entire final half hour.

Eva sighed involuntarily. The tension she had felt subsided. The bartender filled four glasses with what Eva assumed was champagne, and they clinked glasses where they stood. Eva took a large swig, and sure enough, it had the same dry flavor she had illicitly tasted for the first time at Jürgen’s house. She glanced at Jürgen, who was staring at her neckline. She covered her bare skin with her hand. Then they went to a private, wood-paneled room, where their table had been festively set. Eva was immediately taken in by the room’s warm atmosphere and gentle orange lighting, whose source she could not locate. The city lights glittered in the distance beyond the windows. Brigitte told them that a six-course French meal was planned. Walther Schoormann pulled out a chair for Eva. “Take the seat to my left. I can hear better on that side. Jürgen, you’d better sit on the right.” He grinned at his son, who jokingly bared his teeth and sat down opposite Eva.

NEARLY EVERY SEAT WAS TAKEN at German House that Friday evening. They were hosting no fewer than two groups of regulars, including the neighborhood Carnival planning association. Ludwig cooked, stewed, and roasted with the support of Frau Lenze, whose finger had more or less healed after all these weeks, and a newly hired young worker, who did nothing but wash dishes and chew gum. Edith was waiting tables together with the perpetually grim but competent server Fräulein Wittkopp, who was still unmarried at forty-eight and would stay that way. Herr Paten, a longtime employee, tended the bar. There was no chance to catch their breath, no time for a private moment between the Bruhnses, although they both needed it more than ever. Edith chanced upon Ludwig alone just once, when she came into the kitchen laden with dishes. The dishwasher was out back, chewing away and having a smoke, and Frau Lenze had slipped off to use the toilet. Edith hovered beside Ludwig, who was breading schnitzel cutlets with remarkable speed and arranging them in a large pan of sizzling oil. “Almost ready, give me six minutes. Five.” Edith did not respond. Ludwig looked over and was shocked to discover that she was crying. He turned to her and somewhat helplessly brushed a floury hand across her cheek. Then he took a dishtowel to wipe both the tears and flour from his wife’s face.

“What is it, Mother?”

“Soon we won’t be good enough for her anymore.”

“Oh, baloney! Our daughter won’t let herself get carried away.”

Frau Lenze returned to the kitchen. Her finger hurt, she said, it just hadn’t been the same since the accident. Edith choked back her tears, balanced five plates of cucumber salad, and carried them out to the dining room. Ludwig flipped the schnitzels and swore. They’d come out a bit dark. “Oh, they’re still fine. Not meant for girls, anyhow!” he boomed.

In the dining room, Edith delivered the plates of salad and took new orders. An elegantly dressed gentleman and equally refined woman emerged from behind the felted curtain hung at the entrance. Edith glanced over and immediately recognized them. She turned her back to the couple and grasped Fräulein Wittkopp by the arm as she carried a tray past.

“Please let those folks know there are no tables available.”

“But table two is about to—”

“It’s been reserved for nine!”

Fräulein Wittkopp frowned at Edith for a moment, because that wasn’t true, then approached the newcomers, tried to make her dour face look apologetic, and told them, “I’m sorry, we’re full.”

“We’ve heard how excellent your schnitzel is. How unfortunate,” the raptor-faced man replied pleasantly. Leading his companion out the door, he said, “We’ll come back another time, Mother.” They vanished behind the heavy curtain. None of the diners had recognized the man, although his photograph had frequently appeared in the newspaper over the past few months—he was the main defendant, after all.

At the InterContinental, the third course had arrived: coq au citron. Eva had never eaten chicken that tasted like lemon. The flavor reminded her of dish soap, but she chewed on bravely. Conversation had initially revolved around the catalog. Brigitte had admonished Walther and Jürgen to find a topic of conversation that would also interest the women. So they talked about the increase in traffic on the roads. Brigitte was currently working toward her license, and she described driving practice as “unspeakably infernal drills.” Eva said she didn’t know if she would ever need a license. Jürgen didn’t think so. Eva’s defiance stirred, and she was about to announce that maybe she would sign up at a driving school, when Walther Schoormann unexpectedly touched her forearm. “Excuse me, my dear girl, but who did you say you were again?” Eva stiffened, and a wave of heat cascaded down her body. Jürgen set down his silverware in alarm, but Brigitte remained calm and said to Walther, “This is Fräulein Bruhns, your son’s girlfriend.” Walther Schoormann looked bewildered. “My name is Eva Bruhns.” He looked at her with unseeing eyes and repeated her name.

“Do you have a husband? Children? A job?”

“I am a translator from the Polish.”

Jürgen caught Eva’s eye and shook his head faintly in warning. But at that moment, Walther Schoormann nodded. He edged in his chair and tapped his index finger repeatedly on the table as he spoke: “Of course. I asked after you. You’re translating in the trial at the municipal building.”

Eva looked at Jürgen helplessly, then responded, “Yes.”

“What’s the trial about?” Walther Schoormann asked. Eva looked at him incredulously. Did he really not know what it was about? Or was he testing her? Jürgen fixed her with an urgent stare. Brigitte also flashed Eva a small, pleading smile. Eva tried to take on a breezy tone: “Oh, it’s against a few men, well, war criminals, who worked at that camp… at a camp… so, who committed crimes in Poland. It was a long time ago and people…” Eva dropped off in the middle of the sentence. It felt wrong to speak about the trial so lightly. The little old man had thankfully turned his attention back to his lemon chicken. He seemed to have forgotten his question. Eva and Jürgen abashedly began eating again too. “Yes, the war was terrible. But now it’s time we went back to talking about nice things. Were you maybe planning to take Fräulein Bruhns to the island over Easter?” Brigitte said. She turned to Eva affably. “I think it’s the most beautiful time of the year, when everything starts to blossom and—” Walther Schoormann suddenly burst out, “You’ll never get me to talk—never!” He got up from his chair. “Brigitte, I need to use the washroom.” Eva looked down Walther Schoormann’s body. A dark spot was spreading over the middle of his trousers. Brigitte stood up. “Come, Walli, come with me, everything’s fine.” Brigitte rounded the table and led her husband out of the room. Jürgen glanced at the empty chair, but the silk upholstery did not appear to have been touched. Eva sat there, rigid and helpless. The maître d’ entered soundlessly and bowed slightly. “May we clear this course?” “Yes, please,” Jürgen gestured. “And would we like to wait a moment before the main course?” Jürgen eyed the man. “Please bring me the bill.” The maître d’ seemed vexed but did not ask further. He nodded and withdrew. Eva sought Jürgen’s gaze. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t lie.” “Eva, in no way is this your fault.”

They went to the coat check, then happened upon Walther and Brigitte at the elevator. They were also wearing their coats. The four stepped into the little mirrored compartment together, going down. “Are you also in the garage?” Brigitte responded, “No, we’re parked outside.” Jürgen pressed the button beside the L and the button beside the P. The elevator jolted, then descended smoothly. Eva didn’t look in the mirrors this time, but at the carpeted floor. What a sad way to end the evening. Walther Schoormann regarded Eva at that moment and said, “I’m sick, miss. That’s why these things happen to me.”

“Yes, I understand, Herr Schoormann.”

“It might have been a better idea to invite you over to ours. I’d have a pair of replacement pants, then.” Eva smiled uncertainly. “Yes, that’s true.” When the doors opened to the lobby, they shook hands. Their good-byes were brief, and Eva and Jürgen continued down into the garage.

Back in the car, Jürgen made no move to start the engine. He sat there, bent forward and gazing at the speedometer; the needle was stationary. He began to talk about his father, about how he’d always been unpredictable and how his illness hadn’t actually changed anything other than his control over bodily functions. When he was a child, his father encouraged him, praised him, spent hours fishing with him at the pond, then out of nowhere, humiliated and struck him. He could always go to him with questions, no matter how outlandish. But he had occasionally earned himself a solid cuffing, just because he had described a storm trooper uniform as “neat.” His mother loved him reliably, whereas his father repeatedly let him down. But he survived the war. He had to live with him. Jürgen turned to Eva, and his eyes shone black in the cold gloom of the parking garage. Jürgen said that he could tell his father had liked Eva. And that in spite of everything, the evening had been a success. And to be perfectly honest, had his father found fault with her, he wouldn’t have been able to marry her. Eva saw Jürgen’s eyes begin to glint. A sob escaped him, and he covered his face with his hands. Men didn’t cry. And as he turned away from Eva bashfully, yet so clearly full of relief, she thought that although she didn’t understand Jürgen, she did love him. She drew his hand, damp with tears, away from his face and stroked it. It seemed she would soon be living together with Walther and Brigitte Schoormann in that house that smelled of chlorine. Eva tried to imagine sitting at breakfast with the Schoormanns, sorting laundry with Brigitte, or arguing with Frau Treuthardt in the kitchen. It was impossible. But when she pictured what had always been her home, the stuffy apartment above the restaurant, her family, she was not filled with the usual sense of sleepy security. Eva held Jürgen’s hand and gazed at a concrete wall. She was sitting underground, under a twenty-one-story building with seven hundred rooms and as many bathrooms, in a car that wasn’t moving, yet she felt as though she were on a distant journey.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Eva was driven from bed by sheer hunger. She had starved herself all day in anticipation of an evening spent at a luxury restaurant, and those few appetizers were now long digested. She padded barefoot into the kitchen, spread some butter on a slice of bread, and poured herself a glass of milk. She returned to the window in her room and ate by the glow of the streetlight. Every now and then, she took a sip of milk. On the ceiling behind her, the shadow cast by the streetlight trembled. Don Quixote wielded his lance, as he did every night. Sitting on the shelf, like a new house pet getting used to its surroundings, was the hat. The street was quiet—not a single car drove by, and only two windows in the apartment buildings opposite were lit. Maybe someone was sick. Her mother had always been fanatical in caring for them, even when it was no more than a slight cold they had. Fevers sent Edith into a panic, and Doctor Gorf had been summoned in the middle of the night before, to check whether the death of her children was imminent. Eva had always enjoyed that, seeing as she’d only been dangerously sick once, when she was five. She liked seeing her mother so concerned and distraught. And Edith’s relief, when they felt ready to eat or get up again, was absolute. “Those days are over,” Eva said out loud. She swallowed her final bite and took the last sip of milk. Her feet had gotten cold. She wanted to get back into bed, under the two blankets she’d needed lately to keep warm, and turned away from the window. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another light appear. In the apartment building diagonally across the street—a new, three-story structure—someone had turned on the hallway light. An unfamiliar orange glow appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door. She thought that the light fixture must be new. New and already broken, because the light was flickering, as if it had a loose connection. Eva watched for someone to leave the building. But no one came out. Meanwhile, the light was growing brighter and turning yellow. It was moving. It took Eva a few more seconds to grasp what the flickering meant. Fire. There was a fire in the downstairs entryway of the building across the street. Eva froze for a moment, then stumbled out of her room toward the telephone in the hallway. She screamed, “Daddy!! Fire! Over at number fourteen!” Eva dialed 112, and, gasping, repeated the address twice before the emergency dispatcher on the other end understood her. The doors to her parents’ and Stefan’s bedrooms opened, but Annegret’s remained closed—she must not have returned yet from the night shift. Ludwig, wide awake, barked, “Where?!”

“Across the street, at Penschuks’!”

Ludwig bolted from the apartment as he was. Stefan, shadowed by an anxiously yipping Purzel, tried to follow, but Edith caught her son by the collar of his pajamas. “You stay put!” Eva hung up the receiver. “They’re coming! The fire department is coming!” Edith nodded, threw on her robe, strode toward the door, then had a thought and came back, opened the hall cupboard, pulled out an armful of folded blankets, and followed her husband onto the street. Purzel darted out the door as well. Stefan again tried to go after them. “Mummy, I want to come!” Eva had to restrain him with all her strength. “Let me go!” he bawled. Eva picked him up, and he struggled and kicked her painfully in the thigh. He didn’t calm until Eva carried him to her bedroom window. “There, now you can see everything.”

From the window, Eva and Stefan then watched their father run across the street as fast as he could in his threadbare pajamas and slippers—which he nearly lost—bellowing, “Fire!! Fire!!” They watched him ring all of the doorbells by the front entrance at once, then pound on the door, then ring again. One by one, the lights turned on in the apartments. Edith crossed the street with the blankets in her arms. She said something to Ludwig at the front door. He pointed toward an archway that led to the back courtyard. Edith hurried back through the little front yard and disappeared behind the house. The flickering behind the front door now filled the entire glass pane. Windows opened upstairs. Someone leaned out. Ludwig yelled something that Eva and Stefan couldn’t hear; the person vanished from the window, then reappeared and tossed something down that landed in the yard. Ludwig bent over and looked for it. Then he picked it up and returned to the door. He unlocked it. “What’s Daddy doing?” Stefan cried in terror. Eva didn’t answer and watched in disbelief as her father pushed open the front door. The fire was unmistakable now, blazing, white; black smoke billowed above and streamed toward the door. Eva watched helplessly as her father hesitated for a moment, then charged into the house and was swallowed by smoke. “God, what is he doing?” she whispered. A shapeless form emerged from the darkness on the street below: Annegret. She stopped in her tracks and looked at the open door and black clouds pouring out. Three tenants wrapped in blankets ran through the archway onto the street and joined Annegret. Everyone stared at the open door. Their father was nowhere to be seen.

“The fire department is coming!” Stefan was shaking with fear in Eva’s arms. She listened but couldn’t hear anything. She opened the window and smelled the smoke. Burning fabric. Singed lambskin. Her father remained hidden, somewhere inside the burning hallway. “Daddy!” Stefan shrieked. “Daddy!!”

Half an hour later, the Bruhns family—Annegret holding Stefan on her lap—had gathered in the German House dining room with the tenants from five out of six of the apartments in the building opposite (the elderly Penschuks were fortunately out of town, visiting their daughter in Königstein). Everyone was in pajamas and nightshirts under the blankets Eva’s mother had brought them. A small child was whining, half asleep. “It looks like you were bombed,” Edith concluded. She and Eva, both in their robes, had prepared tea for the grown-ups and cocoa for the children. Ludwig was being celebrated as a hero. Even before the fire trucks arrived, he had “put his life on the line,” as people kept saying, and thrust the blazing baby carriage out of the building and onto the street. He was now sitting at the table; Edith had laid a blanket over his shoulders as well, and he was soaking his hands in a bowl of ice water. But the burns were just superficial. “As a cook, I’m used to much worse temperatures!” Ludwig repeated yet again. Eva could tell, though, based on how white his nose was, that the intervention had not been without danger. The fire department had arrived just moments later, and a fireman jumped from the truck as it was still moving, to extinguish the fire devouring the stroller, which was rolling slowly toward German House. The stroller then stood abandoned in the middle of the street, a bizarrely twisted conveyance whose dangling metal parts were still aglow. It belonged to a young family Eva hadn’t met before; the dark-haired wife had thanked her for the tea in broken German. The baby was now fast asleep in her arms. Her husband, a gentle man, sighed anxiously. He was probably worrying about how he would manage to pay for a new stroller. Edith told Eva that these were the Giordanos, migrant workers from Italy—Naples—who were still new to the city. “Am I pronouncing your name right?” Edith asked, and Frau Giordano smiled. Someone stepped through the felted curtains into the dining room. It was the fire marshal in his dark blue uniform. Stefan sat up in Annegret’s lap and stared at him reverently. Everyone else’s conversations—largely speculation about who might have set the fire—fell silent. Hoodlums? A lunatic? The man in uniform coughed tersely and informed them, with a certain accusatory tone, that the fire had spread to the wall covering in the hallway. Which was a disgrace, by the way, because it flouted every last aspect of the fire code! They all looked at him remorsefully, although not one of them could be held responsible for the decisions the landlord from across the street had made. The fire marshal paused dramatically, then told them that the danger had been contained. It was safe to go back home. The apartments did, however, need to be aired out thoroughly. Frau Giordano translated in a whisper for Herr Giordano. He sighed so deeply that everyone laughed. Then they applauded. Ludwig pulled his hands out of the ice water, threw off the blanket, headed behind the bar in his favorite pajamas, and passed out generous pours of schnapps—cheers to the fright they’d had. The women also joined in the drinking; only the fire marshal declined. Eva threw back her schnapps, shuddered, and murmured, “God, am I relieved nothing happened to anyone.” And Eva could see how pleased her father was with this positive outcome for the neighbors from across the street. Although they were free to return to the house, Ludwig poured a second round of schnapps. After refilling the glasses on the table, he made a toast to the rescued folks, positively beaming. Eva stood and gave her father a quick hug, to his surprise. She gave her mother, who’d observed the embrace with a smile, two kisses on the cheek. Annegret sneered. Eva gave her sister a defiant look. She knew her exuberance came from drinking schnapps on a nighttime belly. But it also came from love.

ONLY A FEW DAYS LATER, something happened that shook Eva deeply. It was a Thursday, a day in court. Spring had long since arrived in the city, and the silhouettes of the trees outside the glass panes shimmered green. There was a certain drowsiness in the auditorium that morning. Even the most combative of the defendants seemed unusually withdrawn. The chief judge’s moonish face hung low. David rested his head heavily in his hand and looked half asleep. Even the children in the schoolyard behind the municipal building seemed muted during recess, their voices drawn out like a slowed record. Eva was translating testimony from a Polish Jew, Anna Masur, a dark-haired woman only a few years younger than Eva’s mother, but who looked like an old woman. She had greeted Eva with a friendly smile at the witness stand, and from the first, she nodded in gratitude for every sentence Eva translated. Eva liked this woman with the shrunken face and dull eyes; she seemed modest, intelligent, and polite. The chief judge asked for her name, age, profession. Then he wanted to know her prisoner number, which they had been unable to find in their documents. Eva translated the question. Instead of answering, Anna Masur pulled up the sleeve of her gray suit jacket, which fit her loosely, then her light blouse. She turned her forearm toward Eva so that she could read and translate the number there. As the number appeared, digit by digit, out from under the sleeve, Eva was overcome by a profound feeling that grew from the depths of her belly. I’ve seen this before. I have experienced this exact moment before. Another déjà vu. But this time it didn’t pass. On the contrary, it grew stronger. As Eva read the numbers out in German, she began to shrink like Alice, after biting into the magic mushroom in the children’s book that both she and Stefan had disliked and soon abandoned. Eva turned into a little girl, and standing beside her was a man in a white coat who pulled up his sleeve and showed her a number on his forearm. He spoke amiably to little Eva. She was sitting in a chair that you could spin. It smelled like soap and burned hair. The man in the coat recited the numbers for her: 24981. Eva could see his mouth before her, his brownish teeth, the little mustache, the way his lips formed the words. In Polish. The man stood before her, as clear as day and beyond question, and suddenly a pain above her left ear seared so intensely she could have screamed, and at that moment she knew: this had really happened. “My dear girl, are you all right?” someone asked her in a quiet voice. It was not until Anna Masur lightly placed a hand on Eva’s arm that she came back around. Eva searched Anna’s questioning look, which radiated a sorrowful friendliness. The judge also interjected, “Do you need a break, Fräulein Bruhns?” Eva looked over at David, who had half risen from his seat, at once concerned and impatient, as though he expected her to faint at any moment. But Eva collected herself and spoke into the microphone, “No, thank you. I’m fine.” She began to translate Anna’s statement regarding her work as a clerk in the camp registry office. The main defendant was her boss. She had to write death certificates, sometimes hundreds a day. And that was only for the people who died in the camp. Those sent into the gas—no one recorded their names. She was required to write “heart failure” or “typhus” for the cause of death, although the people had been shot or beaten or tortured to death. “There was just once I refused to enter ‘heart failure’ as one woman’s cause of death. I argued with my boss about it. With him, sitting right there.” “What was it about this one woman?” the chief judge wanted to know. Eva translated the witness’s response. “She was my sister, and another woman, who’d been with her in the women’s hospital block, told me how she died.” Eva listened to Anna’s account of her sister’s martyrdom, then translated it as gently as possible, Anna Masur nodding thankfully after each sentence. “The doctors were looking for cheap ways to sterilize women.”

At the end of the day’s proceedings, Eva stayed in her seat as the room around her slowly emptied. She had a headache, and the small oblong scar above her left ear was burning, which it hadn’t done in years. She sat in her chair and gathered her courage without knowing exactly what for. When everyone had left, save the two hall attendants scanning the rows for forgotten umbrellas or gloves, Eva stood and walked to the front of the room, where the deserted judges’ bench stood. It smelled different here—more serious, like stone—although that may have been the dust in the thick, pale blue curtains that concealed the stage behind the bench. Eva moved closer than she ever had before to the huge map of the camp, which wouldn’t have fit in her hands had she stretched her arms all the way out. She read the familiar script above the gateway. She followed the camp road with her eyes and studied each of the brick-red buildings, one after the other, the blocks, every barracks in the surrounding area, she wandered down every path, past the watchtowers to the gas chambers and crematorium, then back again, as though searching for the answer to a question that had not yet crossed her lips. In the upper left-hand corner, outside the camp’s exterior fence, five houses were drawn in—two-story and box-like, they stood in a tight row. The drawings had a sketchy quality and weren’t colored in like the rest of the map. Eva knew that the main defendant had lived in the largest house there with his wife, the raptor-faced man and his wife in the little hat. Several weeks ago, the court had been interested in mapping his daily route into the camp, which witnesses said he went by bicycle. The blond prosecutor wanted to prove to the main defendant that he would have had to pass the crematorium on his way. Twice a day. That it would have been impossible for him not to know about the gas chambers. The main defendant remained impassive, as usual, and simply stated that the map was inaccurate. Eva stared at the smaller house next door to the main defendant’s home. She was reminded of something—not the building itself, but the style of the drawing, how pointed the roof was, and how crooked the door and disproportionately large the windows appeared. Eva saw a girl of about eight, sitting at a table and drawing a picture like that with a thick pencil. Was it a friend? Her sister? Herself? When children draw houses, don’t they all look alike? Eva did not notice that David Miller had come back. He silently crossed the auditorium, wearing a light-colored coat that was wrinkled, like everything he owned. He glanced at Eva, perplexed, and went to his seat. He picked up the two statute books lying there, flipped through them hastily, then dropped to his knees and checked under the chairs. David hated wallets and carried his cash and identification papers loose in his pockets. He had been headed to Sissi’s and wanted to buy the season’s first strawberries at the little fruit and vegetable shop along the way. When he went to pay, however, the twenty-mark bill he was certain he’d had that morning was gone. The last of his money for the month. David couldn’t find the bill now, either. He got back up and looked over at Eva, who stood motionless before the map, as though she expected to be absorbed into it. He eyed her blond updo and rounded back, the soft shapes under her pale suit. I wouldn’t touch her with a pole. Funny girl. What the hell is she up to, anyhow? David thought. Then he called out, “Any chance you could float me twenty marks, Eva?”

EVA NEEDED TO HELP in the restaurant that evening. Herr Paten went to night classes at the adult education center every Thursday to learn Spanish. He was planning to move to Majorca with his wife when he retired. Ludwig didn’t like either aspect: that Herr Paten was out every Thursday, or that he would need to find a new bartender in three years. In their fifteen years of working together, Ludwig and Herr Paten had scarcely ever shared a personal word. The remaining exchanges (“Everyone’s been asking for dark pils, Herr Bruhns.” “It’s a fad. I’ll order just four kegs to start.”) could be counted on two hands. They got along wordlessly and trusted each other blindly. Eva wore a dark blue smock that was impervious to splashed beer and alternated between pouring pils and soft drinks behind the heavy counter. She was practiced in pulling the shiny taps, washing the glasses, rinsing, and drying. She smiled at the guests, chatted a bit about the fire in the house across the street, which could have cost fourteen people—including five children—their lives. Could you imagine! If Eva’s father hadn’t so fearlessly, and so on. She was only half listening. She kept looking at the clock, but the minutes till closing were passing as though caught in pine pitch. Eva wanted to be alone to think. About the man in the white coat who had addressed her. About the child’s drawing. She wanted to write down in her blue notebook what Anna Masur had said about her sister, so she could stop thinking about it. Edith came up, face glowing as it always did at this hour and earrings dangling as she swung her round tray onto the bar. Eva removed the dirty glasses and loaded the tray with freshly filled ones. She thought of the abdominal pain she herself experienced every four weeks. And about how, before the operation she’d had last year, her mother would withdraw into her darkened bedroom for a full day every month. How she would curl up in bed with a hot water bottle on her belly and whimper, how she would vomit into a metal bucket. Despite the painkillers, Edith had suffered terribly. And she hadn’t had chemists blend a liquid that doctors then injected into her uterus. A liquid that slowly set inside her till it was hard as concrete. Eva pursed her lips. Edith studied Eva, who did not look at her mother. “Is everything all right between you and Jürgen?” Eva nodded noncommittally. “They invited me to their island over Pentecost. For four days.” “And have you decided on a date for the wedding?” Eva shrugged and saw her father come out of the kitchen, slightly stooped in pain and his face red. He stepped up to one of the tables, where a raucous, larger group was sitting. The Stauch family were regulars. Eva saw her father shake the Stauchs’ daughter’s hand and say something, and everyone laughed. The young woman flushed. The family was probably celebrating her twenty-first birthday. Edith lifted the loaded tray from the counter. “Don’t worry, Evie, he’s not going anywhere. His father likes you.” She carried the tray over to the Stauchs’ table and handed out the glasses. Now she was talking too, likely commenting ironically on whatever her husband was saying. No doubt some joke about how trying it was to have grown daughters in the house. More laughter. A toast. Eva plunged the dirty glasses in the sink. She felt a chilly draft on her cheek. New guests had opened the front door and emerged from behind the burgundy felted curtains. It was the main defendant and his wife. Eva froze, while they stood at the door and scanned the room for an open table. The dining room was not “packed to bursting,” as Eva’s father would say, and as it had been on their last visit, but instead there were tables to choose from. Fräulein Wittkopp, who was cleaning off a table that had just opened up by the window, looked over. She did not remember the pair and walked up to them, dirty plates balanced on her arm. “Two in your party? Please, have a seat over there. I’ll be right back with menus.” Fräulein Wittkopp went into the kitchen. From her spot behind the bar, Eva watched helplessly as the main defendant led his wife to the table. He helped her with her coat, she sat down in the chair he pulled out for her, and he walked over to the coat rack to the left of the bar without noticing Eva. She observed his sharp profile and quiet movements as he reached for a hanger and hung up first his wife’s coat, followed by his own. He looked much older up close—his skin was like crinkled parchment. One of the two drinkers sitting at the bar knocked on the wood countertop and called for a refill, but Eva was paralyzed. The main defendant returned to his table and sat down across from his wife. He sat with his back to the window and had a view of the entire dining room. Eva’s parents were still standing at the Stauchs’ table. Herr Stauch was telling an involved story, and they couldn’t get away. Neither had noticed the new guests. Fräulein Wittkopp came back out of the kitchen and handed them two of the dark green menus. As she dispassionately recited the day’s specials—“We’ve got fresh kidneys today”—the main defendant suddenly lifted his gaze and looked Eva square in the face. The very same way he had caught her eye from across the courtroom. Eva felt nauseous. She wanted to turn away, disappear—but then she realized he didn’t recognize her. She was an unfamiliar face for him in this different setting. Eva exhaled in relief and, her hands shaking, she began to pour fresh beers, holding the glass at an angle and turning it slightly to create the perfect head. She did it the way she always did, the way she had learned as a twelve-year-old, the way she could practically do in her sleep. “Excuse me! Fräulein, do you have a wine menu?” The main defendant was addressing her mother, who had just broken away from the family party after tousling the youngest Stauch child’s hair. Edith approached the table by the window and put on her friendly, yet firm, work face. Eva knew she would now tell them that their guests were always highly satisfied with their selection of five house wines. But then Eva saw her mother falter and stiffen strangely as she neared them. The main defendant and his wife appeared stupefied at the sight of Edith Bruhns. Edith stopped at their table and automatically responded, “We don’t have a wine menu. In the regular menu, you will find—” At that moment, the raptor-faced man stood up so tall and menacingly before her mother that for a split second Eva expected him to leave the ground, spread his wings, and fly off. He did something different instead: he sucked in his cheeks, pursed his lips, and spat at Edith Bruhns’s feet. His wife rose as well and pulled on her gloves, shaking with indignation or rage. Eva heard her hiss, “We are leaving at once. Robert, at once!” Ludwig had also finally managed to pry himself away from the Stauchs and was headed for the kitchen when he noticed the three strangely poised figures. Like dogs on the prowl, the quieter and more concentrated, the crueler the attack. Eva saw the color drain from her father’s face. There was no doubt that he too recognized their guest and his wife.