“And now you wish to join?”

“I don’t know. Everyone makes fun of me because I’m not a member. At the football game today, Helmut Gruber was there. He’s our Hitler Youth leader. He said I better join soon.”

“But you can’t be the only one who isn’t a member.”

“More join every day,” Günter replied. “Those of us who aren’t members are all treated badly. When we play Aryans and Jews in the school yard, I’m always a Jew.”

“ What do you play?” Kohl frowned. He had never heard of this.

“You know, Father, the game Aryans and Jews. They chase us. They aren’t supposed to hurt us – Doctor-professor Klindst says they aren’t. It’s supposed to be tag only. But when he isn’t looking they push us down.”

“You’re a strong boy and I’ve taught you how to defend yourself. Do you push them back?”

“Sometimes, yes. But there are many more who play the Aryans.”

“Well, I’m afraid you can’t go to another school,” Kohl said.

Günter looked at the cloud of pipe smoke rising to the ceiling. His eyes brightened. “Maybe I could denounce someone. Maybe then they’d let me play on the Aryan side.”

Kohl frowned. Denunciation: another National Socialist plague. He said firmly to his son, “You will denounce no one. They would go to jail. They could be tortured. Or killed.”

Günter frowned at his father’s reaction. “But I would only denounce a Jew, Father.”

His hands trembling, heart pounding, Kohl was at a loss for words. Forcing himself to be calm, he finally asked, “You would denounce a Jew for no reason?”

His son seemed confused. “Of course not. I would denounce him because he is a Jew. I was thinking… Helen Morrell’s father works at Karstadt department store. His boss is a Jew but he tells everyone he’s not. He should be denounced.”

Kohl took a deep breath and, weighing his words like a rationing butcher, said, “Son, we live in a very difficult time now. It is very confusing. It’s confusing to me and it must be far more confusing to you. The one thing that you must always remember – but never must say out loud – is that a man decides for himself what is right and wrong. He knows this from what he sees about life, about how people live and act together, how he feels. He knows in his heart what is good and bad.”

“But Jews are bad. They wouldn’t teach us that in school if it weren’t true.”

Kohl’s soul shivered in rage and pain to hear this. “You will not denounce anyone, Günter,” he said sternly. “That is my wish.”

“All right, Father,” the boy said, walking away.

“Günter,” Kohl said.

The boy paused at the door.

“How many in your school have not joined the Youth?”

“I can’t say, Father. But more join every day. Soon there won’t be anyone left to play the Jew but me.”

The restaurant that Käthe had in mind was the Lutter and Wegner wine bar, which, she explained, was well over a hundred years old and an institution in Berlin. The rooms were dark, smoky and intimate. And the place was devoid of Brownshirts, SS and suited men wearing red armbands with the hooked, surely-you-know cross.

“I brought you here because, as I said, it used to be the haunt of people like you and me.”

“You and me?”

“Yes. Bohemians. Pacifists, thinkers, and, like you, writers.”

“Ah, writers. Yes.”

“E.T.A. Hoffmann would find inspiration here. He drank copious champagne, whole bottles of it! And would then write all night. You’ve read him, of course.”

Paul hadn’t. He nodded yes.

“Can you think of a better writer of the German romantic era? I can’t. The Nutcracker and the Mouse King – so much darker and more real than what Tchaikovsky did with it. That ballet is pure puff, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” Paul agreed. He thought he’d seen it one Christmas as a boy. He wished he’d read the book so he could discuss it intelligently. How he enjoyed simply talking with her. As they sipped their cocktails, he reflected on the “sparring” he’d done with Käthe on the walk here. He’d meant what he’d said about arguing with her. It was exhilarating. He didn’t think he’d had a disagreement with Marion in all the months they’d gone out. He couldn’t even remember her getting angry. Sometimes a new stocking would run and she’d let go with a “darn” or “damnation.” Then she’d press her fingers to her mouth, like the prelude to blowing someone a kiss – and apologize for cussing.

The waiter brought menus and they ordered: pig knuckles and spaetzle and cabbage and bread (“Ach, real butter!” she whispered in astonishment, staring at the tiny yellow rectangles). To drink, she ordered a sweet, golden wine. They ate leisurely, talking and laughing the whole time. After they’d finished, Paul lit a cigarette. He noticed she seemed to be debating. As if speaking to her students she said, “We have been too serious today. I will tell a joke.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Do you know Hermann Göring?”

“Some official in the government?”

“Yes, yes. He is Hitler’s closest comrade. He’s an odd man. Very obese. And he parades around in ridiculous costumes in the company of celebrities and beautiful women. Well, he finally got married last year.”

“Is that the joke?”

“Not yet, no. He really did get married. This is the joke.” Käthe gave an exaggerated pout. “Did you hear about Göring’s wife? The poor thing’s given up religion. You must ask me why.”

“Please, tell me: Why has Göring’s wife given up religion?”

“Because after their wedding night she lost her belief in the resurrection of the flesh.”

They both laughed hard. He saw that she was blushing crimson. “Ach, my, Paul. I’ve told a naughty joke to a man I don’t know. And one that could land us in jail.”

“Not us, ” he said, straight-faced. “Only you. I didn’t tell it.”

“Oh, even laughing at a joke like that will get you arrested.”

He paid the bill and they left, forgoing the tram and returning to the boardinghouse on foot, along the sidewalk that skirted the south boundary of the Tiergarten.

Paul was tipsy from the wine, which he rarely drank. The sensation was nice, better than a corn whisky zing. The warm breeze felt good. So did the pressure of Käthe’s arm through his.

As they walked, they spoke of books and politics, arguing some, laughing some, an unlikely couple maneuvering through the streets of this immaculate city.

Paul heard voices, men coming their way. About a hundred feet ahead he saw three Stormtroopers. They were boisterous, joking. In their brown uniforms, with their youthful faces, they resembled happy schoolboys. Unlike the belligerent thugs he’d taken on earlier in the day, this trio seemed bent only on enjoying the fine night. They paid no attention to anyone on the street.

Paul felt Käthe slowing. He looked down at her. Her face was a mask and her arm began to tremble.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t wish to pass them.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about.”

She looked to the left, panicked. The traffic on the street was busy and they were some blocks from a pedestrian crossing. To avoid the Brownshirts they had only one choice: the Tiergarten.

He said, “Really, you’re safe. There’s no need to worry.”

“I can feel your arm, Paul. I can feel you ready to fight them.”

“That’s why you’re safe.”

“No.” She looked at the gate that led into the park. “This way.”

They turned into the park. The thick foliage cut out much of the sound of the traffic, and soon the creek-creek of insects and the baritone call of frogs from the ponds filled the night. The Stormtroopers continued along the sidewalk, ignoring everything but their ebullient conversation and their singing. They passed by without even glancing into the park. Still, Käthe kept her head down. Her stiff gait reminded Paul of the way he’d walked after breaking a rib in a sparring session.