He was surprised he'd confided in Talia, and Talia caught his surprise. She smiled and took his bishop.

You must be very bored to think of all those words, she said. And you've just lost two games in a row. Why don't you spend some time with the Scribes?

They'd ask questions, said Asher.

Don't answer them.

Talia smiled again, and he smiled back, realizing he'd forgiven her and Mikhail about the letter to Heidegger, which-even if absurd-had saved his life. He carried a detective story and a treasured blue and white mug from Holland to the main room where he got a desk as well as pillows so he could sit in a corner and read. The Scribes saw the numbers on his arm and remembered, as they had with Daniel, how close they'd come to that place themselves and how willing they'd be to come close again just to keep him safe. They also decided not to annoy him by asking about chimneys. Except for Parvis Nafissian, who wanted to annoy him because he was still angry with Daniel for taking Maria away.

Of course there were chimneys, said Asher. They were the hardest workers at Auschwitz. They were alert, even lively.

Sophie Nachtgarten smiled at him.

Lively chimneys, she said. Now there's an interesting idea. By the way, you should get a coat so we can go outside.

From people who are dead? said Asher. Do you answer their letters now? Dear Frau So-and-So.... Not only is your husband fine, but I happen to be wearing his coat! Dear Frau So-and-So.... Not only is your husband fine, but I happen to be wearing his coat!

Listen, said Sophie. There's not one of us who hasn't scrambled and clawed our way to get here. There's not one of us who hasn't lied or faked languages or done whatever we could to stay away from where you've been. So what if we wear gloves and hats and scarves that belong to people who are dead or have lice eating into their skin?

He watched her grab at the coats with increasing fury. He heard tears in her voice.

I lost my entire family, she said. My mother and father, my two brothers, their wives, and my four-year-old niece. I think I should be allowed to choose a coat.

While she spoke, she'd been rummaging through the coats until she found a leather jacket with a fur collar.

This might be interesting on you, she said. Once more her voice was calm.

After what you just told me? No.

Just try it, said Sophie.

Asher put on the jacket, and Sophie stood back to look at him.

It fits you, she said. You can pretend you're a bomber with the Allies.

Not unless I have a scarf, said Asher.

Then I'll get you one, said Sophie, pulling a white scarf from a burlap bag.

Perfect! she said. You can pretend you're a British pilot on his day off.

Should I play cricket? said Asher.

Cribbage would be fine, said Sophie. She took his arm. Please take me for some air. Let's go to the well.

Asher refused. As much as he distrusted this compound in purgatory, he thought his upsetting version of eternity might be better than being shot, or hung, in the forest. Besides, his very presence put everyone at risk. He should remain hidden below the earth.

But there was an upwelling of nos, and Niles Schopenhauer said Asher had come from a place they'd all barely escaped, and they owed it to him to make sure he got fresh air.

Asher said they might not be so heroic if they'd actually been to Auschwitz, and he followed Sophie to the cobblestone street, avoiding the miserable little group on the bench. The lift rumbled as it took them from the earth. Asher remembered gunshots.

Sophie led Asher up the incline, through the shepherd's hut, to the snow-covered clearing. Asher followed slowly, looking at the forest. Sophie urged him on. It was the first time he'd seen real sky in months. It was an extraordinary blue with white clouds that moved swiftly, miraculously. Not long ago he'd felt like a sc.r.a.p covered with rags, lighter than the wind. Now he could feel he had weight, substance, gravity. He touched his arms, his legs, and his face. He felt taller than the trees.

Sophie kept beckoning until he got to the well. And even though his face quivered in the water, Asher could see that it was no longer the face of a skeleton, but the face of a living man. Sophie handed him the big tin dipper.

Drink! she said.

Asher drank. Water had never tasted so good.

Dear Diane,You probably know about the insurrection. Some of the prisoners repairing uniforms found a way to break into the armory. Then the timing was off and they had to put the guns back. Two days later they snuck them again. All of them were killed, but before they were killed they shot the officer I had to sleep with. He was protecting my parents, so I worry-Love,Homa When he came back from the well, Asher barely looked at Elie, who was sitting at her enormous desk. She was part of what came before his life snapped in half, and he didn't want her to be part of it now. Indeed-in some odd boomerang of the mind-he wondered if their affair had something to do with his wife joining the earliest Resistance, which later resulted in her death. And even though he'd met Elie after his wife disappeared, he decided it had, and he didn't care if Elie had anything to do with his being in this dungeon instead of Auschwitz. He stared at her over his detective story and remembered everything about their affair that had been unpleasant: Sneaking to cafes where people from the university couldn't find them. Impaling himself on a filing cabinet in his office when they made love. It had rained a lot during that time, and they were always taking cover under awnings. Once Elfriede Heidegger walked by and saw them. Ever since she had treated him with disdain.

He also wondered why Elie Kowaleski deserved adoration when other people were dying like flies. And how a discreetly rebellious student of linguistics had been reborn as a star in this underground world. When she came back from a mission, people applauded. And sometimes, for no apparent reason, people toasted her. What had she done to deserve it? How did she get so much food?

Yet when Gerhardt Lodenstein sat by Elie's desk-as he did now-Asher watched their every move. They often seemed pa.s.sionately worried, and the intensity of their absorption made Asher realize he was lonely because it had been a long time since he'd been intimate enough to share worry with another person. And even though he'd long forgotten Elie, he began to feel jealous of Gerhardt Lodenstein-a feeling that upset him because Lodenstein had saved his life, Daniel's life, and had nearly gotten killed in the process.

Now he got up and stood near Elie's desk, pretending to be fascinated by the jumble shop against the wall. He couldn't hear what she and Lodenstein were saying but listened to their tone. It was clearly pa.s.sionate, with a timbre of anxiety, even anger.

He turned around and met Lodenstein's eyes. Lodenstein smiled-a smile of truce and good will. Of course he knows Of course he knows, Asher thought. And what's more, it doesn't matter to him that much. And what's more, it doesn't matter to him that much.

He hardly ever thought about the past during the war because he was so preoccupied with Daniel's safety and his wife's disappearance. But Elie's face opened a floodgate to times long before the war, times when something as simple as a walk could make him happy. He remembered his wife reading in the evening, light against her face, and Daniel crawling into bed to hear a story. He remembered snow on skylights, warm air after winter, the first lectures of fall. Everything was a pathetic stand-in for what his life had been since then-even this underground world. And every time he saw Elie, he was pushed against this earlier world that he wanted to forget because he had been happy.

He barely smiled back at her and returned to his cl.u.s.ter of pillows, where he buried himself in another detective story and thought about the time he'd been relegated to before before the war: He thought about his wife playing Mozart. Daniel doing homework instead of this absurd preoccupation with typewriters. And he thought about his house filled with plants and books. He felt irritated with the Scribes, who behaved like children-writing in secret codes, inventing languages, exalting in a spirit of privilege and discontent. He was tired of seeing Lodenstein's rumpled green sweater and eccentric compa.s.s. He even hated Mikhail and Talia Solomon and their preoccupation with chess, which seemed ponderous. As well as Dimitri, who liked to collect stamps. the war: He thought about his wife playing Mozart. Daniel doing homework instead of this absurd preoccupation with typewriters. And he thought about his house filled with plants and books. He felt irritated with the Scribes, who behaved like children-writing in secret codes, inventing languages, exalting in a spirit of privilege and discontent. He was tired of seeing Lodenstein's rumpled green sweater and eccentric compa.s.s. He even hated Mikhail and Talia Solomon and their preoccupation with chess, which seemed ponderous. As well as Dimitri, who liked to collect stamps.

My dearest sister,Where are you when I come to the edge of your cellblock at night? People say you're in charge of feeding the rabbits, but I've heard of hangings by candlelight, especially of women under twenty. I need you to be outside so I can see your face.Love,Gijs One day, when Asher was in the throes of such mean spirited thoughts, La Toya said he wanted to discuss something where no one else could hear them. Asher said he would never go to the vent above the water closet where people sat in a dark cave and heard others p.i.s.s and s.h.i.t. So La Toya suggested the well.

It was early spring, and snow was melting. Asher saw gra.s.s in the clearing and buds on the ash trees. There was no more snow that could make things infinitely reversible. It was a world without camouflage. They navigated mud puddles, and La Toya asked what was going on between him and Elie Schacten. Asher tightened his hold on the pail.

Nothing. What makes you ask?

You seem angry with her, said La Toya.

I'm not.

They say you knew her at Freiburg, said La Toya. He pointed to the sky. It was blue, filled with the cottoned traffic of clouds.

Would you have seen this at Auschwitz? he asked.

I have no idea. Why?

Because Elie saved your life.

That's not true. Lodenstein did.

Then why do I think she fought for you?

I don't know what you mean.

Then I'll tell you, said La Toya. She was going to find a way to go to Heidegger and tell him where you were. She thought his wife would get you out.

Elfriede never liked her.

We've all heard the business about the bundkuchen, said La Toya. But Elie is persuasive. Where do you think we get fresh bread? And good sausages? How come there's always cashmere for people who want blankets? Or plenty of schnapps? Do they fall from the sky? No. They come from the s.h.i.t Elie puts up with and the favors she does.

Maybe they do. But we hardly knew each other.

That's not what people say.

What then?

You can imagine. People know everything, just the way they know about the camps.

But they keep asking about chimneys. Why can't they stop?

Because, said La Toya. There's a difference between knowing something and believing it. They know about the chimneys but don't believe in them until they've talked to someone who's seen them.

They'd come to the shepherd's hut without spilling a drop of water. La Toya said it was a job well done, and Asher said at Auschwitz you learned not to waste anything. But he wasn't thinking about water. What La Toya had said stayed with him long after he returned to the Compound, and late that afternoon he walked up to Elie's desk. She slammed her dark red notebook shut and looked at him as if she expected someone else-no one in particular, just not him.

I want to thank you, he said.

Elie didn't hear him because someone had created a word for Dreamatoria Dreamatoria the Scribes found hilarious. the Scribes found hilarious.

What? she said, while the laughter closed in around them.

Asher felt embarra.s.sed by his own grat.i.tude, as if it could destroy a sh.e.l.l he needed around him. He told her he needed more typewriter ribbon.

I don't know why you need it when all you do is read detective stories, said Elie.

Oh, I'll get around to using it. The dead can't wait to read my answers.

Spare me. Elie smiled at him, making him remember the first time he'd met her at Freiburg-at a party at the Heideggers, over an impressive table of desserts. He went back to his desk and remembered how his wife disappeared without a trace, telling him she was going to Berlin to help a piano student, kissing him, hugging Daniel, racing down the steps.

After Asher had gotten a ribbon he didn't need, he began to think about what would have happened if he'd stayed with Elie. He imagined different lives-one in which they'd taught at Cambridge and taken long walks on village greens. And another where they escaped to Argentina and set up a dry goods store. Yet another where the boat to Argentina sank. Parallel lives Parallel lives, he scribbled on a piece of paper, a hat trick that makes life and death reversible a hat trick that makes life and death reversible. It was the first thing anyone had ever seen him write.

Gitka said: That corpse is beginning to lighten up.

Abella,At night, a guard and I make small talk. He says he loves me. And gives me extra food and makes sure to look out for my parents. I think he's trying to find out more about the insurrection. Please come to the edge of your cellblock. No one is watching very closely.Leticia Asher proposed a new phrase for Dreamatoria Dreamatoria-infinitely reversible. It reminded him of fresh snow at Auschwitz that covered pools of blood and corpses and nooses as well as the old snow that melted and revealed everything. It reminded him of himself as well: how he'd been given a life, denied it, and given part of that life back again. The Scribes applauded, and Asher won two cigarettes. He offered one to Elie.

Oh no! she said. You won it fairly.

Then smoke one with me, he said.

Well, maybe a fourth of one, said Elie.

They went to the hall and sat on a wrought-iron bench. Asher said it was nice that dead people could get answers in such a charming atmosphere.

You haven't lost your sarcasm, said Elie. You don't even sound glad you're here.

I am, said Asher. Especially for Daniel-even if all he does is take typewriters apart and sleep with Maria.

But aren't you glad for yourself?

Asher took a long drag on the cigarette. He was wearing a shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Elie looked at the blue numbers on his arm and said they nearly matched his eyes. He shook his head, remembering the morning when he'd been tattooed by a fellow prisoner-the needle embroidering numbers that became his only name at the camp. Elie noticed and said: Maybe those add up to a lucky number.

Are you into that occult garbage too?

It was just a funny idea, said Elie.

Asher added the numbers, and they came to nine, the number of sacrifice.

Maybe there's something to it.

Maybe, said Elie. She began to sew the quilt she'd been mending and kept her eyes on it in such a deliberate way Asher was sure she knew he was looking at her.

Elie, he said. They say you saved me and Daniel.

Through a lot of bungling. That's how it is these days.

He took her hand: Thank you.

The mineshaft began to groan. Elie startled and got up.

So, still a secret, said Asher.

Nothing's secret here, said Elie. I'm not sure anything needs to be.

Dear Eliza,You would never guess what I heard, but I must tell you in person. Meet me at the barracks.Love,Andreas Even though Daniel slept with the Scribes, Asher Englehardt still slept in the storage room, impervious to Sonia Markova and Sophie Nachtgarten, who made it clear they'd enjoy sleeping there too-although not at the same time.

Daniel sometimes brought typewriters to Asher's room, and one day set a typewriter on the bed and took it apart, until it was a mere sh.e.l.l, and the floor was filled with pieces of dull metal. Then he explained every mechanism-how it worked, what could go wrong with it, how things fit together, where they belonged. It was the first time Daniel had explained anything to him, and Asher was proud and astonished. He was even more astonished when Daniel showed him how a typewriter could be rea.s.sembled from random pieces into something whole again. This was far better than infinitely reversible infinitely reversible.

Now and then, Asher brought typewriters to his room, took them apart, and rea.s.sembled them. He memorized gears, springs, the order of keys-metal with a special power because it could produce any combination of words in the world. He loved going to sleep, surrounded by the smell of ink.

Once, he had brandy with Elie, Lodenstein, and the Solomons and made everyone laugh by telling Mikhail that once he'd owned a car, and Mikhail could have used it as an example in his letter to Heidegger about the mysterious Being of machines. The laughter, the presence of Elie-and the Solomons, who knew about everything-all of it transported him to the time before the war. The evening pushed him against everything he'd lost and made him miss his wife. So he never wanted to have brandy with the four of them again. When he ran into Elie on the street, they always nodded quickly and hurried on. Except for once, when they both said good night good night at the same time. at the same time.

For a while, then, he was able to live in relative silence-a silence he craved because even the smallest gesture or manner of speech could unnerve him. A loud voice reminded him of roll call. Scribes rummaging for coats reminded him of inmates scrambling for bowls of food. When he was by himself, he could read or invent words for Dreamatoria Dreamatoria. When he was with other people, he felt a minefield inside him that could detonate at any moment.

But his pristine silence was disturbed when Dieter Stumpf broke his gla.s.ses. He'd put them on his chair while he was labeling a box of letters, sat on them, and heard a crunch. Stumpf was nearsighted. Without his gla.s.ses, he couldn't drive to his brother's farm near Dresden to bury unanswered mail. So he brought Asher his broken gla.s.ses.

What do you want me to do with these? said Asher.

I was hoping you could fix them, said Stumpf.

With both lenses broken?

What if I get equipment?

Stumpf, who still wore his SS jacket, reminded Asher of the most obnoxious of the Auschwitz guards, as well as Mengele, who once barely gestured to the right when he'd decided Asher's fate and often had crates of bleached bones outside his door. Asher was tempted to say no no. Nonetheless, he agreed. Making gla.s.ses could be a distraction.

Stumpf asked Elie to get optometry equipment from the outpost, and she said she would, even though she didn't care whether Stumpf got gla.s.ses or not. It would be a chance to look around, to discover if there were more rumors about fugitives, and find out why they hadn't received any letters.