"Of course she knows! Everyone knows. Don't be naive."

He stared at her.

She became irritated. "Axel, you can't keep coming to my workplace and not arouse suspicions." She took out a compact and started smoothing her curls. "My mother is very upset by it. She tells me that I am not a good marriage candidate. What kind of Jewish boy will tolerate a girl who has been pricked by an uncircumcised snake."

He winced at her words. "I have to go."

"So go."

But he didn't. Instead, he continued to sit on the feather bed. He placed his hand on his forehead, massaged his temples. Within minutes, she sat next to him, her lithe body still smelling of sex. "Don't be mad."

"Your mother is right." He kissed her cheek. "You should get married."

She stared at him. "Ah . . . you want to end it?"

"That's not what I said."

"So why this talk about me getting married?"

His stomach dropped. "I can't give you what you want."

She responded with anger. "Such arrogance. You don't even know what I want."

He didn't answer. Perhaps he had been flattering himself this past year.

"You shouldn't even be with me," Margot said coldly. "There are Brownshirts everywhere . . . especially within the ranks of the police."

He looked at her. "I'm not worried."

"You should be." She lit up two cigarettes and gave him one. "They are everywhere. It's no wonder the Nazis have so many young boys as fans. Fist first, they take whatever they want."

His face registered concern. "They bother you, Margot? Tell me who they are and I will take care of it."

She laughed cheerlessly. "Don't bother. As soon as one is gone, another will come along to take his place." She bit her lip. "Every week that passes, the Austrian gains more power. You really shouldn't come by anymore."

"Is that your way of saying we should end it?"

She laughed again, her chortle made throaty from cigarette smoke. Then she took his hand and placed it between her legs, still wet from their lovemaking. "No one makes me feel like you do. The very thought of you makes me sizzle. It is why I continue to put us both in danger." They kissed long and hard. Still, it was she who broke away. "I must go."

"It will pass, Margot," Berg told her. "Hitler has his followers, but the rest of the country is not like Bavaria. The rest of Germany is more . . . worldly. He will pass."

Margot's eyes flooded with tears. "I hope you're right. I fear that you're not. You shouldn't come anymore."

There was no power behind her words. They both knew that he'd be back.

TWELVE.

The haze rose above his lips, enveloping his nose and eyes in a nicotine fog. Inhaling deeply, then breathing out slowly, he took it all in: the outline of her swaying hips, her sinewy arms, her curls bouncing as she threw her head back in hearty laughter. Though he couldn't see that well in the darkness, he was aware of her neck-smooth, long, skin as pale as alabaster. From this distance, she looked small, but still, her silhouette suggested nothing other than luscious curves. For a moment, the two of them drew close. Seconds later, they drew apart. She returned to her drudgery, and he hurried back to hearth and home.

He took another puff of his cigarette, enjoying the sting in his throat and continuing to stare at the space once occupied by two lovers. His gloves shielded his hands from the cold, and his hat protected his head. He was utterly alone.

There was no one waiting at his flat, no solicitous wife, no sticky-fingered children, no gregarious dog. Only room after room, meticulous in style and in perfect taste, but static nonetheless. Tonight he longed for the music of raucous laughter, for passionate kisses, sweat-soaked skin, and parted legs, revealing all that was warm and wet and womanly.

It had been a taxing day. Despite his best efforts, the afternoon papers were already screaming out the murder in their headlines. A little levity was in order to calm the nerves.

He threw his cigarette onto the ground and crushed it out with his heel. He turned up the collar of his overcoat and crossed the street, heading toward the factory.

JOACHIM SOPPED UP the last bits of gravy with his brown bread, then longingly eyed his father's pork cutlet. "You're not hungry, Papa?"

There was no response.

Britta cleared her throat. "Axel, the boy is talking to you."

Berg blinked several times. He leaned over and brushed an errant curl from Joachim's forehead. "Sorry, I'm distracted."

"Yes," Britta agreed. "You haven't touched your dinner, no matter that it's the first time that we've had solid meat in two weeks. And your left hand keeps drifting from the table. How can we teach the children manners if we don't model them?"

Berg cut the meat in two pieces. "I am very aware of what you've done to acquire such fare, and I thank you, Britta. I'm just not particularly hungry." He put half of his cutlet onto Joachim's plate, then sliced off a forkful for himself, careful to keep his left hand on the tabletop as he ate.

"It's delicious." Chewing thoroughly, Berg decided it really was delicious . . . cooked to perfection. He was stupid for giving away half to his son, whose appetite had grown to gargantuan proportions. The boy ate so quickly he scarcely had time to taste. Berg was convinced the child would have been equally content wolfing down shoe leather.

Joachim finished his meat and was already staring at his sister's plate. "Leave Monika's food alone," Berg told him. "And keep your left hand on the table." He looked at his daughter. "Both of you."

"It would be criminal to waste the meat," Joachim said. "She never finishes."

"You never let me finish," Monika retorted. "I'm a slow eater."

"Let her be, Joachim," Berg ordered. If there were leftovers to be had, he'd eat them. In the meantime, he'd have to be content with potatoes and cabbage. Britta had seasoned the vegetables with salt, pepper, paprika, and butter. They melted in his mouth. "So what is happening in the lives of the Berg family?"

"What happened with the hooligans, Father?" Joachim asked.

The hooligans? That was this morning? It seemed like ages ago. "I told you they will not bother us again."

Joachim smiled. "You put them in jail?"

"No, they're too young." Berg winked at his son. "But we have ways to ensure their good behavior."

Again Joachim beamed. It was validating to be a hero to someone.

"The food is excellent," Berg told his wife. "You should be a professional chef."

"You seem cheery tonight," Britta said.

There was accusation in her voice. Did his pleasure show that much? "I am happy not to be working," he countered. "It was not a routine day."

Britta backed off. "Now you look hungry, Axel; I can fry you up some sausage."

"Take mine, Papa," Monika broke in. "Joachim is right. I never finish."

"That's a good girl," Berg told her. "I'll take whatever you don't want."

Monika gave him her leftovers. "We saw the camel today. And the Niggerlippen."

"Right," Berg said. "How was that?"

Joachim broke in. "They put on an exhibition of an African village with grass huts and stuffed wild animals in the background. They had people banging on drums, saying it was authentic African music. But the musicians weren't Africans-just people in black makeup. The camel smelled. It was pretty stupid."

"I liked the Niggerlippen. He was tall and purple and very full of muscles and had big white teeth." Monika spoke with enthusiasm.

"What did he do in this exhibition?"

"Mostly just sat around," Joachim said.

"He shot a bow and arrow," Monika told him. "And he could talk."

"Of course he could talk," Joachim said disdainfully. "He isn't an animal."

"He looks like an animal. He wore a grass skirt and had paint on his face and looked very wild."

"He is a famous actor in Africa," Joachim told her.

"How do you know that?" Monika asked.

"He told me. We talked. He speaks decent German."

"He speaks German?" Monika was wide-eyed.

Joachim rolled his eyes. "I drew a picture of him."

"A very good one," Britta said.

"Would you like to see it, Father?" Joachim asked.

"Yes, of course," Berg told him.

As Joachim got up from the table, it seemed to Berg that the lad grew by the hour. As thin as a reed, though; his growth was concentrated in height rather than girth. Berg regarded his daughter, who gave him a lovely, serene smile. She was small for her age and a bit on the immature side. Already, Monika's friends were preoccupied with gossip. She seemed more content to pass her time by reading and drawing.

The boy returned with a very detailed drawing. The rendering wasn't perfect-the eyes were too wide for the face, the mouth too big as well, but the expression spoke volumes. The face was fierce with intense eyes, but nonetheless sad, as evidenced by the downturned mouth.

Monika looked at the picture. "Where's the bone in his nose?"

"It wasn't a real bone," Joachim said.

"It looked real."

"It was a real bone, but it didn't really go through his nose. It was like the arrow through the head that you see on Fasching."

"Bone or not, the picture is excellent," Berg told him.

"Better than those awful flowers I did when I was ten," Joachim said. "Why do you insist on keeping them framed and on the wall?"

"I like the flowers. They're happy."

"I was happy when I was ten."

Berg regarded his son. "You're not happy now?"

"He's growing up, Axel," Britta broke in. "Life is not about pretty colors and flowers." She stared at the portrait over her husband's shoulder. "Look at the Niggerlippen. He seems so dispirited." She picked up a pile of plates. "No doubt from living in Munich. I'm sure in Africa there isn't a shortage of meat."

Berg smiled. "Just a shortage of food in general. The famine is terrible there. Not to mention water."

"There is water in Africa," Britta said. "What about the Nile?"

"The continent is filled with barren deserts."

"And us, sitting in the breadbasket of Europe, we have plenty of cheap food?"

"The farmers do."

"A lot of good that does us here in the city." She picked up another plate. "I will clear the table, Joachim will wash, and Monika, you can dry. Afterward, if you finish your homework, we can all listen to Liebe und Leben an der Welt."

"What will Father do?" Joachim asked. "He dislikes radio dramas."

"Not all of them, just the bad ones," Berg said. "That's a bad one."

"Father will do whatever he wants to do," Britta responded. "Why should anything change around here?"

BERG STARED as his bedside wick fluttered, burst with sudden light, then faded to black. He put his book on the floor, then stretched out in their soft feather bed. The shutters were still open, revealing a city in repose. Scattered yellow lights twinkled in the fog, but otherwise all was still. Britta was silent and motionless, but Berg knew she was awake. He shifted onto his side and brought her into his arms, her firm backside resting against his stomach. He laid his hand upon her breast covered by a flannel nightgown. When she didn't object, he removed his hand and brought it under the cloth, making contact with her bare skin.

"Ach, your hands are cold!" Britta complained.

"But you are warm." He worked his fingers between her legs. "Very warm."

"I am not a blanket!" She swatted his hand. "Go away!"

"Don't be nasty."

"I shouldn't be nasty? I work until I'm dead with exhaustion, and what do I get for it?"