It is, said Heidegger. But no one can do that all the time. The hut is darker than it used to be. I can even smell the darkness.

You should write about that, said Asher.

I already have, said Heidegger. What else is there to say?

But Asher didn't want to explain. He'd lost the marrow of friendship during Heidegger's visits to his shop. And whatever was left had been destroyed by what he'd seen at Auschwitz. So instead of elaborating, he leaned forward and said: Martin, I hope you understand that your interest in man's awareness of mortality has a different kind of meaning in a place where just wearing the wrong pair of shoes can get you shot.

I don't know what you're talking about.

I'm amazed you don't, said Asher. I'm amazed you don't know that people here are forced to remember their mortality in the most horrible conditions. And no one ever asked them if they wanted to think about it in the first place.

How am I supposed to know about things like that? said Heidegger.

The rising timbre of his voice made the Commandant open the door.

Have you gentlemen come to a conclusion yet?

Heidegger said they hadn't, and the Commandant left. Heidegger stood by the fireplace.

What's the real reason you didn't answer my letter? he said.

I told you. I didn't get it.

Don't they mail letters here?

No.

I've never heard of anything so stupid. Letters should be mailed. That's what they're for.

The Commandant opened the door.

You're shouting, he said. We don't allow that.

I don't care what you allow, said Heidegger. You can't even deliver a letter.

The phone rang again. The Commandant pulled his hair. When the ringing stopped, he turned to the SS man and said: He's making a nuisance of himself. The next thing he'll be yodeling. And the Jew's heard too much. So take him where you came from, or we'll deal with him some other way. But whatever you decide about the Jew, this alpine a.s.shole has to go. And understand you're on your own. All I can give you is a Kubelwagen to the station.

The SS officer nodded, and they shook hands. The Commandant looked sadly at Heidegger.

I'd like to have him shot, he said. But after the war they might make him a national treasure.

He has immunity, said the officer dryly.

Indeed, said the Commandant. And I happen to have some good news for you, he said turning to Heidegger. You and your friend can talk in peace.

Where? said Heidegger.

On the way to the train. Without this d.a.m.ned noise.

I can't leave without my son, said Asher.

My G.o.d, said the Commandant, pretty soon you'll be asking for caviar. What's his cellblock?

Asher told him. It was different from his.

You inmates, said the Commandant. Every night's a talkfest, and we keep working.

He opened the door, collared a guard, and shouted: I'll send you to the front if you don't get me this prisoner in five minutes.

Then he swallowed brandy from the bottle, not pa.s.sing it to anyone else.

Nothing has gone the way we planned, he said. I told them not to make any noise for once, but they never listen. Those f.u.c.king disorganized transports.

There was a huge map of Germany on the right side of the fireplace. The Commandant walked to it, unmasked a vault, and began to pull out food. Asher saw enormous hams, bottles of champagne, cases of wine, gargantuan rounds of cheese, heavy blocks of chocolate. The Commandant pulled randomly, threw everything into a duffel bag, and shoved it at the SS man.

Take it. Take it all, he said. And keep the f.u.c.k quiet about this.

Then he opened the door and yelled: Where's that G.o.dd.a.m.n kid in the cellblock?

The cellblocks were far away from the officers' quarters, but within minutes the guard brought in a boy. He was thin, with shrewd blue eyes like his father. The Commandant threw him a coat.

You're about to travel, he said. Put this on.

Daniel's face went white.

Put it on, said the Commandant. You're going with your father.

Asher looked at his son. For over four months he'd been a shadow, reaching for food by the barracks in the dark. Now he was in a warm room, not unlike the room he'd grown up in, with music his mother once played. Who knew what would happen? Who knew where they were going? Still, Asher mouthed the words: you're safe you're safe.

A door opened. A Kubelwagen appeared. They entered a snow-covered field without searchlights, guards, or fences. Asher had a vague sense that he was part of something that was never supposed to happen. But all he could see was his son.

Heidegger grew small as the train gathered speed, and Lodenstein watched him disappear. He was alone in the station, illuminated by one light from the platform shelter. Heidegger paced back and forth, jabbed the snow with his walking stick, and lectured to the dark, still without gla.s.ses. Eventually he became a speck, and then the station disappeared. Lodenstein turned back to the car, which was mysteriously empty. Perhaps the Commandant had ordered it that way, so no one could hear Heidegger's rants or see two skeletons from Auschwitz. With Heidegger gone, only Asher and Daniel were left, asleep in near-darkness. For a moment Asher woke up, and Lodenstein handed him sausage. He shook his head and went back to sleep.

And now a porter appeared and asked Lodenstein if he was thirsty. He ordered lemonade, and the porter seemed startled-no one ever drank lemonade in winter. But he brought it to him quickly-the SS uniform impressed him-and Lodenstein gulped it down, wishing it would go to his blood like an instant transfusion. He felt empty, like a bag of flour that's been pummeled and pounded, and neither he nor the train seemed quite real. He'd had to listen to Heidegger's rants since leaving Auschwitz and was more than glad to see him exit at the last stop-barreling off the train, gesturing with schnapps, still pontificating. Lodenstein couldn't believe Asher had slept through the whole thing. But now everything was quiet, and the train rumbled through the dark with a soft, comforting rhythm.

The lemonade reminded Lodenstein of summer, and he wished he could slip back into a summer childhood, where the only evidence of war was trenches he built with his friends. At dinner, his mother had fits about his muddy shoes, and his father tried to convince him that deciphering codes was far more exciting than battle. But he couldn't slip away into anything because the past three weeks felt ground into his body like gla.s.s.

He was seared by his memory of the cell, where he'd floated to the ceiling, and Goebbels's eyes and the Commandant's hair -pulling and gunshots and blood on the snow-all of which he'd endured to save Elie Schacten's life.

For a moment, his actions seemed opaque, as if he were watching someone he didn't understand. He looked carefully at Asher and Daniel, who were close together, as if carved from a single stone. They seemed like an ordinary father and son on the verge of starvation. But they weren't just a father and a son. They were two more fugitives on the way to the Compound.

Lodenstein kicked the duffel bag the Commandant had given him, then realized it had enough food for almost two weeks. La Toya could make soup from the sausage. The chocolate would delight Dimitri. Everyone would enjoy real coffee. He understood Elie's excitement about bringing extra loaves of bread, an abundance of ham. He'd always worked to keep the Compound safe-written ridiculous letters to Goebbels, been civil to Mueller, who probably wanted him shot. He'd even let Stumpf make Scribes imagine Goebbels because it would soften his rants. But bringing food to the Compound and helping cope with hunger-this was new. He'd started to think like Elie.

Yet in truth, he could hardly remember her. She was a haze of blond curls and tea-rose perfume. He imagined reaching for her in the dark, telling her about being thrown in jail, and talking to Goebbels. And then about the shots at Auschwitz and Heidegger's rants on the train. He was holding her while he talked. And she was listening. But whom would he be telling this to? The Elie who flirted with officers? The one who'd once known Heidegger? Or the Elie he made love to under the grey quilt? He'd always tried not to think about what Elie did to get what they needed on forays. He tried to make whatever she did outside the Compound into motes that barely touched her. Elie did too: he could feel her shaking them off with her coat when she came back.

Lodenstein kicked the duffel bag again. Daniel and Asher made whimpering noises in their sleep. It was the whimpering of people who'd been beaten, abused, and didn't know if they'd wake up the next day. Yet the sound annoyed him, as did the odor of sausage from the duffel bag and the warm air in the train.

He walked between the cars and looked out to the snow and pines. Now and then he saw a house leak light from blackout curtains just like cracks in Ha.n.u.ssen's globe. He supposed the train had crossed from Poland into Germany but wasn't sure. He could be anywhere.

Before he'd left, Heidegger had shoved Mikhail's letter at him, and he was still holding it-a catalyst in this absurd chain. It had traveled from the Compound to the Black Forest, then to offices in the Reich and to Auschwitz. It had been stolen, crumpled, shoved into a soup tureen. It was creased and blotched with dried soup. It looked as if it couldn't survive another journey.

Lodenstein raised the letter to the light and tried to read it, but the words made no sense at all. Indeed each letter of the alphabet looked like a tiny person in Ha.n.u.ssen's theater. Some were crowded in the middle, others were alone at the end of the aisle. But a few tumbled into a string of words: The triangle is the most paradoxical of human situations. It is the secret of all covenants and a cause of betrayal. Indeed, it's a great challenge to the human heart because it has the power to create incredible good and cause incredible grief, as well as induce states of ecstasy and lunacy. Making a triangle with integrity is in the service of G.o.d.

He found the letter bizarrely true, as well as ironic, because the letter was the essence of betrayal. By Elie. And by the Solomons, whom he'd trusted. It was the reason he'd traveled to Berlin, seen Goebbels, gotten thrown in jail. It was the reason he'd taken Heidegger to Auschwitz and heard gunshots accompanied by Mozart. It was the reason he'd trashed his room and for all the fights he'd had with Elie. It was the reason for everything. This letter would never get an answer. It should never have been written in the first place.

He opened his hand and let the letter loose. For a moment it was pinned to the car by the wind. Then it fluttered in the dark until the train gained distance and it disappeared.

FUGITIVES.

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,I have been here for just a week and already I am filling out my clothes. There are woods to play in, lots of snow, and a special place where they keep rabbits with long hair. I even get to feed them. There is plenty of water and a lot of interesting people. It was a long journey to this wonderful place. It's the best place in the world.Love,Rene

One afternoon blond, wasted Gitka leaned over Maria's desk and offered her a white velvet rose.

We're both Poles, she said, and we know how to sleep our way in the world.

Maria had never told anyone she was Polish. She spoke German without an accent and only answered letters in Italian and French. It frightened her that Gitka read her like an X-ray.

I want to teach you about silence, Gitka said.

I have to work, said Maria, who was in fact reading.

No one works here, said Gitka. And Die Gnadige Frau hardly knows we're here.

This was how she referred to Elie, who was in fact leafing through her dark red notebook. Her face was pale, and she bit her lower lip. Dimitri sat on a high stool next to her, sorting stamps.

You see? said Gitka. She doesn't eat. She doesn't sleep. And she never laughs unless she's talking to the little mouse. All she thinks about is him. And she never cared if we worked anyway. So let me teach you something.

She led Maria to a room on the back wall of the main room-the room where Elie had lived before moving in with Lodenstein. It was dark, cavernous, cool, surrounded by the mine on three sides.

This is the first place that's soundproof, said Gitka. Except it's never empty.

She opened the door wider, and Maria saw Niles Schopenhauer on top of Sophie Nachtgarten.

The point is, my little friend: never come here to talk.

I never did, said Maria.

Good, said Gitka. So now you never will.

She led Maria from the large mahogany door, past the wrought-iron benches and the kitchen. It was mid-afternoon, and the artificial sun listed toward the west, dappling the artificial pear tree and the rose bushes in front of the Solomons' small and peculiar house. Lars, who was standing by the door peeling an apple, waved at them. They walked further down to the dead-end of the street where there was a wall of earth. Gitka guided Maria's hands around the trompe l'oeil trompe l'oeil-a perfect arch that camouflaged the tunnel. She traced one of Maria's fingers around the metal key hole.

It's a door, she said when Maria looked confused. And it leads to the second place where everything is silent. But it's locked, and no one has the key. Besides, who'd ever want to? It leads to a tunnel where the Gestapo take people from town and shoot them.

You don't scare me, said Maria. I came from a place much worse.

But her fingers were trembling as she traced the door. Gitka smiled and didn't answer. She turned around and stopped at a door opposite the Solomons'. It opened to a small room piled with wooden crates stamped Geantwortet Geantwortet.

This place is soundproof too, Gitka said. But they store the letters here, so no one tries to fit inside.

I never knew it was here.

Well, now you do. Forget you saw it.

Then Gitka led Maria to the smallest water closet and opened the overhead vent. She pointed to a stool and told Maria to climb into the opening. Maria said she didn't understand, and Gitka said if you get up on the f.u.c.king stool, you'd see what I mean if you get up on the f.u.c.king stool, you'd see what I mean. Maria got up on the stool, and when they had settled themselves in the jagged dark Gitka said: This is where you come when you need to say something you don't want anyone to hear.

Maria said, Fine, thank you.

She was about to climb down when Gitka came so close Maria smelled her cigarette-breath, her incongruously expensive perfume, and the slightly mildewed odor of her fur coat. Gitka touched her with her hand, and Maria felt her nails. They were long, and Maria could almost see the red nail polish in the dark.

Wait, said Gitka. Because I have this soundproof thing to say to you. You can have Parvis Nafissian. But stay away from Ferdinand La Toya.

I never thought of going near him.

Good. Keep it that way.

Someone came into the water closet and took a long, languid p.i.s.s. Then someone else came in and began to climb up into the vent.

It's occupied, said Gitka.

I'm sorry, said a voice. It was Elie Schacten. After she left, Gitka lit another cigarette.

I bet she's lost ten pounds since he's gone, said Maria. All she does is worry.

All of us do, said Gitka. Believe me. She's not the only one. She exhaled, and the air filled with smoke. So-are we clear about Ferdinand?

Yes, said Maria, who didn't say she hated his cigars.

Good. Then we can leave.

Gitka ground her cigarette into a wall, and they climbed down into the water closet. Gitka pulled her coat around her shoulders and put another cigarette in her long black holder.

Not everybody wants young ginch, she said.

After Elie Schacten was banished from the vent, she walked down the cobblestone street with General-Major Mueller, who had arrived just fifteen minutes ago, unannounced, to-in his words-see how Elie Schacten was doing. Elie was panic-stricken. She pulled Dimitri to the coats against the wall and whispered to a Scribe to hide him at the Solomons'.

Mueller had been lucky, he'd told Elie: he hadn't gone to the front, but stayed in the Reich Chancellery working on a special project. When he mentioned the project, he closed his eyes, exuding intrigue. He worked in an underground library, he said, where precious doc.u.ments were stored. And that was how he'd heard Lodenstein was in solitary confinement: no, not in the regular jail, but in a cell that looked like a waiting room. Goebbels threw him in the minute he showed up. And then he'd let him out so he could take that fool of a philosopher to Auschwitz. But now two prisoners were missing. And it was all over the Reich that Lodenstein had taken them. Who knew what would happen if they caught them? And this is why Mueller came to the Compound, when he knew Elie was alone. He wanted to console her.

Who knows where they went? said Mueller. Lodenstein may never come back.

Maybe they're only rumors, said Elie.