"No," I said, losing the battle to remain unshocked. "Just, no."

He slid the compact back into his tiny beaded purse and pouted.

"How is Herr von Reiche?" I asked.

"Around somewhere." Ernst glanced at the stage, where a dark-skinned boy who looked twelve years old sang a jazzy dance song. "I must dash to my show." He kissed the air near my cheek and hurried off, skirting the dance floor and vanishing through a side door.

I pushed the absinthe across the bar to Oliver. "Do you want a Berliner weisse?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I heard it's passe."

On the last downbeat the dark boy opened his tuxedo front to reveal decidedly female breasts. The boy, or girl, left the stage to scattered applause.

The stage went dark, and for a moment there was no music. The pianist began to play a slow love song. A dazzling spotlight pierced the darkness of the club. In the middle of the circle of light, Ernst's pale leg stuck through the curtain, and he kicked his high heel straight toward the ceiling. He slid sinuously through the curtain and onto the stage. Every hand in the room applauded.

Ernst's red dress glowed like embers in the spotlight. He wore so much jewelry that when he moved he flashed like a chandelier. After the applause subsided, he raised one gloved hand above his head and began to sing a throaty love song. All of the pain in the world flowed out of his body through his voice. All talking stopped. All drinking stopped. The audience sat, mesmerized.

I stared at Ernst, singing so beautifully in that red dress. I did not realize I held my breath until he stopped singing and applause washed over him like rain. He sang only two more songs, then curtsied and blew dramatic kisses to the applauding crowd before prancing off stage.

A few minutes later, he returned to the bar, fighting his way through admirers.

"And?" he asked.

"Amazing!" I remembered the times my singing teacher and I had let him take my place in my voice lessons. "Truly. Frau Witte would be proud of that voice."

"If not the costume," he said with an impish grin. "Now tell me everything. Is Greta still spurning Jim? How's Mademoiselle Zee? Does she miss me?"

"The cat is inconsolable," I lied.

Oliver placed a tray of Champagne glasses in front of us. "All for you, my lovely," he told Ernst. "I can list the name of each admirer if you would like."

Ernst giggled. "No need. I cannot possibly keep them all straight."

He turned back to me. "The cat is not inconsolable. But what about the love letters? And all that crazy poetry for the paper?"

"I have been promoted," I said. "I am writing full time as Peter-"

"Hello, liebchen," interrupted a voice behind my shoulder. Ernst's eyes flicked to the man who spoke. He widened his eyes as if he'd been given a Christmas gift, then dropped his eyelashes like a professional coquette. His playacting skills had certainly improved.

"Rudolf," he said. "You missed my act, you naughty boy."

"I never miss your act." Rudolf draped his arm over Ernst's shoulder. "I couldn't beat my way through the throng of admirers ogling you."

"Try harder, darling." Ernst pouted.

"Your wish is my command." Rudolf slid his arm around Ernst's waist and led him to the dance floor. They danced together, plastered so close that I feared the fringe on Ernst's dress would rub off. Rudolf massaged Ernst's bottom with both hands. I won, Rudolf's eyes seemed to say to me. And you lost.

When I turned back to the bar, a Berliner weisse appeared in front of me.

"On the house," Oliver said. "You should be able to finish it before they're done dancing."

I finished that beer, and another, before Ernst came back and kissed me on the cheek, his lips touching me this time. "I must dash," he said. "Come again tomorrow."

When he and Rudolf strolled out of the club, hand-in-hand, Oliver's eyes followed them. Ernst turned before he left the room to wave to his many admirers and to me, sweeping his blond hair back out of his eyes with a graceful gesture so much like our mother's that tears stung my eyes.

7.

I shivered, still standing outside in front of the mural. I walked to the end scene-a man and a poodle with long lashes and a pink tutu did the foxtrot. I saluted the coquettish poodle, straightened my shoulders, and stepped through the looking glass.

Inside, the coat-check girl wore a short black skirt that showed well-turned ankles, but the hands that took my coat were large.

"The tables are through the curtains, madame," said a deep, sultry voice.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," I rejoined, and he flashed me a coy smile. Fooling me was his job, after all, and I could not let on that he had not fooled me.

I pushed through deep red curtains, inhaling their musty, smoky smell. They kept noise from filtering into the street and trapped heat in the winter.

Half of the tables contained groups of revelers sitting around a festive silver bucket holding a green bottle of Champagne. White El Dorado balloons floated above the buckets, anchored by the handles. Most of the guests were dressed as women, but how many were actually female was anyone's guess.

I headed to the corner of the long teak bar, near the sink, the place where bartenders can stand a minute and talk while they wash glasses. Oliver kept everything spotless. He spent a good deal of his time at the sink. I'd only been here a few times, but Oliver might remember me.

The smoke thickened, and I stifled a cough as I climbed onto a bar stool designed to hold someone a few centimeters taller than me, so that men could perch on them without wrinkling their evening dresses. Oliver sauntered over in his dapper bartender's jacket. He might look like a panda bear with his black beard and white jacket, but Ernst said he was an accomplished street fighter who threw out the most unruly drunks himself. He'd once ejected an entire gang of Nazi hooligans who'd tried to destroy the place.

"Fraulein?" he asked.

"A Berliner weisse with a shot," I said. "Green."

He poured a quick flash of woodruff syrup into a glass, then flipped the top off a bottle of wheat beer and added the beer to the glass with the syrup. It was beer for children and tourists, but I loved it anyway.

I slipped his payment across the counter with a hefty tip. "It's good," I said when he tried to hand me change. "I am looking for my brother."

"Aren't we all?" he said, with a booming laugh. He poured a clear liquid into ten shot glasses lined up on a tray.

"His name is Ernst Vogel, and he sings here."

"The little songbird?" He wiped down the spotless bar. "You are sister to the Nightingale?"

"Hannah Vogel." I reached my hand out to him. Ernst had loved it when people called him the Nightingale.

"Hannah," he said, shaking it. His grip was firm and damp from the towel. "I remember you now. Haven't seen you in a long time."

I nodded. "Is Ernst here tonight?"

Oliver shook his head. "And Winnie is furious. Excuse me."

Oliver carried the tray of full shot glasses to a table of businessmen. At least they looked like men. Oliver bowed and handed out drinks. Although each glass was filled to the brim, he did not spill a drop.

I stirred green syrup into my golden beer.

Oliver returned with a tray of empty glasses and began washing them in the sink. Steam rose off the water.

"When did you see him last?"

"After his performance Friday." Oliver wiped the back of his hand across his brow. "He missed all his weekend performances."

I choked on a lump in my throat and pretended that was the reason for my sudden tears.

"Are you well?" Oliver asked with concern.

I coughed a few more times and then said, "Perfectly. What was Ernst doing Friday?"

"He and Rudolf argued about the little Nazi boy."

"Nazi boy?" I took a sip of my beer. I loved the way that the bitter beer mixed with the sweet tang of the woodruff syrup, turning the adult brew into candy.

Oliver pointed with his sudsy thumb. I turned to see a teenage boy with blond hair sitting at a table next to the stage. His carefully pressed Nazi uniform was the brown of fallen autumn leaves. "Rudolf and Ernst argued about it, but Ernst left with the boy in the end. The boy is smitten with your brother. He walked right over to him when he came off stage, and they kissed as if they'd been separated for years."

"What's his name?"

"Wilhelm."

"What's his last name?" He looked familiar.

"Don't know his last name." Oliver looked down at the glasses he washed. "Don't know anybody's last name."

"Mine's Vogel."

"Forgotten it already." He rinsed off glasses and dried them with a snowy white towel.

I dropped a few coins onto the bar with a clatter. "Buy the boy a drink from me."

"Not your type, sweetie," Oliver said with a smile. "But he's all the rage here. He's almost as big as Ernst was, once upon a time. Before he got old."

"Ernst is only twenty!"

"Don't look so shocked. The men who come here like them young."

I remembered when Ernst had visited me a year ago. He'd come to my apartment at seven that morning and had not been to bed yet. He still wore his dress, and his eye makeup was smudged at the corners.

I was dressed and ready to leave, but I'd made him tea while he complained about work.

"I'm positively ancient." He pulled at the corners of his fresh young eyes, studying them in his compact mirror.

I'd laughed. "You are not even twenty. I am in my thirties and even I am not truly old yet."

"Maybe for your world," he said, his crimson lips pursed. "But now all those rich beautiful men have turned their attention to the next big thing. Or rather the next little thing with a big thing, if you know what I mean."

"What about all that lovely jewelry? Isn't that from admirers?"

"It's not real," he said. "No one gives me real stuff anymore."

I had shaken my head and hurried out the door to catch my bus, telling him that he was exaggerating. But he had been correct.

Oliver cleared his throat, and I dropped my eyes down to my beer. "Please buy the boy a drink from me."

I pretended to study an El Dorado beer coaster while Oliver carried a shot of whiskey to the boy. The coaster was creamy white and had "Here, it is right!" printed on it in a flowery script.

After Oliver took Wilhelm the drink, I walked to his table and sat down without being invited. Wilhelm lifted his tortoiseshell cigarette holder to his sensuous lips and took a drag of the cigarette. Atikah, Turkish tobacco. Ernst had smoked it once too.

"Good evening," I said. He turned startled blue eyes to me. Had he mistaken me for a man from across the room?

"Hello." He tapped his cigarette ashes into the silver ashtray. "Thank you for the whiskey."

"I'm looking for someone," I began.

"I am not interested," he interrupted, without meeting my eyes. "I don't do girls, not even for money, no matter how much."

"I'm looking for Ernst Vogel," I continued, wondering why he would not look at me.

The boy sat ramrod straight in his chair. I saw his Nazi bearing, was aware now of his youth and strength, and knew I must be careful. "I'm looking for him too. He said he'd stop by but he never did, so I've been here every night since Saturday, waiting." His words tumbled over each other. "And waiting."

"When did you see him last?" Before he could answer, someone struck a gong, and the band launched into "Yes, We Have No Bananas," an old favorite. Wilhelm clapped time. His hands were too large for his body and finely formed, like Michelangelo's David.

I let him sing for a few moments, then picked up the closed bottle of Champagne from the center of the table and used it to strike the gong. The band immediately stopped and started playing a different song. Wilhelm stopped clapping and turned to me.

"Saturday morning early," he said. "He climbed out my window so my father wouldn't see, and he said he'd meet me that night at the club, but he wasn't here. I waited all night."

Oh God, Ernst, I thought. Wilhelm still lives with his parents. Just as you lived with me until you met Rudolf. I took a deep swallow of beer and steadied my voice. "You waited here all Saturday night?"

"And Sunday and Monday," he said. "Over three days, in case you're counting, which I am."

Behind his head, Rudolf entered the room, alone in his trademark gray suit. He strode to the bar without looking right or left. I turned my back to him. I did not want him to know that I was asking around about Ernst, verifying what Rudolf had told me. What if he was the killer? I watched his reflection in the Champagne bucket, and hoped he would not recognize the back of my head.

"How old are you?" I asked Wilhelm, keeping my voice level with great effort.

"Seventeen. How old are you?" He took another puff of his cigarette and stuck out his chin.

"Thirty-two." I ran my finger along the cool edge of my beer glass and watched Rudolf's reflection check his watch.

Wilhelm blew out his smoke in surprise. "That old?"