All the light we cannot see

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ForWendyWeil

1940–2012

InAugust1944thehistoricwalledcityofSaint-Malo,thebrightestjeweloftheEmeraldCoastofBrittany,France,wasalmosttotallydestroyedbyfire....Ofthe865buildingswithinthewalls,only182remainedstandingandallweredamagedtosomedegree.

—PhilipBeck

Itwouldnothavebeenpossibleforustotakepowerortouseitinthewayswehavewithouttheradio.

—JosephGoebbels

Zero

7August1944

Leaflets

Atdusktheypourfromthesky.Theyblowacrosstheramparts,turncartwheelsoverrooftops,flutterinto the ravines between houses. Entire streets swirl with them, flashing white against the cobbles.Urgentmessagetotheinhabitantsofthistown,theysay.Departimmediatelytoopencountry.

Thetideclimbs.Themoonhangssmallandyellowandgibbous.Ontherooftopsofbeachfronthotelsto the east, and in the gardens behind them, a half-dozen American artillery units drop incendiaryroundsintothemouthsofmortars.

Bombers

They cross the Channel atmidnight. There are twelve and they are named for songs: Stardust andStormyWeatherandIntheMoodandPistol-Packin’Mama.Theseaglidesalongfarbelow,spatteredwith the countless chevrons ofwhitecaps. Soon enough, the navigators can discern the lowmoonlitlumpsofislandsrangedalongthehorizon.

France.Intercomscrackle.Deliberately,almostlazily,thebombersshedaltitude.Threadsofredlightascend

fromanti-airemplacementsupanddownthecoast.Dark,ruinedshipsappear,scuttledordestroyed,onewith itsbowshornaway,asecondflickeringas itburns.Onanoutermost island,panickedsheeprunzigzaggingbetweenrocks.

Insideeachairplane,abombardierpeersthroughanaimingwindowandcountstotwenty.Fourfivesixseven.Tothebombardiers,thewalledcityonitsgraniteheadland,drawingevercloser,lookslikeanunholytooth,somethingblackanddangerous,afinalabscesstobelancedaway.

TheGirl

Inacornerofthecity,insideatall,narrowhouseatNumber4rueVauborel,onthesixthandhighestfloor,asightlesssixteen-year-oldnamedMarie-LaureLeBlanckneelsoveralowtablecoveredentirelywithamodel.Themodelisaminiatureofthecityshekneelswithin,andcontainsscalereplicasofthehundredsofhousesandshopsandhotelswithinitswalls.There’sthecathedralwithitsperforatedspire,and the bulky old Château de Saint-Malo, and row after row of seaside mansions studded withchimneys.AslenderwoodenjettyarcsoutfromabeachcalledthePlageduMôle;adelicate,reticulatedatriumvaultsovertheseafoodmarket;minutebenches,thesmallestnolargerthanappleseeds,dotthetinypublicsquares.

Marie-Laurerunsherfingertipsalongthecentimeter-wideparapetcrowningtheramparts,drawingan uneven star shape around the entire model. She finds the opening atop the walls where fourceremonialcannonspointtosea.“BastiondelaHollande,”shewhispers,andherfingerswalkdownalittlestaircase.“RuedesCordiers.RueJacquesCartier.”

Inacorneroftheroomstandtwogalvanizedbucketsfilledtotherimwithwater.Fillthemup,hergreat-unclehastaughther,wheneveryoucan.Thebathtubonthethirdfloortoo.Whoknowswhenthewaterwillgooutagain.

Herfingerstravelbacktothecathedralspire.SouthtotheGateofDinan.Alleveningshehasbeenmarchingherfingersaroundthemodel,waitingforhergreat-uncleEtienne,whoownsthishouse,whowent out the previous night while she slept, and who has not returned. And now it is night again,anotherrevolutionoftheclock,andthewholeblockisquiet,andshecannotsleep.

She can hear the bomberswhen they are threemiles away.Amounting static. The hum inside aseashell.

When she opens the bedroomwindow, the noise of the airplanes becomes louder.Otherwise, thenightisdreadfullysilent:noengines,novoices,noclatter.Nosirens.Nofootfallsonthecobbles.Notevengulls.Justahightide,oneblockawayandsixstoriesbelow,lappingatthebaseofthecitywalls.

Andsomethingelse.Somethingrattlingsoftly,veryclose.Sheeasesopentheleft-handshutterandrunsherfingersupthe

slatsoftheright.Asheetofpaperhaslodgedthere.Sheholdsittohernose.Itsmellsoffreshink.Gasoline,maybe.Thepaperiscrisp;ithasnotbeen

outsidelong.Marie-Laurehesitatesatthewindowinherstockingfeet,herbedroombehindher,seashellsarranged

alongthetopofthearmoire,pebblesalongthebaseboards.Hercanestandsinthecorner;herbigBraillenovelwaitsfacedownonthebed.Thedroneoftheairplanesgrows.

TheBoy

Five streets to the north, a white-haired eighteen-year-old German private named Werner Pfennigwakestoafaintstaccatohum.Littlemorethanapurr.Fliestappingatafar-offwindowpane.

Whereishe?Thesweet,slightlychemicalscentofgunoil;therawwoodofnewlyconstructedshellcrates; themothballedodorofoldbedspreads—he’s in thehotel.Ofcourse.L’hôteldesAbeilles, theHotelofBees.

Stillnight.Stillearly.Fromthedirectionoftheseacomewhistlesandbooms;flakisgoingup.Ananti-aircorporalhurriesdownthecorridor,headingforthestairwell.“Gettothecellar,”hecalls

over his shoulder, andWerner switches on his field light, rolls his blanket into his duffel, and startsdownthehall.

Notsolongago,theHotelofBeeswasacheerfuladdress,withbrightblueshuttersonitsfacadeandoysters on ice in its café and Bretonwaiters in bow ties polishing glasses behind its bar. It offeredtwenty-oneguestrooms,commandingseaviews,andalobbyfireplaceasbigasatruck.Parisiansonweekendholidayswoulddrinkaperitifshere,andbeforethemtheoccasionalemissaryfromtherepublic—ministersandviceministersandabbotsandadmirals—andinthecenturiesbeforethem,windburnedcorsairs:killers,plunderers,raiders,seamen.

Before that,before itwaseverahotelatall, five fullcenturiesago, itwas thehomeofawealthyprivateer who gave up raiding ships to study bees in the pastures outside Saint-Malo, scribbling innotebooks and eating honey straight from combs. The crests above the door lintels still havebumblebees carved into the oak; the ivy-covered fountain in the courtyard is shaped like a hive.Werner’sfavoritesarefivefadedfrescoesontheceilingsofthegrandestupperrooms,wherebeesasbigaschildrenfloatagainstbluebackdrops,biglazydronesandworkerswithdiaphanouswings—where,above a hexagonal bathtub, a single nine-foot-long queen, with multiple eyes and a golden-furredabdomen,curlsacrosstheceiling.

Overthepastfourweeks,thehotelhasbecomesomethingelse:afortress.AdetachmentofAustriananti-airmen has boarded up every window, overturned every bed. They’ve reinforced the entrance,packedthestairwellswithcratesofartilleryshells.Thehotel’sfourthfloor,wheregardenroomswithFrenchbalconiesopendirectlyontotheramparts,hasbecomehometoanaginghigh-velocityanti-airguncalledan88thatcanfiretwenty-one-and-a-half-poundshellsninemiles.HerMajesty,theAustrianscalltheircannon,andforthepastweekthesemenhavetendedtoitthe

way worker bees might tend to a queen. They’ve fed her oils, repainted her barrels, lubricated herwheels;they’vearrangedsandbagsatherfeetlikeofferings.

Theroyalachtacht,adeathlymonarchmeanttoprotectthemall.Wernerisinthestairwell,halfwaytothegroundfloor,whenthe88firestwiceinquicksuccession.

It’sthefirsttimehe’sheardthegunatsuchcloserange,anditsoundsasifthetophalfofthehotelhastornoff.Hestumblesandthrowshisarmsoverhisears.Thewallsreverberateallthewaydownintothefoundation,thenbackup.

WernercanheartheAustrianstwofloorsupscrambling,reloading,andtherecedingscreamsofbothshellsastheyhurtleabovetheocean,alreadytwoorthreemilesaway.Oneofthesoldiers,herealizes,is singing.Ormaybe it ismore thanone.Maybe they are all singing.EightLuftwaffemen, noneofwhomwillsurvivethehour,singingalovesongtotheirqueen.

Wernerchasesthebeamofhisfieldlightthroughthelobby.Thebiggundetonatesathirdtime,andglassshatterssomewherecloseby,and torrentsofsoot rattledown thechimney,and thewallsof thehoteltolllikeastruckbell.Wernerworriesthatthesoundwillknocktheteethfromhisgums.

He drags open the cellar door and pauses a moment, vision swimming. “This is it?” he asks.“They’rereallycoming?”

Butwhoistheretoanswer?

Saint-Malo

Upanddownthelanes,thelastunevacuatedtownspeoplewake,groan,sigh.Spinsters,prostitutes,menover sixty. Procrastinators, collaborators, disbelievers, drunks. Nuns of every order. The poor. Thestubborn.Theblind.

Somehurrytobombshelters.Sometellthemselvesitismerelyadrill.Somelingertograbablanketoraprayerbookoradeckofplayingcards.

D-day was two months ago. Cherbourg has been liberated, Caen liberated, Rennes too. Half ofwesternFranceisfree.Intheeast,theSovietshaveretakenMinsk;thePolishHomeArmyisrevoltinginWarsaw;afewnewspapershavebecomeboldenoughtosuggestthatthetidehasturned.

Butnothere.Notthislastcitadelattheedgeofthecontinent,thisfinalGermanstrongpointontheBretoncoast.

Here,peoplewhisper, theGermanshaverenovated twokilometersofsubterraneancorridorsunderthe medieval walls; they have built new defenses, new conduits, new escape routes, undergroundcomplexesofbewilderingintricacy.BeneaththepeninsularfortofLaCité,acrosstheriverfromtheoldcity, there are rooms of bandages, rooms of ammunition, even an underground hospital, or so it isbelieved. There is air-conditioning, a two-hundred-thousand-liter water tank, a direct line to Berlin.Thereare flame-throwingbooby traps,anetofpillboxeswithperiscopicsights; theyhavestockpiledenoughordnancetosprayshellsintotheseaallday,everyday,forayear.

Here,theywhisper,areathousandGermansreadytodie.Orfivethousand.Maybemore.Saint-Malo: Water surrounds the city on four sides. Its link to the rest of France is tenuous: a

causeway,abridge,aspitofsand.WeareMalouinsfirst,saythepeopleofSaint-Malo.Bretonsnext.Frenchifthere’sanythingleftover.

Instormylight,itsgraniteglowsblue.Atthehighesttides,theseacreepsintobasementsattheverycenteroftown.Atthelowesttides,thebarnacledribsofathousandshipwrecksstickoutabovethesea.

Forthreethousandyears,thislittlepromontoryhasknownsieges.Butneverlikethis.Agrandmotherliftsafussytoddlertoherchest.Adrunk,urinatinginanalleyoutsideSaint-Servan,a

mileaway,plucksasheetofpaperfromahedge.Urgentmessagetotheinhabitantsofthistown,itsays.Departimmediatelytoopencountry.

Anti-airbatteriesflashontheouterislands,andthebigGermangunsinsidetheoldcitysendanotherroundofshellshowlingoverthesea,andthreehundredandeightyFrenchmenimprisonedonanislandfortresscalledNational,aquartermileoffthebeach,huddleinamoonlitcourtyardpeeringup.

Four years of occupation, and the roar of oncoming bombers is the roar of what? Deliverance?Extirpation?

Theclack-clackofsmall-armsfire.Thegravellysnaredrumsofflak.Adozenpigeonsroostingonthecathedralspirecataractdownitslengthandwheeloutoverthesea.

Number4rueVauborel

Marie-LaureLeBlancstandsaloneinherbedroomsmellingaleafletshecannotread.Sirenswail.Sheclosestheshuttersandrelatchesthewindow.Everysecondtheairplanesdrawcloser;everysecondisasecond lost. She should be rushing downstairs. She should bemaking for the corner of the kitchenwherealittletrapdooropensintoacellarfullofdustandmouse-chewedrugsandancienttrunkslongunopened.

Insteadshereturnstothetableatthefootofthebedandkneelsbesidethemodelofthecity.Again her fingers find the outer ramparts, the Bastion de la Hollande, the little staircase leading

down. In thiswindow, right here, in the real city, awoman beats her rugs every Sunday. From thiswindowhere,aboyonceyelled,Watchwhereyou’regoing,areyoublind?

Thewindowpanesrattleintheirhousings.Theanti-airgunsunleashanothervolley.Theearthrotatesjustabitfarther.

Beneathherfingertips,theminiaturerued’EstréesintersectstheminiaturerueVauborel.Herfingersturnright;theyskimdoorways.Onetwothree.Four.Howmanytimeshasshedonethis?

Number4:thetall,derelictbird’snestofahouseownedbyhergreat-uncleEtienne.Whereshehaslived for four years.Where she kneels on the sixth floor alone, as a dozenAmerican bombers roartowardher.

Shepresses inwardonthetinyfrontdoor,andahiddencatchreleases,andthelittlehouseliftsupandoutofthemodel.Inherhands,it’saboutthesizeofoneofherfather’scigaretteboxes.

Now the bombers are so close that the floor starts to throb under her knees.Out in the hall, thecrystalpendantsofthechandeliersuspendedabovethestairwellchime.Marie-Lauretwiststhechimneyoftheminiaturehouseninetydegrees.Thensheslidesoffthreewoodenpanelsthatmakeupitsroof,andturnsitover.

Astonedropsintoherpalm.It’scold.Thesizeofapigeon’segg.Theshapeofateardrop.Marie-Laureclutchesthetinyhouseinonehandandthestoneintheother.Theroomfeelsflimsy,

tenuous.Giantfingertipsseemabouttopunchthroughitswalls.“Papa?”shewhispers.

Cellar

BeneaththelobbyoftheHotelofBees,acorsair’scellarhasbeenhackedoutofthebedrock.Behindcratesandcabinetsandpegboardsoftools,thewallsarebaregranite.Threemassivehand-hewnbeams,hauledhere fromsomeancientBretonforestandcraned intoplacecenturiesagoby teamsofhorses,holduptheceiling.

Asinglelightbulbcastseverythinginawaveringshadow.WernerPfennigsitsonafoldingchairinfrontofaworkbench,checkshisbatterylevel,andputson

headphones.Theradio isasteel-cased two-waytransceiverwitha1.6-meterbandantenna. Itenableshim to communicatewith amatching transceiverupstairs,with twoother anti-airbatteries inside thewallsofthecity,andwiththeundergroundgarrisoncommandacrosstherivermouth.

Thetransceiverhumsasitwarms.Aspotterreadscoordinatesintotheheadpiece,andanartillerymanrepeatsthemback.Wernerrubshiseyes.Behindhim,confiscatedtreasuresarecrammedtotheceiling:rolledtapestries,grandfatherclocks,armoires,andgiantlandscapepaintingscrazedwithcracks.OnashelfoppositeWernersiteightornineplasterheads,thepurposeofwhichhecannotguess.

ThemassivestaffsergeantFrankVolkheimercomesdownthenarrowwoodenstairsandduckshisheadbeneaththebeams.HesmilesgentlyatWernerandsits ina tall-backedarmchairupholsteredingoldensilkwithhisrifleacrosshishugethighs,whereitlookslikelittlemorethanabaton.

Wernersays,“It’sstarting?”Volkheimernods.He switchesoffhis field light andblinkshis strangelydelicate eyelashes in the

dimness.“Howlongwillitlast?”“Notlong.We’llbesafedownhere.”Theengineer,Bernd,comeslast.Heisalittlemanwithmousyhairandmisalignedpupils.Hecloses

thecellardoorbehindhimandbarsitandsitshalfwaydownthewoodenstaircasewithadamplookonhisface,fearorgrit,it’shardtosay.

Withthedoorshut,thesoundofthesirenssoftens.Abovethem,theceilingbulbflickers.Water,thinksWerner.Iforgotwater.Asecondanti-airbatteryfiresfromadistantcornerofthecity,andthenthe88upstairsgoesagain,

stentorian,deadly,andWernerlistenstotheshellscreamintothesky.Cascadesofdusthissoutoftheceiling.Throughhisheadphones,WernercanheartheAustriansupstairsstillsinging....aufd’Wulda,aufd’Wulda,dascheintd’Sunnasogulda...Volkheimer picks sleepily at a stain on his trousers. Bernd blows into his cupped hands. The

transceivercrackleswithwindspeeds,airpressure,trajectories.Wernerthinksofhome:FrauElenabentoverhislittleshoes,double-knottingeachlace.Starswheelingpastadormerwindow.Hislittlesister,Jutta,withaquiltaroundhershouldersandaradioearpiecetrailingfromherleftear.

Fourstoriesup,theAustriansclapanothershellintothesmokingbreechofthe88anddouble-checkthe traverse and clamp their ears as the gun discharges, but down hereWerner hears only the radiovoicesofhischildhood.TheGoddessofHistory lookeddowntoearth.Only through thehottest firescan purification be achieved. He sees a forest of dying sunflowers. He sees a flock of blackbirdsexplodeoutofatree.

BombsAway

Seventeeneighteennineteen twenty.Now the sea racesbeneath the aimingwindows.Now rooftops.Twosmalleraircraftlinethecorridorwithsmoke,andtheleadbombersalvositspayload,andelevenothersfollowsuit.Thebombsfalldiagonally;thebombersriseandscramble.

The underside of the sky goes black with flecks. Marie-Laure’s great-uncle, locked with severalhundredothersinsidethegatesofFortNational,aquartermileoffshore,squintsupandthinks,Locusts,andanOldTestamentproverbcomesback tohim fromsomecobwebbedhourofparish school:Thelocustshavenoking,yetallofthemgooutinranks.

A demonic horde. Upended sacks of beans. A hundred broken rosaries. There are a thousandmetaphorsandallofthemareinadequate:fortybombsperaircraft,fourhundredandeightyaltogether,seventy-twothousandpoundsofexplosives.

Anavalanchedescendsontothecity.Ahurricane.Teacupsdriftoffshelves.Paintingsslipoffnails.In another quarter second, the sirens are inaudible. Everything is inaudible. The roar becomes loudenoughtoseparatemembranesinthemiddleear.

Theanti-airgunsletflytheirfinalshells.Twelvebombersfoldbackunharmedintothebluenight.OnthesixthfloorofNumber4rueVauborel,Marie-Laurecrawlsbeneathherbedandclampsthe

stoneandlittlemodelhousetoherchest.InthecellarbeneaththeHotelofBees,thesinglebulbintheceilingwinksout.

One

1934

MuséumNationald’HistoireNaturelle

Marie-Laure LeBlanc is a tall and freckled six-year-old in Pariswith rapidly deteriorating eyesightwhen her father sends her on a children’s tour of the museum where he works. The guide is ahunchbackedoldwarderhardlytallerthanachildhimself.Herapsthetipofhiscaneagainstthefloorforattention,thenleadshisdozenchargesacrossthegardenstothegalleries.

The children watch engineers use pulleys to lift a fossilized dinosaur femur. They see a stuffedgiraffe in a closet, patches of hidewearing off its back.Theypeer into taxidermists’ drawers full offeathers and talons and glass eyeballs; they flip through two-hundred-year-old herbarium sheetsbedeckedwithorchidsanddaisiesandherbs.

Eventually they climb sixteen steps into theGallery ofMineralogy. The guide shows them agatefromBrazilandvioletamethystsandameteoriteonapedestalthatheclaimsisasancientasthesolarsystemitself.Thenheleadsthemsinglefiledowntwotwistingstaircasesandalongseveralcorridorsandstopsoutsideanirondoorwithasinglekeyhole.“Endoftour,”hesays.

Agirlsays,“Butwhat’sthroughthere?”“Behindthisdoorisanotherlockeddoor,slightlysmaller.”“Andwhat’sbehindthat?”“Athirdlockeddoor,smalleryet.”“What’sbehindthat?”“Afourthdoor,andafifth,onandonuntilyoureachathirteenth,alittlelockeddoornobiggerthan

ashoe.”Thechildrenleanforward.“Andthen?”“Behind the thirteenthdoor”—theguide flourishes oneof his impossiblywrinkledhands—“is the

SeaofFlames.”Puzzlement.Fidgeting.“Comenow.You’veneverheardoftheSeaofFlames?”The children shake their heads. Marie-Laure squints up at the naked bulbs strung in three-yard

intervalsalongtheceiling;eachsetsarainbow-coloredhalorotatinginhervision.Theguidehangshiscaneonhiswristandrubshishandstogether.“It’salongstory.Doyouwantto

hearalongstory?”Theynod.Heclearshisthroat.“Centuriesago,intheplacewenowcallBorneo,aprincepluckedabluestone

fromadryriverbedbecausehethoughtitwaspretty.Butonthewaybacktohispalace,theprincewasattackedbymenonhorsebackandstabbedintheheart.”

“Stabbedintheheart?”“Isthistrue?”Aboysays,“Hush.”“Thethievesstolehisrings,hishorse,everything.Butbecausethelittlebluestonewasclenchedin

hisfist,theydidnotdiscoverit.Andthedyingprincemanagedtocrawlhome.Thenhefellunconsciousfortendays.Onthetenthday,totheamazementofhisnurses,hesatup,openedhishand,andtherewasthestone.

“Thesultan’sdoctorssaiditwasamiracle,thattheprincenevershouldhavesurvivedsuchaviolentwound.Thenursessaidthestonemusthavehealingpowers.Thesultan’sjewelerssaidsomethingelse:

they said the stonewas the largest rawdiamondanyonehadever seen.Theirmostgifted stonecutterspenteightydaysfacetingit,andwhenhewasdone,itwasabrilliantblue,theblueoftropicalseas,butithadatouchofredatitscenter,likeflamesinsideadropofwater.Thesultanhadthediamondfittedintoacrownfortheprince,anditwassaidthatwhentheyoungprincesatonhisthroneandthesunhithimjustso,hebecamesodazzlingthatvisitorscouldnotdistinguishhisfigurefromlightitself.”

“Areyousurethisistrue?”asksagirl.“Hush,”saystheboy.“Thestonecametobeknownas theSeaofFlames.Somebelievedtheprincewasadeity, thatas

longashekeptthestone,hecouldnotbekilled.Butsomethingstrangebegantohappen:thelongertheprincewore his crown, theworse his luck became. In amonth, he lost a brother to drowning and asecondbrothertosnakebite.Withinsixmonths,hisfatherdiedofdisease.Tomakemattersevenworse,thesultan’sscoutsannouncedthatagreatarmywasgatheringintheeast.

“Theprincecalled togetherhis father’sadvisers.Allsaidheshouldprepareforwar,allbutone,apriest,whosaidhe’dhadadream.InthedreamtheGoddessoftheEarthtoldhimshe’dmadetheSeaofFlamesasagiftforherlover,theGodoftheSea,andwassendingthejeweltohimthroughtheriver.Butwhentheriverdriedup,andtheprincepluckeditout,thegoddessbecameenraged.Shecursedthestoneandwhoeverkeptit.”

Everychildleansforward,Marie-Laurealongwiththem.“Thecursewasthis:thekeeperofthestonewouldliveforever,butsolongashekeptit,misfortunes

wouldfallonallthosehelovedoneafteranotherinunendingrain.”“Liveforever?”“Butifthekeeperthrewthediamondintothesea,therebydeliveringittoitsrightfulrecipient,the

goddesswould lift the curse. So the prince, now sultan, thought for three days and three nights andfinallydecidedtokeepthestone.Ithadsavedhislife;hebelieveditmadehimindestructible.Hehadthetonguecutoutofthepriest’smouth.”

“Ouch,”saystheyoungestboy.“Bigmistake,”saysthetallestgirl.“The invaderscame,”says thewarder,“anddestroyed thepalace,andkilledeveryone they found,

andtheprincewasneverseenagain,andfortwohundredyearsnooneheardanymoreabouttheSeaofFlames.Somesaidthestonewasrecutintomanysmallerstones;otherssaidtheprincestillcarriedthestone,thathewasinJapanorPersia,thathewasahumblefarmer,thatheneverseemedtogrowold.

“Andsothestonefelloutofhistory.Untiloneday,whenaFrenchdiamondtrader,duringatriptotheGolcondaMines in India,was shown amassive pear-cut diamond.One hundred and thirty-threecarats.Near-perfectclarity.Asbigasapigeon’segg,hewrote,andasblueasthesea,butwithaflareofredatitscore.Hemadeacastingofthestoneandsentittoagem-crazydukeinLorraine,warninghimof the rumors of a curse. But the dukewanted the diamond very badly. So the trader brought it toEurope,andthedukefitteditintotheendofawalkingstickandcarriediteverywhere.”

“Uh-oh.”“Withinamonth,theduchesscontractedathroatdisease.Twooftheirfavoriteservantsfelloffthe

roofandbroketheirnecks.Thentheduke’sonlysondiedinaridingaccident.Thougheveryonesaidthe duke himself had never looked better, he became afraid to go out, afraid to accept visitors.EventuallyhewassoconvincedthathisstonewastheaccursedSeaofFlamesthatheaskedthekingtoshutitupinhismuseumontheconditionsthatitbelockeddeepinsideaspeciallybuiltvaultandthevaultnotbeopenedfortwohundredyears.”

“And?”

“Andonehundredandninety-sixyearshavepassed.”Allthechildrenremainquietamoment.Severaldomathontheirfingers.Thentheyraisetheirhands

asone.“Canweseeit?”“No.”“Notevenopenthefirstdoor?”“No.”“Haveyouseenit?”“Ihavenot.”“Sohowdoyouknowit’sreallythere?”“Youhavetobelievethestory.”“Howmuchisitworth,Monsieur?CoulditbuytheEiffelTower?”“AdiamondthatlargeandrarecouldinalllikelihoodbuyfiveEiffelTowers.”Gasps.“Areallthosedoorstokeepthievesfromgettingin?”“Maybe,”theguidesays,andwinks,“they’retheretokeepthecursefromgettingout.”Thechildrenfallquiet.Twoorthreetakeastepback.Marie-Lauretakesoffhereyeglasses,andtheworldgoesshapeless.“Whynot,”sheasks,“justtake

thediamondandthrowitintothesea?”Thewarderlooksather.Theotherchildrenlookather.“Whenisthelasttime,”oneoftheolderboys

says,“yousawsomeonethrowfiveEiffelTowersintothesea?”Thereislaughter.Marie-Laurefrowns.Itisjustanirondoorwithabrasskeyhole.ThetourendsandthechildrendisperseandMarie-LaureisreinstalledintheGrandGallerywithher

father.Hestraightensherglassesonhernoseandplucksaleaffromherhair.“Didyouhavefun,machérie?”

Alittlebrownhousesparrowswoopsoutoftheraftersandlandsonthetilesinfrontofher.Marie-Laureholdsoutanopenpalm.Thesparrowtiltshishead,considering.Thenitflapsaway.

Onemonthlatersheisblind.

Zollverein

WernerPfenniggrowsupthreehundredmilesnortheastofParisinaplacecalledZollverein:afour-thousand-acre coalmining complex outside Essen, Germany. It’s steel country, anthracite country, aplacefullofholes.Smokestacksfumeandlocomotivestrundlebackandforthonelevatedconduitsandleaflesstreesstandatopslagheapslikeskeletonhandsshovedupfromtheunderworld.

Werner and his younger sister, Jutta, are raised at Children’s House, a clinker-brick two-storyorphanage on Viktoriastrasse whose rooms are populated with the coughs of sick children and thecryingofnewbornsandbatteredtrunksinsidewhichdrowsethelastpossessionsofdeceasedparents:patchworkdresses,tarnishedweddingcutlery,fadedambrotypesoffathersswallowedbythemines.

Werner’searliestyearsaretheleanest.MenbrawloverjobsoutsidetheZollvereingates,andchickeneggssellfortwomillionreichsmarksapiece,andrheumaticfeverstalksChildren’sHouselikeawolf.Thereisnobutterormeat.Fruitisamemory.Someevenings,duringtheworstmonths,allthehousedirectresshastofeedherdozenwardsarecakesmadefrommustardpowderandwater.

Butseven-year-oldWernerseemstofloat.Heisundersizedandhisearsstickoutandhespeakswithahigh,sweetvoice;thewhitenessofhishairstopspeopleintheirtracks.Snowy,milky,chalky.Acolorthat is the absence of color. Every morning he ties his shoes, packs newspaper inside his coat asinsulation against the cold, and begins interrogating the world. He captures snowflakes, tadpoles,hibernating frogs;hecoaxesbread frombakerswithnone to sell;he regularlyappears in thekitchenwith fresh milk for the babies. He makes things too: paper boxes, crude biplanes, toy boats withworkingrudders.

Every couple of days he’ll startle the directresswith some unanswerable query: “Why dowe gethiccups,FrauElena?”

Or:“Ifthemoonissobig,FrauElena,howcomeitlookssolittle?”Or:“FrauElena,doesabeeknowit’sgoingtodieifitstingssomebody?”FrauElena isaProtestantnunfromAlsacewhoismorefondofchildren thanofsupervision.She

singsFrenchfolksongsinascreechyfalsetto,harborsaweaknessforsherry,andregularlyfallsasleepstandingup.SomenightssheletsthechildrenstayuplatewhileshetellsthemstoriesinFrenchabouther girlhood cozied up against mountains, snow six feet deep on rooftops, town criers and creekssmokinginthecoldandfrost-dustedvineyards:aChristmas-carolworld.

“Candeafpeopleheartheirheartbeat,FrauElena?”“Whydoesn’tgluesticktotheinsideofthebottle,FrauElena?”She’lllaugh.She’lltousleWerner’shair;she’llwhisper,“They’llsayyou’retoolittle,Werner,that

you’refromnowhere,thatyoushouldn’tdreambig.ButIbelieveinyou.Ithinkyou’lldosomethinggreat.” Then she’ll send him up to the little cot he has claimed for himself in the attic, pressed upbeneaththewindowofadormer.

Sometimeshe and Jutta draw.His sister sneaksup toWerner’s cot, and together they lie on theirstomachsandpassasinglepencilbackandforth.Jutta,thoughsheistwoyearsyounger,isthegiftedone.She lovesmostofall todrawParis, a city shehas seen inexactlyonephotograph,on thebackcoverofoneofFrauElena’sromancenovels:mansardroofs,hazyapartmentblocks,theironlatticeofadistant tower. She draws twistingwhite skyscrapers, complicated bridges, flocks of figures beside ariver.

Otherdays, in thehoursafter lessons,Werner towshis little sister through theminecomplex inawagonhehasassembledfromcast-offparts.Theyrattledownthelonggravel lanes,pastpitcottagesand trashbarrel fires,past laid-offminerssquattingalldayonupturnedcrates,motionlessas statues.Onewheel regularlyclunksoffandWernercrouchespatientlybeside it, threadingback thebolts.Allaround them, the figures of second-shift workers shuffle into warehouses while first-shift workersshufflehome,hunched,hungry,blue-nosed,theirfaceslikeblackskullsbeneaththeirhelmets.“Hello,”Werner will chirp, “good afternoon,” but the miners usually hobble past without replying, perhapswithoutevenseeinghim,theireyesonthemuck,theeconomiccollapseofGermanyloomingoverthemliketheseveregeometryofthemills.

Wernerand Jutta sift throughglisteningpilesofblackdust; theyclamberupmountainsof rustingmachines.They tearberriesoutofbramblesanddandelionsoutof fields.Sometimes theymanage tofindpotatopeelsorcarrotgreensin trashbins;otherafternoonstheycollectpaper todrawon,oroldtoothpastetubesfromwhichthelastdregscanbesqueezedoutanddriedintochalk.OnceinawhileWernertowsJuttaasfarastheentrancetoPitNine,thelargestofthemines,wrappedinnoise,litlikethe pilot at the center of a gas furnace, a five-story coal elevator crouched over it, cables swinging,hammersbanging,menshouting,anentiremapfulofpleatedandcorrugatedindustrystretchingintothedistanceonallsides,andtheywatchthecoalcarstrundlingupfromtheearthandtheminersspillingoutofwarehouseswiththeirlunchpailstowardthemouthoftheelevatorlikeinsectstowardalightedtrap.

“Downthere,”Wernerwhisperstohissister.“That’swhereFatherdied.”Andasnightfalls,WernerpullslittleJuttawordlesslybackthroughtheclose-setneighborhoodsof

Zollverein, two snowy-haired children in a bottomland of soot, bearing their paltry treasures toViktoriastrasse3,whereFrauElenastaresintothecoalstove,singingaFrenchlullabyinatiredvoice,onetoddleryankingherapronstringswhileanotherhowlsinherarms.

KeyPound

Congenitalcataracts.Bilateral. Irreparable.“Canyousee this?”ask thedoctors.“Canyousee this?”Marie-Laurewillnotseeanythingfortherestofherlife.Spacessheonceknewasfamiliar—thefour-roomflatsheshareswithherfather,thelittletree-linedsquareattheendoftheirstreet—havebecomelabyrinths bristlingwith hazards.Drawers are neverwhere they should be.The toilet is an abyss.Aglassofwateristoonear,toofar;herfingerstoobig,alwaystoobig.

What is blindness?Where there should be awall, her hands find nothing.Where there should benothing,atableleggougeshershin.Carsgrowlinthestreets;leaveswhisperinthesky;bloodrustlesthroughherinnerears.Inthestairwell,inthekitchen,evenbesideherbed,grown-upvoicesspeakofdespair.

“Poorchild.”“PoorMonsieurLeBlanc.”“Hasn’thadaneasyroad,youknow.Hisfatherdeadinthewar,hiswifedeadinchildbirth.Andnow

this?”“Likethey’recursed.”“Lookather.Lookathim.”“Oughttosendheraway.”Those are months of bruises and wretchedness: rooms pitching like sailboats, half-open doors

strikingMarie-Laure’s face.Heronly sanctuary is inbed, thehemofherquilt atherchin,whileherfather smokes another cigarette in the chairbesideher,whittlingawayatoneofhis tinymodels, hislittlehammergoingtaptaptap,hislittlesquareofsandpapermakingarhythmic,soothingrasp.

Thedespairdoesn’tlast.Marie-Laureistooyoungandherfatheristoopatient.Thereare,heassuresher,nosuchthingsascurses.Thereisluck,maybe,badorgood.Aslightinclinationofeachdaytowardsuccessorfailure.Butnocurses.

Sixmorningsaweekhewakesherbeforedawn,andsheholdsherarmsintheairwhilehedressesher. Stockings, dress, sweater. If there’s time, hemakes her try to knot her shoes herself.Then theydrinkacupofcoffeetogetherinthekitchen:hot,strong,asmuchsugarasshewants.

At six forty she collects her white cane from the corner, loops a finger through the back of herfather’sbelt,andfollowshimdownthreeflightsandupsixblockstothemuseum.

He unlocks Entrance #2 at seven sharp. Inside are the familiar smells: typewriter ribbons,waxedfloors,rockdust.TherearethefamiliarechoesoftheirfootfallscrossingtheGrandGallery.Hegreetsanightguard,thenawarder,alwaysthesametwowordsrepeatedback:Bonjour,bonjour.

Twolefts,oneright.Herfather’skeyringjingles.Alockgivesway;agateswingsopen.Insidethekeypound,insidesixglass-frontedcabinets,thousandsofironkeyshangfrompegs.There

areblanksandskeletons,barrel-stemkeysandsaturn-bowkeys,elevatorkeysandcabinetkeys.KeysaslongasMarie-Laure’sforearmandkeysshorterthanherthumb.

Marie-Laure’sfatherisprincipallocksmithfortheNationalMuseumofNaturalHistory.Betweenthelaboratories,warehouses, fourseparatepublicmuseums, themenagerie, thegreenhouses, theacresofmedicinalanddecorativegardensintheJardindesPlantes,andadozengatesandpavilions,herfather

estimatestherearetwelvethousandlocksintheentiremuseumcomplex.Nooneelseknowsenoughtodisagree.

Allmorninghestandsatthefrontofthekeypoundanddistributeskeystoemployees:zookeeperscoming first, office staff arriving in a rush around eight, technicians and librarians and scientificassistants troopinginnext,scientists tricklinginlast.Everythingisnumberedandcolor-coded.Everyemployeefromcustodianstothedirectormustcarryhisorherkeysatalltimes.Nooneisallowedtoleavehis respectivebuildingwithkeys,andnoone isallowed to leavekeysonadesk.Themuseumpossesses priceless jade from the thirteenth century, after all, and cavansite from India andrhodochrositefromColorado;behinda lockherfatherhasdesignedsitsaFlorentinedispensarybowlcarvedfromlapislazulithatspecialiststravelathousandmileseveryyeartoexamine.

Herfatherquizzesher.Vaultkeyorpadlockkey,Marie?Cupboardkeyordeadboltkey?Hetestsheron the locations of displays, on the contents of cabinets.He is continually placing some unexpectedthingintoherhands:alightbulb,afossilizedfish,aflamingofeather.

Foranhoureachmorning—evenSundays—hemakeshersitoveraBrailleworkbook.Aisonedotin theuppercorner.B is twodots inavertical line.Jean.Goes.To.The.Baker.Jean.Goes.To.The.Cheese.Maker.

Intheafternoonshetakesheronhisrounds.Heoilslatches,repairscabinets,polishesescutcheons.Heleadsherdownhallwayafterhallwayintogalleryaftergallery.Narrowcorridorsopenintoimmenselibraries;glassdoorsgivewaytohothousesoverflowingwiththesmellsofhumus,wetnewspaper,andlobelia.Therearecarpenters’shops,taxidermists’studios,acresofshelvesandspecimendrawers,wholemuseumswithinthemuseum.

Someafternoonshe leavesMarie-Laure in the laboratoryofDr.Geffard, an agingmollusk expertwhosebeardsmellspermanentlyofdampwool.Dr.GeffardwillstopwhateverheisdoingandopenabottleofMalbecandtellMarie-Laureinhiswhisperyvoiceaboutreefshevisitedasayoungman:theSeychelles,Belize,Zanzibar.HecallsherLaurette;heeatsaroastedduckeverydayat3P.M.;hismindaccommodatesaseeminglyinexhaustiblecatalogofLatinbinomialnames.

OnthebackwallofDr.Geffard’slabarecabinetsthatcontainmoredrawersthanshecancount,andhe lets her open them one after another and hold seashells in her hands—whelks, olives, imperialvolutesfromThailand,spiderconchsfromPolynesia—themuseumpossessesmorethantenthousandspecimens,overhalftheknownspeciesintheworld,andMarie-Lauregetstohandlemostofthem.

“Nowthatshell,Laurette,belongedtoavioletseasnail,ablindsnailthatlivesitswholelifeonthesurfaceof thesea.Assoonas it isreleasedinto theocean, itagitates thewater tomakebubbles,andbindsthosebubbleswithmucus,andbuildsaraft.Thenitblowsaround,feedingonwhateverfloatingaquaticinvertebratesitencounters.Butifiteverlosesitsraft,itwillsinkanddie...”

ACarinariashellissimultaneouslylightandheavy,hardandsoft,smoothandrough.ThemurexDr.Geffardkeepsonhisdeskcanentertainher forahalfhour, thehollowspines, the ridgedwhorls, thedeepentrance;it’saforestofspikesandcavesandtextures;it’sakingdom.

Herhandsmoveceaselessly,gathering,probing,testing.Thebreastfeathersofastuffedandmountedchickadeeareimpossiblysoft,itsbeakassharpasaneedle.Thepollenatthetipsoftulipanthersisnotsomuch powder as it is tiny balls of oil. To really touch something, she is learning—the bark of asycamore tree in the gardens; a pinned stag beetle in theDepartment of Etymology; the exquisitelypolishedinteriorofascallopshellinDr.Geffard’sworkshop—istoloveit.

Athome, in theevenings,herfatherstows theirshoes in thesamecubby,hangs theircoatson thesamehooks.Marie-Laurecrossessixevenlyspacedfrictionstripsonthekitchentilestoreachthetable;shefollowsastrandoftwinehehasthreadedfromthetabletothetoilet.Heservesdinneronaround

plateanddescribesthelocationsofdifferentfoodsbythehandsofaclock.Potatoesatsixo’clock,machérie. Mushrooms at three. Then he lights a cigarette and goes to work on his miniatures at aworkbenchinthecornerofthekitchen.Heisbuildingascalemodeloftheirentireneighborhood,thetall-windowedhouses,theraingutters,thelaverieandboulangerieandthelittleplaceattheendofthestreetwithitsfourbenchesandtentrees.OnwarmnightsMarie-Laureopensherbedroomwindowandlistens to theeveningas it settlesover thebalconiesandgablesandchimneys, languidandpeaceful,untiltherealneighborhoodandtheminiatureonegetmixedupinhermind.

Tuesdays themuseum isclosed.Marie-Laureandher father sleep in; theydrinkcoffee thickwithsugar.TheywalktothePanthéon,ortoaflowermarket,oralongtheSeine.Everysooftentheyvisitthebookshop.He hands her a dictionary, a journal, amagazine full of photographs. “Howmany pages,Marie-Laure?”

Sherunsanailalongtheedge.“Fifty-two?”“Sevenhundredandfive?”“Onehundredthirty-nine?”He sweeps her hair back from her ears; he swings her above his head. He says she is his

émerveillement.Hesayshewillneverleaveher,notinamillionyears.

Radio

Werner iseightyearsoldand ferretingabout in the refusebehindastorageshedwhenhediscoverswhatlookslikealargespoolofthread.Itconsistsofawire-wrappedcylindersandwichedbetweentwodiscsofpinewood.Threefrayedelectricalleadssproutfromthetop.Onehasasmallearphonedanglingfromitsend.

Jutta, six years old, with a round face and amashed cumulus of white hair, crouches beside herbrother.“Whatisthat?”

“Ithink,”Wernersays,feelingasthoughsomecupboardintheskyhasjustopened,“wejustfoundaradio.”

Untilnowhehasseenradiosonlyinglimpses:abigcabinetwirelessthroughthelacecurtainsofanofficial’shouse;aportableunit inaminers’dormitory;another in thechurchrefectory.Hehasnevertouchedone.

HeandJuttasmugglethedevicebacktoViktoriastrasse3andappraiseitbeneathanelectriclamp.Theywipeitclean,untanglethesnarlofwires,washmudoutoftheearphone.

Itdoesnotwork.Otherchildrencomeandstandoverthemandmarvel,thengraduallyloseinterestand conclude it is hopeless.ButWerner carries the receiver up to his attic dormer and studies it forhours.Hedisconnectseverythingthatwilldisconnect;helaysitspartsoutonthefloorandholdsthemonebyonetothelight.

Threeweeksafterfindingthedevice,onasun-gildedafternoonwhenperhapseveryotherchild inZollverein is outdoors, he notices that its longest wire, a slender filament coiled hundreds of timesaround thecentralcylinder,has several smallbreaks in it.Slowly,meticulously,heunwraps thecoil,carries the entire loopedmess downstairs, and calls Jutta inside to hold the pieces for himwhile hesplicesthebreaks.Thenherewrapsit.

“Nowlet’stry,”hewhispers,andpressestheearphoneagainsthisearandrunswhathehasdecidedmustbethetuningpinbackandforthalongthecoil.

Hehears a fizzof static.Then, fromsomewheredeep inside the earpiece, a streamof consonantsissuesforth.Werner’sheartpauses;thevoiceseemstoechointhearchitectureofhishead.

Thesoundfadesasquicklyasitcame.Heshiftsthepinaquarterinch.Morestatic.Anotherquarterinch.Nothing.

Inthekitchen,FrauElenakneadsbread.Boysshoutinthealley.Wernerguidesthetuningpinbackandforth.

Static,static.He is about tohand theearphone to Juttawhen—clearandunblemished, abouthalfwaydown the

coil—hehearsthequick,drasticstrikesofabowdashingacrossthestringsofaviolin.Hetriestoholdthepinperfectlystill.Asecondviolinjoinsthefirst.Juttadragsherselfcloser;shewatchesherbrotherwithoutsizeeyes.

Apianochasestheviolins.Thenwoodwinds.Thestringssprint,woodwindsflutteringbehind.Moreinstrumentsjoinin.Flutes?Harps?Thesongraces,seemstoloopbackoveritself.

“Werner?”Juttawhispers.He blinks; he has to swallow back tears. The parlor looks the same as it always has: two cribs

beneathtwoLatincrosses,dustfloatingintheopenmouthofthestove,adozenlayersofpaintpeeling

offthebaseboards.AneedlepointofFrauElena’ssnowyAlsatianvillageabovethesink.Yetnowthereismusic.Asif,insideWerner’shead,aninfinitesimalorchestrahasstirredtolife.

Theroomseemstofallintoaslowspin.Hissistersayshisnamemoreurgently,andhepressestheearphonetoherear.

“Music,”shesays.Heholdsthepinasstock-stillashecan.Thesignalisweakenoughthat,thoughtheearphoneissix

inchesaway,hecan’thearanytraceofthesong.Buthewatcheshissister’sface,motionlessexceptforhereyelids,andinthekitchenFrauElenaholdsherflour-whitenedhandsintheairandcocksherhead,studyingWerner, and twoolder boys rush in and stop, sensing some change in the air, and the littleradiowith its four terminals and trailing aerial sitsmotionless on the floor between them all like amiracle.

TakeUsHome

UsuallyMarie-Laure can solve thewooden puzzle boxes her father creates for her birthdays.Oftentheyareshapedlikehousesandcontainsomehiddentrinket.Openingtheminvolvesacunningseriesofsteps:findaseamwithyourfingernails,slidethebottomtotheright,detachasiderail,removeahiddenkeyfrominsidetherail,unlockthetop,anddiscoverabraceletinside.

Forher seventhbirthday, a tinywoodenchalet stands in the centerof thekitchen tablewhere thesugarbowloughttobe.Sheslidesahiddendraweroutofthebase,findsahiddencompartmentbeneaththedrawer,takesoutawoodenkey,andslotsthekeyinsidethechimney.InsidewaitsasquareofSwisschocolate.

“Fourminutes,”saysherfather,laughing.“I’llhavetoworkhardernextyear.”Foralongtime,though,unlikehispuzzleboxes,hismodeloftheirneighborhoodmakeslittlesense

to her. It is not like the realworld. Theminiature intersection of rue deMirbel and rueMonge, forexample,justablockfromtheirapartment,isnothingliketherealintersection.Therealonepresentsanamphitheaterofnoiseandfragrance:inthefallitsmellsoftrafficandcastoroil,breadfromthebakery,camphor fromAvent’s pharmacy, delphiniums and sweet peas and roses from the flower stand. Onwinter days it swimswith the odor of roasting chestnuts; on summer evenings it becomes slow anddrowsy,fullofsleepyconversationsandthescrapingofheavyironchairs.

Butherfather’smodelofthesameintersectionsmellsonlyofdriedglueandsawdust.Itsstreetsareempty,itspavementsstatic;toherfingers,itservesaslittlemorethanatinyandinsufficientfacsimile.HepersistsinaskingMarie-Lauretorunherfingersoverit,torecognizedifferenthouses,theanglesofstreets.AndonecoldTuesdayinDecember,whenMarie-Laurehasbeenblindforoverayear,herfatherwalksheruprueCuviertotheedgeoftheJardindesPlantes.

“Here,ma chérie, is the pathwe take everymorning. Through the cedars up ahead is theGrandGallery.”

“Iknow,Papa.”Hepicksherupandspinsheraroundthreetimes.“Now,”hesays,“you’regoingtotakeushome.”Hermouthdropsopen.“Iwantyoutothinkofthemodel,Marie.”“ButIcan’tpossibly!”“I’monestepbehindyou.Iwon’tletanythinghappen.Youhaveyourcane.Youknowwhereyou

are.”“Idonot!”“Youdo.”Exasperation.Shecannotevensayifthegardensareaheadorbehind.“Calmyourself,Marie.Onecentimeteratatime.”“It’sfar,Papa.Sixblocks,atleast.”“Sixblocksisexactlyright.Uselogic.Whichwayshouldwegofirst?”Theworldpivotsandrumbles.Crowsshout,brakeshiss,someonetoherleftbangssomethingmetal

withwhatmightbeahammer.Sheshufflesforwarduntilthetipofhercanefloatsinspace.Theedgeofacurb?Apond,astaircase,acliff?Sheturnsninetydegrees.Threestepsforward.Nowhercanefindsthebaseofawall.“Papa?”

“I’mhere.”

Sixpacessevenpaceseight.Aroarofnoise—anexterminatorjustleavingahouse,pumpbellowing—overtakesthem.Twelvepacesfartheron,thebelltiedaroundthehandleofashopdoorrings,andtwowomencomeout,jostlingherastheypass.

Marie-Lauredropshercane;shebeginstocry.Herfatherliftsher,holdshertohisnarrowchest.“It’ssobig,”shewhispers.“Youcandothis,Marie.”Shecannot.

SomethingRising

While the other children play hopscotch in the alley or swim in the canal,Werner sits alone in hisupstairsdormer,experimentingwiththeradioreceiver.Inaweekhecandismantleandrebuilditwithhiseyesclosed.Capacitor, inductor, tuningcoil, earpiece.Onewiregoes toground, theother to sky.Nothinghe’sencounteredbeforehasmadesomuchsense.

Heharvestspartsfromsupplysheds:snipsofcopperwire,screws,abentscrewdriver.Hecharmsthedruggist’swife intogivinghimabrokenearphone;hesalvagesasolenoidfromadiscardeddoorbell,soldersit toaresistor,andmakesaloudspeaker.Withinamonthhemanagestoredesignthereceiverentirely,addingnewpartshereandthereandconnectingittoapowersource.

Everyeveninghecarrieshisradiodownstairs,andFrauElenaletsherwardslistenforanhour.Theytuneintonewscasts,concerts,operas,nationalchoirs,folkshows,adozenchildreninasemicircleonthefurniture,FrauElenaamongthem,hardlymoresubstantialthanachildherself.Weliveinexcitingtimes,saystheradio.Wemakenocomplaints.Wewillplantourfeetfirmlyinour

earth,andnoattackwillmoveus.Theoldergirlslikemusicalcompetitions,radiogymnastics,aregularspotcalledSeasonalTipsfor

Those in Love that makes the younger children squeal. The boys like plays, news bulletins, martialanthems.Juttalikesjazz.Wernerlikeseverything.Violins,horns,drums,speeches—amouthagainstamicrophoneinsomefarawayyetsimultaneousevening—thesorceryofitholdshimrapt.Isitanywonder,askstheradio,thatcourage,confidence,andoptimismingrowingmeasurefillthe

Germanpeople?Isnottheflameofanewfaithrisingfromthissacrificialreadiness?IndeeditdoesseemtoWerner,as theweeksgoby, thatsomethingnewisrising.Mineproduction

increases;unemploymentdrops.MeatappearsatSundaysupper.Lamb,pork,wieners—extravagancesunheardof ayearbefore.FrauElenabuysanewcouchupholstered inorangecorduroy, anda rangewithburners inblackrings; threenewBiblesarrivefromtheconsistory inBerlin;a laundryboiler isdelivered to the back door. Werner gets new trousers; Jutta gets her own pair of shoes. Workingtelephonesringinthehousesofneighbors.

Oneafternoon,on thewalkhomefromschool,Wernerstopsoutside thedrugstoreandpresseshisnosetoatallwindow:fivedozeninch-tallstormtroopersmarchthere,eachtoymanwithabrownshirtandtinyredarmband,somewithflutes,somewithdrums,afewofficersastrideglossyblackstallions.Above them, suspended from a wire, a tinplate clockwork aquaplane with wooden pontoons and arotatingpropellermakesanelectric,hypnotizingorbit.Werner studies it through theglass for a longtime,tryingtounderstandhowitworks.

Nightfalls,autumnin1936,andWernercarriestheradiodownstairsandsetsitonthesideboard,andtheotherchildren fidget inanticipation.The receiverhumsas itwarms.Werner stepsback,hands inpockets.Fromtheloudspeaker,achildren’schoirsings,Wehopeonlytowork,toworkandworkandwork,togotogloriousworkforthecountry.Thenastate-sponsoredplayoutofBerlinbegins:astoryofinvaderssneakingintoavillageatnight.

Alltwelvechildrensitriveted.Intheplay,theinvadersposeashook-noseddepartment-storeowners,crooked jewelers, dishonorable bankers; they sell glittering trash; they drive established villagebusinessmenoutofwork.SoontheyplottomurderGermanchildrenintheirbeds.Eventuallyavigilantandhumble neighbor catches on. Police are called: big handsome-soundingpolicemenwith splendid

voices.Theybreakdownthedoors.Theydragtheinvadersaway.Apatrioticmarchplays.Everyoneishappyagain.

Light

Tuesday after Tuesday she fails. She leads her father on six-block detours that leave her angry andfrustratedandfartherfromhomethanwhentheystarted.Butinthewinterofhereighthyear,toMarie-Laure’ssurprise,shebeginstogetitright.Sherunsherfingersoverthemodelintheirkitchen,countingminiaturebenches,trees,lampposts,doorways.Everydaysomenewdetailemerges—eachstormdrain,parkbench,andhydrantinthemodelhasitscounterpartintherealworld.

Marie-Laurebringsherfatherclosertohomebeforemakingamistake.Fourblocksthreeblockstwo.AndonesnowyTuesdayinMarch,whenhewalkshertoyetanothernewspot,veryclosetothebanksoftheSeine,spinsheraroundthreetimes,andsays,“Takeushome,”sherealizesthat,forthefirsttimesincetheybeganthisexercise,dreadhasnotcometrundlingupfromhergut.

Insteadshesquatsonherheelsonthesidewalk.Thefaintlymetallicsmellofthefallingsnowsurroundsher.Calmyourself.Listen.Cars splash along streets, and snowmelt drums through runnels; she canhear snowflakes tick and

patterthroughthetrees.ShecansmellthecedarsintheJardindesPlantesaquartermileaway.HeretheMetrohurtlesbeneaththesidewalk:that’stheQuaiSaint-Bernard.Heretheskyopensup,andshehearstheclackingofbranches:that’sthenarrowstripeofgardensbehindtheGalleryofPaleontology.This,sherealizes,mustbethecornerofthequayandrueCuvier.

Sixblocks,fortybuildings,tentinytreesinasquare.Thisstreetintersectsthisstreetintersectsthisstreet.Onecentimeteratatime.

Her father stirs thekeys inhispockets.Ahead loom the tall, grandhouses that flank thegardens,reflectingsound.

Shesays,“Wegoleft.”Theystartup the lengthof the rueCuvier.A trioofairborneducks threads toward them, flapping

theirwingsinsynchrony,makingfor theSeine,andas thebirdsrushoverhead,sheimaginesshecanfeelthelightsettlingovertheirwings,strikingeachindividualfeather.

LeftonrueLinné.RightonrueDaubenton.Threestormdrainsfourstormdrainsfive.ApproachingontheleftwillbetheopenironworkfenceoftheJardindesPlantes,itsthinsparslikethebarsofagreatbirdcage.

Acrossfromhernow:thebakery,thebutcher,thedelicatessen.“Safetocross,Papa?”“Itis.”Right.Thenstraight.Theywalkuptheirstreetnow,sheissureofit.Onestepbehindher,herfather

tiltshisheadupandgivestheskyahugesmile.Marie-Laureknowsthiseventhoughherbackistohim,even thoughhe says nothing, even though she is blind—Papa’s thick hair iswet from the snowandstandinginadozenanglesoffhishead,andhisscarfisdrapedasymmetricallyoverhisshoulders,andhe’sbeamingupatthefallingsnow.

TheyarehalfwayuptheruedesPatriarches.Theyareoutsidetheirbuilding.Marie-Laurefindsthetrunkofthechestnuttreethatgrowspastherthird-floorwindow,itsbarkbeneathherfingers.

Oldfriend.In another half second her father’s hands are in her armpits, swinging her up, andMarie-Laure

smiles, andhe laughs a pure, contagious laugh, one shewill try to remember all her life, father and

daughter turning incircleson thesidewalk in frontof theirapartmenthouse, laughing togetherwhilesnowsiftsthroughthebranchesabove.

OurFlagFluttersBeforeUs

InZollverein,inthespringofWerner’stenthyear,thetwooldestboysatChildren’sHouse—thirteen-year-oldHansSchilzer and fourteen-year-oldHerribert Pomsel—shoulder secondhandknapsacks andgoose-stepintothewoods.Whentheycomeback,theyaremembersoftheHitlerYouth.

They carry slingshots, fashion spears, rehearse ambushes from behind snowbanks. They join abristlinggangofminers’sonswhositinthemarketsquare,sleevesrolledup,shortshikedtotheirhips.“Goodevening,”theycryatpassersby.“OrheilHitler,ifyouprefer!”

Theygive eachothermatchinghaircuts andwrestle in theparlor andbragabout the rifle trainingthey’repreparingfor,theglidersthey’llfly,thetankturretsthey’lloperate.Ourflagrepresentsthenewera,chantHansandHerribert,ourflagleadsustoeternity.Atmealstheychideyoungerchildrenforadmiringanythingforeign:aBritishcaradvertisement,aFrenchpicturebook.

Their salutes are comical; their outfits vergeon ridiculous.ButFrauElenawatches theboyswithwaryeyes:notsolongagotheywereferaltoddlersskulkingintheircotsandcryingfortheirmothers.Nowthey’vebecomeadolescentthugswithsplitknucklesandpostcardsoftheführerfoldedintotheirshirtpockets.

Frau Elena speaks French less and less frequentlywheneverHans andHerribert are present. Shefindsherselfconsciousofheraccent.Thesmallestglancefromaneighborcanmakeherwonder.

Wernerkeepshisheaddown.Leapingoverbonfires,rubbingashbeneathyoureyes,pickingonlittlekids?CrumplingJutta’sdrawings?Farbetter,hedecides,tokeepone’spresencesmall,inconspicuous.Werner has been reading the popular science magazines in the drugstore; he’s interested in waveturbulence,tunnelstothecenteroftheearth,theNigerianmethodofrelayingnewsoverdistanceswithdrums.Hebuysanotebookanddrawsupplansforcloudchambers,iondetectors,X-raygoggles.Whatabout a littlemotor attached to the cradles to rock the babies to sleep?Howabout springs stretchedalongtheaxlesofhiswagontohelphimpullituphills?

AnofficialfromtheLaborMinistryvisitsChildren’sHousetospeakaboutworkopportunitiesatthemines.Thechildren sit at his feet in their cleanest clothes.Allboys,without exception, explains theman,willgotoworkfortheminesoncetheyturnfifteen.Hespeaksofgloriesandtriumphsandhowfortunatethey’llbetohavefixedemployment.WhenhepicksupWerner’sradioandsetsitbackdownwithoutcommenting,Wernerfeelstheceilingsliplower,thewallsconstrict.

Hisfatherdownthere,amilebeneaththehouse.Bodyneverrecovered.Hauntingthetunnelsstill.“Fromyourneighborhood,”theofficialsays,“fromyoursoil,comesthemightofournation.Steel,

coal,coke.Berlin,Frankfurt,Munich—theydonotexistwithoutthisplace.Yousupplythefoundationoftheneworder,thebulletsinitsguns,thearmoronitstanks.”

Hans and Herribert examine the man’s leather pistol belt with dazzled eyes. On the sideboard,Werner’slittleradiochatters.

Itsays,Overthesethreeyears,ourleaderhashadthecouragetofaceaEuropethatwasindangerofcollapse...

Itsays,Healone is to be thanked for the fact that, forGermanchildren, aGerman life hasonceagainbecomeworthliving.

AroundtheWorldinEightyDays

Sixteenpaces to thewater fountain, sixteenback.Forty-two to the stairwell, forty-twoback.Marie-Lauredrawsmapsinherhead,unreelsahundredyardsofimaginarytwine,andthenturnsandreelsitbackin.Botanysmells likeglueandblotterpaperandpressedflowers.Paleontologysmells likerockdust,bonedust.Biologysmells likeformalinandoldfruit; it is loadedwithheavycool jars inwhichfloatthingsshehasonlyhaddescribedforher:thepalecoiledropesofrattlesnakes,theseveredhandsofgorillas.Entomologysmellslikemothballsandoil:apreservativethat,Dr.Geffardexplains,iscallednaphthalene.Officessmellofcarbonpaper,orcigarsmoke,orbrandy,orperfume.Orallfour.

She follows cables and pipes, railings and ropes, hedges and sidewalks. She startles people. Sheneverknowsifthelightsareon.

Thechildrenshemeetsbrimwithquestions:Doesithurt?Doyoushutyoureyestosleep?Howdoyouknowwhattimeitis?

It doesn’t hurt, she explains. And there is no darkness, not the kind they imagine. Everything iscomposedofwebsandlatticesandupheavalsofsoundandtexture.ShewalksacirclearoundtheGrandGallery, navigating between squeaking floorboards; she hears feet tramp up and down museumstaircases,atoddlersqueal,thegroanofawearygrandmotherloweringherselfontoabench.

Color—that’sanother thingpeopledon’texpect. Inher imagination, inherdreams,everythinghascolor.Themuseumbuildingsarebeige,chestnut,hazel.Itsscientistsarelilacandlemonyellowandfoxbrown.Pianochordslollinthespeakerofthewirelessintheguardstation,projectingrichblacksandcomplicatedbluesdownthehalltowardthekeypound.Churchbellssendarcsofbronzecareeningoffthewindows.Beesaresilver;pigeonsaregingerandauburnandoccasionallygolden.Thehugecypresstrees she and her father pass on their morning walk are shimmering kaleidoscopes, each needle apolygonoflight.

She has nomemories of hermother but imagines her aswhite, a soundless brilliance.Her fatherradiatesathousandcolors,opal,strawberryred,deeprusset,wildgreen;asmelllikeoilandmetal,thefeelofalocktumblerslidinghome,thesoundofhiskeyringschimingashewalks.Heisanolivegreenwhenhe talks toadepartmenthead,anescalatingseriesoforangeswhenhespeaks toMademoiselleFleuryfromthegreenhouses,abrightredwhenhetriestocook.Heglowssapphirewhenhesitsoverhisworkbenchintheevenings,hummingalmostinaudiblyasheworks,thetipofhiscigarettegleamingaprismaticblue.

Shegets lost. Secretaries or botanists, andonce the director’s assistant, bring her back to the keypound. She is curious; she wants to know the difference between an alga and a lichen, aDiplodoncharruanusandaDiplodondelodontus.Famousmentakeherbytheelbowandescortherthroughthegardens or guide her up stairwells. “I have a daughter too,” they’ll say.Or “I found her among thehummingbirds.”

“Toutes mes excuses,” her father says. He lights a cigarette; he plucks key after key out of herpockets.“What,”hewhispers,“amIgoingtodowithyou?”

On her ninth birthday, when she wakes, she finds two gifts. The first is a wooden box with noopeningshecandetect.She turns it thiswayandthat. It takeshera littlewhile torealizeoneside isspring-loaded;shepressesitandtheboxflipsopen.InsidewaitsasinglecubeofcreamyCamembertthatshepopsdirectlyintoinhermouth.

“Tooeasy!”herfathersays,laughing.

The second gift is heavy,wrapped in paper and twine. Inside is amassive spiral-bound book. InBraille.

“Theysaidit’sforboys.Orveryadventurousgirls.”Shecanhearhimsmiling.Sheslidesherfingertipsacrosstheembossedtitlepage.Around.The.World.In.Eighty.Days.“Papa,

it’stooexpensive.”“That’sformetoworryabout.”ThatmorningMarie-Laurecrawlsbeneaththecounterofthekeypoundandliesonherstomachand

setsalltenfingertipsinalineonapage.TheFrenchfeelsold-fashioned,thedotsprintedmuchclosertogether than she is used to. But after a week, it becomes easy. She finds the ribbon she uses as abookmark,opensthebook,andthemuseumfallsaway.

MysteriousMr. Fogg lives his life like amachine. Jean Passepartout becomes his obedient valet.When, after twomonths, she reaches the novel’s last line, she flips back to the first page and startsagain.Atnightsherunsherfingertipsoverherfather’smodel:thebelltower,thedisplaywindows.Sheimagines JulesVerne’s characterswalking along the streets, chatting in shops; a half-inch-tall bakerslides speck-sized loaves in andout of his ovens; threeminusculeburglarshatchplans as theydriveslowlypastthejeweler’s;littlegrumblingcarsthrongtheruedeMirbel,wipersslidingbackandforth.Behind a fourth-floorwindow on the rue des Patriarches, aminiature version of her father sits at aminiatureworkbench in theirminiatureapartment, just ashedoes in real life, sandingawayat someinfinitesimalpieceofwood;acrosstheroomisaminiaturegirl,skinny,quick-witted,anopenbookinherlap;insideherchestpulsessomethinghuge,somethingfulloflonging,somethingunafraid.

TheProfessor

“Youhavetoswear,”Juttasays.“Doyouswear?”Amidrusteddrumsandshreddedinnertubesandwormycreek-bottommuck,shehasdiscoveredtenyardsofcopperwire.Hereyesarebrighttunnels.

Wernerglancesatthetrees,thecreek,backtohissister.“Iswear.”Together they smuggle the wire home and loop it back and forth through nail holes in the eave

outsidetheatticwindow.Thentheyattachittotheirradio.Almostimmediately,onashortwaveband,theycanhearsomeonetalkinginastrangelanguagefullofz’sands’s.“IsitRussian?”

Wernerthinksit’sHungarian.Juttaisalleyesinthedimnessandheat.“HowfarawayisHungary?”“Athousandkilometers?”Shegapes.Voices, it turnsout,streakintoZollvereinfromallover thecontinent, throughtheclouds, thecoal

dust,theroof.Theairswarmswiththem.JuttamakesalogtomatchascalethatWernerdrawsonthetuningcoil, carefully spelling thenameofeachcity theymanage to receive.Verona65,Dresden88,London100.Rome. Paris. Lyon.Late-night shortwave: province of ramblers and dreamers,madmenandranters.

Afterprayers,afterlights-out,Juttasneaksuptoherbrother’sdormer;insteadofdrawingtogether,theyliehiptohiplisteningtillmidnight,tillone,tilltwo.TheyhearBritishnewsreportstheycannotunderstand;theyhearaBerlinwomanpontificatingaboutthepropermakeupforacocktailparty.

One nightWerner and Jutta tune in to a scratchy broadcast in which a youngman is talking infeathery,accentedFrenchaboutlight.Thebrainis lockedintotaldarkness,ofcourse,children,saysthevoice.It floats inaclear liquid

insidetheskull,neverinthelight.Andyettheworlditconstructsinthemindisfulloflight.Itbrimswithcolorandmovement.Sohow,children,doesthebrain,whichliveswithoutasparkoflight,buildforusaworldfulloflight?

Thebroadcasthissesandpops.“Whatisthis?”whispersJutta.Werner does not answer.TheFrenchman’s voice is velvet.His accent is very different fromFrau

Elena’s,andyethisvoiceissoardent,sohypnotizing,thatWernerfindshecanunderstandeveryword.TheFrenchmantalksaboutopticalillusions,electromagnetism;there’sapauseandapealofstatic,asthougharecordisbeingflipped,andthenheenthusesaboutcoal.Considerasinglepieceglowinginyourfamily’sstove.Seeit,children?Thatchunkofcoalwasonce

a green plant, a fern or reed that lived onemillion years ago, ormaybe twomillion, ormaybe onehundredmillion.Canyouimagineonehundredmillionyears?Everysummerforthewholelifeofthatplant, its leaves caughtwhat light they couldand transformed the sun’s energy into itself. Intobark,twigs,stems.Becauseplantseat light, inmuch thewayweeat food.But then theplantdiedand fell,probably intowater, anddecayed into peat, and the peatwas folded inside the earth for years uponyears—eonsinwhichsomethinglikeamonthoradecadeorevenyourwholelifewasjustapuffofair,asnapoftwofingers.Andeventuallythepeatdriedandbecamelikestone,andsomeonedugitup,andthecoalmanbrought it to yourhouse,andmaybeyouyourself carried it to the stove,andnow thatsunlight—sunlightonehundredmillionyearsold—isheatingyourhometonight...

Timeslows.Theatticdisappears.Juttadisappears.HasanyoneeverspokensointimatelyabouttheverythingsWernerismostcuriousabout?Openyoureyes,concludestheman,andseewhatyoucanwiththembeforetheycloseforever,and

thenapianocomeson,playingalonelysongthatsoundstoWernerlikeagoldenboattravelingadarkriver,aprogressionofharmoniesthattransfiguresZollverein:thehousesturnedtomist,theminesfilledin, the smokestacks fallen, an ancient sea spilling through the streets, and the air streaming withpossibility.

SeaofFlames

RumorscirculatethroughtheParismuseum,movingfast,asquickandbrightlycoloredasscarves.Themuseumisconsideringdisplayingacertaingemstone,ajewelmorevaluablethananythingelseinallthecollections.

“Wordhasit,”Marie-Laureoverhearsonetaxidermisttellinganother,“thestoneisfromJapan,it’sveryancient,itbelongedtoashogunintheeleventhcentury.”

“Ihear,”theothersays,“itcameoutofourownvaults.Thatit’sbeenhereallalong,butforsomelegal reason we weren’t allowed to show it.” One day it’s a cluster of rare magnesium hydroxycarbonate;thenextit’sastarsapphirethatwillsetaman’shandonfireifhetouchesit.Thenitbecomesadiamond,definitelyadiamond.SomepeoplecallittheShepherd’sStone,otherscallittheKhon-Ma,butsoonenougheveryoneiscallingittheSeaofFlames.

Marie-Laurethinks:Fouryearshavepassed.“Evil,”saysawarderintheguardstation.“Bringssorrowonanyonewhocarriesit.Iheardallnine

previousownershavecommittedsuicide.”Asecondvoicesays,“Iheardthatanyonewhoholdsitinhisunglovedhanddieswithinaweek.”“No,no,ifyouholdit,youcannotdie,butthepeoplearoundyoudiewithinamonth.Ormaybeit’s

ayear.”“Ibettergetmyhandsonthat!”saysathird,laughing.Marie-Laure’s heart races. Ten years old, and onto the black screen of her imagination she can

projectanything:asailingyacht,aswordbattle,aColosseumseethingwithcolor.ShehasreadAroundtheWorld inEightyDays until theBraille is soft and fraying; for this year’sbirthday, her fatherhasboughtheranevenfatterbook:Dumas’sTheThreeMusketeers.

Marie-Laurehearsthatthediamondispalegreenandasbigasacoatbutton.Thenshehearsit’sasbigasamatchbook.Aday later it’sblueandasbigasababy’s fist.Sheenvisionsanangrygoddessstalkingthehalls,sendingcursesthroughthegallerieslikepoisonclouds.Herfathersaystotampdownherimagination.Stonesarejuststonesandrainisjustrainandmisfortuneisjustbadluck.Somethingsaresimplymorerarethanothers,andthat’swhytherearelocks.

“But,Papa,doyoubelieveit’sreal?”“Thediamondorthecurse?”“Both.Either.”“They’rejuststories,Marie.”And yet whenever anything goes wrong, the staff whispers that the diamond has caused it. The

electricityfailsforanhour:it’sthediamond.Aleakypipedestroysanentirerackofpressedbotanicalsamples:it’sthediamond.Whenthedirector’swifeslipsoniceinthePlacedesVosgesandbreaksherwristintwoplaces,themuseum’sgossipmachineexplodes.

Aroundthistime,Marie-Laure’sfatherissummonedupstairstothedirector’soffice.He’stherefortwohours.Whenelseinhermemoryhasherfatherbeencalledtothedirector’sofficeforatwo-hourmeeting?Notonce.

Almostimmediatelyafterward,herfatherbeginsworkingdeepwithintheGalleryofMineralogy.Forweekshewheelscartsloadedwithvariouspiecesofequipmentinandoutofthekeypound,workinglongafterthemuseumhasclosed,andeverynighthereturnstothekeypoundsmellingofbrazingalloy

andsawdust.Eachtimesheaskstoaccompanyhim,hedemurs.Itwouldbebest,hesays,ifshestayedinthekeypoundwithherBrailleworkbooks,orupstairsinthemollusklaboratory.

Shepestershimatbreakfast.“You’rebuildingaspecialcasetodisplaythatdiamond.Somekindoftransparentsafe.”

Herfatherlightsacigarette.“Pleasegetyourbook,Marie.Timetogo.”Dr. Geffard’s answers are hardly better. “You know how diamonds—how all crystals—grow,

Laurette? By adding microscopic layers, a few thousand atoms every month, each atop the next.Millenniaaftermillennia.That’showstoriesaccumulatetoo.Alltheoldstonesaccumulatestories.Thatlittlerockyou’resocuriousaboutmayhaveseenAlaricsackRome;itmayhaveglitteredintheeyesofPharaohs.Scythianqueensmighthavedancedallnightwearingit.Warsmighthavebeenfoughtoverit.”

“Papa sayscursesareonly storiescookedup todeter thieves.Hesays thereare sixty-fivemillionspecimensinthisplace,andifyouhavetherightteacher,eachcanbeasinterestingasthelast.”

“Still,”hesays,“certainthingscompelpeople.Pearls,forexample,andsinistralshells,shellswithaleft-handedopening.Eventhebestscientistsfeeltheurgenowandthentoputsomethinginapocket.Thatsomethingsosmallcouldbesobeautiful.Worthsomuch.Onlythestrongestpeoplecanturnawayfromfeelingslikethat.”

Theyarequietamoment.Marie-Lauresays,“Iheardthatthediamondislikeapieceoflightfromtheoriginalworld.Beforeit

fell.ApieceoflightrainedtoearthfromGod.”“Youwanttoknowwhatitlookslike.That’swhyyou’resocurious.”She rolls amurex inher hands.Holds it to her ear.Ten thousanddrawers, ten thousandwhispers

insidetenthousandshells.“No,”shesays.“IwanttobelievethatPapahasn’tbeenanywherenearit.”

OpenYourEyes

Werner and Jutta find theFrenchman’sbroadcasts againandagain.Alwaysaroundbedtime, alwaysmidwaythroughsomeincreasinglyfamiliarscript.Todaylet’sconsiderthewhirlingmachinery,children,thatmustengageinsideyourheadforyouto

scratchyoureyebrow...Theyhearaprogramaboutseacreatures,anotherabouttheNorthPole.Juttalikes one on magnets. Werner’s favorite is one about light: eclipses and sundials, auroras andwavelengths.Whatdowecallvisiblelight?Wecallitcolor.Buttheelectromagneticspectrumrunstozeroinonedirectionandinfinityintheother,soreally,children,mathematically,alloflightisinvisible.

Wernerlikestocrouchinhisdormerandimagineradiowaveslikemile-longharpstrings,bendingandvibratingoverZollverein,flyingthroughforests,throughcities,throughwalls.AtmidnightheandJuttaprowltheionosphere,searchingforthatlavish,penetratingvoice.Whentheyfindit,Wernerfeelsasifhehasbeenlaunchedintoadifferentexistence,asecretplacewheregreatdiscoveriesarepossible,whereanorphanfromacoaltowncansolvesomevitalmysteryhiddeninthephysicalworld.

HeandhissistermimictheFrenchman’sexperiments;theymakespeedboatsoutofmatchsticksandmagnetsoutofsewingneedles.

“Whydoesn’thesaywhereheis,Werner?”“Maybebecausehedoesn’twantustoknow?”“Hesoundsrich.Andlonely.Ibethedoesthesebroadcastsfromahugemansion,bigasthiswhole

colony,ahousewithathousandroomsandathousandservants.”Wernersmiles.“Couldbe.”The voice, the piano again. Perhaps it’sWerner’s imagination, but each time he hears one of the

programs,thequalityseemstodegradeabitmore,thesoundgrowingfainter:asthoughtheFrenchmanbroadcastsfromashipthatisslowlytravelingfartheraway.

Astheweekspass,withJuttaasleepbesidehim,Wernerlooksoutintothenightsky,andrestlessnesssurges through him.Life: it’s happening beyond themills, beyond the gates.Out there people chasequestions of great importance. He imagines himself as a tall white-coated engineer striding into alaboratory:cauldronssteam,machineryrumbles,complexchartspaperthewalls.Hecarriesalanternupa winding staircase to a starlit observatory and looks through the eyepiece of a great telescope, itsmouthpointedintotheblack.

Fade

Maybe the old tour guidewas off his rocker.Maybe theSea ofFlames never existed at all,maybecursesaren’treal,maybeherfatherisright:Earthisallmagmaandcontinentalcrustandocean.Gravityandtime.Stonesarejuststonesandrainisjustrainandmisfortuneisjustbadluck.

Herfatherreturnstothekeypoundearlierintheevenings.SoonheistakingMarie-Laurealongonvariouserrandsagain,teasingheraboutthemountainsofsugarshespoonsintohercoffeeorbanteringwith warders about the superiority of his brand of cigarettes. No dazzling new gemstone goes onexhibit.Noplaguesraindownuponmuseumemployees;Marie-Lauredoesnotsuccumbtosnakebiteortumbleintoasewerandbreakherback.

Onthemorningofhereleventhbirthday,shewakestofindtwonewpackageswherethesugarbowlshould be. The first is a lacquered wooden cube constructed entirely from sliding panels. It takesthirteenstepstoopen,andshediscoversthesequenceinunderfiveminutes.

“GoodChrist,”saysherfather,“you’reasafecracker!”Inside the cube: twoBarnierbonbons.Sheunwrapsboth andputs them inhermouthat the same

time.Insidethesecondpackage:afatstackofpageswithBrailleonthecover.Twenty.Thousand.Leagues.

Under.The.Sea.“Thebooksellersaidit’sintwoparts,andthisisthefirst.Ithoughtthatnextyear,ifwekeepsaving,

wecangetthesecond—”Shebeginsthatinstant.Thenarrator,afamedmarinebiologistnamedPierreAronnax,worksatthe

samemuseumasher father!Around theworld,he learns, ships arebeing rammedoneafter another.AfterascientificexpeditiontoAmerica,Aronnaxruminatesoverthetruenatureoftheincidents.Aretheycausedbyamovingreef?Agigantichornednarwhal?Amythicalkraken?But I am lettingmyself be carriedawayby reverieswhich Imustnowputaside,writesAronnax.

Enoughofthesephantasies.All dayMarie-Laure lies on her stomach and reads. Logic, reason, pure science: these, Aronnax

insists, are the proper ways to pursue a mystery. Not fables and fairy tales. Her fingers walk thetightropes of sentences; in her imagination, she walks the decks of the speedy two-funneled frigatecalled theAbrahamLincoln. ShewatchesNewYorkCity recede; the forts ofNew Jersey salute herdeparturewithcannons;channelmarkersbobintheswells.AlightshipwithtwinbeaconsglidespastasAmericarecedes;aheadwaitthegreatglitteringprairiesoftheAtlantic.

ThePrinciplesofMechanics

AviceministerandhiswifevisitChildren’sHouse.FrauElenasaystheyaretouringorphanages.Everyonewashes; everyone behaves.Maybe, the childrenwhisper, they are considering adopting.

The oldest girls serve pumpernickel and goose liver on the house’s last unchipped plates while theportly vice minister and his severe-looking wife inspect the parlor like lords come to tour somedistastefulgnomishcottage.Whensupperisready,Wernersitsattheboys’endofthetablewithabookinhislap.Juttasitswiththegirlsattheoppositeend,herhairfrizzedandsnarledandbrightwhite,soshelooksasifshehasbeenelectrified.BlessusOLordandtheseThygifts.FrauElenaaddsasecondprayerfortheviceminister’sbenefit.

Everyonefallstoeating.Thechildrenarenervous;evenHansSchilzerandHerribertPomselsitquietlyintheirbrownshirts.

Theviceminister’swifesitssouprightthatitseemsasifherspineishewnfromoak.Herhusbandsays,“Andeachofthechildrencontributes?”“Certainly.Claudia,forinstance,madethebreadbasket.Andthetwinspreparedthelivers.”BigClaudiaFörsterblushes.Thetwinsbattheireyelashes.Werner’s mind drifts; he is thinking about the book in his lap, The Principles of Mechanics by

HeinrichHertz.Hediscovereditinthechurchbasement,water-stainedandforgotten,decadesold,andtherectorlethimbringithome,andFrauElenalethimkeepit,andforseveralweeksWernerhasbeenfighting through the thornymathematics. Electricity,Werner is learning, can be static by itself. Butcouple itwithmagnetism,andsuddenlyyouhavemovement—waves.Fieldsandcircuits,conductionandinduction.Space,time,mass.Theairswarmswithsomuchthatisinvisible!Howhewisheshehadeyestoseetheultraviolet,eyestoseetheinfrared,eyestoseeradiowavescrowdingthedarkeningsky,flashingthroughthewallsofthehouse.

Whenhelooksup,everyoneisstaringathim.FrauElena’seyesarealarmed.“It’s a book, sir,” announcesHans Schilzer.He tugs it out ofWerner’s lap.The volume is heavy

enoughthatheneedsbothhandstoholditup.Severalcreasessharpenintheforeheadoftheviceminister’swife.Wernercanfeelhischeeksflush.Theviceministerextendsapudgyhand.“Giveithere.”“IsitaJewbook?”saysHerribertPomsel.“It’saJewbook,isn’tit?”FrauElenalooksasifshe’sabouttospeak,thenthinksbetterofit.“HertzwasborninHamburg,”saysWerner.Juttaannouncesoutofnowhere,“Mybrother is soquickatmathematics.He’squicker thanevery

oneoftheschoolmasters.Somedayhe’llprobablywinabigprize.Hesayswe’llgotoBerlinandstudyunderthegreatscientists.”

Theyoungerchildrengape; theoldestchildrensnicker.Wernerstareshard intohisplate.Theviceministerfrownsasheturnspages.HansSchilzerkicksWernerintheshinandcoughs.

FrauElenasays,“Jutta,that’senough.”Theviceminister’swifetakesaforkfulofliverandchewsandswallowsandtoucheshernapkinto

eachcornerofhermouth.TheviceministersetsdownThePrinciplesofMechanicsandpushesitaway,thenglancesathispalmsas though ithasmade themdirty.Hesays,“Theonlyplaceyourbrother isgoing,littlegirl,isintothemines.Assoonasheturnsfifteen.Sameaseveryotherboyinthishouse.”

Jutta scowls, and Werner stares at the congealed liver on his plate with his eyes burning andsomethinginsidehischestcompressingtighterandtighter,andfortherestofsuppertheonlysoundisofthechildrencuttingandchewingandswallowing.

Rumors

Newrumorsarrive.TheyrustlealongthepathsoftheJardindesPlantesandwindthroughthemuseumgalleries;theyechoinhighdustyredoubtswhereshriveledoldbotanistsstudyexoticmosses.TheysaytheGermansarecoming.

TheGermans,agardenerclaims,havesixtythousandtroopgliders;theycanmarchfordayswithouteating; they impregnate every schoolgirl they meet. A woman behind the ticket counter says theGermanscarryfogpillsandwearrocketbelts;theiruniforms,shewhispers,aremadeofaspecialclothstrongerthansteel.

Marie-Lauresitsonabenchbesidethemolluskdisplayandtrainsherearsonpassinggroups.Aboyblurts,“TheyhaveabombcalledtheSecretSignal.Itmakesasound,andeveryonewhohearsitgoestothebathroomintheirpants!”

Laughter.“Iheartheygiveoutpoisonedchocolate.”“Iheartheylockupthecripplesandmoronseverywheretheygo.”Each timeMarie-Laure relays another rumor to her father, he repeats “Germany”with a question

markafterit,asifsayingitfortheveryfirsttime.HesaysthetakeoverofAustriaisnothingtoworryabout.Hesayseveryoneremembersthelastwar,andnooneismadenoughtogothroughthatagain.Thedirector isnotworrying,he says, andneither are thedepartmentheads, soneither shouldyounggirlswhohavelessonstolearn.

It seems true: nothing changes but the day of the week. Every morningMarie-Laure wakes anddresses and follows her father throughEntrance #2 and listens to him greet the night guard and thewarder.Bonjour bonjour.Bonjour bonjour. The scientists and librarians still collect their keys in themornings, still study their ancient elephants’ teeth, their exotic jellyfish, their herbarium sheets. Thesecretariesstill talkaboutfashion; thedirectorstillarrivesina two-toneDelagelimousine;andeverynoontheAfricanvendorsstillwheeltheirsandwichcartsquietlydownthehallswiththeirwhispersofryeandegg,ryeandegg.

Marie-Laure reads JulesVerne in the key pound, on the toilet, in the corridors; she reads on thebenchesoftheGrandGalleryandoutalongthehundredgravelpathsofthegardens.ShereadsthefirsthalfofTwentyThousandLeaguesUndertheSeasomanytimes,shepracticallymemorizesit.Theseaiseverything.Itcoverssevententhsoftheglobe...Theseaisonlyareceptacleforallthe

prodigious,supernaturalthingsthatexistinsideit.Itisonlymovementandlove;itisthelivinginfinite.At night, in her bed, she rides in the belly of Captain Nemo’sNautilus, below the gales, while

canopiesofcoraldriftoverhead.Dr.Geffard teaches her the names of shells—Lambis lambis,Cypraeamoneta, Lophiotoma acuta

—and lets her feel the spines and apertures andwhorls of each in turn.He explains the branches ofmarineevolutionandthesequencesofthegeologicperiods;onherbestdays,sheglimpsesthelimitlessspanofmillenniabehindher:millionsofyears,tensofmillions.

“Nearlyeveryspeciesthathaseverlivedhasgoneextinct,Laurette.Noreasontothinkwehumanswillbeanydifferent!”Dr.Geffardpronouncesthisalmostgleefullyandpourswineintohisglass,andsheimagineshisheadasacabinetfilledwithtenthousandlittledrawers.

All summer the smells of nettles anddaisies and rainwaterpurl through thegardens.She andherfathercookapeartartandburnitbyaccident,andherfatheropensallthewindowstoletoutthesmoke,

andshehearsviolinmusicrisefromthestreetbelow.Andyetbyearlyautumn,onceortwiceaweek,atcertainmomentsoftheday,sittingoutintheJardindesPlantesbeneaththemassivehedgesorreadingbesideherfather’sworkbench,Marie-Laurelooksupfromherbookandbelievesshecansmellgasolineunderthewind.Asifagreatriverofmachineryissteamingslowly,irrevocably,towardher.

BiggerFasterBrighter

MembershipintheStateYouthbecomesmandatory.TheboysinWerner’sKameradschaftenaretaughtparademaneuversandquizzedonfitnessstandardsandrequiredtorunsixtymetersintwelveseconds.Everythingisgloryandcountryandcompetitionandsacrifice.Live faithfully, the boys sing as they troop past the edges of the colony. Fight bravely and die

laughing.Schoolwork,chores,exercise.Wernerstaysuplatelisteningtohisradioordrivinghimselfthrough

thecomplicatedmathhecopiedoutofThePrinciplesofMechanicsbeforeitwasconfiscated.Heyawnsatmeals,isshort-temperedwiththeyoungerchildren.“Areyoufeelingokay?”asksFrauElena,peeringintohisface,andWernerlooksaway,saying,“Fine.”

Hertz’s theoriesare interestingbutwhathe lovesmost isbuilding things,workingwithhishands,connecting his fingers to the engine of his mind.Werner repairs a neighbor’s sewing machine, theChildren’sHousegrandfatherclock.Hebuildsapulleysystemtowindlaundryfromthesunshinebackindoors, and a simple alarmmade fromabattery, a bell, andwire so thatFrauElenawill know if atoddlerhaswanderedoutside.Heinventsamachinetoslicecarrots:liftalever,nineteenbladesdrop,andthecarrotfallsapartintotwentyneatcylinders.

Onedayaneighbor’swirelessgoesout,andFrauElenasuggestsWernerhavealook.Heunscrewsthebackplate,wagglesthetubesbackandforth.Oneisnotseatedproperly,andhefitsitbackintoitsgroove.The radiocomesback to life, and theneighbor shriekswithdelight.Before long,peoplearestoppingbyChildren’sHouseeveryweektoaskfortheradiorepairman.Whentheyseethirteen-year-oldWernercomedownfromtheattic,rubbinghiseyes,shocksofwhitehairstickingupoffhishead,homemadetoolboxhangingfromhisfist,theystareathimwiththesameskepticalsmirk.

Theoldersetsaretheeasiesttofix:simplercircuitry,uniformtubes.Maybeit’swaxdrippingfromthecondenserorcharcoalbuiltuponaresistor.Eveninthenewestsets,Wernercanusuallypuzzleoutasolution. He dismantles the machine, stares into its circuits, lets his fingers trace the journeys ofelectrons.Powersource,triode,resistor,coil.Loudspeaker.Hismindshapesitselfaroundtheproblem,disorderbecomesorder,theobstaclerevealsitself,andbeforelongtheradioisfixed.

Sometimes they pay him a few marks. Sometimes a coal mother cooks him sausages or wrapsbiscuitsinanapkintotakehometohissister.BeforelongWernercandrawamapinhisheadofthelocationsofnearlyeveryradiointheirdistrict:ahomemadecrystalset inthekitchenofadruggist;ahandsome ten-valve radiogram in thehomeofadepartmenthead thatwasgivinghis fingersa shockeverytimehetriedtochangethechannel.Eventhepoorestpithousesusuallypossessastate-sponsoredVolksemfänger VE301, a mass-produced radio stamped with an eagle and a swastika, incapable ofshortwave,markedonlyforGermanfrequencies.

Radio:ittiesamillionearstoasinglemouth.OutofloudspeakersallaroundZollverein,thestaccatovoiceoftheReichgrowslikesomeimperturbabletree;itssubjectsleantowarditsbranchesasiftowardthe lips ofGod.AndwhenGod stopswhispering, they become desperate for someonewho can putthingsright.

Sevendaysaweektheminersdragcoalintothelightandthecoalispulverizedandfedintocokeovensandthecokeiscooledinhugequenchingtowersandcartedtotheblastfurnacestomeltironoreandtheironisrefinedintosteelandcastintobilletsandloadedontobargesandfloatedoffintothegreat

hungrymouth of the country.Only through the hottest fires, whispers the radio, can purification beachieved.OnlythroughtheharshesttestscanGod’schosenrise.

Juttawhispers,“Agirlgotkickedoutoftheswimmingholetoday.IngeHachmann.Theysaidtheywouldn’t letusswimwithahalf-breed.Unsanitary.Ahalf-breed,Werner.Aren’twehalf-breeds too?Aren’twehalfourmother,halfourfather?”

“Theymeanhalf-Jew.Keepyourvoicedown.We’renothalf-Jews.”“Wemustbehalfsomething.”“We’rewholeGerman.We’renothalfanything.”HerribertPomselisfifteenyearsoldnow,offinaminers’dormitory,workingthesecondshiftasa

firedamper, andHans Schilzer has become the oldest boy in the house. Hans does push-ups by thehundreds;heplanstoattendarallyinEssen.Therearefistfightsinthealleys,rumorsthatHanshassetacaronfire.OnenightWernerhearshimdownstairs,shoutingatFrauElena.Thefrontdoorslams;thechildrentossintheirbeds;FrauElenapacestheparlor,herslipperswhisperingleft,whisperingright.Coalcarsgrindpastinthewetdark.Machineryhumsinthedistance:pistonsthrobbing,beltsturning.Smoothly.Madly.

MarkoftheBeast

November1939.Acoldwindsendsthebigdryleavesofplanetreesrollingdownthegravellanesofthe Jardin des Plantes.Marie-Laure is rereading Twenty Thousand Leagues—I could make out longribbons of seawrack, some globular and others tubular, laurenciae, cladostephaewith their slenderfoliage—notfarfromtherueCuviergatewhenagroupofchildrencomestrampingthroughtheleaves.

Aboy’svoicesayssomething;severalotherboyslaugh.Marie-Laureliftsherfingersfromhernovel.Thelaughterspins,turns.Thefirstvoiceissuddenlyrightbesideherear.“They’remadforblindgirls,youknow.”

Hisbreathisquick.Sheextendsherarmintothespacebesideherbutcontactsnothing.Shecannotsayhowmanyothersarewithhim.Threeorfour,perhaps.Hisisthevoiceofatwelve-

orthirteen-year-old.Shestandsandhugsherhugebookagainstherchest,andshecanhearhercanerollalongtheedgeofthebenchandclattertotheground.

Someoneelsesays,“They’llprobablytaketheblindgirlsbeforetheytakethegimps.”Thefirstboymoansgrotesquely.Marie-Laureraisesherbookasiftoshieldherself.Thesecondboysays,“Makethemdothings.”“Nastythings.”Anadult’svoiceinthedistancecallsout,“Louis,Peter?”“Whoareyou?”hissesMarie-Laure.“Bye-bye,blindgirl.”Then: quiet. Marie-Laure listens to the trees rustle; her blood swarms. For a long and panicked

minute,shecrawlsamongtheleavesatthefootofthebenchuntilherfingersfindhercane.Storessellgasmasks.Neighborstapecardboardtotheirwindows.Eachweekfewervisitorscometo

themuseum.“Papa?”Marie-Laureasks.“Ifthere’sawar,whatwillhappentous?”“Therewon’tbeawar.”“Butwhatifthereis?”Hishandonhershoulder,thefamiliarclankingofkeysonhisbelt.“Thenwewillbefine,machérie.

Thedirectorhasalreadyfiledadispensationtokeepmeoutofthereserves.I’mnotgoinganywhere.”But shehears thewayhe turnsnewspaperpages, snapping themwithurgency.He lightscigarette

aftercigarette;hehardlystopsworking.Weekspassandthetreesgobareandherfatherdoesn’taskhertowalkinthegardensonce.IfonlytheyhadanimpregnablesubmarineliketheNautilus.

The smokyvoices of office girls swirl past the openwindowof the keypound. “They creep intoapartmentsatnight.Theybooby-trapkitchencupboards,toiletbowls,brassieres.Gotoopenyourpantydrawer,andyougetyourfingersblownoff.”

Shehasnightmares.SilentGermansrowuptheSeineinsynchrony;theirskiffsglideasifthroughoil.Theyflynoiselesslybeneaththebridgetrestles;theyhavebeastswiththemonchains;theirbeastsleapoutoftheboatsandsprintpastthemassifsofflowers,downtherowsofhedges.Theysnifftheairon thesteps to theGrandGallery.Slavering.Ravenous.Theysurge into themuseum,scatter into thedepartments.Thewindowsgoblackwithblood.

DearProfessorIdontknowifyouregettingtheselettersoriftheradiostationwillforwardthisoristhereevenaradiostation?Wehaventheardyouintwomonthsatleast.Didyoustopbroadcastingormaybeistheproblemours?TheresanewradiotransmitterinBrandenburgcalledtheDeutschlandsender3mybrothersaysitisthreehundredthirty-somethingmeterstallthesecond-tallestman-madeconstructionintheworld.Itpushesbasicallyeverythingelseoffthedial.OldFrauStresemann,shesoneofourneighbors,shesaysshecanhearDeutschlandsenderbroadcastsinhertoothfillings.Mybrothersaiditspossibleifyouhaveanantennaandarectifierandsomethingtoserveasaspeaker.Hesaidyoucanuseasectionofwirefencetopickupradiosignals,somaybethesilverinatoothcantoo.Iliketothinkaboutthat.DontyouProfessor?Songsinyourteeth?FrauElenasayswehavetocomestraighthomefromschoolnow.ShesayswerenotJewsbutwerepoorandthatsalmostasdangerous.Itsacriminaloffensenowtotuneintoaforeignbroadcast.Youcangethardlaborforit,thingslikebreakingrocksfifteenhoursaday.Ormakingnylonstockingsorgoingdowninthepits.NoonewillhelpmemailthisletternotevenmybrothersoIwilldoitmyself.

GoodEvening.OrHeilHitlerif YouPrefer.

HisfourteenthbirthdayarrivesinMay.It’s1940andnoonelaughsattheHitlerYouthnow.FrauElenapreparesapuddingandJuttawrapsapieceofquartzinnewspaperandthetwins,HannahandSusanneGerlitz,march around the room impersonating soldiers.A five-year-old—RolfHupfauer—sits in thecornerofthesofa,eyelidsslippingheavilyoverhiseyes.Anewarrival—ababygirl—sitsinJutta’slapandgumsherfingers.Outthewindow,beyondthecurtains,theflameatopthewastestack,highinthedistance,flapsandshivers.

Thechildrensinganddevourthepudding,FrauElenasays,“Time’sup,”andWernerswitchesoffhisreceiver.Everyoneprays.Hiswholebodyfeelsheavyashecarries theradioupto thedormer.In thealleys,fifteen-year-oldboysaremakingtheirwaytowardmineelevators,queuingupwiththeirhelmetsand lampsoutside thegates.He tries to imagine theirdescent,sporadicandmuted lightspassingandreceding,cablesrattling,everyonequiet,sinkingdowntothatpermanentdarknesswheremenclawattheearthwithahalfmileofrockhunchedontopofthem.

Onemoreyear.Thenthey’llgivehimahelmetandlampandstuffhimintoacagewiththeothers.Ithasbeenmonthssincehe lastheard theFrenchmanon theshortwave.Ayearsinceheheld that

water-stainedcopyofThePrinciplesofMechanics.NotsolongagohelethimselfdreamofBerlinanditsgreatscientists:FritzHaber,inventoroffertilizer;HermannStaudinger, inventorofplastics.Hertz,whomadetheinvisiblevisible.All thegreatmendoingthingsout there.Ibelieveinyou,FrauElenaused to say. I think you’ll do something great. Now, in his nightmares, he walks the tunnels of themines.Theceilingissmoothandblack;slabsofitdescendoverhimashetreads.Thewallssplinter;hestoops, crawls.Soonhecannot raisehishead,movehisarms.Theceilingweighs ten trillion tons; itgivesoffapermeatingcold;itdriveshisnoseintothefloor.Justbeforehewakes,hefeelsasplinteringatthebackofhisskull.

Rainwaterpurlsfromcloudtorooftoeave.Wernerpresseshisforeheadtothewindowofthedormerandpeersthroughthedrops,theroofbelowjustoneamongaclusterofwetrooftops,hemmedinbythevastwallsofthecokeryandsmelterandgasworks,thewindingtowersilhouettedagainstthesky,mineandmill runningonandon, acre after acre, beyondhis rangeof sight, to thevillages, the cities, theever-quickening,ever-expandingmachinethatisGermany.Andamillionmenreadytosetdowntheirlivesforit.

Goodevening,hethinks.OrheilHitler.Everyoneischoosingthelatter.

Bye-bye,BlindGirl

Thewardrops itsquestionmark.Memosaredistributed.Thecollectionsmustbeprotected.Asmallcadreof couriershasbegunmoving things to country estates.Locks andkeys are ingreaterdemandthanever.Marie-Laure’sfatherworksuntilmidnight,untilone.Everycratemustbepadlocked,everytransportmanifestkeptinasecureplace.Armoredtrucksrumbleattheloadingdocks.Therearefossilsto be safeguarded, ancientmanuscripts; there is jade from the thirteenth century and cavansite fromIndiaand rhodochrosite fromColorado; therearepearls,goldnuggets, a sapphireasbigasamouse.Theremightbe,thinksMarie-Laure,theSeaofFlames.

Fromacertainangle, the springseemssocalm:warm, tender,eachnight redolentandcomposed.Andyeteverythingradiatestension,asifthecityhasbeenbuiltupontheskinofaballoonandsomeoneisinflatingittowardthebreakingpoint.

BeesworkthebloomingaislesoftheJardindesPlantes.Theplanetreesdroptheirseedsandhugedriftsoffluffgatheronthewalkways.Iftheyattack,whywouldtheyattack,theywouldbecrazytoattack.Toretreatistosavelives.Deliveries stop. Sandbags appear around themuseumgates.A pair of soldiers on the roof of the

GalleryofPaleontologypeerover thegardenswithbinoculars.But thehugebowlof theskyremainsuntracked: no zeppelins, no bombers, no superhuman paratroopers, just the last songbirds returningfrom their winter homes, and the quicksilver winds of spring transmuting into the heavier, greenerbreezesofsummer.

Rumor, light, air. That May seems more beautiful than any Marie-Laure can remember. On themorningofhertwelfthbirthday,thereisnopuzzleboxinplaceofthesugarbowlwhenshewakes;herfatheristoobusy.Butthereisabook:thesecondBraillevolumeofTwentyThousandLeaguesUndertheSea,asthickasasofacushion.

Athrillridesallthewayintothenailsofherfingers.“How—?”“You’rewelcome,Marie.”Thewallsoftheirflattremblewiththedraggingoffurniture,thepackingoftrunks,thenailingshut

ofwindows.Theywalk to themuseum,andher father remarksdistractedly to thewarderwhomeetsthematthedoor,“Theysayweareholdingtheriver.”

Marie-Lauresitsonthefloorofthekeypoundandopensherbook.Whenpartoneleftoff,ProfessorAronnaxhadtraveledonlysix thousandleagues.Somanyleft togo.Butsomethingstrangehappens:thewordsdonotconnect.Shereads,Duringtheentireday,aformidableschoolofsharksfollowedtheship,butthelogicthatissupposedtolinkeachwordtothenextfailsher.

Someonesays,“Hasthedirectorleft?”Someoneelsesays,“Beforetheendoftheweek.”Her father’sclothes smellof straw;his fingers reekofoil.Work,morework, thena fewhoursof

exhaustedsleepbeforereturningtothemuseumatdawn.TruckscarryoffskeletonsandmeteoritesandoctopiinjarsandherbariumsheetsandEgyptiangoldandSouthAfricanivoryandPermianfossils.

OnthefirstofJune,airplanesflyoverthecity,extremelyhigh,crawlingthroughthestratusclouds.When thewind isdownandnobody is runninganenginenearby,Marie-Laure can standoutside theGallery of Zoology and hear them: a mile-high purr. The following day, the radio stations begindisappearing.Thewardersintheguards’stationwhackthesideoftheirwirelessandtiltitthiswayand

that,butonlystaticcomesoutofitsspeaker.Asifeachrelayantennawereacandleflameandapairoffingerscamealongandpincheditout.

ThoselastnightsinParis,walkinghomewithherfatheratmidnight,thehugebookclaspedagainstherchest,Marie-Laurethinksshecansenseashiverbeneaththeair,inthepausesbetweenthechirringoftheinsects,likethespidercracksoficewhentoomuchweightissetuponit.Asifallthistimethecityhasbeennomorethanascalemodelbuiltbyherfatherandtheshadowofagreathandhasfallenoverit.

Didn’tshepresumeshewouldlivewithherfatherinParisfortherestofherlife?ThatshewouldalwayssitwithDr.Geffardintheafternoons?Thateveryyear,onherbirthday,herfatherwouldpresentherwithanotherpuzzleandanothernovel,andshewouldreadallofJulesVerneandallofDumasandmaybeevenBalzacandProust?Thatherfatherwouldalwayshumashefashionedlittlebuildingsintheevenings,andshewouldalwaysknowhowmanypacesfromthefrontdoor to thebakery(forty)andhowmanymoretothebrasserie(thirty-two),andtherewouldalwaysbesugartospoonintohercoffeewhenshewoke?Bonjour,bonjour.Potatoesatsixo’clock,Marie.Mushroomsatthree.Now?Whatwillhappennow?

MakingSocks

Wernerwakes pastmidnight to find eleven-year-old Jutta kneeling on the floor beside his cot. Theshortwaveisinherlapandasheetofdrawingpaperisonthefloorbesideher,amany-windowedcityofherimaginationhalf-articulatedonthepage.

Juttaremovestheearpieceandsquints.Inthetwilight,herwildvolutionsofhairlookmoreradiantthanever:astruckmatch.

“InYoungGirlsLeague,”shewhispers,“theyhaveusmakingsocks.Whysomanysocks?”“TheReichmustneedsocks.”“Forwhat?”“Forfeet,Jutta.Forthesoldiers.Letmesleep.”Asthoughoncue,ayoungboy—SiegfriedFischer—

criesoutdownstairsonce,thentwicemore,andWernerandJuttawaittohearFrauElena’sfeetonthestairsandhergentleministrationsandthehousefallquietoncemore.

“Allyouwanttodoaremathematicsproblems,”Juttawhispers.“Playwithradios.Don’tyouwanttounderstandwhat’shappening?”

“Whatareyoulisteningto?”Shecrossesherarmsandputstheearphonebackanddoesnotanswer.“Areyoulisteningtosomethingyou’renotsupposedtobelisteningto?”“Whatdoyoucare?”“It’sdangerous,iswhyIcare.”Sheputsherfingerinherotherear.“Theothergirlsdon’t seem tomind,”hewhispers. “Makingsocks.Collectingnewspapersandall

that.”“We’redroppingbombsonParis,”shesays.Hervoiceisloud,andheresistsanurgetoclaphishand

overhermouth.Juttastaresup,defiant.Shelooksasifsheisbeingrakedbysomeinvisiblearcticwind.“That’swhat

I’mlisteningto,Werner.OurairplanesarebombingParis.”

Flight

AllacrossParis,peoplepackchinaintocellars,sewpearlsintohems,concealgoldringsinsidebookbindings.Themuseumworkspacesarestrippedof typewriters.Thehallsbecomepackingyards, theirfloorsstrewnwithstrawandsawdustandtwine.

At noon the locksmith is summoned to the director’s office.Marie-Laure sits cross-legged on thefloorofthekeypoundandtriestoreadhernovel.CaptainNemoisabouttotakeProfessorAronnaxandhiscompanionsonanunderwaterstrollthroughoysterbedstohuntforpearls,butAronnaxisafraidofthe prospect of sharks, and though she longs to know what will happen, the sentences disintegrateacross thepage.Wordsdevolve into letters, letters intounintelligiblebumps.Shefeelsas ifbigmittshavebeendrawnovereachhand.

Downthehall,at theguards’station,awarder twists theknobsof thewirelessbackandforthbutfindsonlyhissandcrackle.Whenheshutsitoff,quietclosesoverthemuseum.

Pleaseletthisbeapuzzle,anelaborategamePapahasconstructed,ariddleshemustsolve.Thefirstdoor,acombination lock.Thesecond,adeadbolt.The thirdwillopen ifshewhispersamagicwordthroughitskeyhole.Crawlthroughthirteendoors,andeverythingwillreturntonormal.

Out in thecity,churchbells strikeone.One thirty.Stillher fatherdoesnot return.Atsomepoint,severaldistinctthumpstravelintothemuseumfromthegardensorthestreetsbeyond,asifsomeoneisdropping sacks of cement mix out of the clouds.With each impact, the thousands of keys in theircabinetsquiverontheirpegs.

Nobodymovesupordownthecorridor.Asecondseriesofconcussionsarrives—closer,larger.Thekeyschimeandthefloorcreaksandshethinksshecansmellthreadsofdustcascadingfromtheceiling.

“Papa?”Nothing.Nowarders,nojanitors,nocarpenters,noclop-clop-clopofasecretary’sheelscrossingthe

hall.Theycanmarchfordayswithouteating.Theyimpregnateeveryschoolgirltheymeet.“Hello?”Howquicklyhervoiceisswallowed,howemptythehallssound.Itterrifiesher.A moment later, there are clanking keys and footfalls and her father’s voice calls her name.

Everythinghappensquickly.Hedragsopenbig,lowdrawers;hejanglesdozensofkeyrings.“Papa,Iheard—”“Hurry.”“Mybook—”“Bettertoleaveit.It’stooheavy.”“Leavemybook?”Hepullsheroutthedoorandlocksthekeypound.Outside,wavesofpanicseemtobetravelingthe

rowsoftreesliketremorsfromanearthquake.Herfathersays,“Whereisthewatchman?”Voicesnearthecurb:soldiers.Marie-Laure’ssensesfeelscrambled.Isthattherumbleofairplanes?Isthatthesmellofsmoke?Is

someonespeakingGerman?Shecanhearherfatherexchangeafewwordswithastrangerandhandoversomekeys.Thenthey

aremovingpastthegateontotherueCuvier,brushingthroughwhatmightbesandbagsorsilentpoliceofficersorsomethingelsenewlyplantedinthemiddleofthesidewalk.

Sixblocks,thirty-eightstormdrains.Shecountsthemall.Becauseofthesheetsofwoodveneerherfatherhas tackedover itswindows, their apartment is stuffy andhot. “Thiswill just take amoment,Marie-Laure.ThenI’llexplain.”Herfathershovesthingsintowhatmightbehiscanvasrucksack.Food,shethinks,tryingtoidentifyeverythingbyitssound.Coffee.Cigarettes.Bread?

Something thumps again and the windowpanes tremble. Their dishes rattle in the cupboards.Automobile horns bleat.Marie-Laure goes to themodel neighborhood and runs her fingers over thehouses.Stillthere.Stillthere.Stillthere.

“Gotothetoilet,Marie.”“Idon’thaveto.”“Itmaybeawhileuntilyoucangoagain.”Hebuttonsherintoherwinterovercoat,thoughitisthemiddleofJune,andtheybustledownstairs.

OntheruedesPatriarches,shehearsadistantstamping,asthoughthousandsofpeopleareonthemove.She walks beside her father with her cane telescoped in one fist, her other hand on his rucksack,everythingdisconnectedfromlogic,asinnightmares.

Right,left.Betweenturnsrunlongstretchesofpavingstones.Soontheyarewalkingstreets,sheissure,thatshehasneverbeenon,streetsbeyondtheboundariesofherfather’smodel.Marie-Laurehaslongsincelostcountofherstrideswhentheyreachacrowddenseenoughthatshecanfeelheatspillingoffofit.

“Itwillbecooleronthetrain,Marie.Thedirectorhasarrangedticketsforus.”“Canwegoin?”“Thegatesarelocked.”Thecrowdgivesoffanauseatingtension.“I’mscared,Papa.”“Keepholdofme.”Heleadsherinanewdirection.Theycrossaseethingthoroughfare,thengoupanalleythatsmells

likeamuddyditch.Alwaysthereisthemutedrattlingofherfather’stoolsinsidehisrucksackandthedistantandincessanthonkingofautomobilehorns.

Inaminutetheyfindthemselvesamidanotherthrong.Voicesechooffahighwall;thesmellofwetgarmentscrowdsher.Somewheresomeoneshoutsnamesthroughabullhorn.

“Wherearewe,Papa?”“GareSaint-Lazare.”Ababycries.Shesmellsurine.“ArethereGermans,Papa?”“No,machérie.”“Butsoon?”“Sotheysay.”“Whatwillwedowhentheygethere?”“Wewillbeonatrainbythen.”Inthespacetoherright,achildscreeches.Amanwithpanicinhisvoicedemandsthecrowdmake

way.Awomannearbymoans,“Sebastien?Sebastien?”overandover.“Isitnightyet?”“It’sonlynowgettingdark.Let’srestamoment.Saveourbreath.”Someonesays,“TheSecondArmymauled,theNinthcutoff.France’sbestfleetswasted.”Someonesays,“Wewillbeoverrun.”

Trunksslideacrosstilesandalittledogyapsandaconductor’swhistleblowsandsomekindofbigmachinerycoughstoastartandthendies.Marie-Lauretriestocalmherstomach.

“Butwehavetickets,forGod’ssake!”shoutssomeonebehindher.Thereisascuffle.Hysteriaripplesthroughthecrowd.“Whatdoesitlooklike,Papa?”“What,Marie?”“Thestation.Thenight.”Shehearsthesparkingofhislighter,thesuckandflareoftobaccoashiscigaretteignites.“Let’ssee.Thewholecityisdark.Nostreetlights,nolightsinwindows.Thereareprojectorlights

movingthroughtheskynowandthen.Lookingforairplanes.There’sawomaninagown.Andanothercarryingastackofdishes.”

“Andthearmies?”“Therearenoarmies,Marie.”Hishandfindshers.Herfearsettlesslightly.Raintricklesthroughadownspout.“Whatarewedoingnow,Papa?”“Hopingforatrain.”“Whatiseverybodyelsedoing?”“They’rehopingtoo.”

HerrSiedler

Aknockaftercurfew.WernerandJuttaaredoingschoolworkwithahalf-dozenotherchildrenatthelongwoodentable.FrauElenapinsherpartyinsigniathroughherlapelbeforeopeningthedoor.

Alancecorporalwithapistolonhisbeltandaswastikabandonhisleftarmstepsinfromtherain.Beneaththelowceilingoftheroom,themanlooksabsurdlytall.Wernerthinksoftheshortwaveradiotuckedintotheoldwoodenfirst-aidcabinetbeneathhiscot.Hethinks:Theyknow.

The lance corporal looks around the room—the coal stove, the hanging laundry, the undersizechildren—withequalmeasuresofcondescensionandhostility.Hishandgunisblack;itseemstodrawallthelightintheroomtowardit.

Wernerrisksasingleglanceathissister.Herattentionstaysfixedonthevisitor.Thecorporalpicksupabook from theparlor table—achildren’sbookabout a talking train—and turns everyoneof itspagesbeforedroppingit.ThenhesayssomethingthatWernercan’thear.

FrauElenafoldsherhandsoverherapron,andWernercanseeshehasdonesotokeepthemfromshaking. “Werner,” she calls in a slow, dreamlike voice, without taking her eyes from the corporal.“Thismansayshehasawirelessinneedof—”

“Bringyourtools,”themansays.On thewayout,Werner looksbackonlyonce: Jutta’s foreheadandpalmsarepressedagainst the

glassof the living roomwindow.She isbacklitand too farawayandhecannot readherexpression.Thentherainobscuresher.

Werner is half the corporal’s height and has to take two strides for every one of the man’s. Hefollows past company houses and the sentry at the bottom of the hill to where themining officialsreside.Rainfallsslantthroughthelights.Thefewpeopletheypassgivethecorporalawideberth.

Wernerrisksnoquestions.Witheveryheartbeatcomesasharplongingtorun.Theyapproachthegateofthelargesthouseinthecolony,ahousehehasseenathousandtimesbut

neversoclose.Alargecrimsonflag,heavywithrainwater,hangsfromthesillofanupstairswindow.Thecorporalrapsonareardoor.Amaidinahigh-waisteddresstakestheircoats,expertlyflipsoff

thewater,andhangsthemonabrass-footedrack.Thekitchensmellsofcake.ThecorporalsteersWernerintoadiningroomwhereanarrow-facedwomanwiththreefreshdaisies

stuckthroughherhairsitsinachairturningthepagesofamagazine.“Twowetducks,”shesays,andlooksbackathermagazine.Shedoesnotaskthemtosit.

AthickredcarpetsucksatthesolesofWerner’sbrogues;electricbulbsburninachandelierabovethe table; roses twine across thewallpaper. A fire smolders in the fireplace.On all fourwalls hangframed tintypesof glowering ancestors. Is thiswhere they arrest boyswhose sisters listen to foreignradiostations?Thewoman turnspagesofhermagazine,oneafteranother.Her fingernailsarebrightpink.

Amancomesdownthestairswearinganextremelywhiteshirt.“Christ,heislittle,isn’the?”hesaystothelancecorporal.“You’rethefamousradiorepairman?”Theman’sthickblackhairlookslacqueredtohisskull.“RudolfSiedler,”hesays.Hedismissesthecorporalwithaslightwagofhischin.

Wernertriestoexhale.HerrSiedlerbuttonshiscuffsandexamineshimselfinasmokymirror.Hiseyesareprofoundlyblue.“Well.Nota long-windedboy,areyou?There’s theoffendingdevice.”HepointstoamassiveAmericanPhilcointheadjacentroom.“Twofellowshavelookedatitalready.Then

we heard about you. Worth a try, right? She”—he nods at the woman—“is desperate to hear herprogram.Newsbulletinstoo,ofcourse.”

HesaysthisinsuchawaythatWernerunderstandsthewomandoesnotreallywishtolistentonewsbulletins.Shedoesnotlookup.HerrSiedlersmilesasiftosay:YouandI,son,weknowhistorytakesalongercourse,don’twe?Histeethareverysmall.“Takeyourtimewithit.”

Wernersquatsinfrontofthesetandtriestocalmhisnerves.Heswitchesiton,waitsforthetubestowarm,thenrunsthedialcarefullydowntheband,righttoleft.Herunstheknobbacktowardtheright.Nothing.

Itisthefinestradiohehaseverlaidhandson:aninclinedcontrolpanel,magnetictuning,bigasanicebox. Ten-tube, all-wave, superheterodyne, with fancy gadroonedmoldings and a two-tonewalnutcabinet.Ithasshortwave,widefrequencies,abigattenuator—thisradiocostsmorethaneverythingatChildren’sHouseputtogether.HerrSiedlercouldprobablyhearAfricaifhewantedto.

Green and red spines of books line thewalls.The lance corporal is gone. In the next room,HerrSiedlerstandsinapooloflamplight,talkingintoablacktelephone.

Theyarenotarrestinghim.Theymerelywanthimtofixthisradio.Wernerunscrewsthebackingandpeersinside.Thetubesareallintact,andnothinglooksamiss.“All

right,”hemumblestohimself.“Think.”Hesitscross-legged;heexaminesthecircuitry.Themanandthewomanand thebooksand therainrecedeuntil there isonly theradioand its tangleofwires.Hetriestoenvisionthebouncingpathwaysofelectrons,thesignalchainlikeapaththroughacrowdedcity,RF signal coming in here, passing through a grid of amplifiers, then to variable condensers, then totransformercoils...

Heseesit.Therearetwobreaksinoneoftheresistancewires.Wernerpeersoverthetopoftheset:tohisleft,thewomanreadshermagazine;tohisright,HerrSiedlerspeaksintothetelephone.EverysooftenHerrSiedlerrunshisthumbandfingeralongthecreaseinhispin-stripedtrousers,sharpeningit.

Couldtwomenhavemissedsomethingsosimple?Itfeelslikeagift.Soeasy!Wernerrewindstheresistancetrackandsplicesthewiresandplugsintheradio.Whenheturnsiton,hehalfexpectsfiretoleapoutofthemachine.Instead:thesmokymurmurofasaxophone.

Atthetablethewomanputsdownhermagazineandsetsalltenfingersonhercheeks.Wernerclimbsoutfrombehindtheradio.Foramomenthismindisclearofallfeelingsavetriumph.

“He fixed it just by thinking!” the woman exclaims. Herr Siedler covers the mouthpiece of thetelephonereceiverandlooksover.“Hesattherelikealittlemouseandthought,andinhalfaminuteitwasfixed!”Sheflourishesherbrilliantfingernailsandbreaksintochildlikelaughter.

HerrSiedlerhangsupthephone.Thewomancrossesintothesittingroomandkneelsinfrontoftheradio—sheisbarefoot,andhersmoothwhitecalvesshowbeneaththehemofherskirt.Sherotatestheknob.Thereisasputter,thenatorrentofbrightmusic.Theradioproducesavivid,fullsound:Wernerhasneverheardanotherlikeit.

“Oh!”Againshelaughs.Wernergathershistools.HerrSiedlerstandsinfrontoftheradioandseemsabouttopathimonthe

head.“Outstanding,”hesays.HeushersWernertothediningtableandcallsforthemaidtobringcake.Immediatelyitappears:fourwedgesonaplainwhiteplate.Eachisdustedwithconfectioners’sugarandtoppedbyadollopofwhippedcream.Wernergapes.HerrSiedlerlaughs.“Creamisforbidden.Iknow.But”—heputsaforefingertohislips—“therearewaysaroundsuchthings.Goon.”

Wernertakesapiece.Powderedsugarcascadesdownhischin.Intheotherroomthewomantwiststhedial,andvoicessermonizefromthespeaker.Shelistensawhile,thenapplauds,kneelingthereinherbarefeet.Thesternfacesinthetintypesstaredown.

Wernereatsonepieceofcake,thenanother,thentakesathird.HerrSiedlerwatcheswithhisheadslightlycocked,amused,consideringsomething.“Youdohavealook,don’tyou?Andthathair.Likeyou’vehadaterribleshock.Whoisyourfather?”

Wernershakeshishead.“Right.Children’sHouse.Sillyme.Haveanother.Getsomemorecreamonit,now.”Thewomanclapsagain.Werner’sstomachgivesacreakingsound.Hecanfeel theman’seyeson

him.“People say it must not be a great posting, here at the mines,” says Herr Siedler. “They say:

‘Wouldn’tyouratherbeinBerlin?OrFrance?Wouldn’tyouratherbeacaptainatthefront,watchingthelinesadvance,awayfromallthis’ ”—hewaveshishandatthewindow—“ ‘soot?’ButItellthemIliveat thecenterof it all. I tell them this iswhere the fuel iscoming from, thesteel too.This is thefurnaceofthecountry.”

Wernerclearshis throat.“Weact in the interestofpeace.” It is,verbatim,a sentenceheandJuttaheardonDeutschlandsenderradiothreedaysbefore.“Intheinterestoftheworld.”

HerrSiedlerlaughs.AgainWernerisimpressedwithhownumerousandtinyhisteethare.“Youknowthegreatestlessonofhistory?It’sthathistoryiswhateverthevictorssayitis.That’sthe

lesson.Whoeverwins,that’swhodecidesthehistory.Weactinourownself-interest.Ofcoursewedo.Namemeapersonoranationwhodoesnot.Thetrickisfiguringoutwhereyourinterestsare.”

Asinglesliceofcakeremains.TheradiopurrsandthewomanlaughsandHerrSiedlerlooksalmostnothing,Wernerdecides,likehisneighbors,theirguarded,anxiousfaces—facesofpeopleaccustomedtowatchinglovedonesdisappeareverymorningintopits.Hisfaceiscleanandcommitted;heisamansupremely confident in his privileges. And five yards away kneels this woman with varnishedfingernailsandhairlesscalves—awomansoentirelyremovedfromWerner’spreviousexperiencethatitisasifsheisfromadifferentplanet.AsifshehassteppedoutofthebigPhilcoitself.

“Goodwithtools,”HerrSiedlerissaying.“Smartbeyondyouryears.Thereareplacesforaboylikeyou.GeneralHeissmeyer’sschools.Bestofthebest.Teachthemechanicalsciencestoo.Codebreaking,rocketpropulsion,allthelatest.”

Wernerdoesnotknowwheretosethisgaze.“Wedonothavemoney.”“That’s thegeniusof these institutions.Theywant theworkingclasses, laborers.Boyswhoaren’t

stamped by”—Herr Siedler frowns—“middle-class garbage. The cinemas and so forth. They wantindustriousboys.Exceptionalboys.”

“Yes,sir.”“Exceptional,”he repeats,nodding, talkingas ifonly tohimself.Hegivesawhistleand the lance

corporalreturns,helmetinhand.Thesoldier’seyesflittotheremainingpieceofcakeandthenaway.“There’sarecruitingboardinEssen,”HerrSiedlerissaying.“I’llwriteyoualetter.Andtakethis.”HehandsWernerseventy-fivemarks,andWernertucksthebillsintohispocketasquicklyashecan.

Thecorporallaughs.“Lookslikeitburnedhisfingers!”HerrSiedler’sattentionissomewhereelse.“IwillsendHeissmeyeraletter,”herepeats.“Goodfor

us,goodforyou.Weactintheinterestoftheworld,eh?”Hewinks.ThenthecorporalgivesWerneracurfewpassandshowshimout.

Wernerwalkshomeoblivioustotherain,tryingtoabsorbtheimmensityofwhathashappened.Nineheronsstandlikeflowersinthecanalbesidethecokingplant.Abargesoundsitsoutcasthornandcoalcarstrundletoandfroandtheregularthuddingofthehaulingmachinereverberatesthroughthegloom.

AtChildren’sHouse,everyonehasbeenputtobed.FrauElenasitsjustinsidetheentrywaywithamountainoflaunderedstockingsinherlapandthebottleofkitchensherrybetweenherfeet.Behindher,

atthetable,JuttawatchesWernerwithelectricintensity.FrauElenasays,“Whatdidhewant?”“Heonlywantedmetofixaradio.”“Nothingmore?”“No.”“Didtheyhavequestions?Aboutyou?Orthechildren?”“No,FrauElena.”FrauElenaletsoutahugebreath,asifshehasnotexhaledthesepasttwohours.“Dieumerci.”She

rubshertempleswithbothhands.“Youcangotobednow,Jutta,”shesays.Juttahesitates.“Ifixedit,”saysWerner.“That’sagoodboy,Werner.”FrauElenatakesalongpullofsherryandhereyescloseandherhead

rocksback.“Wesavedyousomesupper.”Juttawalkstothestairs,uncertaintyinhereyes.In the kitchen, everything looks coal-stained and cramped. FrauElena brings a plate; on it sits a

singleboiledpotatocutintwo.“Thankyou,”saysWerner.Thetasteofthecakeisstillinhismouth.Thependulumswingsonand

onintheoldgrandfatherclock.Thecake,thewhippedcream,thethickcarpet,thepinkfingernailsandlongcalvesofFräuleinSiedler—thesesensationswhirlthroughWerner’sheadasifonacarousel.Heremembers towingJutta toPitNine,where their fatherdisappeared,eveningafterevening,as if theirfathermightcomeshufflingoutoftheelevators.

Light,electricity,ether.Space,time,mass.HeinrichHertz’sPrinciplesofMechanics.Heissmeyer’sfamousschools.Codebreaking,rocketpropulsion,allthelatest.Openyoureyes,theFrenchmanontheradiousedtosay,andseewhatyoucanwiththembeforethey

closeforever.“Werner?”“Yes,Frau?”“Aren’tyouhungry?”FrauElena:asclosetoamotherashewilleverhave.Wernereats,thoughheisnothungry.Thenhe

giveshertheseventy-fivemarks,andsheblinksattheamountandgivesfiftyback.Upstairs,afterhehasheardFrauElenagotothetoiletandclimbintoherownbedandthehousehas

become utterly quiet,Werner counts to one hundred. Then he rises from his cot and takes the littleshortwaveradiooutofthefirst-aidbox—sixyearsoldandbristlingwithhismodifications,replacementwires,anewsolenoid,Jutta’snotationsorbitingthetuningcoil—andcarriesitintothealleybehindthehouseandcrushesitwithabrick.

Exodus

Parisianscontinuetopressthroughthegates.By1A.M.,thegendarmeshavelostcontrol,andnotrainshavearrivedordepartedinoverfourhours.Marie-Lauresleepsonherfather’sshoulder.Thelocksmithhearsnowhistles,norattlingcouplings:notrains.Atdawnhedecidesitwillbebettertogoonfoot.

Theywalkallmorning.Paris thinssteadily into lowhousesandstand-aloneshopsbrokenby longstrandsoftrees.NoonfindsthempickingtheirwaythroughdeadlockedtrafficonanewmotorwaynearVaucresson,afulltenmileswestoftheirapartment,asfarfromhomeasMarie-Laurehaseverbeen.

Atthecrestofalowhill,herfatherlooksoverhisshoulder:vehiclesarebackedupasfarashecansee,carryallsandvans,asleeknewcloth-topwraparoundV-12wedgedbetweentwomulecarts,somecarswithwoodenaxles, somerunoutofgasoline, somewithhouseholdsof furniturestrapped to theroof, a fewwith entire bristling farmyards crammed onto trailers, chickens and pigs in cages, cowsclompingalongside,dogspantingagainstwindshields.

Theentireprocessionslogspastatlittlemorethanwalkingspeed.Bothlanesareclogged—everyonestaggerswest, away.Awomanbicycleswearingdozensof costumenecklaces.Aman towsa leatherarmchaironahandcart,ablackkittencleaningitselfonthecentercushion.Womenpushbabycarriagescrammedwithchina,birdcages,crystalware.Amanina tuxedowalksalongcalling,“FortheloveofGod,letmethrough,”thoughnoonestepsaside,andhemovesnomorequicklythananyoneelse.

Marie-Laurestaysatherfather’shipwithhercaneinherfist.Witheachstep,anotherdisembodiedquestionspinsaroundher:HowfartoSaint-Germain?Istherefood,Auntie?Whohasfuel?Shehearshusbandsyellingatwives;shehearsthatachildhasbeenrunoverbyatruckontheroadahead.Intheafternoonatrioofairplanesracepast, loudandfastandlow,andpeoplecrouchwheretheywalkandsomescreamandothersclamberintotheditchandputtheirfacesintheweeds.

BydusktheyarewestofVersailles.Marie-Laure’sheelsarebleedingandherstockingsaretornandeveryhundredstepsshestumbles.Whenshedeclaresthatshecanwalknofarther,herfathercarriesherofftheroad,travelinguphillthroughmustardflowersuntiltheyreachafieldafewhundredyardsfromasmallfarmhouse.Thefieldhasbeenmowedonlyhalfway,thecuthayleftunrakedandunbaled.Asthoughthefarmerhasfledinthemiddleofhiswork.

Fromhisrucksackthelocksmithproducesaloafofbreadandsomelinksofwhitesausageandtheyeatthesequietlyandthenheliftsherfeetintohislap.Inthegloamingtotheeast,hecanmakeoutagraylineoftrafficherdedbetweentheedgesoftheroad.Thethinandstupefiedbleatingofautomobilehorns.Someonecallsasiftoamissingchildandthewindcarriesthesoundaway.

“Issomethingonfire,Papa?”“Nothingisonfire.”“Ismellsmoke.”Hepullsoffherstockingstoinspectherheels.Inhishands,herfeetareaslightasbirds.“Whatisthatnoise?”“Grasshoppers.”“Isitdark?”“Gettingtherenow.”“Wherewillwesleep?”“Here.”“Aretherebeds?”

“No,machérie.”“Wherearewegoing,Papa?”“Thedirectorhasgivenmetheaddressofsomeonewhowillhelpus.”“Where?”“AtowncalledEvreux.WearegoingtoseeamannamedMonsieurGiannot.Heisafriendofthe

museum’s.”“HowfarisEvreux?”“Itwilltakeustwoyearsofwalkingtogetthere.”Sheseizeshisforearm.“Iamteasing,Marie.Evreuxisnotsofar.Ifwefindtransportation,wewillbetheretomorrow.You

willsee.”Shemanagestostayquietforadozenheartbeats.Thenshesays,“Butfornow?”“Fornowwewillsleep.”“Withnobeds?”“Withthegrassasourbeds.Youmightlikeit.”“InEvreuxwewillhavebeds,Papa?”“Iexpectso.”“Whatifhedoesnotwantustostaythere?”“Hewillwantus.”“Whatifhedoesnot?”“Thenwewillgovisitmyuncle.Yourgreat-uncle.InSaint-Malo.”“UncleEtienne?Yousaidhewascrazy.”“Heispartiallycrazy,yes.Heismaybeseventy-sixpercentcrazy.”Shedoesnotlaugh.“HowfarisSaint-Malo?”“Enoughquestions,Marie.MonsieurGiannotwillwantustostayinEvreux.Inbigsoftbeds.”“Howmuchfooddowehave,Papa?”“Some.Areyoustillhungry?”“I’mnothungry.Iwanttosavethefood.”“Okay.Let’ssavethefood.Let’sbequietnowandrest.”Sheliesback.Helightsanothercigarette.Sixtogo.Batsdiveandswoopthroughcloudsofgnats,

andtheinsectsscatterandre-formoncemore.Wearemice,hethinks,andtheskyswirlswithhawks.“Youareverybrave,Marie-Laure.”Thegirlhasalready fallenasleep.Thenightdarkens.Whenhiscigarette isgone,heeasesMarie-

Laure’sfeettothegroundandcoversherwithhercoatandopenstherucksack.Bytouch,hefindshiscasefilledwithwoodworkingtools.Tinysaws,tacks,gouges,carvingchisels,fine-grittedsandpapers.Manyofthesetoolswerehisgrandfather’s.Frombeneaththeliningofthecase,hewithdrawsasmallbag made of heavy linen and cinched with a drawstring. All day he has restrained himself fromcheckingonit.Nowheopensthebagandupendsitscontentsontohispalm.

Inhishand, thestone isabout thesizeofachestnut.Evenat this latehour, in thequarter-light, itglowsamajesticblue.Strangelycold.

The director said therewould be three decoys.Added to the real diamond, thatmakes four.Onewouldstaybehindatthemuseum.Threeotherswouldbesentinthreedifferentdirections.Onesouthwith ayounggeologist.Anothernorthwith the chiefof security.Andone is here, in a fieldwest ofVersailles, inside the tool case of Daniel LeBlanc, principal locksmith for the Muséum Nationald’HistoireNaturelle.

Three fakes.One real. It is best, the director said, that nomanknowswhether he carries the realdiamondorareproduction.Andeveryone,hesaid,givingthemeachagravelook,shouldbehaveasifhecarriestherealthing.

The locksmith tells himself that the diamond he carries is not real. There is noway the directorwouldknowinglygiveatradesmanaone-hundred-and-thirty-three-caratdiamondandlethimwalkoutofPariswithit.Andyetashestaresatit,hecannotkeephisthoughtsfromthequestion:Coulditbe?

He scans the field.Trees, sky, hay.Darkness falling like velvet.Already a fewpale stars.Marie-Laurebreathesthemeasuredbreathofsleep.Everyoneshouldbehaveasifhecarriestherealthing.Thelocksmithretiesthestoneinsidethebagandslipsitbackintohisrucksack.Hecanfeelitstinyweightthere,asthoughhehasslippeditinsidehisownmind:aknot.

Hours later, hewakes to see the silhouetteof anairplaneblot stars as it hurtles east. Itmakesa softtearingsoundasitpassesoverhead.Thenitdisappears.Thegroundconcussesamomentlater.

Acornerofthenightsky,beyondawalloftrees,bloomsred.Inthelurid,flickeringlight,heseesthattheairplanewasnotalone,thattheskyteemswiththem,adozenswoopingbackandforth,racingin all directions, and in amoment of disorientation, he feels that he’s looking not up but down, asthoughaspotlighthasbeenshinedintoawedgeofbloodshotwater,andtheskyhasbecomethesea,andtheairplanesarehungryfish,harryingtheirpreyinthedark.

Two

8August1944

Saint-Malo

Doorssoarawayfromtheirframes.Brickstransmuteintopowder.Greatdistendingcloudsofchalkandearthandgranitespoutintothesky.AlltwelvebombershavealreadyturnedandclimbedandrealignedhighabovetheChannelbeforeroofslatesblownintotheairfinishfallingintothestreets.

Flamesscamperupwalls.Parkedautomobilescatch fire,asdocurtainsand lampshadesandsofasandmattressesandmostofthetwentythousandvolumesinthepubliclibrary.Thefirespoolandstrut;they flow up the sides of the ramparts like tides; they splash into alleys, over rooftops, through acarpark.Smokechasesdust;ashchasessmoke.Anewsstandfloats,burning.

Fromcellarsandcryptsthroughoutthecity,Malouinssendupoaths:LordGodsafeguardthistownits people don’t overlook us in your name please amen. Old men clutch hurricane lamps; childrenshriek;dogsyowl.Inaninstant,four-hundred-year-oldbeamsinrowhousesareablaze.Onesectionoftheoldcity,tuckedagainstthewesternwalls,becomesafirestorminwhichthespiresofflames,attheirhighest,reachthreehundredfeet.Theappetiteforoxygenissuchthatobjectsheavierthanhousecatsaredraggedintotheflames.Shopsignsswingtowardtheheatfromtheirbrackets;apottedhedgecomesslidingacrosstherubbleandcapsizes.Swifts,flushedfromchimneys,catchfireandswooplikeblownsparksoutovertherampartsandextinguishthemselvesinthesea.

OntheruedelaCrosse,theHotelofBeesbecomesalmostweightlessforamoment,liftedinaspiralofflame,beforeitbeginstoraininpiecesbacktotheearth.

Number4rueVauborel

Marie-Laurecurlsintoaballbeneathherbedwiththestoneinherleftfistandthelittlehouseinherright.Nails in the timbersshriekandsigh.Bitsofplasterandbrickandglasscascadeonto the floor,ontothemodelcityonthetable,andontothemattressaboveherhead.

“PapaPapaPapaPapa,”Marie-Laureissaying,butherbodyseemstohavedetacheditselffromhervoice, and her words make a faraway, desolate cadence. The notion occurs to her that the groundbeneathSaint-Malohasbeenknittedtogetherallalongbytherootstructureofanimmensetree,locatedatthecenterofthecity,inasquarenooneeverwalkedherto,andthemassivetreehasbeenuprootedby thehandofGodand thegranite is comingwith it, heaps and clumps and clodsof stonespullingawayasthetrunkcomesup,followedbythefattendrilsofroots—therootstructurelikeanothertreeturnedupsidedownandshovedintothesoil,isn’tthathowDr.Geffardmighthavedescribedit?—therampartscrumbling,streetsleakingaway,block-longmansionsfallingliketoys.

Slowly,gratefully,theworldsettles.Fromoutsidecomesalighttinkling,fragmentsofglass,perhaps,fallingintothestreets.Itsoundsbothbeautifulandstrange,asthoughgemstoneswererainingfromthesky.

Whereverhergreat-uncleis,couldhehavesurvivedthis?Couldanyone?Hasshe?Thehousecreaks,drips,groans.Thencomesasoundlikewindintallgrass,onlyhungrier.Itpullsat

thecurtains,atthedelicatepartsinsideherears.Shesmellssmokeandknows.Fire.Theglasshasshatteredoutofherbedroomwindow,andwhat

shehearsisthesoundofsomethingburningbeyondtheshutters.Somethinghuge.Theneighborhood.Theentiretown.

Thewall,floor,andundersideofherbedremaincool.Thehouseisnotyetinflames.Butforhowlong?

Calmyourself,shethinks.Concentrateonfillingyourlungs,drainingthem.Fillingthemagain.Shestaysunderherbed.Shesays,“Cen’estpaslaréalité.”

Hotelof Bees

Whatdoesheremember?HesawtheengineerBerndclosethecellardoorandsitonthestairs.HesawgiganticFrankVolkheimer,inthegoldenarmchair,pickatsomethingonhistrousers.ThentheceilingbulbblinkedoutandVolkheimerswitchedonhisfieldlightandaroarleapeddownuponthem,asoundsolouditwaslikeaweaponitself,consumingeverything,quakingtheverycrustoftheearth,andforaninstantallWernercouldseewasVolkheimer’slightgoskitteringawaylikeafrightenedbeetle.

Theywere thrown.Foran instantoranhouroraday—whocouldguesshowlong?—WernerwasbackinZollverein,standingaboveagraveaminerhaddugfortwomulesattheedgeofafield,anditwaswinterandWernerwasnoolderthanfive,andtheskinofthemuleshadgrownnearlytranslucent,sothattheirboneswerehazilyvisibleinside,andlittleclodsofdirtwerestucktotheiropeneyes,andhewashungryenoughtowonderiftherewasanythingleftonthemwortheating.

Heheardthebladeofashovelstrikepebbles.Heheardhissisterinhale.Then,asthoughsomeretainingcordhadreacheditslimit,somethingyankedhimbackintothecellar

beneaththeHotelofBees.Thefloorhasstoppedshaking,butthesoundhasnotdiminished.Heclampshispalmtohisrightear.

Theroarremains,thebuzzingofathousandbees,veryclose.“Is there noise?” he asks, but cannot hear himself ask it. The left side of his face is wet. The

headphones he was wearing are gone.Where is the workbench, where is the radio, what are theseweightsontopofhim?

Fromhis shoulders, chest, and hair, he plucks hot pieces of stone andwood. Find the field light,checkontheothers,checkontheradio.Checkontheexit.Figureoutwhathasgonewrongwithhishearing.Thesearetherationalsteps.Hetriestositup,buttheceilinghasbecomelower,andhestrikeshishead.

Heat.Gettinghotter.Hethinks:Weare lockedinsideabox,andtheboxhasbeenpitchedintothemouthofavolcano.

Secondspass.Maybetheyareminutes.Wernerstaysonhisknees.Light.Thentheothers.Thentheexit.Thenhishearing.ProbablytheLuftwaffemenupstairsarealreadyscrabblingthroughwreckagetohelp.Buthecannotfindhisfieldlight.Hecannotevenstandup.

In the absolute blackness, his vision is webbedwith a thousand travelingwisps of red and blue.Flames?Phantoms?Theylickalongthefloor,thenrisetotheceiling,glowingstrangely,serenely.

“Arewedead?”heshoutsintothedark.“Havewedied?”

DownSixFlights

Theroarofthebombershashardlyfadedwhenanartilleryshellwhistlesoverthehouseandmakesadull crash as it explodes not far away.Objects patter onto the roof—shell fragments? cinders?—andMarie-Lauresaysaloud,“Youaretoohighinthehouse,”andforcesherselfoutfrombeneaththebed.Alreadyshehaslingeredtoolong.Shereturnsthestoneinsidethemodelhouseandrestoresthewoodenpanelsthatmakeupitsroofandtwiststhechimneybackintoplaceandputsthehouseintothepocketofherdress.

Wherearehershoes?Shecrawlsaroundthefloor,butherfingersfeelonlybitsofwoodandwhatmightbe shardsofwindowglass.She findsher cane andgoes inher stocking feet out thedoor anddownthehall.Thesmellofsmokeisstrongerouthere.Thefloorstillcool,wallsstillcool.Sherelievesherself in the sixth-floor toilet andchecksher instinct to flush,knowing the toiletwillnot refill, anddouble-checkstheairtomakesureitdoesnotfeelwarmbeforecontinuing.

Six paces to the stairwell. A second shell screeches overhead, andMarie-Laure shrieks, and thechandelieraboveherheadchimesastheshelldetonatessomewheredeeperinthecity.

Rainofbricks,rainofpebbles,slowerrainofsoot.Eightcurvingstairstothebottom;thesecondandfifthstepscreak.Pivotaroundthenewel,eightmorestairs.Fourthfloor.Third.Hereshechecksthetripwirehergreat-unclebuiltbeneaththetelephonetableonthelanding.Thebellissuspendedandthewireremainstaut,runningverticallythroughtheholehehasdrilledinthewall.Noonehascomeorgone.

Eightpacesdownthehallintothethird-floorbathroom.Thebathtubisfull.Thingsfloatinit,flakesof ceilingplaster,maybe, and there’s grit on the floor beneath her knees, but she puts her lips to itssurfaceanddrinksherfill.Asmuchasshecan.

Back to the stairwell and down to the second floor. Then the first: grapevines carved into thebanister.Thecoatrackhas toppledover.Fragmentsof somethingsharpare in thehall—crockery, shedecides,fromthehutchinthediningroom—andshestepsaslightlyasshecan.

Downhere,someofthewindowsmusthaveblownoutaswell:shesmellsmoresmoke.Hergreat-uncle’swoolcoathangsfromthehookinthefoyer;sheputsiton.Nosignofhershoeshereeither—what has she done with them? The kitchen is a welter of fallen shelves and pots. A cookbook liesfacedowninherpathlikeashotgunnedbird.Inthecupboard,shefindsahalf-loafofbread,what’sleftfromthedaybefore.

Here,inthecenterofthefloor,thecellardoorwithitsmetalring.Sheslidesasidethesmalldiningtableandheavesopenthehatch.

Homeofmiceanddampandthestinkofstrandedshellfish,asifahugetidesweptindecadesagoand took its time draining away.Marie-Laure hesitates over the open door, smelling the fires fromoutside and the clammy, almost opposite smellwashingup from thebottom.Smoke:hergreat-unclesays it is a suspensionofparticles,billionsofdriftingcarbonmolecules.Bitsof living rooms, cafés,trees.People.

Athirdartilleryshellscreamstowardthecityfromtheeast.AgainMarie-Laurefeelsforthemodelhouseinthepocketofherdress.Thenshetakesthebreadandhercaneandstartsdowntheladderandpullsthetrapdoorshut.

Trapped

Alightemerges,alightnotkindled,Wernerprays,byhisownimagination:anamberbeamwanderingthedust.Itshuttlesacrossdebris,illuminatesafallenhunkofwall,lightsupatwistedpieceofshelving.Itrovesoverapairofmetalcabinetsthathavebeenwarpedandmauledasifagianthandhasreacheddownandtorneachinhalf.Itshinesonspilledtoolboxesandbrokenpegboardsandadozenunbrokenjarsfullofscrewsandnails.

Volkheimer.Hehashisfield lightandisswingingitsbeamrepeatedlyoverawelterofcompactedwreckage in the far corner—stones and cement and splintered wood. It takesWerner a moment torealizethatthisisthestairwell.

Whatisleftofthestairwell.That whole corner of the cellar is gone. The light hovers there another moment, as if allowing

Wernertoabsorbtheirsituation,thenveerstotherightandwobblestowardsomethingnearby,andinthe reflected light, throughskeinsofdust,Wernercansee thehugesilhouetteofVolkheimerduckingand stumbling as he moves between hanging rebar and pipes. Finally the light settles. With theflashlight in his mouth, in those granular, high-slung shadows, Volkheimer lifts pieces of brick andmortarandplaster,chunkafterchunk,shreddedboardsandslabsofstucco—thereissomethingbeneathallofthis,Wernersees,buriedundertheseheavythings,aformcomingintoshape.

Theengineer.Bernd.Bernd’sfaceiswhitewithdust,buthiseyesaretwovoidsandhismouthisamaroonhole.Though

Berndisscreaming,throughtheserratedroarlodgedinhisears,Wernercannothearhim.Volkheimerlifts the engineer—the olderman like a child in the staff sergeant’s arms, the field light gripped inVolkheimer’steeth—andcrossestheruinedspacewithhim,duckingagaintoavoidthehangingceiling,andsetshiminthegoldenarmchairstilluprightinthecorner,nowpowderedwhite.

VolkheimerputshisbighandonBernd’sjawandgentlyclosestheman’smouth.Werner,onlyafewfeetaway,hearsnochangeintheair.

Thestructurearoundthemgivesoffanothertremor,andhotdustcascadeseverywhere.SoonVolkheimer’slightismakingacircuitofwhatisleftoftheroof.Thethreehugewoodenbeams

havecracked,butnonehasgivenwayentirely.Between them the stucco is spiderwebbed, andpipespoke through in twoplaces.The lightveersbehindhimand illuminates thecapsizedworkbench, thecrushedcaseoftheirradio.FinallyitfindsWerner.Heraisesapalmtoblockit.

Volkheimer approaches; his big solicitous face presses close. Broad, familiar, deep-sunk eyesbeneaththehelmet.Highcheekbonesandlongnose,flaredatthetipliketheknobsatthebottomofafemur.Chinlikeacontinent.Withslowcare,VolkheimertouchesWerner’scheek.Hisfingertipcomesawayred.

Wernersays,“Wehavetogetout.Wehavetofindanotherwayout.”Out?sayVolkheimer’slips.Heshakeshishead.Thereisnootherwayout.

Three

June1940

Château

Two days after fleeing Paris,Marie-Laure and her father enter the town of Evreux.Restaurants areeitherboardeduporthronged.Twowomenineveninggownshunchhiptohiponthecathedralsteps.Amanliesfacedownbetweenmarketstalls,unconsciousorworse.

Nomail service.Telegraph lines down.Themost recent newspaper is thirty-six hours old.At theprefecture,aqueueforgasolinecouponssnakesoutthedoorandaroundtheblock.

Thefirsttwohotelsarefull.Thethirdwillnotunlockthedoor.Everysooftenthelocksmithcatcheshimselfglancingoverhisshoulder.

“Papa,”Marie-Laureismumbling.Bewildered.“Myfeet.”Helightsacigarette:threeleft.“Notmuchfarthernow,Marie.”On the western edge of Evreux, the road empties and the countryside levels out. He checks and

rechecks the address the director has given him.MonsieurFrançoisGiannot. 9 rue St.Nicolas. ButMonsieurGiannot’shouse,whentheyreachit,isonfire.Inthewindlessdusk,sullenheapsofsmokepumpupwardthroughthetrees.Acarhascrashedintoacornerofthegatehouseandtornthegateoffitshinges.Thehouse—orwhatremainsofit—isgrand:twentyFrenchwindowsinthefacade,bigfreshlypaintedshutters,manicuredhedgesoutfront.Unchâteau.

“Ismellsmoke,Papa.”HeleadsMarie-Laureupthegravel.Hisrucksack—orperhapsitisthestonedeepinside—seemsto

growheavierwitheachstep.Nopuddlesgleamin thegravel,nofirebrigadeswarmsoutfront.Twinurnsaretoppledonthefrontsteps.Aburstchandeliersprawlsacrosstheentrystairs.

“Whatisburning,Papa?”Aboycomestowardthemoutofthesmokytwilight,noolderthanMarie-Laure,streakedwithash,

pushingawheeleddiningcartthroughthegravel.Silvertongsandspoonshangingfromthecartchimeandclank,andthewheelsclatterandwallow.Alittlepolishedcherubgrinsateachcorner.

Thelocksmithsays,“IsthisthehouseofFrançoisGiannot?”Theboyacknowledgesneitherquestionnorquestionerashepasses.“Doyouknowwhathappenedto—?”Theclangingofthecartrecedes.Marie-Laureyanksthehemofhiscoat.“Papa,please.”Inhercoatagainsttheblacktrees,herfacelookspalerandmorefrightenedthanhehaseverseenit.

Hasheeveraskedsomuchofher?“Ahousehasburned,Marie.Peoplearestealingthings.”“Whathouse?”“Thehousewehavecomesofartoreach.”Overherhead,hecanseethesmolderingremainsofdoorframesglowandfadewiththepassageof

thebreeze.Aholeintheroofframesthedarkeningsky.Twomoreboysemergefromthesootcarryingaportraitinagildedframe,twiceastallastheyare,

the visage of some long-dead great-grandfather glowering at the night. The locksmith holds up hispalmstodelaythem.“Wasitairplanes?”

Onesays,“There’splentymoreinside.”Thecanvasofthepaintingripples.“DoyouknowthewhereaboutsofMonsieurGiannot?”Theothersays,“Ranoffyesterday.Withtherest.London.”

“Don’ttellhimanything,”saysthefirst.Theboysjogdownthedrivewaywiththeirprizeandareswallowedbythegloom.“London?”whispersMarie-Laure.“ThefriendofthedirectorisinLondon?”Sheets of blackenedpaper scuttle past their feet.Shadowswhisper in the trees.A rupturedmelon

lollsinthedrivelikeanamputatedhead.Thelocksmithisseeingtoomuch.Allday,mileaftermile,helethimselfimaginetheywouldbegreetedwithfood.LittlepotatoeswithhotcoresintowhichheandMarie-Laure would plunge forkfuls of butter. Shallots and mushrooms and hard-boiled eggs andbéchamel.Coffeeandcigarettes.HewouldhandMonsieurGiannotthestone,andGiannotwouldpullbrasslorgnettesoutofhisbreastpocketandfittheirlensesoverhiscalmeyesandtellhim:realorfake.ThenGiannotwouldburyitinthegardenorconcealitbehindahiddenpanelsomewhereinhiswalls,and thatwouldbe that.Dutyfulfilled.Jenem’enoccupeplus.Theywouldbegivenaprivate room,takebaths;maybesomeonewouldwashtheirclothes.MaybeMonsieurGiannotwouldtellhumorousstories about his friend the director, and in themorning the birdswould sing and a fresh newspaperwouldannouncetheendoftheinvasion,reasonableconcessions.Hewouldgobacktothekeypound,spendhiseveningsinstallinglittlesashwindowsinlittlewoodenhouses.Bonjour,bonjour.Everythingasbefore.

Butnothingisasbefore.Thetreesseetheandthehousesmolders,andstandinginthegravelofthedriveway, the daylight nearly finished, the locksmith has an unsettling thought: Someone might becomingforus.SomeonemightknowwhatIcarry.

HeleadsMarie-Laurebacktotheroadatatrot.“Papa,myfeet.”Heswingstherucksackaroundtohisfrontandwrapsherarmsaroundhisneckandcarriesheronhis

back. They pass the smashed gatehouse and the crashed car and turn not east toward the center ofEvreuxbutwest.Figuresbicyclepast.Pinchedfacesstreakedwithsuspicionorfearorboth.Perhapsitisthelocksmith’sowneyesthathavebeenstreaked.

“Notsoquickly,”begsMarie-Laure.Theyrestinweedstwentypacesofftheroad.Thereisonlyplungingnightandowlscallingfromthe

treesandbats straining insects abovea roadsideditch.Adiamond, the locksmith remindshimself, isonlyapieceofcarboncompressed in thebowelsof theearth foreonsanddriven to the surface inavolcanicpipe.Someonefacetsit,someonepolishesit.Itcanharboracursenomorethanaleafcan,oramirror,oralife.Thereisonlychanceinthisworld,chanceandphysics.

Anyway,whathecarriesisnothingmorethanapieceofglass.Adiversion.Behindhim,overEvreux,awallofcloudsignitesonce,twice.Lightning?Ontheroadahead,hecan

makeoutseveralacresofuncuthayandthegentleprofilesofunlitfarmbuildings—ahouseandbarn.Nomovement.

“Marie,Iseeahotel.”“Yousaidthehotelswerefull.”“Thisonelooksfriendly.Come.It’snotfar.”Again he carries his daughter.Onemore halfmile. Thewindows of the house stay unlit as they

approach.Itsbarnsitsahundredyardsbeyond.Hetriestolistenabovetherushofbloodinhisears.Nodogs,notorches.Probablythefarmerstoohavefled.HesetsMarie-Laureinfrontofthebarndoorsandknockssoftlyandwaitsandknocksagain.

Thepadlockisabrand-newsingle-latchBurguet;withhistoolshepicksiteasily.Insideareoatsandwaterbucketsandhorsefliesflyingsleepyloopsbutnohorses.HeopensastallandhelpsMarie-Laureintothecornerandpullsoffhershoes.

“Voilà,”hesays.“Oneoftheguestshasjustbroughthishorsesintothelobby,soitmaysmellforamoment.Butnowtheportersarehurryinghimout.See,therehegoes.Goodbye,horse!Gosleepinthestables,please!”

Herexpressionisfaraway.Lost.Avegetablegardenwaitsbehind thehouse. In thedimnesshecanmakeout roses, leeks, lettuces.

Strawberries,moststillgreen.Tenderwhitecarrotswithblackearthclottedintheirfibers.Nothingstirs:nofarmermaterializesinawindowwitharifle.Thelocksmithbringsbackashirtfulofvegetablesandfillsa tinbucketataspigotandeasesshut thebarndoorandfeedshisdaughter in thedark.Thenhefoldshiscoat,laysherheadonit,andwipesherfacewithhisshirt.

Twocigarettesleft.Inhale,exhale.Walkthepathsoflogic.Everyoutcomehasitscause,andeverypredicamenthasitssolution.Every

lockitskey.YoucangobacktoParisoryoucanstayhereoryoucangoon.Fromoutsidecomesthesofthootingofowls.Distantgrumblingofthunderorordnanceorboth.He

says, “This hotel is very cheap,ma chérie. The innkeeper behind the desk said our roomwas fortyfrancsanightbutonly twentyfrancs ifwemadeourownbed.”Helistens toherbreathe.“SoIsaid,‘Oh,wecanmakeourownbed.’Andhesaid,‘Right,I’llgetyousomenailsandwood.’ ”

Marie-Laurestilldoesnotsmile.“NowwegofindUncleEtienne?”“Yes,Marie.”“Whoisseventy-sixpercentcrazy?”“Hewaswithyourgrandfather—hisbrother—whenhedied.Inthewar.‘Gotabitofgasinthehead’

ishowtheyusedtosayit.Afterwardhesawthings.”“Whatkindofthings?”Creakingrumbleofthunderclosernow.Thebarnquakeslightly.“Thingsthatwerenotthere.”Spidersdrawtheirwebsbetweenrafters.Mothsflapagainstthewindows.Itstartstorain.

EntranceExam

Entrance exams for the National Political Institutes of Education are held in Essen, eighteenmilessouthofZollverein,insideaswelteringdancehallwhereatriooftruck-sizedradiatorsispluggedintothebackwall.Oneoftheradiatorsclangsandsteamsalldaydespitevariousattemptstoshutitdown.Warministryflagsasbigastankshangfromtherafters.

Thereareonehundredrecruits,allboys.Aschoolrepresentativeinablackuniformarrangestheminranksfourdeep.Medalschimeonhischestashepaces.“Youare,”hedeclares,“attemptingtoenterthemosteliteschoolsintheworld.Theexamswilllasteightdays.Wewilltakeonlythepurest,onlythestrongest.”A second representative distributes uniforms:white shirts,white shorts,white socks. Theboysshucktheirclotheswheretheystand.

Wernercountstwenty-sixothersinhisagegroup.Allbuttwoaretallerthanheis.Allbutthreeareblond.Noneofthemweareyeglasses.

The boys spend that entire first morning in their newwhite outfits, filling out questionnaires onclipboards. There is no noise save the scribbling of pencils and the pacing of examiners and theclunkingofthehugeradiator.Wherewasyourgrandfatherborn?Whatcolorareyourfather’seyes?Hasyourmothereverworked

inanoffice?Ofonehundredand tenquestionsabouthis lineage,Wernercanaccuratelyansweronlysixteen.Therestareguesses.Whereisyourmotherfrom?Therearenooptionsforpasttense.Hewrites:Germany.Whereisyourfatherfrom?Germany.Whatlanguagesdoesyourmotherspeak?German.HeremembersFrauElenaasshelookedearlythismorning,standinginhernightdressbesidethehall

lamp, fussingoverhisbag, all theother childrenasleep.She seemed lost, dazed, as if she couldnotabsorbhowquicklythingswerechangingaroundher.Shesaidshewasproud.ShesaidWernershoulddohisbest. “You’re a smart boy,” she said. “You’ll dowell.”Shekept adjusting and readjustinghiscollar.Whenhesaid,“It’sonlyaweek,”hereyesfilledslowly,asifsomeinternalfloodweregraduallyoverwhelmingher.

In theafternoon, the recruits run.Theycrawlunderobstacles,dopush-ups, scale ropessuspendedfromtheceiling—onehundredchildrenpassingsleekandinterchangeableintheirwhiteuniformslikelivestock before the eyes of the examiners.Werner comes in ninth in the shuttle runs.He comes insecondtolastontheropeclimb.Hewillneverbegoodenough.

Intheevening,theboysspilloutofthehall,somemetbyproud-lookingparentswithautomobiles,othersvanishingpurposefullyintwosandthreesintothestreets:allseemtoknowwherethey’regoing.Wernermakeshiswayalonetoaspartanhostelsixblocksaway,whereherentsabedfortwomarksanightandliesamongmutteringitinerantsandlistenstothepigeonsandbellsandshudderingtrafficofEssen.ItisthefirstnighthehasspentoutsideofZollverein,andhecannotstopthinkingofJutta,whohas not spoken to him since discovering he smashed their radio.Who stared at him with so muchaccusation inher face that hehad to look away.Her eyes said,Youarebetrayingme, butwasn’t heprotectingher?

Onthesecondmorning,thereareraciologicalexams.TheyrequirelittleofWernerexcepttoraisehisarmsorkeepfromblinkingwhileaninspectorshinesapenlightintothetunnelsofhispupils.Hesweatsand shifts. His heart pounds unreasonably. An onion-breathed technician in a lab coatmeasures thedistancebetweenWerner’stemples,thecircumferenceofhishead,andthethicknessandshapeofhislips.Calipersareusedtoevaluatehisfeet,thelengthofhisfingers,andthedistancebetweenhiseyesandhisnavel.Theymeasurehispenis.Theangleofhisnoseisquantifiedwithawoodenprotractor.

AsecondtechniciangaugesWerner’seyecoloragainstachromaticscaleonwhichsixtyorsoshadesofbluearedisplayed.Werner’scolorishimmelblau,skyblue.Toassesshishaircolor,themansnipsalockofhairfromWerner’sheadandcomparesittothirtyorsootherlocksclippedtoaboard,arrayeddarkesttolightest.

“Schnee,” themanmutters, andmakes a notation.Snow.Werner’s hair is lighter than the lightestcolorontheboard.

Theytesthisvision,drawhisblood,takehisfingerprints.Bynoonhewondersifthereisanythingleftforthemtomeasure.

Verbal exams come next. How many Nationalpolitische Erzie-hungsanstalten are there? Twenty.WhoareourgreatestOlympians?Hedoesnotknow.Whatisthebirthdayoftheführer?April20.Whoisourgreatestwriter,whatistheTreatyofVersailles,whichisthenation’sfastestairplane?

Day three involves more running, more climbing, more jumping. Everything is timed. Thetechnicians,schoolrepresentatives,andexaminers—eachwearinguniformsinsubtlydifferentshades—scribbleonpadsofgraphpaperwithaverynarrowgauge,andsheetaftersheetofthispapergetsclosedintoleatherbinderswithagoldlightningboltstampedonthefront.

Therecruitsspeculateineagerwhispers.“Iheartheschoolshavesailboats,falconries,rifleranges.”“Iheartheywilltakeonlysevenfromeachagegroup.”“Ihearit’sonlyfour.”Theyspeakoftheschoolswithyearningandbravado;theywantdesperatelytobeselected.Werner

tellshimself:SodoI.SodoI.And yet at other times, despite his ambitions, he is visited by instants of vertigo; he sees Jutta

holdingthesmashedpiecesoftheirradioandfeelsuncertaintystealintohisgut.Therecruitsscalewalls;theyrunwindsprintafterwindsprint.Onthefifthday,threequit.Onthe

sixth,fourmoregiveup.Eachhourthedancehallseemstogrowprogressivelywarmer,sobytheeighthday,theair,walls,andflooraresaturatedwiththehot,teemingodorofboys.Fortheirfinaltest,eachofthefourteen-year-oldsisforcedtoclimbaladderhaphazardlynailedtoawall.Onceatthetop,twenty-fivefeetabovethefloor,theirheadsintherafters,theyaresupposedtostepontoatinyplatform,closetheireyes,andleapoff,tobecaughtinaflagheldbyadozenoftheotherrecruits.

FirsttogoisastoutfarmkidfromHerne.Hescalestheladderquicklyenough,butassoonashe’sontheplatformhighaboveeveryoneelse,hisfacegoeswhite.Hiskneeswobbledangerously.

Someonemutters,“Pussy.”TheboybesideWernerwhispers,“Afraidofheights.”An examiner watches dispassionately. The boy on the platform peeks over the edge as if into a

swirlingabyssandshutshiseyes.Heswaysbackandforth.Interminablesecondspass.Theexaminerpeersathisstopwatch.Wernerclutchesthehemoftheflag.

Soonmosteveryoneinthedancehallhasstoppedtowatch,evenrecruitsinotheragegroups.Theboyswaystwicemore,untilit’sclearhe’sabouttofaint.Eventhennoonemovestohelphim.

Whenhegoesover,hegoessideways.Therecruitsonthegroundmanagetoswingtheflagaroundintime,buthisweighttearstheedgesoutoftheirhands,andhehitsthefloorarmsfirstwithasoundlikeabundleofkindlingbreakingoveraknee.

Theboysitsup.Bothofhisforearmsarebentatnauseatingangles.Heblinksatthemcuriouslyforamoment,asifscanninghismemoryforacluethatmightexplainhowhegotthere.

Thenhestartstoscream.Wernerlooksaway.Fourboysareorderedtocarrytheinjuredoneout.Onebyone,theremainingfourteen-year-oldsclimbtheladderandtrembleandleap.Onesobsthe

wholeway. Another sprains an anklewhen he hits. The next waits at least two fullminutes beforejumping. The fifteenth boy looks out across the dance hall as if staring into a bleak, cold sea, thenclimbsbackdown.

Wernerwatchesfromhisplaceontheflag.Whenhisturncomes,hetellshimself,hemustnotwaver.OntheundersidesofhiseyelidsheseestheinterlacedironworkofZollverein,thefire-breathingmills,menteemingoutofelevatorshaftslikeants,themouthofPitNine,wherehisfatherwaslost.Juttaintheparlorwindow, sealedbehind the rain,watchinghimfollow thecorporal toHerrSiedler’shouse.ThetasteofwhippedcreamandpowderedsugarandthesmoothcalvesofHerrSiedler’swife.Exceptional.Unexpected.Wewilltakeonlythepurest,onlythestrongest.Theonlyplaceyourbrotherisgoing,littlegirl,isintothemines.Wernerscampersuptheladder.Therungshavebeenroughlysawed,andhispalmstakesplintersthe

wholeway. From the top, the crimson flagwith itswhite circle and black cross looks unexpectedlysmall.Apaleringoffacesstaresup.It’sevenhotteruphere,torrid,andthesmellofperspirationmakeshimlight-headed.

Withouthesitating,Wernerstepstotheedgeoftheplatformandshutshiseyesandjumps.Hehitstheflaginitsexactcenter,andtheboysholdingitsedgesgiveacollectivegroan.

Herollstohisfeet,uninjured.Theexaminerclickshisstopwatch,scribblesonhisclipboard,looksup.Theireyesmeetforahalfsecond.Maybeless.Thenthemangoesbacktohisnotations.

“HeilHitler!”yellsWerner.Thenextboystartsuptheladder.

Brittany

Inthemorninganancientfurniturelorrystopsforthem.Herfatherliftsherintoitsbed,whereadozenpeoplenestlebeneathawaxedcanvastarp.Theengineroarsandpops;thetruckrarelyacceleratespastwalkingspeed.

Awoman prays in a Norman accent; someone shares pâté; everything smells of rain. No Stukasswoop over them,machine guns blazing.No one in the truck has even seen aGerman. For half themorning,Marie-Laure tries to convince herself that the previous days have been some elaborate testconcoctedbyherfather,thatthetruckismovingnotawayfromParisbuttowardit,thattonightthey’llreturnhome.Themodelwillbeonitsbenchinthecorner,andthesugarbowlwillbeinthecenterofthekitchentable,itslittlespoonrestingontherim.Outtheopenwindows,thecheesesellerontheruedesPatriarcheswill lockhisdoorandshutterupthosemarveloussmells,ashehasdonenearlyeveryeveningshecanremember,andtheleavesofthechestnuttreewillclatterandmurmur,andherfatherwillboilcoffeeanddrawherahotbath,andsay,“Youdidwell,Marie-Laure.I’mproud.”

The truck bounces from highway to country road to dirt lane.Weeds brush its flanks.Well aftermidnight,westofCancale,theyrunoutoffuel.

“Notmuchfarther,”herfatherwhispers.Marie-Laureshufflesalonghalf-asleep.Theroadseemshardlywiderthanapath.Theairsmellslike

wetgrainandhedgetrimmings;inthelullsbetweentheirfootfalls,shecanhearadeep,nearlysubsonicroar.Shetugsherfathertoastop.“Armies.”

“Theocean.”Shecocksherhead.“It’stheocean,Marie.Ipromise.”Hecarriesheronhisback.Nowthebarkingofgulls.Smellofwetstones,ofbirdshit,ofsalt,though

sheneverknewsalttohaveasmell.Theseamurmuringinalanguagethattravelsthroughstones,air,andsky.WhatdidCaptainNemosay?Theseadoesnotbelongtotyrants.

“We’recrossingintoSaint-Malonow,”saysherfather,“theparttheycallthecitywithinthewalls.”He narrates what he sees: a portcullis, defensive walls called ramparts, granite mansions, a steepleabove rooftops.The echoes of his footfalls ricochet off tall houses and rain back onto them, and helabors beneath her weight, and she is old enough to suspect that what he presents as quaint andwelcomingmightintruthbeharrowingandstrange.

Birdsmakestrangledcriesoverhead.Her father turns left, right. It feels toMarie-Laureas if theyhavewoundthesepastfourdaystowardthecenterofabewilderingmaze,andnowtheyaretiptoeingpastthepicketsofsomefinalinteriorcell.Insidewhichaterriblebeastmightslumber.

“RueVauborel,”herfathersaysbetweenpants.“Here,itmustbe.Orhere?”Hepivots,retracestheirsteps,climbsanalley,thenturnsaround.

“Istherenoonetoask?”“There’snotasinglelight,Marie.Everyoneisasleeporpretendingtobe.”Finallytheyreachagate,andhesetsherdownonacurbstoneandpushesanelectricbuzzer,andshe

canhearitringdeepwithinahouse.Nothing.Hepressesagain.Againnothing.Hepressesathirdtime.“Thisisthehouseofyouruncle?”“Itis.”“Hedoesn’tknowus,”shesays.

“He’ssleeping.Asweshouldbe.”Theysitwith theirbacks to thegate.Wrought ironandcool.Aheavywoodendoor justbehindit.

Sheleansherheadonhisshoulder;hepullsoffhershoes.Theworldseemstoswaygentlybackandforth,asthoughthetownisdriftinglightlyaway.Asthoughbackonshore,allofFranceislefttobiteitsfingernailsandfleeandstumbleandweepandwaketoanumb,graydawn,unabletobelievewhatishappening.Whodotheroadsbelongtonow?Andthefields?Thetrees?

Herfathertakeshisfinalcigarettefromhisshirtpocketandlightsit.Fromdeepinsidethehousebehindthemcomefootfalls.

MadameManec

Assoonasherfathersayshisname,thebreathingontheothersideofthedoorbecomesagasp,aheldbreath.Thegatescreeches;adoorbehinditgivesway.“Jesus’smother,”saysawoman’svoice.“Youweresosmall—”

“Mydaughter,Madame.Marie-Laure,thisisMadameManec.”Marie-Laureattemptsacurtsy.Thehandthatcupshercheekisstrong:thehandofageologistora

gardener.“My God, there are none so distant that fate cannot bring them together. But, dear child, your

stockings.Andyourheels!Youmustbefamished.”Theystepintoanarrowentry.Marie-Laurehearsthegateclangshut, thenthewomanlatchingthe

doorbehindthem.Twodeadbolts,onechain.Theyareledintoaroomthatsmellsofherbsandrisingdough:akitchen.Herfatherunbuttonshercoat,helpshersit.“Weareverygrateful,Iunderstandhowlateitis,”heissaying,andtheoldwoman—MadameManec—isbrisk,efficient,evidentlyovercomingher initial amazement; she brushes off their thank-yous; she scoots Marie-Laure’s chair toward atabletop.Amatchisstruck;waterfillsapot;aniceboxclicksopenandshut.Thereisthehumofgasandthetick-tickofheatingmetal.Inanothermoment,awarmtowelisonMarie-Laure’sface.Ajarofcool,sweetwaterinfrontofher.Eachsipablessing.

“Oh,thetownisabsolutelystuffed,”MadameManecissayinginherfairy-taledrawlasshemovesabout.Sheseemsshort;shewearsblocky,heavyshoes.Hersisalowvoice,fullofpebbles—asailor’svoiceorasmoker’s.“Somecanaffordhotelsorrentals,butmanyareinthewarehouses,onstraw,notenough to eat. I’d take them in,butyouruncle,youknow, itmightupsethim.There’snodiesel,nokerosene,Britishships longgone.Theyburnedeverything they leftbehind,at first Icouldn’tbelieveanyofit,butEtienne,hehasthewirelessgoingnonstop—”

Eggs crack. Butter pops in a hot pan.Her father is telling an abridged story of their flight, trainstations,fearfulcrowds,omittingthestopinEvreux,butsoonallofMarie-Laure’sattentionisabsorbedbythesmellsbloomingaroundher:egg,spinach,meltingcheese.

Anomeletarrives.Shepositionsherfaceoveritssteam.“MayIpleasehaveafork?”Theoldwomanlaughs:alaughMarie-Laurewarmstoimmediately.Inaninstantaforkisfittedinto

herhand.Theeggstastelikeclouds.Likespungold.MadameManecsays,“Ithinkshelikesit,”andlaughs

again.Asecondomeletsoonappears.Nowit isherfatherwhoeatsquickly.“Howaboutpeaches,dear?”

murmursMadameManec,andMarie-Laurecanhearacanopening,juicesloppingintoabowl.Secondslater,she’seatingwedgesofwetsunlight.

“Marie,”murmursherfather,“yourmanners.”“Butthey’re—”“Wehaveplenty,yougoahead,child.Imakethemeveryyear.”WhenMarie-Laurehaseatentwo

fullcansofpeaches,MadameManeccleansMarie-Laure’sfeetwitharagandshakesouthercoatandclanksdishesintoasinkandsays,“Cigarette?”andherfathergroanswithgratitudeandamatchflaresandthegrown-upssmoke.

Adooropens,orawindow,andMarie-Laurecanhearthehypnoticvoiceofthesea.“AndEtienne?”saysherfather.

Madamesays,“Shutshimselfuplikeacorpseoneday,eatslikeanalbatrossthenext.”“Hestilldoesnot—?”“Notfortwentyyears.”Probably the grown-ups aremouthingmore to each other. ProbablyMarie-Laure should bemore

curious—about her great-uncle who sees things that are not there, about the fate of everyone andeverything shehas everknown—buther stomach is full, her bloodhasbecomeawarmgolden flowthroughherarteries,andouttheopenwindow,beyondthewalls,theoceancrashes,onlyabitofstackedstone left betweenher and it, the rimofBrittany, the farthestwindowsill ofFrance—andmaybe theGermansareadvancingasinexorablyaslava,butMarie-Laureisslippingintosomethinglikeadream,orperhapsit’sthememoryofone:she’ssixorsevenyearsold,newlyblind,andherfatherissittinginthechairbesideherbed,whittlingawayatsometinypieceofwood,smokingacigarette,andeveningissettling over the hundred thousand rooftops and chimneys of Paris, and all thewalls around her aredissolving,theceilingstoo,thewholecityisdisintegratingintosmoke,andatlastsleepfallsoverherlikeashadow.

YouHaveBeenCalled

EveryonewantstohearWerner’sstories.Whatweretheexamslike,whatdidtheymakeyoudo,telluseverything. The youngest children tug his sleeves; the older ones are deferential. This snowy-haireddreamerpluckedoutofthesoot.

“Theysaidthey’dacceptonlytwofrommyagegroup.Maybethree.”Fromthefarendofthetable,hecanfeeltheheatofJutta’sattention.WiththerestofthemoneyfromHerrSiedler,hepurchasedaPeople’sReceiver for thirty-fourmarkseighty:a two-valve low-powered radioevencheaper than thestate-sponsoredVolksemfängers he has repaired in the houses of neighbors.Unmodified, its receivercanhaulinonlythebiglong-wavenationwideprogramsfromDeutchlandsender.Nothingelse.Nothingforeign.

Thechildrenshout,delighted,ashepresentsit.Juttashowsnointerest.MartinSachseasks,“Wasthereloadsofmath?”“Wastherecheeses?Wastherecakes?”“Didtheyletyoushootrifles?”“Didyourideintanks?Ibetyourodeintanks.”Wernersays,“Ididn’tknowtheanswerstohalftheirquestions.I’llnevergetin.”Buthedoes.FivedaysafterhereturnsfromEssen,theletterishand-deliveredtoChildren’sHouse.

Aneagleandcrossonacrispenvelope.Nostamp.LikeadispatchfromGod.FrauElenaisdoinglaundry.Thelittleboysareclusteredaroundthenewradio:ahalf-hourprogram

calledKids’Club.JuttaandClaudiaFörsterhavetakenthreeoftheyoungergirlstoapuppetshowinthemarket;JuttahasspokennomorethansixwordstoWernersincehisreturn.You have been called, says the letter. Werner is to report to the National Political Institute of

Education#6atSchulpforta.HestandsintheparlorofChildren’sHouse,tryingtoabsorbit.Crackedwalls,saggingceiling,twinbenchesthathavebornechildafterchildafterchildforaslongastheminehasmadeorphans.Hehasfoundawayout.

Schulpforta.Tinydotonthemap,nearNaumburg,inSaxony.Twohundredmileseast.Onlyinhismost intrepiddreamsdidheallowhimself tohopethathemight travelsofar.Hecarries thesheetofpaperinadazetothealleywhereFrauElenaboilssheetsamidbillowsofsteam.

Sherereadsitseveraltimes.“Wecan’tpay.”“Wedon’tneedto.”“Howfar?”“Fivehoursbytrain.They’vealreadypaidthefare.”“When?”“Twoweeks.”FrauElena:strandsofhairstucktohercheeks,maroonapronsunderhereyes,pinkrimsaroundher

nostrils. Thin crucifix against her damp throat. Is she proud? She rubs her eyes and nods absently.“They’ll celebrate this.” She hands the letter back and stares down the alley at the dense ranks ofclotheslinesandcoalbins.

“Who,Frau?”“Everyone.Theneighbors.”Shelaughsasuddenandstartlinglaugh.“Peoplelikethatviceminister.

Themanwhotookyourbook.”“NotJutta.”

“No.NotJutta.”Herehearsesinhisheadtheargumenthewillpresenttohissister.Pflicht.Itmeansduty.Obligation.

EveryGermanfulfillinghisfunction.Putonyourbootsandgotowork.EinVolk,einReich,einFührer.Weallhavepartstoplay,littlesister.Butbeforethegirlsarrive,newsofhisacceptancehasreverberatedthroughtheblock.Neighborscomeoveroneafteranotherandexclaimandwagtheirchins.Coalwivesbringpigknucklesandcheese;theypassaroundWerner’sacceptanceletter;theoneswhocanread,readitaloud to theoneswhocannot,andJuttacomeshome toacrowded,exhilarated room.The twins—HannahandSusanneGerlitz—sprintlapsaroundthesofa,loopedupintheexcitement,andsix-year-oldRolfHupfauersingsRise!Rise!Allglorytothefatherland!andseveraloftheotherchildrenjoinin,andWernerdoesn’tseeFrauElenaspeaktoJuttainthecorneroftheparlor,doesn’tseeJuttarunupstairs.

Atthedinnerbell,shedoesnotcomedown.FrauElenaasksHannahGerlitztoleadtheprayer,andtellsWernershe’lltalktoJutta,thatheoughttostaydownstairs,allthesepeoplearehereforhim.Everyfewbreaths,thewordsflareinhismindlikesparks:Youhavebeencalled.Eachminutethatpassesisonefewerinthishouse.Inthislife.

Afterthemeal,littleSiegfriedFischer,noolderthanfive,walksaroundthetableandtugsWerner’ssleeveandhandshimaphotographhehas tornfromanewspaper. In thepicture,sixfighter-bombersfloat above a mountain range of clouds. Spangles of sun are frozen midglide across the airplanes’fuselages.Thescarvesofthepilotsstretchbackward.

SiegfriedFischer says, “You’ll show them,won’tyou?”His face is fiercewithbelief; it seems todrawacirclearoundallthehoursWernerhasspentatChildren’sHouse,hopingforsomethingmore.

“Iwill,”Wernersays.Theeyesofallthechildrenareonhim.“AbsolutelyIwill.”

Occuper

Marie-Laurewakestochurchbells:twothreefourfive.Faintsmellofmildew.Ancientdownpillowswithalltheloftwornout.Silkwallpaperbehindthelumpybedwhereshesits.Whenshestretchesoutbotharms,shecanalmosttouchwallsoneitherside.

The reverberationsof thebellscease.Shehas sleptmostof theday.What is themuffled roar shehears?Crowds?Orisitstillthesea?

Shesetsherfeetonthefloor.Thewoundsonthebacksofherheelspulse.Whereishercane?Sheshufflessoshedoesnotbashhershinsonsomething.Behindcurtains,awindowrisesoutofherreach.Oppositethewindow,shefindsadresserwhosedrawersopenonlypartwaybeforestrikingthebed.

Theweatherinthisplace:youcanfeelitbetweenyourfingers.Shegropesthroughadoorwayintowhat?Ahall?Outheretheroarisfainter,barelyamurmur.“Hello?”Quiet. Then a bustling far below, the heavy shoes ofMadameManec climbing flights of narrow,

curving steps, her smoker’s lungs coming closer, third floor, fourth—how tall is this house?—nowMadame’svoice is calling, “Mademoiselle,” and she is takenby thehand, ledback into the room inwhichshewoke,andseatedontheedgeofthebed.“Doyouneedtousethetoilet?Youmust,thenabath,youhadanexcellentsleep,yourfatherisintowntryingthetelegraphoffice,thoughIassuredhimthat’llbeaboutasprofitableastryingtopickfeathersoutofmolasses.Areyouhungry?”

MadameManecplumpspillows,flapsthequilt.Marie-Lauretriestoconcentrateonsomethingsmall,somethingconcrete.ThemodelbackinParis.AsingleseashellinDr.Geffard’slaboratory.

“Doesthiswholehousebelongtomygreat-uncleEtienne?”“Everyroom.”“Howdoeshepayforit?”MadameManeclaughs.“Yougetrighttoit,don’tyou?Yourgreat-uncleinheritedthehousefromhis

father,whowasyourgreat-grandfather.Hewasaverysuccessfulmanwithplentyofmoney.”“Youknewhim?”“IhaveworkedheresinceMasterEtiennewasalittleboy.”“Mygrandfathertoo?Youknewhim?”“Idid.”“WillImeetUncleEtiennenow?”MadameManechesitates.“Probablynot.”“Butheishere?”“Yes,child.Heisalwayshere.”“Always?”MadameManec’sbig, thickhandsenfoldhers. “Let’s seeabout thebath.Your fatherwill explain

whenhereturns.”“ButPapadoesn’texplainanything.HesaysonlythatUnclewasinthewarwithmygrandfather.”“That’sright.Butyourgreat-uncle,whenhecamehome”—Madamehuntsfor theproperphrasing

—“hewasnotthesameaswhenheleft.”“Youmeanhewasmorescaredofthings?”“Imeanlost.Amouseinatrap.Hesawdeadpeoplepassingthroughthewalls.Terriblethingsinthe

cornersofthestreets.Nowyourgreat-uncledoesnotgooutdoors.”

“Notever?”“Notforyears.ButEtienneisawonder,you’llsee.Heknowseverything.”Marie-Laurelistenstothehousetimberscreakandthegullscryandthegentleroarbreakingagainst

thewindow.“Arewehighintheair,Madame?”“Weareonthesixthfloor.It’sagoodbed,isn’tit?Ithoughtyouandyourpapawouldbeabletorest

wellhere.”“Doesthewindowopen?”“Itdoes,dear.Butitisprobablybesttoleaveitshutteredwhile—”Marie-Laureisalreadystandingatopthebed,runningherpalmsalongthewall.“Canoneseethesea

fromit?”“We’re supposed to keep shutters and windows closed. But maybe just for a minute.” Madame

Manecturnsahandle,pullsinthetwohingedpanesofthewindow,andnudgesopentheshutter.Wind:immediate,bright,sweet,briny,luminous.Theroarrisesandfalls.

“Aretheresnailsoutthere,Madame?”“Snails?Intheocean?”Againthatlaugh.“Asmanyasraindrops.You’reinterestedinsnails?”“Yesyesyes.Ihavefoundtreesnailsandgardensnails.ButIhaveneverfoundmarinesnails.”“Well,”saysMadameManec.“You’veturnedupintherightplace.”Madamedrawsawarmbath ina third-floor tub.Fromthe tub,Marie-Laure listens tohershut the

door,andthecrampedbathroomgroanbeneaththeweightofthewater,andthewallscreak,asifshewereinacabininsideCaptainNemo’sNautilus.Thepaininherheelsfades.Shelowersherheadbelowthelevelofthewater.Tonevergooutdoors!Tohidefordecadesinsidethisstrange,narrowhouse!

For dinner she is buttoned into a starchy dress from some bygone decade. They sit at the squarekitchen table, her father and Madame Manec at opposite sides, knees pressed to knees, windowsjammedshut,shuttersdrawn.Awirelesssetmumblesthenamesofministersinaharried,staccatovoice—deGaulleinLondon,PétainreplacingReynaud.Theyeatfishstewedwithgreentomatoes.Herfatherreportsthatnolettershavebeendeliveredorcollectedinthreedays.Telegraphlinesarenotfunctioning.Thenewestnewspaperissixdaysold.Ontheradio,theannouncerreadspublicserviceclassifieds.Monsieur Cheminoux refugeed in Orange seeks his three children, left with luggage at Ivry-sur-

Seine.FrancisinGenèveseeksanyinformationaboutMarie-Jeanne,lastseenatGentilly.MothersendsprayerstoLucandAlbert,wherevertheyare.L.Rabierseeksnewsofhiswife,lastseenatGared’Orsay.A.CotteretwantshismothertoknowheissafeinLaval.MadameMeyzieuseekswhereaboutsofsixdaughters,sentbytraintoRedon.“Everybodyhasmisplacedsomeone,”murmursMadameManec,andMarie-Laure’sfatherswitches

offthewireless,andthetubesclickastheycool.Upstairs,faintly,thesamevoicekeepsreadingnames.Orisitherimagination?ShehearsMadameManecstandandcollectthebowlsandherfatherexhalecigarettesmokeasthoughitisveryheavyinhislungsandheisgladtoberidofit.

Thatnightsheandherfatherwindupthetwistingstaircaseandgotobedsidebysideonthesamelumpybedinthesamesixth-floorbedroomwiththefrayingsilkwallpaper.Herfatherfusseswithhisrucksack, with the door latch, with his matches. Soon enough there is the familiar smell of hiscigarettes:Gauloisesbleues.Shehearswoodpopandgroanasthetwohalvesofthewindowpullopen.Thewelcomehissofwindwashesin,ormaybeit’stheseaandthewind,herearsunabletounbraidthetwo.Withitcomethescentsofsaltandhayandfishmarketsanddistantmarshesandabsolutelynothingthatsmellstoherofwar.

“Canwevisittheoceantomorrow,Papa?”“Probablynottomorrow.”“WhereisUncleEtienne?”“Iexpecthe’sinhisroomonthefifthfloor.”“Seeingthingsthatarenotthere?”“Weareluckytohavehim,Marie.”“LuckytohaveMadameManectoo.She’sageniuswithfood,isn’tshe,Papa?Sheismaybejusta

littlebitbetteratcookingthanyouare?”“Justaverylittlebitbetter.”Marie-Laure is glad to hear a smile enter his voice. But beneath it she can sense his thoughts

flutteringliketrappedbirds.“Whatdoesitmean,Papa,they’lloccupyus?”“Itmeansthey’llparktheirtrucksinthesquares.”“Willtheymakeusspeaktheirlanguage?”“Theymightmakeusadvanceourclocksbyonehour.”Thehousecreaks.Gullscry.Helightsanothercigarette.“Isitlikeoccupation,Papa?Likethesortofjobapersondoes?”“It’slikemilitarycontrol,Marie.That’senoughquestionsfornow.”Quiet.Twentyheartbeats.Thirty.“Howcanonecountrymakeanotherchangeitsclocks?Whatifeverybodyrefuses?”“Thenalotofpeoplewillbeearly.Orlate.”“Remember our apartment, Papa?Withmy books and ourmodel and all those pinecones on the

windowsill?”“Ofcourse.”“Ilinedupthepineconeslargesttosmallest.”“They’restillthere.”“Doyouthinkso?”“Iknowso.”“Youdonotknowso.”“Idonotknowso.Ibelieveso.”“AreGermansoldiersclimbingintoourbedsrightnow,Papa?”“No.”Marie-Lauretriestolieverystill.Shecanalmosthearthemachineryofherfather’smindchurning

insidehisskull.“Itwillbeokay,”shewhispers.Herhandfindshisforearm.“Wewillstayhereawhileand thenwewill go back to our apartment and the pineconeswill be rightwherewe left them andTwentyThousandLeaguesUndertheSeawillbeonthefloorofthekeypoundwhereweleftitandnoonewillbeinourbeds.”

Thedistantanthemofthesea.Thecloppingofsomeone’sbootheelsoncobblesfarbelow.Shewantsverybadlyforherfathertosay,Yes,that’sitabsolutely,machérie,buthesaysnothing.

Don’tTellLies

HecannotconcentrateonschoolworkorsimpleconversationsorFrauElena’schores.Everytimeheshuts his eyes, some vision of the school at Schulpforta overmasters him: vermilion flags,muscularhorses, gleaming laboratories. The best boys inGermany.At certainmoments he sees himself as anemblemofpossibility towhichalleyeshave turned.Thoughatothermoments, flickering in frontofhim,heseesthebigkidfromtheentranceexams:hisfacegonebloodlessatoptheplatformhighabovethedancehall.Howhefell.Hownoonemovedtohelphim.

Whycan’tJuttabehappyforhim?Why,evenatthemomentofhisescape,mustsomeinexplicablewarningmurmurinadistantregionofhismind?

MartinSachsesays,“Tellusagainaboutthehandgrenades!”SiegfriedFischersays,“Andthefalconries!”ThreetimeshereadieshisargumentandthreetimesJuttaturnsonaheelandstridesaway.Hourafter

hourshehelpsFrauElenawiththesmallerchildrenorwalkstothemarketorfindssomeotherexcusetobehelpful,tobebusy,tobeout.

“Shewon’tlisten,”WernertellsFrauElena.“Keeptrying.”Beforeheknowsit,there’sonlyonedaybeforehisdeparture.HewakesbeforedawnandfindsJutta

asleepinhercotinthegirls’dormitory.Herarmsarewrappedaroundherheadandherwoolblanketistwistedaroundhermidsectionandherpillow is jammed into thecrackbetweenmattress andwall—eveninsleep,atableauoffriction.AboveherbedarepaperedherfantasticalpencildrawingsofFrauElena’svillage,ofPariswithathousandwhitetowersbeneathwhirlingflocksofbirds.

Hesayshername.Shetwinesherselftighterintoherblanket.“Willyouwalkwithme?”Tohis surprise, she sits up.They step outside before anyone else is awake.He leads herwithout

speaking. They climb one fence, then another. Jutta’s untied shoelaces trail behind her. Thistles bitetheirknees.Therisingsunmakesapinholeonthehorizon.

Theystopattheedgeofanirrigationcanal.Inwinterspast,Wernerusedtotowherintheirwagontothisveryspot,andtheywouldwatchskatersracealongthefrozencanal,farmerswithbladesfixedtotheirfeetandfrostcakedintheirbeards,fiveorsixrushingbyallatonce,tightlypacked,inthemidstofaneight-ornine-mileracebetweentowns.Thelookintheskaters’eyeswasofhorseswhohaverunalongway,anditwasalwaysexcitingforWernertoseethem,tofeeltheairdisturbedbytheirspeed,toheartheirskatesclappingalong,thenfading—asensationasifhissoulmighttearfreeofhisbodyandgosparkingoffwith them.Butassoonas they’dcontinuedaround thebendand leftbehindonly thewhite etchingsof their skates in the ice, the thrillwould fade, andhe’d tow Juttaback toChildren’sHousefeelinglonelyandforsakenandmoretrappedinhislifethanbefore.

Hesays,“Noskaterscamelastwinter.”Hissistergazesintotheditch.Hereyesaremauve.Herhairissnarledanduntamableandperhaps

evenwhiterthanhis.Schnee.Shesays,“None’llcomethisyeareither.”Theminecomplexisasmolderingblackmountainrangebehindher.EvennowWernercanheara

mechanicaldrumbeat thudding in thedistance, firstshiftgoingdownin theelevatorsas theowlshift

comesup—allthoseboyswithtiredeyesandsoot-stainedfacesrisingintheelevatorstomeetthesun—andforamomentheapprehendsahugeandterriblepresenceloomingjustbeyondthemorning.

“Iknowyou’reangry—”“You’llbecomejustlikeHansandHerribert.”“Iwon’t.”“Spendenoughtimewithboyslikethatandyouwill.”“Soyouwantmetostay?Godowninthemines?”Theywatchabicyclistfardownthepath.Juttaclampsherhandsinherarmpits.“YouknowwhatI

usedtolistento?Onourradio?Beforeyouruinedit?”“Hush,Jutta.Please.”“BroadcastsfromParis.They’dsaytheoppositeofeverythingDeutschlandsendersays.They’dsay

weweredevils.Thatwewerecommittingatrocities.Doyouknowwhatatrocitiesmeans?”“Please,Jutta.”“Isitright,”Juttasays,“todosomethingonlybecauseeveryoneelseisdoingit?”Doubts:slippinginlikeeels.Wernershovesthemback.Juttaisbarelytwelveyearsold,stillachild.“I’llwriteyouletterseveryweek.TwiceaweekifIcan.Youdon’thavetoshowthemtoFrauElena

ifyoudon’twantto.”Juttashutshereyes.“It’snotforever,Jutta.Twoyears,maybe.Halftheboyswhogetadmitteddon’tmanagetograduate.

ButmaybeI’lllearnsomething;maybethey’llteachmetobeaproperengineer.MaybeIcanlearntoflyanairplane,likelittleSiegfriedsays.Don’tshakeyourhead,we’vealwayswantedtoseetheinsideofanairplane,haven’twe?I’llflyuswest,youandme,FrauElenatooifshewants.Orwecouldtakeatrain.We’ll ride through forests andvillagesdemontagnes, all those places FrauElena talked aboutwhenweweresmall.MaybewecouldrideallthewaytoParis.”

Theburgeoninglight.Thetenderhissingofthegrass.Juttaopenshereyesbutdoesn’tlookathim.“Don’ttelllies.Lietoyourself,Werner,butdon’tlietome.”

Tenhourslater,he’sonatrain.

Etienne

For three days she does notmeet her great-uncle. Then, feeling herway to the toilet on the fourthmorningaftertheirarrival,shestepsonsomethingsmallandhard.Shecrouchesandlocatesitwithherfingers.

Whorledandsmooth.Asculptureofverticalfolds incisedbya taperingspiral.Theaperturebroadandoval.Shewhispers,“Awhelk.”

Onestrideinfrontofthefirstshell,shefindsanother.Thenathirdandafourth.Thetrailofseashellsarcspast the toiletanddowna flight to theclosed fifth-floordoorsheknowsbynow ishis.Beyondwhichissuestheconcertedwhispersofpianosplaying.Avoicesays,“Comein.”

She expects fustiness, an elderly funk, but the room smells mildly of soap and books and driedseaweed.NotunlikeDr.Geffard’slaboratory.

“Great-Uncle?”“Marie-Laure.”Hisvoice is lowandsoft,apieceofsilkyoumightkeep inadrawerandpullout

onlyon rare occasions, just to feel it betweenyour fingers.She reaches into space, and a cool bird-boned hand takes hers. He is feeling better, he says. “I am sorry I have not been able tomeet yousooner.”

Thepianosplinkalongsoftly;itsoundsasifadozenareplayingallatonce,asifthesoundcomesfromeverypointofthecompass.

“Howmanyradiosdoyouhave,Uncle?”“Letmeshowyou.”Hebringsherhandstoashelf.“Thisoneisstereo.Heterodyne.Iassembledit

myself.”She imaginesadiminutivepianist,dressed ina tuxedo,playing inside themachine.Nextheplacesherhandsonabigcabinetradio,thenonathirdnobiggerthanatoaster.Elevensetsinall,hesays, boyish pride slipping into his voice. “I can hear ships at sea.Madrid. Brazil. London. I heardPakistanonce.Hereattheedgeofthecity,sohighinthehouse,wegetsuperbreception.”

He letsherdig throughaboxof fuses,anotherofswitches.He leadsher tobookshelvesnext: thespines of hundreds of books; a birdcage; beetles in matchboxes; an electric mousetrap; a glasspaperweight inside which, he says, a scorpion has been entombed; jars of miscellaneous fuses; ahundredmorethingsshecannotidentify.

Hehastheentirefifthfloor—onebigroom,exceptforthelanding—tohimself.ThreewindowsopenontotherueVauborelinthefront,threemoreontothealleyintheback.Thereisasmallandancientbed,hiscoverletsmoothandtight.Atidydesk,adavenport.

“That’sthetour,”hesays,almostwhispering.Hergreat-uncleseemskind,curious,andentirelysane.Stillness:thisiswhatheradiatesmorethananythingelse.Thestillnessofatree.Ofamouseblinkinginthedark.

MadameManecbringssandwiches.Etiennedoesn’thaveanyJulesVerne,buthedoeshaveDarwin,he says, and reads toher fromTheVoyageof the“Beagle,” translatingEnglish toFrench ashegoes—thevarietyofspeciesamongthejumpingspidersappearsalmostinfinite...Musicspiralsoutoftheradios,anditissplendidtodrowseonthedavenport,tobewarmandfed,tofeelthesentenceshoistherupandcarryhersomewhereelse.

Sixblocksawayatthetelegraphoffice,Marie-Laure’sfatherpresseshisfacetothewindowtowatchtwoGermanmotorcycleswithsidecarsroarthroughthePorteSaint-Vincent.Theshuttersofthetownare drawn, but between slats, over sills, a thousand eyes peer out. Behind themotorcycles roll twotrucks.IntherearglidesasingleblackMercedes.Sunlightflashesfromthehoodornamentsandchromefittingsasthelittleprocessiongrindstoastopontheringedgraveldriveinfrontofthesoaringlichen-streaked walls of the Château de Saint-Malo. An elderly, preternaturally tanned man—the mayor,somebody explains—waits with a white handkerchief in his big sailor’s hands, a barely perceptibleshakeshowinginhiswrists.

TheGermansclimboutof theirvehicles,more thanadozenof them.Theirbootsgleamand theiruniformsaretidy.Twocarrycarnations;oneurgesalongabeagleonarope.Severalgazeopenmouthedupatthefacadeofthechâteau.

A shortman in a field captain’s uniformemerges from thebackseat of theMercedes andbrushessomethinginvisiblefromthesleeveofhiscoat.Heexchangesafewwordswithathinaide-de-camp,whotranslatestothemayor.Themayornods.Thentheshortmandisappearsthroughthehugedoors.Minutes later, the aide-de-camp flings open the shutters of an upstairswindow and gazes amomentacrosstherooftopsbeforeunfurlingacrimsonflagoverthebrickandsecuringitseyeletstothesill.

Jungmänner

It’sacastleoutofastorybook:eightorninestonebuildingsshelteredbelowhills,rust-coloredroofs,narrowwindows,spiresandturrets,weedssproutingfrombetweenrooftiles.Aprettylittleriverwindsthroughathleticsfields.NotintheclearesthourofZollverein’sclearestdayhasWernerbreathedairsounadulteratedbydust.

Aone-armedbunkmastersetsforthrulesinabelligerenttorrent.“Thisisyourparadeuniform,thisisyourfielduniform, this isyourgymuniform.Suspenderscrossed in theback,parallel in thefront.Sleevesrolledtotheelbow.Eachboyistocarryaknifeinascabbardontherightsideofthebelt.Raiseyourrightarmwhenyouwishtobecalledupon.Alwaysaligninrowsoften.Nobooks,nocigarettes,nofood,nopersonalpossessions,nothinginyourlockerbutuniforms,boots,knife,polish.Notalkingafterlights-out.LettershomewillbepostedonWednesdays.Youwillstripawayyourweakness,yourcowardice,yourhesitation.Youwillbecomelikeawaterfall,avolleyofbullets—youwillallsurgeinthesamedirectionatthesamepacetowardthesamecause.Youwillforgocomforts;youwilllivebydutyalone.Youwilleatcountryandbreathenation.”

Dotheyunderstand?Theboysshoutthattheydo.Therearefourhundredofthem,plusthirtyinstructorsandfiftymoreon

the staff,NCOs and cooks, groomsmen andgroundskeepers. Some cadets are as young as nine.Theoldestareseventeen.Gothicfaces,sharpnoses,pointedchins.Blueeyes,allofthem.

Wernersleeps ina tinydormitorywithsevenother fourteen-year-olds.Thebunkabovebelongs toFrederick:areedyboy,thinasabladeofgrass,skinaspaleascream.Frederickisnewtoo.He’sfromBerlin.His father is assistant to an ambassador. When Frederick speaks, his attention floats up, asthoughhe’sscanningtheskyforsomething.

He andWerner eat their first meal in their starchy new uniforms at a long wooden table in therefectory.Someboystalkinwhispers,somesitalone,somegulpfoodasiftheyhavenoteatenindays.Throughthreearchedwindows,dawnsendsasheafofhallowedgoldenrays.

Frederickfluttershisfingersandasks,“Doyoulikebirds?”“Sure.”“Doyouknowabouthoodedcrows?”Wernershakeshishead.“Hoodedcrowsaresmarterthanmostmammals.Evenmonkeys.I’veseenthemputnutstheycan’t

crackintheroadandwaitforcarstorunoverthemtogetatthekernel.Werner,youandIaregoingtobegreatfriends,I’msureofit.”

A portrait of the führer glowers over every classroom. Learning happens on backless benches, atwooden tables grooved by the boredom of countless boys before them—squires, monks, conscripts,cadets.OnWerner’sfirstday,hewalkspastthehalf-opendoorofthetechnicalscienceslaboratoryandglimpsesaroomasbigasZollverein’sdrugstorelinedwithbrand-newsinksandglass-frontedcabinetsinsidewhichwaitsparklingbeakersandgraduatedcylindersandbalancesandburners.Frederickhastourgehimalong.

On their second day, awithered phrenologist gives a presentation to the entire student body. Thelightsintherefectorydim,aprojectorwhirs,andachartfullofcirclesappearsonthefarwall.Theoldmanstandsbeneaththeprojectionscreenandwhisksthetipofabilliardscuethroughthegrids.“WhitecirclesrepresentpureGermanblood.Circleswithblackindicatetheproportionofforeignblood.Notice

group two, number five.”He raps the screenwith his cue and it ripples. “Marriage between a pureGermanandone-quarterJewisstillpermissible,yousee?”

A half hour later,Werner and Frederick are readingGoethe in poetics. Then they’remagnetizingneedlesinfieldexercises.Thebunkmasterannouncesschedulesofbyzantinecomplication:Mondaysareformechanics,statehistory, racialsciences.Tuesdaysare forhorsemanship,orienteering,militaryhistory.Everyone,eventhenine-year-olds,willbetaughttoclean,breakdown,andfireaMauserrifle.

Afternoons,theylashthemselvesintoasnarlofcartridgebeltsandrun.Runtothetroughs;runtotheflag;runupthehill.Runcarryingeachotheronyourbacks,runcarryingyourrifleaboveyourhead.Run,crawl,swim.Thenmorerunning.

Thestar-floodednights,thedew-soakeddawns,thehushedambulatories,theenforcedasceticism—neverhasWernerfeltpartofsomethingsosingle-minded.Neverhashefeltsuchahungertobelong.Intherowsofdormitoriesarecadetswhotalkofalpineskiing,ofduels,ofjazzclubsandgovernessesandboar hunting; boyswho employ cursewordswith virtuosic skill and boyswho talk about cigarettesnamedforcinemastars;boyswhospeakof“telephoningthecolonel”andboyswhohavebaronessesformothers.Thereareboyswhohavebeenadmittednotbecausetheyaregoodatanythinginparticularbutbecause their fathers work for ministries. And the way they talk: “One mustn’t expect figs fromthistles!”“I’dpollinateherinablink,youshit!”“Bearupandfunkit,boys!”Therearecadetswhodoeverything right—perfect posture, expertmarksmanship, boots polished so perfectly that they reflectclouds.Therearecadetswhohaveskinlikebutterandiriseslikesapphiresandultra-finenetworksofblue veins laced across the backs of their hands. For now, though, beneath the whip of theadministration,theyareallthesame,allJungmänner.Theyhustlethroughthegatestogether,gulpfriedeggs in therefectory together,marchacross thequadrangle,performrollcall, salute thecolors,shootrifles,run,bathe,andsuffertogether.Theyareeachamoundofclay,andthepotterthatistheportly,shiny-facedcommandantisthrowingfourhundredidenticalpots.Weareyoung,theysing,wearesteadfast,wehavenevercompromised,wehavesomanycastlesyet

tostorm.Werner sways between exhaustion, confusion, and exhilaration. That his life has been so wholly

redirectedastoundshim.Hekeepsanydoubtsatbaybymemorizinglyricsortheroutestoclassrooms,byholdingbeforehiseyesavisionofthetechnicalscienceslaboratory:ninetables,thirtystools;coils,variablecapacitors,amplifiers,batteries,solderingironslockedawayinthosegleamingcabinets.

Abovehim,kneelingonhisbunk,Frederickpeersout theopenwindow throughapairofantiquefieldglassesandmakesa recordon thebedrailofbirdshehassighted.Onenotchunderred-neckedgrebe.Sixnotchesunder thrushnightingale.Outon thegrounds,agroupof ten-year-olds iscarryingtorchesandswastikaflagstowardtheriver.Theprocessionpauses,andagustofwindtearsatthetorchflames.Thentheymarchon,theirsongswirlingupthroughthewindowlikeabright,pulsingcloud.

Otakeme,takemeupintotherankssothatIdonotdieacommondeath!Idonotwanttodieinvain,whatIwantistofallonthesacrificialmound.

Vienna

SergeantMajorReinholdvonRumpelisforty-oneyearsold,notsooldthathecannotbepromoted.Hehasmoistredlips;pale,almosttranslucentcheekslikefilletsofrawsole;andaninstinctforcorrectnessthat rarely fails him. He has a wife who suffers his absences without complaint, and who arrangesporcelain kittens by color, lightest to darkest, on two different shelves in their drawing room inStuttgart.He also has twodaughterswhomhehas not seen in ninemonths.The eldest,Veronika, isdeeply earnest. Her letters to him include phrases like sacred resolve, proud accomplishments, andunparalleledinhistory.

VonRumpel’sparticulargift is fordiamonds:hecanfacetandpolishstonesaswellasanyAryanjeweler in Europe, and he often spots fakes at a glance. He studied crystallography in Munich,apprenticedasapolisherinAntwerp,hasevenbeen—onegloriousafternoon—toCharterhouseStreetinLondon,toanunmarkeddiamondhouse,wherehewasaskedtoturnouthispocketsandusheredupthree staircases and through three locked doors and seated at a tablewhere amanwith amustachewaxedtoknifepointslethimexamineaninety-two-caratrawdiamondfromSouthAfrica.

Beforethewar,thelifeofReinholdvonRumpelwaspleasantenough:hewasagemologistwhorananappraisalbusinessoutofasecond-storyshopbehindStuttgart’soldchancellery.Clientswouldbringinstonesandhe’dtellthemwhattheywereworth.Sometimeshe’drecutdiamondsorconsultonhigh-levelfacetingprojects.Ifoccasionallyhecheatedacustomer,hetoldhimselfthatwaspartofthegame.

Becauseof thewar,his jobhasexpanded.NowSergeantMajorvonRumpelhas thechance todowhatnoonehasdoneincenturies—notsincetheMogulDynasty,notsincetheKhans.Perhapsnotinhistory.ThecapitulationofFranceisonlyweekspast,andalreadyhehasseenthingshedidnotdreamhewouldseeinsixlifetimes.Aseventeenth-centuryglobeasbigaroundasasmallcar,withrubiestomarkvolcanoes,sapphiresclusteredatthepoles,anddiamondsforworldcapitals.Hehasheld—held!—adaggerhandleat least fourhundredyearsold,madeofwhite jadeand inlaidwithemeralds. Justyesterday,ontheroadtoVienna,hetookpossessionofafive-hundred-and-seventy-piecechinasetwithasinglemarquise-cutdiamondsetintotherimofeverysingledish.Wherethepoliceconfiscatedthesetreasures and fromwhom, he does not ask.Already he has personally packed them into a crate andbelteditshutandnumbereditwithwhitepaintandseenitloadedinsideatraincarwhereitsitsundertwenty-four-hourguard.

Waitingtobesenttohighcommand.Waitingformore.This particular summer afternoon, in a dusty geological library in Vienna, Sergeant Major von

Rumpelfollowsanunderweightsecretarywearingbrownshoes,brownstockings,abrownskirt,andabrownblousethroughstacksofperiodicals.Thesecretarysetsdownastepstool,climbs,reaches.

Tavernier’s1676TravelsinIndia.P.S.Pallas’s1793TravelsThroughtheSouthernProvincesoftheRussianEmpire.Streeter’s1898PreciousStonesandGems.Rumor is that the führer is compiling awish list of precious objects from all aroundEurope and

Russia.They sayhe intends to remake theAustrian townofLinz intoanempyreancity, theculturalcapital of the world. A vast promenade, mausoleum, acropolis, planetarium, library, opera house—everything marble and granite, everything profoundly clean. At its core, he plans a kilometer-longmuseum:atroveofthegreatestachievementsinhumanculture.

Thedocumentisreal,vonRumpelhasheard.Fourhundredpages.

Hesitsatatableinthestacks.Hetriestocrosshislegsbutaslightswellingtroubleshisgrointoday:odd,thoughnotpainful.Themousylibrarianbringsbooks.HepagesslowlythroughtheTavernier,theStreeter,Murray’sSketchesofPersia.Hereadsentriesonthethree-hundred-caratOrloffdiamondfromMoscow, theNur-al-Ain, theforty-eight-and-a-half-caratDresdenGreen.Towardevening,hefinds it.The story of a princewho could not be killed, a priestwhowarned of a goddess’swrath, a Frenchprelatewhobelievedhe’dboughtthesamestonecenturieslater.

SeaofFlames.Grayishbluewitharedhueat itscenter.Recordedatonehundredandthirty-threecarats.EitherlostorwilledtothekingofFrancein1738ontheconditionthatitbelockedawayfortwohundredyears.

Helooksup.Suspendedlamps,rowsofspinesfadingoffintodustygold.AllofEurope,andheaimstofindonepebbletuckedinsideitsfolds.

TheBoches

Herfathersaystheirweaponsgleamasiftheyhaveneverbeenfired.Hesaystheirbootsarecleanandtheiruniformsspotless.Hesaystheylookasiftheyhavejuststeppedoutofair-conditionedtraincars.

The townswomenwho stopbyMadameManec’skitchendoor inones and twos say theGermans(theyrefertothemastheBoches)buyeverypostcardoneverypharmacyrack;theysaytheBochesbuystrawdollsandcandiedapricotsandstalecakesfromthewindowoftheconfectionery.TheBochesbuyshirtsfromMonsieurVerdierandlingeriefromMonsieurMorvan;theBochesrequireabsurdquantitiesofbutterandcheese;theBocheshaveguzzleddowneverybottleofchampagnethecavistewouldsellthem.

Hitler,thewomenwhisper,istouringParisianmonuments.Curfewsare installed.Music thatcanbeheardoutdoors isbanned.Publicdancesarebanned.The

countryisinmourningandwemustbehaverespectfully,announcesthemayor.Thoughwhatauthorityheretainsisnotclear.

Everytimeshecomeswithinearshot,Marie-Laurehearsthefsstofherfatherlightinganothermatch.Hishandsflutterbetweenhispockets.MorningshealternatesbetweenMadameManec’skitchen, thetobacco shop, and the post office, where he waits in interminable queues to use the telephone.AfternoonsherepairsthingsaroundEtienne’shouse—aloosecabinetdoor,asqueakingstairboard.HeasksMadameManecaboutthereliabilityoftheneighbors.HeflipsthelockingclasponhistoolcaseoverandoveruntilMarie-Laurebegshimtostop.

OnedayEtienne sitswithMarie-Laure and reads to her in his featheryvoice; the next he suffersfromwhathecallsaheadacheandsequestershimselfinsidehisstudybehindalockeddoor.MadameManec sneaks Marie-Laure chocolate bars, slices of cake; this morning they squeeze lemons intoglassesfullofwaterandsugar,andsheletsMarie-Lauredrinkasmuchasshelikes.

“Howlongwillhestayinthere,Madame?”“Sometimesjustadayortwo,”MadameManecsays.“Sometimeslonger.”One week in Saint-Malo becomes two.Marie begins to feel that her life, like Twenty Thousand

LeaguesUndertheSea,hasbeeninterruptedhalfwaythrough.Therewasvolume1,whenMarie-Laureand her father lived in Paris and went to work, and now there is volume 2, when Germans ridemotorcyclesthroughthesestrange,narrowstreetsandherunclevanishesinsidehisownhouse.

“Papa,whenwillweleave?”“AssoonasIhearfromParis.”“Whydowehavetosleepinthislittlebedroom?”“I’msurewecouldcleanoutadownstairsroomifyou’dlike.”“Whatabouttheroomacrossthehallfromus?”“EtienneandIagreedwewouldnotuseit.”“Whynot?”“Itbelongedtoyourgrandfather.”“WhencanIgotothesea?”“Nottoday,Marie.”“Can’twegoforawalkaroundtheblock?”“It’stoodangerous.”

She wants to shriek. What dangers await? When she opens her bedroom window, she hears noscreams,noexplosions,only thecallsofbirds thathergreat-unclecallsgannets,andthesea,andtheoccasionalthrobofanairplaneasitpassesfaroverhead.

Shespendsherhourslearningthehouse.ThefirstfloorbelongstoMadameManec:clean,navigable,fullofvisitorswhocomethroughthekitchendoor to trade insmall-townscandal.There’s thediningroom,thefoyer,ahutchfullofantiquedishesinthehallthattremblewheneveranyonewalkspast,andadooroffthekitchenthatleadstoMadame’sroom:abed,asink,achamberpot.

Elevenwindingstepsleadtothesecondfloor,whichisfullofthesmellsoffadedgrandeur:anoldsewingroom,a formermaid’s room.Righthereon the landing,MadameManec tellsher,pallbearersdroppedthecoffincarryingEtienne’sgreat-aunt.“Thecoffinflippedover,andshesliddownthewholeflight.Theywereallhorrified,butshelookedentirelyunaffected!”

Moreclutteronthethirdfloor:boxesofjars,metaldisks,andrustyjigsaws;bucketsofwhatmightbeelectricalcomponents;engineeringmanuals inpilesarounda toilet.By thefourthfloor, thingsarepiledeverywhere,intheroomsandcorridorsandalongthestaircase:basketsofwhatmustbemachineparts,shoeboxesloadedwithscrews,antiquedollhousesbuiltbyhergreat-grandfather.Etienne’shugestudycolonizestheentirefifthfloor,alternatelydeeplyquietorelsefullofvoicesormusicorstatic.

Thenthere’sthesixthfloor:hergrandfather’stidybedroomontheleft,toiletstraightahead,thelittleroomwhereshesleepswithherfatherontheright.Whenthewindisblowing,whichitalmostalwaysis,with thewalls groaning and the shutters banging, the rooms overloaded and the staircasewoundtightly up through its center, the house seems the material equivalent of her uncle’s inner being:apprehensive,isolated,butfullofcobwebbywonders.

In the kitchen,MadameManec’s friends fuss overMarie-Laure’s hair and freckles. In Paris, thewomensay,peoplearewaiting in linefivehoursfora loafofbread.Peopleareeatingpets,crushingpigeonswithbricksforsoup.Thereisnopork,norabbit,nocauliflower.Theheadlightsofcarsareallpaintedblue,theysay,andatnightthecityisasquietasagraveyard:nobuses,notrains,hardlyanygasoline.Marie-Lauresitsat thesquare table,aplateofcookies infrontofher,and imagines theoldwomenwithveinyhandsandmilkyeyesandoversizeears.Fromthekitchenwindowcomesthewitwitwitofabarnswallow,footfallsonramparts,halyardsclinkingagainstmasts,hingesandchainscreakingintheharbor.Ghosts.Germans.Snails.

Hauptmann

A rosy-cheeked and diminutive instructor of technical sciences namedDr.Hauptmann peels off hisbrass-buttoned coat and hangs it over the back of a chair.He orders the cadets inWerner’s class tocollecthingedmetalboxesfromalockedcabinetatthebackofthelaboratory.

Insideeacharegears,lenses,fuses,springs,shackles,andresistors.There’safatcoilofcopperwire,a tiny instrumenthammer,anda two-terminalbatteryasbigasashoe—finerequipment thanWernerhashadaccesstoinhislife.Thelittleprofessorstandsatthechalkboarddrawingawiringschematicfora simpleMorse-codepractice circuit.He setsdownhis chalk, presseshis slender fingertips together,fivetofive,andaskstheboystoassemblethecircuitwiththepartsintheirkits.“Youhaveonehour.”

Mostoftheboysblanch.Theydumpeverythingoutonthetablesandpokegingerlyatthepartsasifat trinkets imported from some future age.Frederickplucks randompieces out of his box andholdsthemtothelight.

For a moment Werner is back inside his attic room at Children’s House, his head a swarm ofquestions.What is lightning?Howhighcouldyou jump ifyou livedonMars?What is thedifferencebetweentwicetwenty-fiveandtwicefiveandtwenty?Thenhetakesthebattery,tworectanglesofsheetmetal,somepennynails,andtheinstrumenthammerfromhisbox.Inunderaminute,hehasbuiltanoscillatortomatchtheschematic.

Thelittleprofessorfrowns.HetestsWerner’scircuit,whichworks.“Right,”hesays,andstands infrontofWerner’s tableand laceshishandsbehindhisback.“Next

takefromyourkitthedisk-shapedmagnet,awire,ascrew,andyourbattery.”Thoughhisinstructionsseemmeantfortheclass,helooksatWerneralone.“Thatisallyoumayuse.Whocanbuildasimplemotor?”

Someboysstirthepartsintheirkitshalfheartedly.Mostsimplywatch.WernerfeelsDr.Hauptmann’sattentiononhimlikeafloodlight.Hesticksthemagnettothescrew’s

headandholdsthescrew’spointtothepositiveterminalonthebattery.Whenherunsthewirefromthenegativesideofthebatterytotheheadofthescrew,boththescrewandthemagnetstarttospin.Theoperationtakeshimnomorethanfifteenseconds.

Dr. Hauptmann’s mouth is partially open. His face is flushed, adrenalized. “What is your name,cadet?”

“Pfennig,sir.”“Whatelsecanyoumake?”Wernerstudiesthepartsonhistable.“Adoorbell,sir?OraMorsebeacon?Anohmmeter?”Theotherboyscranetheirnecks.Dr.Hauptmann’slipsarepinkandhiseyelidsareimprobablythin.

AsthoughheiswatchingWernerevenwhenheblinks.Hesays,“Makethemall.”

FlyingCouch

Postersgoupinthemarket,ontreetrunksinthePlaceChateaubriand.Voluntarysurrenderoffirearms.Anyonewhodoesnotcooperatewillbeshot.Atnoon the followingday,variousBretons troop in todropoffweapons,farmersonmulecartsfrommilesaway,ploddingoldsailorswithantiquepistols,afewhunterswithoutrageintheireyesgazingatthefloorastheyturnintheirrifles.

Intheendit’sapatheticpile,maybethreehundredweaponsinall,halfofthemrusted.Twoyounggendarmespilethemintothebackofatruckanddriveupthenarrowstreetandacrossthecausewayandaregone.Nospeeches,noexplanations.

“Please,Papa,can’tIgoout?”“Soon,littledove.”Butheisdistracted;hesmokessomuchitisasifheisturninghimselfintoash.

LatelyhestaysupworkingfreneticallyonamodelofSaint-Malothatheclaimsisforher,addingnewhouseseveryday,framingramparts,mappingstreets,sothatshecanlearnthetownthewayshelearnedtheirneighborhood inParis.Wood,glue,nails, sandpaper: rather thancomfortingher, thenoises andsmellsofhismanicdiligencemakehermoreanxious.WhywillshehavetolearnthestreetsofSaint-Malo?Howlongwilltheybehere?

Inthefifth-floorstudy,Marie-Laurelistenstohergreat-unclereadanotherpageofTheVoyageofthe“Beagle.” Darwin has hunted rheas in Patagonia, studied owls outside Buenos Aires, and scaled awaterfallinTahiti.Hepaysattentiontoslaves,rocks,lightning,finches,andtheceremonyofpressingnosesinNewZealand.ShelovesespeciallytohearaboutthedarkcoastsofSouthAmericawiththeirimpenetrable walls of trees and offshore breezes full of the stink of rotting kelp and the cries ofwhelping seals. She loves to imagine Darwin at night, leaning over the ship’s rail to stare intobioluminescentwaves,watchingthetracksofpenguinsmarkedbyfierygreenwakes.

“Bonsoir,” she says to Etienne, standing on the davenport in his study. “I may be only a girl oftwelve,butIamabraveFrenchexplorerwhohascometohelpyouwithyouradventures.”

EtienneadoptsaBritishaccent. “Goodevening,mademoiselle,whydon’tyoucome to the junglewith me and eat these butterflies, they are as big as dinner plates and may not be poisonous, whoknows?”

“Iwouldlovetoeatyourbutterflies,MonsieurDarwin,butfirstIwilleatthesecookies.”Other evenings they play FlyingCouch.They climb onto the davenport and sit side by side, and

Etiennesays,“Wheretotonight,mademoiselle?”“Thejungle!”Or:“Tahiti!”Or:“Mozambique!”“Oh, it’s a long journey this time,” Etiennewill say in an entirely new voice, smooth, velvety, a

conductor’sdrawl.“That’stheAtlanticOceanfarbelow,it’sshiningunderthemoonlight,canyousmellit?Feelhowcolditisuphere?Feelthewindinyourhair?”

“Wherearewenow,Uncle?”“We’reinBorneo,can’tyoutell?We’reskimmingthetreetopsnow,bigleavesareglimmeringbelow

us,andtherearecoffeebushesoverthere,smellthem?”andMarie-Laurewillindeedsmellsomething,whetherbecauseheruncleispassingcoffeegroundsbeneathhernose,orbecausetheyreallyareflyingoverthecoffeetreesofBorneo,shedoesnotwanttodecide.

TheyvisitScotland,NewYorkCity,Santiago.Morethanoncetheyputonwintercoatsandvisitthemoon.“Can’tyoufeelhowlightweightweare,Marie?Youcanmovebyhardlytwitchingamuscle!”

He sets her in his wheeled desk chair and pants as he whirls her in circles until she cannot laughanymoreforthepainofit.

“Here,trysomenicefreshmoonflesh,”hesays,andintohermouthgoessomethingthattastesalotlikecheese.Alwaysattheendtheysitsidebysideagainandpoundthecushions,andslowlytheroomrematerializesaroundthem.“Ah,”hesays,morequietly,hisaccentfading,thefaintesttouchofdreadreturningtohisvoice,“hereweare.Home.”

TheSumofAngles

Werner is summoned to the office of the technical sciences professor. A trio of sleek long-leggedhoundsswirlaroundhimasheenters.Theroomislitbyapairofgreen-shadedbanker’slamps,andinthe shadows Werner can see shelves crowded with encyclopedias, models of windmills, miniaturetelescopes, prisms. Dr. Hauptmann stands behind his big desk wearing his brass-buttoned coat, asthoughhetoohasjustarrived.Tightcurlsframehisivoryforehead;hetugsoffhisleatherglovesonefingeratatime.“Dropalogonthefire,please.”

Wernertacksacrosstheroomandstirsthecoalstolife.Inthecorner,herealizes,sitsathirdperson,a massive figure camped sleepily in an armchair intended for a much smaller man. He is FrankVolkheimer,anupperclassman,seventeenyearsold,acolossalboyfromsomeborealvillage,alegendamong the younger cadets. Supposedly Volkheimer has carried three first-years across the river byholdingthemabovehishead;supposedlyhehasliftedthetailendofthecommandant’sautomobilehighenoughtoslipajackundertheaxle.Thereisarumorthathecrushedacommunist’swindpipewithhishands.Anotherthathegrabbedthemuzzleofastraydogandcutoutitseyesjusttoinurehimselftothesufferingofotherbeings.

TheycallhimtheGiant.Eveninthelow,flickeringlight,WernerseesthatveinsclimbVolkheimer’sforearmslikevines.

“A student has never built the motor,” says Hauptmann, his back partially to Volkheimer. “Notwithouthelp.”

Wernerdoesnotknowhowtoreply,sohedoesnot.Hepokesthefireonelasttime,andsparksriseupthechimney.

“Canyoudotrigonometry,cadet?”“OnlywhatIhavebeenabletoteachmyself,sir.”Hauptmanntakesasheetofpaperfromadrawerandwritesonit.“Doyouknowwhatthisis?”Wernersquints.

“Aformula,sir.”“Doyoucomprehenditsuses?”“Ibelieveitisawaytousetwoknownpointstofindthelocationofathirdandunknownpoint.”Hauptmann’sblueeyesglitter;helookslikesomeonewhohasdiscoveredsomethingveryvaluable

lyingrightinfrontofhimontheground.“IfIgiveyoutheknownpointsandadistancebetweenthem,cadet,canyousolveit?Canyoudrawthetriangle?”

“Ibelieveso.”“Sitatmydesk,Pfennig.Takemychair.Hereisapencil.”Whenhesitsinthedeskchair,thetoesofWerner’sbootsdonotreachtheground.Thefirepumps

heatintotheroom.BlockoutgiantFrankVolkheimerwithhismammothbootsandcinder-blockjaw.Blockoutthelittlearistocraticprofessorpacinginfrontofthehearthandthelatehourandthedogsandtheshelvesbrimmingwithinterestingthings.Thereisonlythis.

tanα=sinα/cosα

andsin(α+β)=sinαcosβ+cosαsinβ

Nowdcanbemovedtothefrontoftheequation.

WernerplugsHauptmann’snumbersintotheequation.Heimaginestwoobserversinafieldpacingout the distance between them, then leveling their eyes on a far-off landmark: a sailing ship or asmokestack.WhenWerner asks for a slide rule, the professor slips one onto the desk immediately,havingexpectedtherequest.Wernertakesitwithoutlookingandbeginstocalculatethesines.

Volkheimerwatches.Thelittledoctorpaces,handsbehindhisback.Thefirepops.Theonlysoundsarethebreathingofthedogsandclickingofthesliderule’scursor.

EventuallyWernersays,“Sixteenpointfourthree,HerrDoktor.”Hedrawsthetriangleandlabelsthedistancesofeachsegmentandpassesthepaperback.Hauptmanncheckssomethinginaleatherbook.Volkheimershiftsslightly inhischair;hisgaze isboth interestedand indolent.Theprofessorpressesoneofhispalmsflat tothedeskwhilereading,frowningabsently,as thoughwaitingfora thoughttopass.Wernerisseizedwithasuddenandforebodingdread,butthenHauptmannlooksbackathim,andthefeelingsubsides.

“Itsaysinyourapplicationpapersthatwhenyouleavehere,youwishtostudyelectricalmechanicsinBerlin.Andyouareanorphan,isthatcorrect?”

AnotherglanceatVolkheimer.Wernernods.“Mysister—”“Ascientist’swork,cadet,isdeterminedbytwothings.Hisinterestsandtheinterestsofhistime.Do

youunderstand?”“Ithinkso.”“Weliveinexceptionaltimes,cadet.”A thrill enters Werner’s chest. Firelit rooms lined with books—these are the places in which

importantthingshappen.“Youwillworkinthelaboratoryafterdinner.Everynight.EvenSundays.”“Yes,sir.”“Starttomorrow.”“Yes,sir.”“Volkheimerherewillkeepaneyeout foryou.Take thesebiscuits.”Theprofessorproducesa tin

with a bow on it. “And breathe, Pfennig. You cannot hold your breath every time you’re in mylaboratory.”

“Yes,sir.”Coldairwhistlesthroughthehalls,sopureitmakesWernerdizzy.Atrioofmothsswimagainstthe

ceiling of his bunkroom.He unlaces his boots and folds his trousers in the dark and sets the tin ofbiscuitsontop.Frederickpeersovertheedgeofhisbunk.“Wheredidyougo?”

“Igotcookies,”whispersWerner.“Iheardaneagleowltonight.”“Hush,”hissesaboytwobunksdown.Wernerpassesupabiscuit.Frederickwhispers:“Doyouknowaboutthem?They’rereallyrare.Big

asgliders.Thisonewasprobablyayoungmalelookingfornewterritory.Hewasinoneofthepoplartreesbesidetheparadeground.”

“Oh,”saysWerner.Greeklettersmoveacrosstheundersidesofhiseyelids:isoscelestriangles,betas,sinecurves.Heseeshimselfinawhitecoat,stridingpastmachines.Somedayhe’llprobablywinabigprize.Codebreaking,rocketpropulsion,allthelatest.Weliveinexceptionaltimes.Fromthehallcometheclickingbootheelsofthebunkmaster.Fredericktipsbackontohisbunk.“I

couldn’tseehim,”hewhispers,“butIheardhimperfectly.”“Shutyourface!”saysasecondboy.“You’llgetusthrashed.”Fredericksaysnothingmore.Wernerstopschewing.Thebunkmaster’sbootsgoquiet:eitherheis

goneorhehaspausedoutside thedoor.Outon thegrounds, someone is splittingwood, andWernerlistens to theringingof thesledgehammeragainst thewedgeand thequick, frightenedbreathsof theboysallaroundhim.

TheProfessor

EtienneisreadingDarwintoMarie-Laurewhenhestopsmidsyllable.“Uncle?”He breathes nervously, out of pursed lips, as if blowing on a spoonful of hot soup.Hewhispers,

“Someone’shere.”Marie-Laurecanhearnothing.Nofootfalls,noknocks.MadameManecwhisksabroomacrossthe

landingonefloorup.Etiennehandsherthebook.Shecanhearhimunplugaradio,thentanglehimselfinitscords.“Uncle?”shesaysagain,butheis leavinghisstudy,flounderingdownstairs—aretheyindanger?—andshefollowshimtothekitchen,whereshecanhearhimlaboringtoslidethekitchentableoutoftheway.

Hepullsuparinginthecenterofthefloor.Beneathahatchwaitsasquareholeoutofwhichwashesadamp,frighteningsmell.“Onestepdown,hurrynow.”

Isthisacellar?Whathasheruncleseen?ShehassetonefootonthetoprungofaladderwhentheblockyshoesofMadameManeccomeclompingintothekitchen.“Really,MasterEtienne,please!”

Etienne’svoicefrombelow:“Iheardsomething.Someone.”“Youarefrighteningher.Itisnothing,Marie-Laure.Comenow.”Marie-Laurebacksout.Belowher,hergreat-unclewhispersnurseryrhymestohimself.“Icansitwithhimforabit,Madame.Maybewecouldreadsomemoreofourbook,Uncle?”Thecellar,shegathers,ismerelyadankholeintheground.Theysitawhileonarolledcarpetwith

the trapdoor open and listen toMadameManec hum as she makes tea in the kitchen above them.Etiennetrembleslightlybesideher.

“Didyouknow,”saysMarie-Laure,“thatthechanceofbeinghitbylightningisoneinonemillion?Dr.Geffardtaughtmethat.”

“Inoneyearorinonelifetime?”“I’mnotsure.”“Youshouldhaveasked.”Againthosequick,pursedexhalations.Asthoughhiswholebodyurgeshimtoflee.“Whathappensifyougooutside,Uncle?”“Igetuneasy.”Hisvoiceisalmostinaudible.“Butwhatmakesyouuneasy?”“Beingoutside.”“Whatpart?”“Bigspaces.”“Notallspacesarebig.Yourstreetisnotthatbig,isit?”“Notasbigasthestreetsyouareusedto.”“Youlikeeggsandfigs.Andtomatoes.Theywereinourlunch.Theygrowoutside.”Helaughssoftly.“Ofcoursetheydo.”“Don’tyoumisstheworld?”Heisquiet;soisshe.Bothridespiralsofmemory.“Ihavethewholeworldhere,”hesays,andtapsthecoverofDarwin.“Andinmyradios.Rightat

myfingertips.”

Heruncleseemsalmostachild,monasticinthemodestyofhisneedsandwhollyindependentofanysortoftemporalobligations.Andyetshecantellheisvisitedbyfearssoimmense,somultiple,thatshecan almost feel the terror pulsing inside him. As though some beast breathes all the time at thewindowpanesofhismind.

“Couldyoureadsomemore,please?”sheasks,andEtienneopensthebookandwhispers,“Delightitself is aweak term to express the feelings of a naturalistwho, for the first time, haswandered byhimselfintoaBrazilianforest...”

Afterafewparagraphs,Marie-Lauresayswithoutpreamble,“Tellmeaboutthatbedroomupstairs.AcrossfromtheoneIsleepin.”

Hestops.Againhisquick,nervousbreaths.“There’salittledooratthebackofit,”shesays,“butit’slocked.What’sthroughthere?”Heissilentfor longenoughthatsheworriesshehasupsethim.But thenhestands,andhisknees

crackliketwigs.“Areyougettingoneofyourheadaches,Uncle?”“Comewithme.”Theywindallthewayupthestairs.Onthesixth-floorlanding,theyturnleft,andhepushesopenthe

door towhatwasoncehergrandfather’sroom.Shehasalreadyrunherhandsover itscontentsmanytimes:awoodenoarnailedtoawall,awindowdressedwithlongcurtains.Singlebed.Modelshiponashelf.Atthebackstandsawardrobesolarge,shecannotreachitstopnorstretchherarmswideenoughtotouchbothsidesatonce.

“Thesearehisthings?”Etienneunlatchesthelittledoorbesidethewardrobe.“Goon.”Shegropesthrough.Dry,confinedheat.Micescuttle.Herfingersfindaladder.“Itleadstothegarret.It’snothigh.”Sevenrungs.Atthetop,shestands;shehasthesenseofalongslope-walledspacepressedbeneath

thegableoftheroof.Thepeakoftheceilingisjusttallerthansheis.Etienne climbs up behind her and takes her hand. Her feet find cables on the floor. They snake

betweendustyboxes,overwhelmasawhorse;heleadsherthroughathicketofthemtowhatfeelslikeanupholsteredpianobenchatthefarend,andhelpshersit.

“This is the attic. That’s the chimney in front of us. Put your hands on the table; there you are.”Metalboxescoverthetabletop:tubes,coils,switches,meters,atleastonegramophone.Thiswholepartoftheattic,sherealizes,issomesortofmachine.Thesunbakestheslatesabovetheirheads.Etiennesecures a headset overMarie-Laure’s ears. Through the headphones, she can hear him turn a crank,switchonsomething,andthen,asifpositioneddirectlyinthecenterofherhead,apianoplaysasweet,simplesong.

Thesongfades,andastatickyvoicesays,Considerasinglepieceglowinginyourfamily’sstove.Seeit,children?Thatchunkofcoalwasonceagreenplant,afernorreedthatlivedonemillionyearsago,ormaybetwomillion,ormaybeonehundredmillion...

Aftera littlewhile, thevoicegivesway to thepianoagain.Herunclepullsoff theheadset.“Asaboy,”hesays,“mybrotherwasgoodateverything,buthisvoicewaswhatpeoplecommentedonmost.ThenunsatSt.Vincent’swanted tobuildchoirsaround it.Wehadadreamtogether,Henriand I, tomakerecordingsandsellthem.HehadthevoiceandIhadthebrainsandbacktheneveryonewantedgramophones. And hardly anyone was making programs for children. So we contacted a recordingcompanyinParis,andtheyexpressedinterest,andIwrotetendifferentscriptsaboutscience,andHenri

rehearsedthem,andfinallywestartedrecording.Yourfatherwasjustaboy,buthewouldcomearoundtolisten.Itwasoneofthehappiesttimesofmylife.”

“Thentherewasthewar.”“We became signalmen. Our job, mine and your grandfather’s, was to knit telegraph wires from

commandpositionsatthereartofieldofficersat thefront.Mostnightstheenemywouldshootpistolflares called ‘very lights’ over the trenches, short-lived stars suspended in the air from parachutes,meant to illuminatepossible targets for snipers.Every soldierwithin reachof theglarewould freezewhile it lasted.Somehours, eightyor ninetyof these flareswouldgooff, one after another, and thenightwould turnstarkandstrange in thatmagnesiumglow. Itwouldbesoquiet, theonlysound thefizzlingoftheflares,andthenyou’dhearthewhistleofasniper’sbulletstreakoutofthedarknessandbury itself in the mud. We would stay as close together as we could. But I’d become paralyzedsometimes; Icouldnotmoveanypartofmybody,notevenmyfingers.Notevenmyeyelids.Henriwouldstayrightbesidemeandwhisperthosescripts,theoneswerecorded.Sometimesallnight.Overandover.Asthoughweavingsomekindofprotectivescreenaroundus.Untilmorningcame.”

“Buthedied.”“AndIdidnot.”This,sherealizes,isthebasisofhisfear,allfear.Thatalightyouarepowerlesstostopwillturnon

youandusherabullettoitsmark.“Whobuiltallofthis,Uncle?Thismachine?”“Idid.Afterthewar.Tookmeyears.”“Howdoesitwork?”“It’saradiotransmitter.Thisswitchhere”—heguidesherhandtoit—“powersupthemicrophone,

andthisonerunsthephonograph.Here’sthepremodulationamplifier,andthesearethevacuumtubes,andthesearethecoils.Theantennatelescopesupalongthechimney.Twelvemeters.Canyoufeelthelever?Thinkofenergyasawaveandthetransmitterassendingoutsmoothcyclesofthosewaves.Yourvoicecreatesadisruptioninthosecycles...”

Shestopslistening.It’sdustyandconfusingandmesmerizingallatonce.Howoldmustallthisbe?Tenyears?Twenty?“Whatdidyoutransmit?”

“Therecordingsofmybrother.Thegramophonecompany inPariswasn’t interestedanymore,buteverynightIplayedthetenrecordingswe’dmade,untilmostofthemwerewornout.Andhissong.”

“Thepiano?”“Debussy’s‘ClairdeLune.’ ”Hetouchesametalcylinderwithaspherestuckontop.“I’djusttuck

themicrophoneintothebellofthegramophone,andvoilà.”Sheleansover themicrophone,says,“Helloout there.”Helaughshisfeathery laugh.“Diditever

reachanychildren?”sheasks.“Idon’tknow.”“Howfarcanittransmit,Uncle?”“Far.”“ToEngland?”“Easily.”“ToParis?”“Yes.ButIwasn’ttryingtoreachEngland.OrParis.IthoughtthatifImadethebroadcastpowerful

enough,mybrotherwouldhearme.ThatIcouldbringhimsomepeace,protecthimashehadalwaysprotectedme.”

“You’dplayyourbrother’sownvoicetohim?Afterhedied?”

“AndDebussy.”“Didheevertalkback?”Theatticticks.Whatghostssidlealongthewallsrightnow,tryingtooverhear?Shecanalmosttaste

hergreat-uncle’sfrightintheair.“No,”hesays.“Heneverdid.”

ToMyDearSisterJutta—SomeoftheboyswhisperthatDr.Hauptmannisconnectedtoverypowerfulministers.He

won’tanswerXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXX.Buthewantsmetoassisthimallthetime!Igotohisworkshopintheeveningsandhesetsmetoworkoncircuitsforaradioheistesting.Trigonometrytoo.HesaystobeascreativeasIcan;hesayscreativityfuelstheReich.Hehasthisbigupperclassman,theycallhimtheGiant,standovermewithastopwatchtotesthowfastIcancalculate.Trianglestrianglestriangles.Iprobablydofiftycalculationsanight.Theydon’ttellmewhy.Youwouldnotbelievethecopperwirehere;theyhaveXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXX.EveryonegetsoutofthewaywhentheGiantcomesthrough.Dr.Hauptmannsayswecandoanything,buildanything.Hesaystheführerhascollected

scientiststohelphimcontroltheweather.HesaystheführerwilldeveloparocketthatcanreachJapan.Hesaystheführerwillbuildacityonthemoon.

ToMyDearSisterJutta—TodayinfieldexercisesthecommandanttoldusaboutReinerSchicker.Hewasayoung

corporalandhiscaptainneededsomeonetogobehindenemylinestomaptheirdefenses.ThecaptainaskedforvolunteersandReinerSchickerwastheonlyonewhostoodup.ButthenextdayReinerSchickergotcaught.Theverynextday!ThePolescapturedhimandtorturedhimwithelectricity.Theygavehimsomuchelectricitythathisbrainliquefied,saidthecommandant,butbeforetheydid,ReinerSchickersaidsomethingamazing.Hesaid,“IonlyregretthatIhavebutonelifetoloseformycountry.”Everyonesaysthereisagreattestcoming.Atestharderthanalltheothertests.FredericksaysthatstoryaboutReinerSchickerisXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXX

XXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXJustbeingaroundtheGiant—hisnameisFrankVolkheimer—meanstheotherboystreatmewithrespect.Icomeuponlytohiswaistpractically.Heseemsaman,notaboy.HepossessestheloyaltyofReinerSchicker.Inhishandsandheartandbones.PleasetellFrauElenaIameatinglotsherebutthatnoonemakesflourcakeslikehersoratallreally.TelllittleSiegfriedtolooklively.Ithinkofyoueveryday.Siegheil.

ToMyDearSisterJutta—YesterdaywasSundayandforfieldexerciseswewentintotheforest.Mosthuntersareatthe

frontsothewoodsarefullofmartenanddeer.TheotherboyssatintheblindsandtalkedaboutmagnificentvictoriesandhowsoonwewillcrosstheChannelanddestroytheXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXandDr.Hauptmann’sdogscamebackwiththreerabbitsoneforeachbutFrederick,hecamebackwithaboutathousandberriesinhisshirtandhissleeveswererippedfromthebramblesandhisbinocularbagwastornopenandIsaid,You’regoingtocatchhellandhelookeddownathisclotheslikehe’dneverseenthembefore!Frederickknowsallthebirdsjustbyhearingthem.AbovethelakeweheardskylarksandlapwingsandploversandaharrierhenandprobablytenothersI’veforgotten.YouwouldlikeFrederickIthink.Heseeswhatotherpeopledon’t.HopeyourcoughisbetterandFrauElena’stoo.Siegheil.

Perfumer

HisnameisClaudeLevittebuteveryonecallshimBigClaude.Foradecadehehasrunaparfumerieon the rueVauborel: a straggling business that prospers onlywhen the cod are being salted and thestonesofthetownitselfbegintostink.

Butnewopportunitieshavearrived,andBigClaudeisnotonetomissanopportunity.HeispayingfarmersnearCancale tobutcher lambsandrabbits;Claudebuckles themeat intohiswife’smatchingvinylsuitcasesandcarriesthemhimselfbytraintoParis.Itiseasy:someweekshecanmakeasmuchasfivehundredfrancs.Supplyanddemand.Thereisalwayspaperwork,ofcourse;someofficialupthechaincatchesawhiffandwantsapercentage.IttakesamindlikeClaude’stonavigatethecomplexitiesofthebusiness.

Todayheisoverheating;sweattricklesdownhisbackandsides.Saint-Maloroasts.Octoberishere,andbrightcoldwindsoughttopourofftheocean;leavesoughttotumbledownthealleys.Butthewindhascomeandgone.Asifdecidingitdidnotlikethechangeshere.

All afternoon Claude hunkers inside his shop above the hundreds of little bottles of florals andorientals and fougères in his vitrine, pinks and carmines and baby blues, and no one enters, and anoscillatingelectricfanblowsacrosshisfacetotheleft,thentotheright,andhedoesnotreadormoveatallexcepttoperiodicallyreachahandbeneathhisstoolandgrabahandfulofbiscuitsfromaroundtinandstuffthemintohismouth.

AroundfourP.M., a small companyofGermansoldiers strollsup the rueVauborel.Theyare lean,salmon-faced,andearnest;theyhaveseriouseyes;theycarrytheirweaponsbarrel-down,slingingthemover their shoulders like clarinets. They laugh to one another and seem touched underneath theirhelmetswithabeneficentgold.

Claudeunderstandsthatheoughttoresentthem,butheadmirestheircompetenceandmanners,thecleanefficiencywithwhichtheymove.Theyalwaysseemtobegoingsomewhereandneverdoubtthatitistherightplacetobegoing.Somethinghisowncountryhaslacked.

ThesoldiersturndowntherueSt.Philippeandaregone.Claude’sfingerstraceovalsacrossthetopofhisvitrine.Upstairshiswiferunsavacuumcleaner;hecanhearitcoursingroundandround.HeisnearlyasleepwhenheseestheParisianwhohasbeenlivingthreedoorsdownexitthehouseofEtienneLeBlanc.Athinbeak-nosedmanwhoskulksoutsidethetelegraphoffice,whittlinglittlewoodenboxes.

TheParisianwalksinthesamedirectionastheGermansoldiers,placingtheheelofonefootagainstthetoeoftheother.Hereachestheendofthestreet,scribblessomethingonapad,turnsonehundredandeightydegrees,andwalksback.Whenhereachestheendoftheblock,hestaresupattheSajers’houseandmakesseveralmorenotes.Glancingup,glancingdown.Measuring.Bitingtheeraserofhispencilasthoughuneasy.

BigClaudegoestothewindow.Thistoocouldbeanopportunity.Occupationauthoritieswillwanttoknowthatastrangerispacingoffdistancesandmakingdrawingsofhouses.Theywillwanttoknowwhathelookslike,whoissponsoringthisactivity.Whohassanctionedit.

Thisisgood.Thisisexcellent.

TimeoftheOstriches

Still theydonot return toParis.Stillshedoesnotgooutside.Marie-LaurecountseverydayshehasbeenshutupinEtienne’shouse.Onehundredandtwenty.Onehundredandtwenty-one.Shethinksofthetransmitterintheattic,howitsenthergrand-father’svoiceflyingoverthesea—Considerasinglepiece glowing in your family’s stove—sailing like Darwin from Plymouth Sound to Cape Verde toPatagoniatotheFalklandIslands,overwaves,acrossborders.

“Onceyou’redonewiththemodel,”sheasksherfather,“doesthatmeanIcangoout?”Hissandpaperdoesnotstop.The storiesMadameManec’svisitorsbring into thekitchen are terrifying anddifficult tobelieve.

Parisiancousinsnobodyhasheardfromindecadesnowwritelettersbeggingforcapons,hams,hens.Thedentistissellingwinethroughthemail.TheperfumerisslaughteringlambsandcarryingtheminsuitcasesonthetraintoParis,wherehesellsthemeatforanenormousprofit.

In Saint-Malo, people are fined for locking their doors, for keeping doves, for hoarding meat.Trufflesdisappear.Sparklingwinedisappears.Noeyecontact.Nochatterindoorways.Nosunbathing,nosinging,noloversstrollingtherampartsintheevenings—suchrulesarenotwrittendown,buttheymayaswellbe.IcywindswhirlinfromtheAtlanticandEtiennebarricadeshimselfinsidehisbrother’sold room andMarie-Laure endures the slow rain of hours by running her fingers over his seashellsdown inhis study, ordering themby size, by species, bymorphology, checking and rechecking theirorder,tryingtomakesureshehasnotmissortedasingleone.

Surely she could go out for a half hour?On the armof her father?And yet each time her fatherrefuses,avoiceechoesupfromachamberofhermemory:They’llprobablytaketheblindgirlsbeforetheytakethegimps.Makethemdothings.Outsidethecitywalls,afewmilitaryboatscruisetoandfro,andtheflaxisbundledandshippedand

wovenintoropeorcablesorparachutecord,andairbornegullsdropoystersormusselsorclams,andthesuddenclatterontheroofmakesMarie-Laureboltuprightinbed.Themayorannouncesanewtax,and someofMadameManec’s friendsmutter thathehas sold themout, that theyneedunhommeàpoigne,butothersaskwhatthemayorissupposedtodo.Itbecomesknownasthetimeoftheostriches.

“Dowehaveourheadsinthesand,Madame?Ordothey?”“Maybeeverybodydoes,”shemurmurs.MadameManechastakentofallingasleepatthetablebesideMarie-Laure.Ittakesheralongtimeto

carrymeals the five flights toEtienne’s room,wheezing thewholeway.Mostmornings,Madame isbaking before anyone is awake; atmidmorning she goes out into the city, cigarette in hermouth, tobringcakesorpotsofstewtothesickorthestranded,andupstairsMarie-Laure’sfatherworksonthemodel, sanding, nailing, cutting, measuring, each day working more frenetically than the last, as ifagainstsomedeadlineknownonlytohim.

Weakest

Thewarrantofficerinchargeoffieldexercisesisthecommandant,anoverzealousschoolmasternamedBastianwithanexpansivewalkanda roundbellyandacoatquiveringwithwarmedals.His face isscarredfromsmallpox,andhisshoulderslookasthoughthey’vebeenhewnfromsoftclay.Hewearshobnailedjackbootseverysecondofeveryday,andthecadets jokethathekickedhiswayoutof thewombwiththem.

Bastian demands that theymemorizemaps, study the angle of the sun, cut their own belts fromcowhide. Every afternoon, whatever the weather, he stands in a field bawling state-sown dicta:“Prosperitydependsonferocity.Theonlythingsthatkeepyourpreciousgrandmothersintheirteaandcookiesarethefistsattheendofyourarms.”

Anantiquepistoldanglesfromhisbelt;themosteagercadetslookupathimwithshiningeyes.ToWerner,helookscapableofsevereandchronicviolence.

“Thecorpsisabody,”heexplains,twirlingalengthofrubberhosesothatitstipwhirsinchesfromaboy’snose.“Nodifferentfromaman’sbody.Justasweaskyoutoeachdrivetheweaknessfromyourownbodies,soyoumustalsolearntodrivetheweaknessesfromthecorps.”

OneOctoberafternoon,Bastianplucksapigeon-toedboy from the line. “You’llbe first.Whoareyou?”

“Bäcker,sir.”“Bäcker.Tellus,Bäcker.Whoistheweakestmemberofthisgroup?”Wernerquails.Heissmallerthaneverycadetinhisyear.Hetriestoexpandhischest,standastallas

hecan.Bäcker’sgazerakesacrosstherows.“Him,sir?”Wernerexhales;BäckerhaschosenaboyfartoWerner’sright,oneofthefewboyswithblackhair.

ErnstSomebody.Asafeenoughchoice:Ernstisinfactaslowrunner.Aboywhohasyettogrowintohishorseylegs.

BastiancallsErnstforward.Theboy’sbottomliptremblesasheturnstofacethegroup.“Gettingallweepywon’thelp,”saysBastian,andgesturesvaguelytothefarendofthefield,where

alineof treescutsacrosstheweeds.“You’llhaveaten-secondheadstart.Makeit tomebeforetheymakeittoyou.Gotit?”

Ernstneithernodsnorshakeshishead.Bastianfeignsfrustration.“WhenIraisemylefthand,yourun.WhenIraisemyrighthand,therestofyoufoolsrun.”OffBastianwaddles,rubberhosearoundhisneck,pistolswingingathisside.

Sixtyboyswait,breathing.WernerthinksofJuttawithheropalescenthairandquickeyesandbluntmanners:shewouldneverbemistakenfortheweakest.ErnstSomebodyisshakingeverywherenow,allthewaydowntohiswristsandankles.WhenBastianismaybetwohundredyardsaway,heturnsandraiseshislefthand.

Ernstrunswithhisarmsnearlystraightandhislegswideandunhinged.Bastiancountsdownfromten. “Three,” yells his faraway voice. “Two. One.” At zero, his right arm goes up and the groupunleashes.Thedark-hairedboyisatleastfiftyyardsinfrontofthem,butimmediatelythepackbeginstogain.

Hurrying, scampering, running hard, fifty-nine fourteen-year-olds chase one.Werner keeps to thecenterofthegroupasitstringsout,hisheartbeatingindarkconfusion,wonderingwhereFrederickis,whythey’rechasingthisboy,andwhatthey’resupposedtodoiftheycatchhim.

Exceptinsomeatavisticpartofhisbrain,heknowsexactlywhatthey’lldo.Afewoutrunnersareexceptionallyfast;theygainonthelonefigure.Ernst’slimbspumpfuriously,

but he clearly is not accustomed to sprinting, and he loses steam. The grass waves, the trees aretransectedbysunlight,thepackdrawscloser,andWernerfeelsannoyed:Whycouldn’tErnstbefaster?Whyhasn’thepracticed?Howdidhemakeitthroughtheentranceexams?

Thefastestcadetislungingforthebackoftheboy’sshirt.Healmosthashim.Black-hairedErnstisgoingtobecaught,andWernerwondersifsomepartofhimwantsittohappen.Buttheboymakesittothecommandantasplitsecondbeforetheotherscomepoundingpast.

MandatorySurrender

Marie-Laurehas tobadgerher father three timesbeforehe’ll read thenoticealoud:Membersof thepopulationmustrelinquishallradioreceiversnowintheirpossession.Radiosetsaretobedeliveredto27ruedeChartresbeforetomorrownoon.Anyonefailingtocarryoutthisorderwillbearrestedasasaboteur.

Noonesaysanythingforamoment,andinsideMarie-Laure,anoldanxietylumberstoitsfeet.“Ishe—?”

“Inyourgrandfather’soldroom,”saysMadameManec.Tomorrownoon.Halfthehouse,thinksMarie-Laure,istakenupbywirelessreceiversandtheparts

thatgointothem.MadameManecrapsonthedoortoHenri’sroomandreceivesnoreply.Intheafternoontheyboxup

theequipmentinEtienne’sstudy,MadameandPapaunpluggingradiosandloweringthemintocrates,Marie-Laure sittingon thedavenport listening to the setsgooffonebyone: theoldRadiolaFive; aG.M.R.Titan; aG.M.R.Orphée.ADelco thirty-two-volt farm radio thatEtiennehad shippedall thewayfromtheUnitedStatesin1922.

Her fatherwraps the largest incardboardandusesanancientwheeleddolly to thump itdown thestairs.Marie-Lauresitswithherfingersgoingnumbinherlapandthinksofthemachineintheattic,itscablesandswitches.Atransmitterbuilttotalktoghosts.Doesitqualifyasaradioreceiver?Shouldshementionit?DoPapaandMadameManecknow?Theyseemnotto.Intheevening,fogmovesintothecity, trailingacold, fishysmell,and theyeatpotatoesandcarrots in thekitchenandMadameManecleavesadishoutsideHenri’sdoorandtapsbutthedoordoesnotopenandthefoodremainsuntouched.

“What,”asksMarie-Laure,“willtheydowiththeradios?”“SendthemtoGermany,”saysPapa.“Orpitchtheminthesea,”saysMadameManec.“Come,child,drinkyourtea.It’snottheendofthe

world.I’llputanextrablanketonyourbedtonight.”InthemorningEtienneremainsshutinsidehisbrother’sroom.Ifheknowswhatishappeninginhis

house,Marie-Laurecannottell.AttenA.M.herfatherstartswheelingloadstotheruedeChartres,onetrip,twotrips,three,andwhenhecomesbackandloadsthedollywiththelastradio,Etiennestillhasnot appeared.Marie-Laure holdsMadameManec’s hand as she listens to the gate clang shut, to thecart’saxlebounceasherfatherpushesitdowntherueVauborel,andtothesilencethatreinstallsitselfafterhe’sgone.

Museum

SergeantMajorReinholdvonRumpelwakesearly.Heupholstershimselfinhisuniform,pocketshisloupeandtweezers,rollsuphiswhitegloves.BysixA.M.he’sinthehotellobbyinfulldress,polishonhisshoes,pistolcasesnappedshut.Thehotelkeeperbringshimbreadandcheeseinabasketmadefromdarkwicker,coverednicelywithacottonnapkin:everythingshipshape.

Thereisgreatpleasureinbeingoutinthecitybeforethesunisup,streetlightsglowing,thehumofaParisiandaycommencing.AshewalksuptherueCuvierandturnsintotheJardindesPlantes,thetreeslookmistyandsignificant:parasolsheldupjustforhim.

Helikesbeingearly.At the entrance to theGrandGallery, twonightwarders stiffen.Theyglance at the stripes onhis

collarpatchandsleeves;thecordsintheirthroatstighten.Asmallmaninblackflannelcomesdownthestaircase apologizing inGerman; he says he is the assistant director.He did not expect the sergeantmajorforanotherhour.

“WecanspeakFrench,”saysvonRumpel.Behindhimscurriesasecondmanwitheggshellskinandanevidentterrorofeyecontact.“Wewouldbehonoredtoshowyouthecollections,SergeantMajor,”breathestheassistantdirector.

“This is themineralogist, ProfessorHublin.”Hublin blinks twice, gives the impression of a pennedanimal.Thepairofwarderswatchfromtheendofthecorridor.

“MayItakeyourbasket?”“It’snotrouble.”TheGalleryofMineralogyissolong,vonRumpelcanhardlyseetheendofit.Insections,display

case after display case sits vacant, little shapes on their felted shelves marking the silhouettes ofwhateverhasbeenremoved.VonRumpelstrollswithhisbasketonhisarm,forgettingtodoanythingbutlook.Whattreasurestheyleftbehind!Agorgeoussetofyellowtopazcrystalsonagraymatrix.Agreatpinkhunkofberyllikeacrystallizedbrain.AvioletcolumnoftourmalinefromMadagascarthatlookssorichhecannotresisttheurgetostrokeit.Bournonite;apatiteonmuscovite;naturalzirconinasprayof colors;dozensmoremineralshe cannotname.Thesemen,he thinks,probablyhandlemoregemstonesinaweekthanhehasseeninhislifetime.

Eachpieceisregisteredinhugeorganizationalfoliosthathavetakencenturiestoamass.ThepallidHublinshowshimpages.“LouisXIIIbeganthecollectionasaCabinetofMedicines,jadeforkidneys,clay for the stomach, and so on.Therewere already twohundred thousand entries in the catalogby1850,apricelessmineralheritage...”

EverynowandthenvonRumpelpullshisnotebookfromhispocketandmakesanotation.Hetakeshistime.Whentheyreachtheend,theassistantdirectorlaceshisfingersacrosshisbelt.“Wehopeyouareimpressed,SergeantMajor?Youenjoyedyourtour?”

“Verymuch.” The electric lights in the ceiling are far apart, and the silence in the huge space isoppressive.“But,”hesays,enunciatingveryslowly,“whataboutthecollectionsthatarenotonpublicdisplay?”

The assistant director and themineralogist exchange a glance. “Youhave seen everythingwe canshowyou,SergeantMajor.”

VonRumpel keeps his voice polite.Civilized.Paris is notPoland, after all.Wavesmust bemadecarefully. Things cannot simply be seized. What did his father used to say? See obstacles as

opportunities,Reinhold.Seeobstaclesasinspirations.“Istheresomewhere,”hesays,“wecantalk?”Theassistantdirector’sofficeoccupiesadustythird-floorcornerthatoverlooksthegardens:walnut-

paneled,underheated,decoratedwithpinnedbutterfliesandbeetles inalternatingframes.Onthewallbehindhishalf-tondeskhangstheonlyimage:acharcoalportraitoftheFrenchbiologistJean-BaptisteLamarck.

Theassistantdirectorsitsbehindthedesk,andvonRumpelsitsinfrontwithhisbasketbetweenhisfeet.Themineralogiststands.Along-neckedsecretarybringstea.

Hublin says, “We are always acquiring, yes? All across the world, industrialization endangersmineraldeposits.Wecollectasmanytypesofmineralsasexist.Toacurator,noneissuperior toanyother.”

VonRumpellaughs.Heappreciatesthattheyaretryingtoplaythegame.Butdon’ttheyunderstandthatthewinnerhasalreadybeendetermined?Hesetsdownhiscupofteaandsays,“Iwouldliketoseeyourmostprotectedspecimens.IammostspecificallyinterestedinaspecimenIbelieveyouhaveonlyrecentlybroughtoutfromyourvaults.”

The assistant director sweeps his left hand through his hair and releases a blizzard of dandruff.“Sergeant Major, the minerals you’ve seen have aided discoveries in electrochemistry, in thefundamentallawsofmathematicalcrystallography.Theroleofanationalmuseumistooperateabovethewhimsandfashionsofcollectors,tosafeguardforfuturegenerationsthe—”

VonRumpelsmiles.“Iwillwait.”“Youmisunderstandus,monsieur.Youhaveseeneverythingwecanshowyou.”“Iwillwaittoseewhatyoucannotshowme.”Theassistantdirectorpeersintohistea.Themineralogistshiftsfromfoottofoot;heappearstobe

wrestlingwithaninteriorfury.“Iamquitegiftedatwaiting,”vonRumpelsaysinFrench.“Itismyonegreatskill.Iwasnevermuchgoodatathleticsormathematics,butevenasaboy,Ipossessedunnaturalpatience.Iwouldwaitwithmymotherwhileshegotherhairstyled.Iwouldsitinthechairandwaitforhours, nomagazine, no toys, not even swingingmy legs back and forth.All themotherswere veryimpressed.”

BothFrenchmenfidget.Beyondthedoorof theoffice,whatears listen?“Pleasesit ifyou’d like,”vonRumpelsaystoHublin,andpatsthechairnexttohim.ButHublindoesnotsit.Timepasses.VonRumpelswallowsthelastofhisteaandsetsthecupverycarefullyontheedgeoftheassistantdirector’sdesk.Somewhereanelectricfanwhirstolife,runsawhile,andshutsdown.

Hublinsays,“It’snotclearwhatwe’rewaitingfor,SergeantMajor.”“I’mwaitingforyoutobetruthful.”“IfImight—”“Stay,”saysvonRumpel.“Sit.I’msureifoneofyouweretocalloutinstructions,themademoiselle

wholookslikeagiraffewillhear,willshenot?”Theassistantdirectorcrossesandrecrosseshislegs.Bynowitispastnoon.“Perhapsyouwouldlike

to see the skeletons?” tries the assistant director. “The Hall of Man is quite spectacular. And ourzoologicalcollectionisbeyond—”

“Iwouldliketoseethemineralsyoudonotrevealtothepublic.Oneinparticular.”Hublin’s throat splotches pink and white. He does not take a seat. The assistant director seems

resignedtoanimpasseandpullsathickperfect-boundstackofpaperfromadrawerandbeginstoread.Hublinshiftsasiftoleave,butvonRumpelmerelysays,“Please,stayuntilwehaveresolvedthis.”

Waiting,thinksvonRumpel,isakindofwar.Yousimplytellyourselfthatyoumustnotlose.Theassistantdirector’stelephonerings,andhereachestopickitup,butvonRumpelholdsupahand,and

thephoneringstenoreleventimesandthenfallsquiet.Whatmightbeafullhalfhourpasses,Hublinstaringathisshoelaces, theassistantdirectormakingoccasionalnotes inhismanuscriptwithasilverpen,vonRumpelremainingcompletelymotionless,andthenthereisadistanttappingonthedoor.

“Gentlemen?”comesthevoice.VonRumpelcalls,“Wearefine,thankyou.”Theassistantdirectorsays,“Ihaveothermatterstoattendto,SergeantMajor.”VonRumpeldoesnotraisehisvoice.“Youwillwaithere.Bothofyou.Youwillwaitherewithme

untilIseewhatIhavecometosee.Andthenwewillallgobacktoourimportantjobs.”Themineralogist’schin trembles.Thefanstartsagain, thendies.Afive-minute timer,guessesvon

Rumpel.Hewaitsforittostartanddieonemoretime.Thenheliftshisbasketintohislap.Hepointstothechair.Hisvoiceisgentle.“Sit,Professor.Youwillbemorecomfortable.”

Hublindoesnotsit.Twoo’clockoutinthecity,andbellstollinahundredchurches.Walkersdownonthepaths.Thelastofautumn’sleavesspiralingtoearth.

Von Rumpel unrolls the napkin across his lap, lifts out the cheese. He breaks the bread slowly,sendingarichcascadeofcrustontohisnapkin.Ashechews,hecanalmostheartheirgutsrumbling.Heoffers them nothing. When he finishes, he wipes the corners of his mouth. “You read me wrong,messieurs.Iamnotananimal.Iamnotheretorazeyourcollections.TheybelongtoallofEurope,toallofhumanity,dotheynot?Iamhereonlyforsomethingsmall.Somethingsmallerthantheboneofyourkneecaps.”Helooksatthemineralogistashesaysit.Wholooksaway,crimson.

Theassistantdirectorsays,“Thisisabsurd,SergeantMajor.”VonRumpelfoldshisnapkinandplacesitbackinthebasketandsetsthebasketontheground.He

licksthetipofhisfingerandpicksthecrumbsoffhistuniconebyone.Thenhelooksdirectlyattheassistantdirector.“TheLycéeCharlemagne,isthatright?OntherueCharlemagne?”

Theskinaroundtheassistantdirector’seyesstretches.“Whereyourdaughtergoestoschool?”VonRumpelturnsinhischair.“AndtheCollegeStanislas,

isn’tit,Dr.Hublin?Whereyourtwinsonsattend?OntherueNotre-DamedesChamps?Wouldn’tthosehandsomeboysbepreparingtowalkhomerightnow?”

Hublin sets his hands on the back of the empty chair beside him, and his knuckles become verywhite.

“Onewithaviolinandtheotheraviola,amIcorrect?Crossingallthosebusystreets.Thatisalongwalkforten-year-oldboys.”

Theassistantdirectorissittingveryupright.VonRumpelsays,“Iknowitisnothere,messieurs.Noteventhelowestjanitorwouldbesostupidastoleavethediamondhere.ButIwouldliketoseewhereyouhavekeptit.Iwouldliketoknowwhatsortofplaceyoubelieveissafeenough.”

Neitherof theFrenchmensaysanything.Theassistantdirector resumes lookingathismanuscript,thoughitiscleartovonRumpelthatheisnolongerreading.Atfouro’clockthesecretaryrapsonthedoorandagainvonRumpelsendsheraway.Hepracticesconcentratingonlyonblinking.Pulseinhisneck.Tocktocktocktock.Others,hethinks,woulddothiswithlessfinesse.Otherswouldusescanners,explosives,pistolbarrels,muscle.VonRumpelusesthecheapestofmaterials,onlyminutes,onlyhours.

Fivebells.Thelightleachesoutofthegardens.“SergeantMajor,please,”saystheassistantdirector.Hishandsflatonhisdesk.Lookingupnow.“It

isverylate.Imustrelievemyself.”“Feelfree.”VonRumpelgestureswithonehandatametaltrashcanbesidethedesk.Themineralogistwrinkleshisface.Againthephonerings.Hublinchewshiscuticles.Painshowsin

theassistantdirector’sface.Thefanwhirs.Outinthegardens,thedaylightunwindsfromthetreesand

stillvonRumpelwaits.“Yourcolleague,”hesaystothemineralogist,“he’salogicalman,isn’the?Hedoubtsthelegends.

Butyou,youseemmorefiery.Youdon’twanttobelieve,youtellyourselfnottobelieve.Butyoudobelieve.”Heshakeshishead.“You’veheldthediamond.You’vefeltitspower.”

“This is ridiculous,” says Hublin. His eyes roll like a frightened colt’s. “This is not civilizedbehavior.Areourchildrensafe,SergeantMajor?Idemandthatyouletusdetermineifourchildrenaresafe.”

“Amanofscience,andyetyoubelievethemyths.Youbelieveinthemightofreason,butyoualsobelieveinfairytales.Goddessesandcurses.”

Theassistantdirectorinhalessharply.“Enough,”hesays.“Enough.”VonRumpel’spulsesoars:hasitalreadyhappened?Soeasily?Hecouldwaittwomoredays,three,

whileranksofmenbrokeagainsthimlikewaves.“Areourchildrensafe,SergeantMajor?”“Ifyouwishthemtobe.”“MayIusethetelephone?”VonRumpelnods.Theassistantdirectorreachesforthehandset,says“Sylvie”intoit,listensawhile,

thensetsitdown.Thewomanenterswitharingofkeys.Fromadrawerinsidetheassistantdirector’sdesk,sheproducesanotherkeyonachain.Simple,elegant,long-shafted.

A small locked door at the back of the main-floor gallery. It takes two keys to open it, and theassistantdirectorseemsinexperiencedwiththelock.TheyleadvonRumpeldownacorkscrewingstonestaircase; at the bottom, the assistant director unlocks a second gate. Theywind throughwarrens ofhallways, past a warder who drops his newspaper and sits ramrod straight as they pass. In anunassuming storeroom filled with dropcloths and pallets and crates, behind a sheet of plywood, themineralogistrevealsasimplecombinationsafethattheassistantdirectoropensrathereasily.

Noalarms.Onlytheoneguard.Inside the safe is a second, farmore interesting box. It is heavy enough that it requires both the

assistantdirectorandthemineralogisttoliftitout.Elegant,itsjoineryinvisible.Nobrandname,nocombinationdial.Itispresumablyhollowbutwith

no discernible hinges, no nails, no attachment points; it looks like a solid block of highly polishedwood.Customwork.

Themineralogistfitsakeyintoatiny,almostinvisibleholeonthebottom;whenitturns,twomoretinykeyholesopenontheoppositeside.Theassistantdirectorinsertsmatchingkeysintothoseholes;theyunlockwhatlookslikefivedifferentshafts.

Threeoverlappingcylinderlocks,eachdependentonthenext.“Ingenious,”whispersvonRumpel.Theentireboxfallsgentlyopen.Insidesitsasmallfeltbag.Hesays,“Openit.”Themineralogistlooksattheassistantdirector.Theassistantdirectorpicksupthebaganduntiesits

throatandupendsawrappedbundleintohispalm.Withasinglefinger,henudgesapartthefolds.Insideliesabluestoneasbigasapigeon’segg.

TheWardrobe

Townspeoplewhoviolateblackout are finedor roundedup forquestioning, thoughMadameManecreportsthatattheHôtel-Dieu,lampsburnallnightlong,andGermanofficersgostumblinginandoutateveryhour, tuckinginshirtsandadjustingtrousers.Marie-Laurekeepsherselfawake,waitingtohearher uncle stir. Finally she hears the door across the hall tick open and feet brush the boards. Sheimaginesastorybookmousecreepingoutfromitshole.

Sheclimbsoutofbed,tryingnottowakeherfather,andcrossesintothehall.“Uncle,”shewhispers.“Don’tbeafraid.”

“Marie-Laure?”Hisverysmelllikethatofcomingwinter,atomb,theheavyinertiaoftime.“Areyouwell?”“Better.”They standon the landing. “Therewas a notice,” saysMarie-Laure. “Madamehas left it onyour

desk.”“Anotice?”“Yourradios.”Hedescendstothefifthfloor.Shecanhearhimsputtering.Fingerstravelingacrosshisnewlyempty

shelves.Old friends gone. She prepares for shouts of anger but catches half-hyperventilated nurseryrhymesinstead:...àlasaladejesuismaladeaucélerijesuisguéri...

She takes his elbow, helps him to the davenport.He is stillmurmuring, trying to talk himself offsomeinnermostledge,andshecanfeelfearpumpingoffhim,virulent,toxic;itremindsheroffumesbillowingoffthevatsofformalinintheDepartmentofZoology.

Raintapsatthewindowpanes.Etienne’svoicecomesfromalongwayoff.“Allofthem?”“Nottheradiointheattic.Ididnotmentionit.DoesMadameManecknowaboutit?”“Wehaveneverspokenofit.”“Isithidden,Uncle?Couldsomeoneseeitifthehouseweresearched?”“Whowouldsearchthehouse?”Asilencefollows.Hesays,“Wecouldstillturnitin.Sayweoverlookedit?”“Thedeadlinewasyesterdayatnoon.”“Theymightunderstand.”“Uncle,doyoureallybelieve theywillunderstandthatyouhaveoverlookeda transmitter thatcan

reachEngland?”Moreagitatedbreaths.Thewheelingofthenightonitssilenttrunnions.“Helpme,”hesays.Hefinds

anautomobilejackinathird-floorroom,andtogethertheygouptothesixthfloorandshutthedoorofher grandfather’s room and kneel beside themassive wardrobewithout risking the light of a singlecandle.Heslidesthejackunderthewardrobeandcranksuptheleftside.Underitsfeetheslipsfoldedrags;thenhejacksuptheothersideanddoesthesame.“Now,Marie-Laure,putyourhandshere.Andpush.”With a thrill, she understands: they are going to park thewardrobe in front of the little doorleadingtotheattic.

“Allyourmight,ready?Onetwothree.”Thehugewardrobeslidesaninch.Theheavymirroreddoorsknocklightlyasitglides.Shefeelsasif

theyarepushingahouseacrossice.

“Myfather,”saysEtienne,panting,“usedtosayChristHimselfcouldnothavecarriedthiswardrobeuphere.Thattheymusthavebuiltthehousearoundit.Anothernow,ready?”

Theypush,rest,push,rest.Eventuallythewardrobesettlesinfrontofthelittledoor,andtheentranceto the attic iswalledoff.Etienne jacksupeach foot again,pullsout the rags, and sinks to the floor,breathinghard,andMarie-Lauresitsbesidehim.Beforedawnrollsacrossthecity,theyareasleep.

Blackbirds

Roll call.Breakfast. Phrenology, rifle training, drills.Black-hairedErnst leaves the school five daysafter he is chosen as theweakest in Bastian’s exercise. Two others leave the followingweek. Sixtybecomes fifty-seven. Every evening Werner works in Dr. Hauptmann’s lab, alternately pluggingnumbers into triangulation formulasor engineering:Hauptmannwantshim to improve the efficiencyandpowerofadirectionalradiotransceiverheisdesigning.Itneedstobequicklyretunedtotransmiton multiple frequencies, the little doctor says, and it needs to be able to measure the angle of thetransmissionsitreceives.CanWernermanagethis?

Hereconfiguresnearlyeverythinginthedesign.SomenightsHauptmanngrowstalkative,explainingthe role of a solenoid or resistor in great detail, even classifying a spider hanging from a rafter, orenthusingaboutgatheringsofscientistsinBerlin,wherepracticallyeveryconversation,hesays,seemstounveilsomenewpossibility.Relativity,quantummechanics—onsuchnightsheseemshappyenoughtalkingaboutwhateverWernerasks.

Yet theverynextnight,Hauptmann’smannerwillbe frighteninglyclosed;he invitesnoquestionsand supervisesWerner’s work in silence. That Dr. Hauptmann might have ties so far up—that thetelephoneonhisdeskconnectshimwithmenahundredmilesawaywhocouldprobablywagafingerandsendadozenMesserschmittsstreamingupfromanairfieldtostrafesomecity—intoxicatesWerner.Weliveinexceptionaltimes.Hewonders if Juttahas forgivenhim.Her lettersconsistmostlyofbanalities—wearebusy;Frau

Elena says hello—or else arrive in his bunkroom so full of censor marks that their meaning hasdisintegrated.Doesshegrieveoverhisabsence?Orhasshecalcifiedherfeelings,protectedherself,asheislearningtodo?

Volkheimer,likeHauptmann,seemsfullofcontradictions.Totheotherboys,theGiantisabrute,aninstrumentofpurestrength,andyetsometimes,whenHauptmann isaway inBerlin,Volkheimerwilldisappear into the doctor’s office and return with a Grundig tube radio and hook up the shortwaveantenna and fill the lab with classical music. Mozart, Bach, even the Italian Vivaldi. The moresentimental,thebetter.Thehugeboywillleanbackinachair,sothatitmakessqueakingprotestationsbeneathhisbulk,andlethiseyelidssliptohalf-mast.

Whyalways triangles?What is thepurposeof the transceiver theyarebuilding?What twopointsdoesHauptmannknow,andwhydoesheneedtoknowthethird?

“It’sonlynumbers,cadet,”Hauptmannsays,afavoritemaxim.“Puremath.Youhavetoaccustomyourselftothinkingthatway.”

WernertriesoutvarioustheoriesonFrederick,butFrederick,he’slearning,movesaboutasifinthegripofadream,histrouserstoobigaroundthewaist, thehemsalreadyfallingout.Hiseyesarebothintense and vague; he hardly seems to realizewhenhemisses targets inmarksmanship.Most nightsFrederickmurmurstohimselfbeforefallingasleep:bitsofpoems,thehabitsofgeese,batshe’sheardswoopingpastthewindows.

Birds,alwaysbirds.“...now,arcticterns,Werner,theyflyfromthesouthpoletothenorthpole,truenavigatorsofthe

globe,probablythemostmigratorycreaturesevertolive,seventythousandkilometersayear...”Ametallicwintery light settlesover thestablesandvineyardand rifle range,andsongbirdsstreak

overthehills,greatscattershotnetsofpasserinesontheirwaysouth,amigratorythroughwayrunning

rightoverthespiresoftheschool.Onceinawhileaflockdescendsintooneofthehugelindensonthegroundsandseethesbeneathitsleaves.

Someof theseniorboys, sixteen-andseventeen-year-olds,cadetswhoareallowed freeraccess toammunition,developafondnessforfiringvolleysintothetreestoseehowmanybirdstheycanhit.Thetreelooksuninhabitedandcalm;thensomeonefires,anditscrownshattersinalldirections,ahundredbirdsexplodingintoflightinahalfsecond,shriekingasthoughthewholetreehasflownapart.

Inthedormitorywindowonenight,Frederickrestshisforeheadagainsttheglass.“Ihatethem.Ihatethemforthat.”

Thedinnerbellrings,andeveryonetrotsoff,Frederickcominginlastwithhistaffy-coloredhairandwounded eyes, bootlaces trailing.Wernerwashes Frederick’smess tin for him; he shares homeworkanswers,shoepolish,sweetsfromDr.Hauptmann;theyrunnexttoeachotherduringfieldexercises.Abrasspinweighslightlyoneachoftheirlapels;onehundredandfourteenhobnailedbootssparkagainstpebbles on the trail. The castle with its towers and battlements looms below them like somemistyvisionofforegoneglory.Werner’sbloodgallops throughhisventricles,his thoughtsonHauptmann’stransceiver,onsolder,fuses,batteries,antennas;hisbootandFrederick’stouchthegroundattheexactsamemoment.

SSG35ANA513NLWUXDUPLICATEOFTELEPHONEDTELEGRAM

10DECEMBER1940

M.DANIELLEBLANCSAINT-MALOFRANCE

=RETURNTOPARISENDOFMONTH=TRAVELSECURELY=

Bath

Onefinalburstof freneticgluingandsanding,andMarie-Laure’sfatherhascompleted themodelofSaint-Malo. It isunpainted, imperfect,stripedwithahalf-dozendifferent typesofwood,andmissingdetails.Butit’scompleteenoughforhisdaughtertouseifshemust:theirregularpolygonoftheislandframedbyramparts,eachofitseighthundredandsixty-fivebuildingsinplace.

He feels ragged. Forweeks logic has been failing him. The stone themuseum has asked him toprotectisnotreal.Ifitwere,themuseumwouldhavesentmenalreadytocollectit.Whythen,whenheputsamagnifyingglasstoit,doitsdepthsreveal tinydaggersofflames?Whydoeshehearfootfallsbehindhimwhentherearenone?Andwhydoeshefindhimselfentertainingthebrainlessnotionthatthestonehecarriesinthelinensachetinhispockethasbroughthimmisfortune,hasputMarie-Laureindanger,mayindeedhaveprecipitatedthewholeinvasionofFrance?

Idiotic.Ludicrous.Hehastriedeverytesthecanthinkofwithoutinvolvinganothersoul.Triedfoldingitbetweenpiecesoffeltandstrikingitwithahammer—itdidnotshatter.Triedscratchingitwithahalvedpebbleofquartz—itdidnotscratch.Triedholdingittocandleflame,drowningit,boilingit.Hehashiddenthejewelunderthemattress,

inhistoolcase,inhisshoe.Forseveralhoursonenight,hetuckeditintoMadameManec’sgeraniumsinawindowflowerbox,thenconvincedhimselfthegeraniumswerewiltinganddugthestoneout.

Thisafternoonafamiliarfaceloomsinthetrainstation,maybefourorfivebackinthequeue.Hehasseenthismanbefore,pudgy,sweating,multi-chinned.Theylockeyes;theman’sgazeslidesaway.

Etienne’sneighbor.Theperfumer.Weeks ago,while takingmeasurements for themodel, the locksmith saw this sameman atop the

rampartspointingacameraout tosea.Notamanto trust,MadameManecsaid.Butheis justamanwaitinginlinetobuyaticket.

Logic.Theprinciplesofvalidity.Everylockhasitskey.For more than two weeks, the director’s telegram has echoed in his head. Such a maddeningly

ambiguouschoiceforthatfinaldirective—Travelsecurely.Doesitmeantobringthestoneorleaveitbehind?BringMarie-Laureorleaveherbehind?Travelbytrain?Orbysomeother,theoreticallymoresecuremeans?

Andwhatif,thelocksmithconsiders,thetelegramwasnotsentfromthedirectoratall?Roundandroundthequestionsrun.Whenitishisturnatthewindow,hebuysaticketforasingle

passengeron themorning train toRennes and thenon toParis andwalks thenarrow, sunless streetsbacktotherueVauborel.Hewillgodothisandthenitwillbeover.Backtowork,staffthekeypound,lockthingsaway.Inaweek,hewillrideunburdenedbacktoBrittanyandcollectMarie-Laure.

For supper Madame Manec serves stew and baguettes. Afterward he leads Marie-Laure up therickety flights of stairs to the third-floor bath. He fills the big iron tub and turns his back as sheundresses.“Useasmuchsoapasyou’dlike,”hesays.“Iboughtextra.”Thetrainticketremainsfoldedinhispocketlikeabetrayal.

Sheletshimwashherhair.OverandoverMarie-Lauretrawlsherfingersthroughthesuds,asthoughtrying togauge theirweight.Therehas alwaysbeena sliverofpanic inhim,deeplyburied,when itcomestohisdaughter:afearthatheisnogoodasafather,thatheisdoingeverythingwrong.Thathenever quite understood the rules.All those Parisianmothers pushing buggies through the Jardin des

Plantesorholdingupcardigans indepartment stores—it seemed tohim that thosewomennodded toeachotherastheypassed,asthougheachpossessedsomesecretknowledgethathedidnot.Howdoyoueverknowforcertainthatyouaredoingtherightthing?

There is pride, too, though—pride that he has done it alone. That his daughter is so curious, soresilient.Thereis thehumilityofbeingafathertosomeonesopowerful,asifhewereonlyanarrowconduitforanother,greaterthing.That’showitfeelsrightnow,hethinks,kneelingbesideher,rinsingherhair: as thoughhis love forhisdaughterwilloutstrip the limitsofhisbody.Thewallscould fallaway,eventhewholecity,andthebrightnessofthatfeelingwouldnotwane.

Thedrainmoans;theclutteredhousecrowdsinclose.Marieturnsupherwetface.“You’releaving.Aren’tyou?”

Heisglad,justnow,thatshecannotseehim.“Madametoldmeaboutthetelegram.”“Iwon’tbelong,Marie.Aweek.Tendaysatmost.”“When?”“Tomorrow.Beforeyouwake.”She leansoverherknees.Herback is longandwhiteandsplitby theknobsofhervertebrae.She

usedtofallasleepholdinghisindexfingerinherfist.Sheusedtosprawlwithherbooksbeneaththekeypoundbenchandmoveherhandslikespidersacrossthepages.

“AmItostayhere?”“WithMadame.AndEtienne.”He hands her a towel and helps her climb onto the tile andwaits outside while she puts on her

nightgown.Thenhewalksheruptothesixthfloorandintotheirlittleroom,thoughheknowsshedoesnotneedtobeguided,andhesitsontheedgeofthebedandshekneelsbesidethemodelandsetsthreefingersonthesteepleofthecathedral.

Hefindsthehairbrush,doesnotbotherturningonthelamp.“Tendays,Papa?”“Atmost.”Thewallscreak; thewindowbetweenthecurtainsisblack; thetownpreparestosleep.

Somewhereoutthere,GermanU-boatsglideaboveunderwatercanyons,andthirty-footsquidferrytheirhugeeyesthroughthecolddark.

“Haveweeverspentanightapart?”“No.”His gaze flits through the unlit room.The stone in his pocket seems almost to pulse. If he

managestosleeptonight,whatwillhedream?“CanIgooutwhileyouaregone,Papa?”“OnceIgetback.Ipromise.”Astenderlyashecan,hedrawsthebrushthroughthedampstrandsofhisdaughter’shair.Between

strokes,theycanheartheseawindrattlethewindow.Marie-Laure’s hands whisper across the houses as she recites the names of the streets. “Rue des

Cordiers,rueJacquesCartier,rueVauborel.”Hesays,“You’llknowthemallinaweek.”Marie-Laure’sfingersrovetotheouterramparts.Theseabeyond.“Tendays,”shesays.“Atmost.”

Weakest(#2)

Decembersucksthelightfromthecastle.Thesunhardlyclearsthehorizonbeforesinkingaway.Snowfallsonce, twice, thenstays lockedover the lawns.HasWernereverseensnowthiswhite,snowthatwasnotfouledimmediatelywithashandcoaldust?Theonlyemissariesfromtheoutsideworldaretheoccasionalsongbirdwholandsinthelindensbeyondthequadrangle,blownastraybydistantstormorbattleorboth,andtwocallow-facedcorporalswhocomeintotherefectoryeveryweekorso—alwaysaftertheprayer,alwaysjustastheboyshaveplacedthefirstmorselofdinnerintheirmouths—topassbeneaththeblazonryandstopbehindacadetandwhisper inhisear thathisfatherhasbeenkilledinaction.

Other nights a prefect yells Achtung! and the boys stand at their benches and Bastian thecommandantwaddles in.Theboys lookdownat their food in silencewhileBastianwalks the rows,trailing a single index finger across their backs. “Homesick?Wemustn’t trouble ourselves over ourhomes.Intheendweallcomehometotheführer.Whatotherhomematters?”

“Noother!”shouttheboys.Everyafternoon,nomatter theweather, thecommandantblowshiswhistle and the fourteen-year-

oldstrotoutsideandheloomsoverthemwithhiscoatstretchedacrosshisbellyandhismedalschimingandtherubberhosetwirling.“Therearetwokindsofdeath,”hesays,thecloudsofhisbreathplungingoutintothecold.“Youcanfightlikealion.Oryoucangoaseasyasliftingahairfromacupofmilk.Thenothings, thenobodies—theydieeasy.”Hesweepshiseyesalongtheranksandswingshishoseandwidenshiseyesdramatically.“Howwillyouboysdie?”

OnewindyafternoonhepullsHelmutRödeloutofline.Helmutisasmall,unpromisingchildfromthesouthwhokeepshishandsballedinfistsnearlyallhiswakinghours.

“And who is it, Rödel? In. Your. Opinion. Who is the weakest member of the corps?” Thecommandanttwirlsthehose.HelmutRödeltakesnotime.“Him,sir.”

Wernerfeelssomethingheavyfallthroughhim.RödelispointingdirectlyatFrederick.Bastian calls Frederick forward. If fear darkens his friend’s face,Werner cannot see it. Frederick

looksdistracted.Almostphilosophical.Bastiandrapeshishosearoundhisneckandtrudgesacrossthefield,snowtohisshins,takinghistime,untilheislittlemorethanadarklumpatthefaredge.WernertriestomakeeyecontactwithFrederick,buthiseyesareamileaway.

Thecommandantraiseshisrightarmandyells,“Ten!”andthewindfraysthewordacrossthelongexpanse. Frederick blinks several times, as he often does when addressed in class, waiting for hisinternallifetocatchupwithhisexternalone.

“Nine!”“Run,”hissesWerner.Frederick is a decent runner, faster thanWerner, but the commandant seems to count quickly this

afternoon,andFrederick’sheadstarthasbeenabbreviated,andthesnowhampershim,andhecannotbeovertwentyyardsawaywhenBastianraiseshisleftarm.

Theboysexplodeintomovement.Wernerrunswiththeothers,tryingtostayinthebackofthepack,theirriflesbeatinginsyncopationagainsttheirbacks.Alreadythefastestoftheboysseemtoberunningfasterthanusual,asthoughtiredofbeingoutrun.

Frederickrunshard.Butthefastestboysaregreyhounds,harvestedfromalloverthenationfortheirspeedandeagernesstoobey,andtheyseemtoWernertoberunningmorefervently,moreconclusively,

thantheyhavebefore.Theyareimpatienttofindoutwhatwillhappenifsomeoneiscaught.FrederickisfifteenstridesfromBastianwhentheyhaulhimdown.Thegroupcoalescesaroundthefront-runnersasFrederickandhispursuersget to their feet,allof

thempastedwith snow.Bastian stridesup.Thecadets encircle their instructor, chestsheaving,manywiththeirhandsontheirknees.Thebreathoftheboyspulsesoutbeforetheminacollectivefleetingcloudthatisstrippedawayquicklybythewind.Frederickstandsinthemiddle,pantingandblinkinghislongeyelashes.

“Itusuallydoesnot takesolong,”saysBastianmildly,almostas if tohimself.“Forthefirst tobecaught.”

Fredericksquintsatthesky.Bastiansays,“Cadet,areyoutheweakest?”“Idon’tknow,sir.”“Youdon’tknow?”Apause.IntoBastian’sfaceflowsanundercurrentofantagonism.“Lookatme

whenyouspeak.”“Somepeopleareweakinsomeways,sir.Othersinotherways.”Thecommadant’slipsthinandhiseyesnarrowandanexpressionofslowandintensemalicerisesin

hisface.AsthoughacloudhasdriftedawayandforamomentBastian’strue,deformedcharacterhascomeglaringthrough.HepullsthehosefromaroundhisneckandhandsittoRödel.

Rödel blinks up at his bulk. “Go on, then,” prods Bastian. In some other context, he might beencouragingareluctantboytostepintocoldwater.“Dohimsomegood.”

Rödellooksdownatthehose:black,threefeetlong,stiffinthecold.Whatmightbeseveralsecondspass, though they feel to Werner like hours, and the wind tears through the frosted grass, sendingzephyrs andwispsof snow sireningoff across thewhite, and a suddennostalgia forZollverein rollsthroughhiminawave:boyhoodafternoonswanderingthesoot-stainedwarrens,towinghislittlesisterinthewagon.Muckinthealleys,thehoarseshoutsofworkcrews,theboysintheirdormitorysleepinghead to toe while their coats and trousers hang from hooks along the walls. Frau Elena’s midnightpassageamongthebedslikeanangel,murmuring,Iknowit’scold.ButI’mrightbesideyou,see?

Jutta,closeyoureyes.RödelstepsforwardandswingsthehoseandsmacksFrederickwithitacrosstheshoulder.Frederick

takesastepbackward.Thewindslashesacrossthefield.Bastiansays,“Again.”Everythingbecomessoakedinahideousandwondrousslowness.Rödelrearsbackandstrikes.This

timehecatchesFrederickonthejaw.Wernerforceshismindtokeepsendingupimagesofhome:thelaundry;FrauElena’soverworkedpinkfingers;dogsinthealleys;steamblowingfromstacks—everypartofhimwantstoscream:isthisnotwrong?

Buthereitisright.It takes such a long time.Frederickwithstands a thirdblow. “Again,” commandsBastian.On the

fourth,Frederickthrowsuphisarmsandthehosesmacksagainsthisforearmsandhestumbles.Rödelswingsagain,andBastiansays,“Inyourshiningexample,Christ,leadtheway,everandalways,”andthewholeafternoonturnssideways,tornopen;Wernerwatchesthescenerecedeasthoughobservingitfromthefarendofatunnel:asmallwhitefield,agroupofboys,baretrees,atoycastle,noneofitanymorerealthanFrauElena’sstoriesaboutherAlsatianchildhoodorJutta’sdrawingsofParis.SixmoretimeshehearsRödelswingand thehosewhistleand thestrangelydeadsmackof therubberstrikingFrederick’shands,shoulders,andface.

Frederickcanwalkforhoursinthewoods,canidentifywarblersfiftyyardsawaysimplybyhearingtheirsong.Frederickhardlyeverthinksofhimself.Frederickisstrongerthanheisineveryimaginable

way.Werneropenshismouthbutclosesitagain;hedrowns;heshutshiseyes,hismind.Atsomepointthebeatingstops.Frederickisfacedowninthesnow.“Sir?”saysRödel,panting.BastiantakesbackthelengthofhosefromRödelanddrapesitaroundhis

neckandreachesunderneathhisbellytohitchuphisbelt.WernerkneelsbesideFrederickandturnshimontohisside.Bloodisrunningfromhisnoseoreyeorear,maybeallthree.Oneofhiseyesisalreadyswollenshut;theotherremainsopen.Hisattention,Wernerrealizes,isonthesky.Tracingsomethingupthere.

Wernerrisksaglanceupward:asinglehawk,ridingthewind.Bastiansays,“Up.”Wernerstands.Frederickdoesnotmove.Bastiansays,“Up,”morequietlythistime,andFrederickgetstoaknee.Hestands,wobbling.His

cheek isgashedand leaks tendrilsofblood.Splotchesofmoisture showonhisback fromwhere thesnowhasmeltedintohisshirt.WernergivesFrederickhisarm.

“Cadet,areyoutheweakest?”Frederickdoesnotlookatthecommandant.“No,sir.”Hawkstillgyringupthere.Theportlycommandantchewsonathoughtforamoment.Thenhisclear

voiceringsout,flyingabovethecompany,urgingthemintoarun.Fifty-sevencadetscrossthegroundsand jog up the snowy path into the forest. Frederick runs in his place beside Werner, his left eyeswelling,twinnetworksofbloodpeelingbackacrosshischeeks,hiscollarwetandbrown.

Thebranchesseetheandclatter.Allfifty-sevenboyssinginunison.

Weshallmarchonwards,Evenifeverythingcrashesdowninpieces;Fortodaythenationhearsus,Andtomorrowthewholeworld!

WinterintheforestsofoldSaxony.Wernerdoesnotriskanotherglancetowardhisfriend.Hequick-stepsthroughthecold,anunloadedfive-roundrifleoverhisshoulder.Heisalmostfifteenyearsold.

TheArrestoftheLocksmith

TheyseizehimoutsideofVitré,hours fromParis.Twopolicemen inplainclothesbundlehimoffatrainwhile a dozen passengers stare.He is questioned in a van and again in an ice-coldmezzanineofficedecoratedwithpoorlyexecutedwatercolorsofoceangoingsteamers.The first interrogatorsareFrench;anhourlatertheybecomeGerman.Theybrandishhisnotebookandtoolcase.Theyholduphiskeyringandcountsevendifferentskeletonkeys.Whatdotheseunlock,theywanttoknow,andhowdoyouemploythesetinyfilesandsaws?Whataboutthisnotebookfullofarchitecturalmeasurements?

Amodelformydaughter.KeysforthemuseumwhereIwork.Please.Theyfrog-marchhimtoacell.Thedoor’slockandhingesaresobigandantiquarian,theymustbe

Louis XIV. Maybe Napoleon. Any hour now the director or his people will show up and explaineverything.Certainlythiswillhappen.

In themorning theGermans runhim througha second,more laconic spellofquestioningwhile atypistclattersawayinthecorner.TheyseemtobeaccusinghimofplottingtodestroytheChâteaudeSaint-Malo,thoughwhytheymightbelievethisisnotclear.TheirFrenchisbarelyadequateandtheyseemmore interested in their questions than his answers. They deny access to paper, to linens, to atelephone.Theyhavephotographsofhim.

Heyearnsforcigarettes.HeliesfaceuponthefloorandimagineshimselfkissingMarie-Laureonceoneacheyewhileshesleeps.Twodaysafterhisarrest,heisdriventoaholdingpenafewmilesoutsideStrasbourg.Throughfenceslats,hewatchesacolumnofuniformedschoolgirlswalkdouble-fileinthewintersunshine.

Guardsbringprepackagedsandwiches,hardcheese,sufficientwater.Inthepen,maybethirtyotherssleeponstrawlaidatopfrozenmud.MostlyFrenchbutsomeBelgians,fourFlemings,twoWalloons.Allhavebeenaccusedofcrimestheyspeakofonlywithreticence,anxiousaboutwhattrapsmightlurkwithin any question he puts to them. At night they trade rumors in whispers. “We will only be inGermanyforafewmonths,”someonesays,andthewordgoestwistingdowntheline.

“Merelytohelpwithspringplantingwhiletheirmenareatwar.”“Thenthey’llsendushome.”Eachmanthinksthisisimpossibleandthen:Itmightbetrue.Justafewmonths.Thenhome.No officially appointed lawyer. No military tribunal. Marie-Laure’s father spends three days

shiveringintheholdingpen.Norescuearrivesfromthemuseum,nolimousinefromthedirectorgrindsupthelane.Theywillnotlethimwriteletters.Whenhedemandstouseatelephone,theguardsdon’tbothertolaugh.“Doyouknowthelasttimeweusedatelephone?”EveryhourisaprayerforMarie-Laure.Everybreath.

On the fourthday, all theprisonersarepiledontoacattle truckanddriveneast. “Weareclose toGermany,”themenwhisper.Theycanglimpseitonthefarsideoftheriver.Lowclumpsofnakedtreesbracketed by snow-dusted fields.Black rows of vineyards. Four disconnected strands of gray smokemeltintoawhitesky.

Thelocksmithsquints.Germany?Itlooksnodifferentfromthissideoftheriver.Itmayaswellbetheedgeofacliff.

Four

8August1944

TheFortof LaCité

SergeantMajorvonRumpelclimbsaladderinthedark.Hecanfeelthelymphnodesoneithersideofhisneckcompressinghisesophagusandtrachea.Hisweightlikearagontherungs.

The two gunners inside the periscope turret watch from beneath the rims of their helmets. Notofferinghelp,notsaluting.Theturretiscrownedwithasteeldomeandisusedprimarilytorangelargergunspositioned fartherbelow. Itoffersviewsof the sea to thewest; thecliffsbelow, all strungwithentanglingwire;anddirectlyacrossthewater,ahalfmileaway,theburningcityofSaint-Malo.

Artilleryhasstoppedforthemoment,andthepredawnfiresinsidethewallstakeonasteadymiddlelife,anadulthood.Thewesternedgeofthecityhasbecomeaholocaustofcrimsonandcarminefromwhichrisemultipletowersofsmoke.Thelargesthascurdledintoapillarlikethecloudoftephraandashandsteamthatbillowsatopaneruptingvolcano.Fromafar,thesmokeappearsstrangelysolid,asthoughcarvedfromluminouswood.Allalongitsperimeter,sparksriseandashfallsandadministrativedocumentsflutter:utilityplans,purchaseorders,taxrecords.

With binoculars, vonRumpelwatcheswhatmight be bats go flaming and careening out over theramparts.Ageyserofsparkseruptsdeepwithinahouse—anelectricaltransformerorhoardedfuelormaybeadelayed-actionbomb—anditlookstohimasiflightninglashesthetownfromwithin.

Oneofthegunnersmakesunimaginativecommentsaboutthesmoke,adeadhorsehecanseeatthebaseofthewalls,theintensityofcertainquadrantsoffire.AsthoughtheyarenoblemeningrandstandsviewingfortresswarfareintheyearsoftheCrusaders.VonRumpeltugshiscollaragainstthebulgesinhisthroat,triestoswallow.

Themoonsetsandtheeasternskylightens,thehemofnightpullingaway,takingstarswithitonebyoneuntilonlytwoareleft.Vega,maybe.OrVenus.Heneverlearned.

“Churchspireisgone,”saysthesecondgunner.Adayago,abovethezigzagrooftops,thecathedralspirepointedstraightup,higherthaneverything

else.Not thismorning.Soon thesun isabove thehorizonand theorangeof flamesgivesway to theblackofsmoke,risingalongthewesternwallsandblowinglikeacaulacrossthecitadel.

Finally, for a fewseconds, the smokeparts longenough forvonRumpel topeer into the serratedmaze of the city and pick outwhat he’s looking for: the upper section of a tall housewith a broadchimney.Twowindowsvisible,theglassout.Oneshutterhanging,threeinplace.

Number4rueVauborel.Stillintact.Secondspass;smokeveilsitagain.Asingleairplane tracksacross thedeepeningblue, incrediblyhigh.VonRumpel retreatsdownthe

longladderintothetunnelsofthefortbelow.Tryingnottolimp,nottothinkofthebulgesinhisgroin.In the underground commissary, men sit against the walls spooning oatmeal from their upturnedhelmets.Theelectriclightscasttheminalternatingpoolsofglareandshadow.

Von Rumpel sits on an ammunition box and eats cheese from a tube. The colonel in charge ofdefendingSaint-Malohasmadespeechestothesemen,speechesaboutvalor,abouthowanyhourtheHermannGöringDivisionwillbreaktheAmericanlineatAvranches,howreinforcementswillpourinfrom Italy and possibly Belgium, tanks and Stukas, truckloads of fifty-millimeter mortars, how thepeopleofBerlinbelieveinthemlikeanunbelievesinGod,hownoonewillabandonhispostandifhedoeshe’llbeexecutedasadeserter,butvonRumpelisthinkingnowofthevineinsideofhim.Ablackvinethathasgrownbranchesthroughhislegsandarms.Gnawinghisabdomenfromtheinside.HereinthispeninsularfortressjustoutsideSaint-Malo,cutofffromtheretreatinglines,itseemsonlyamatter

of time untilCanadians andBrits and the brightAmerican eyes of theEighty-thirdDivisionwill beswarmingthecity,scouringthehomesformaraudingHuns,doingwhateveritistheydowhentheytakeprisoners.

Onlyamatteroftimeuntiltheblackvinechokesoffhisheart.“What?”saysasoldierbesidehim.VonRumpelsniffs.“IdonotthinkIsaidanything.”Thesoldiersquintsbackintotheoatmealinhishelmet.VonRumpelsqueezesoutthelastofthevile,saltycheeseanddropstheemptytubebetweenhisfeet.

Thehouseisstillthere.Hisarmystillholdsthecity.Forafewhoursthefireswillburn,andthentheGermanswillswarmlikeantsbacktotheirpositionsandfightforanotherday.

Hewillwait.Waitandwaitandwait,andwhenthesmokeclears,hewillgoin.

AtelierdeRéparation

Berndtheengineersquirmsinpain,grindinghisfaceintothebackofthegoldenarmchair.Somethingwrongwithhislegandsomethingworsewithhischest.

Theradioishopeless.Thepowercablehasbeenseveredandtheleadtotheabovegroundantennaislost andWerner would not be surprised if the selector panel is broken. In the weakening amber ofVolkheimer’sfieldlight,hestaresatonecrushedplugafteranother.

Thebombingseemstohavedestroyedthehearinginhisleftear.Hisright,asfarashecantell, isgraduallycomingback.Beyondtheringing,hebeginstohear.

Tickingoffiresastheycool.Groaningofthehotelabove.Strangemiscellaneousdripping.And Volkheimer as he hacks intermittently, insanely, at the rubble blocking the stairwell.

Volkheimer’stechnique,apparently,isthis:hecrouchesbeneaththebuckledceiling,panting,holdingapiece of twisted rebar in one hand.He switches on his flashlight and scans the packed stairwell foranythinghemightdragoutofit.Memorizingpositions.Thenheswitchesoffthelight,topreserveitsbattery,andgoesathis taskinthedarkness.Whenthelightcomesbackon, themessof thestairwelllooksthesame.Animpactedwelterofmetalandbrickworkandtimbersothickthatit’shardtobelievetwentymencouldgetthrough.Please,Volkheimer says.Whether he knows he is saying it aloud or not,Werner cannot say.But

Wernerhearsitinhisrightearlikeadistantprayer.Please.Please.Asthougheverythinginthewartothispointwastolerabletotwenty-one-year-oldFrankVolkheimerbutnotthisfinalinjustice.

Thefiresaboveoughttohavesuckedthelastoxygenoutofthisholebynow.Theyallshouldhaveasphyxiated. Debts paid, accounts settled. And yet they breathe. The three splintered beams in theceilingholdupGodknowswhatload:tentonsofcarbonizedhotelandthecorpsesofeightanti-aircraftmenanduntoldunexplodedordnance.MaybeWernerforhistenthousandsmallbetrayalsandBerndforhisinnumerablecrimesandVolkheimerforbeingtheinstrument,theexecutoroftheorders,thebladeoftheReich—maybethethreeofthemhavesomegreaterpricetopay,somefinalsentencetobehandeddown.

Firstacorsair’scellar,builttosafeguardgold,weapons,aneccentric’sbeekeepingequipment.Thenawinecellar.Thenahandyman’snook.Atelierderéparation, thinksWerner, a chamber inwhich tomake reparations.As appropriate a place as any. Certainly therewould be people in theworldwhobelievethesethreehavereparationstomake.

TwoCans

WhenMarie-Laure wakes, the little model house is pinned beneath her chest, and she is sweatingthroughhergreat-uncle’scoat.

Is itdawn?Sheclimbs the ladderandpressesher ear to the trapdoor.Nomore sirens.Maybe thehouseburnedtothegroundwhilesheslept.Orelseshesleptthroughthelasthoursofthewarandthecityhasbeenliberated.Therecouldbepeopleinthestreets:volunteers,gendarmes,firebrigades.EvenAmericans.SheshouldgoupthroughthetrapdoorandwalkoutthefrontdoorontotherueVauborel.

Butwhat ifGermany has held the city?What ifGermans are right nowmarching fromhouse tohouse,shootingwhomevertheyplease?

Shewillwait.AtanymomentEtiennecouldbemakinghisway towardher, fightingwithhis lastbreathtoreachher.

Orheiscrouchedsomewhere,cradlinghishead.Seeingdemons.Orheisdead.Shetellsherself tosavethebread,butsheisfamishedandtheloaf isgettingstale,andbeforeshe

knowsit,shehasfinishedit.Ifonlyshehadbroughthernoveldownwithher.Marie-Laure roves the cellar in her stocking feet.Here’s a rolled rug, its hollow filledwithwhat

smell like wood shavings: mice. Here’s a crate that contains old papers. Antique lamp. MadameManec’scanningsupplies.Andhere, at thebackofa shelfnear theceiling, twosmallmiracles.Fullcans!Hardlyanyfoodremainsintheentirekitchen—onlycornmealandasheafoflavenderandtwoorthreebottlesofskunkedBeaujolais—butdownhereinthecellar,twoheavycans.

Peas?Beans?Corn kernels,maybe.Not oil, she prays; aren’t oil cans smaller?When she shakesthem, theyoffernoclues.Marie-Laure tries tocalculate thechances thatonemightcontainMadameManec’speaches,thewhitepeachesfromLanguedocthatshe’dbuybythecrateandpeelandquarterand boil with sugar. Thewhole kitchenwould fill with their smell and color,Marie-Laure’s fingersstickywiththem,akindofrapture.

TwocansEtiennemissed.But to raiseone’shopes is to risk their falling further.Peas.Orbeans.Thesewouldbemore than

welcome.Shedepositsonecanineachpocketofheruncle’scoat,andchecksagainforthelittlehouseinthepocketofherdress,andsitsonatrunkandclaspshercaneinbothhandsandtriesnottothinkaboutherbladder.

Once,whenshewaseightornine,herfathertookhertothePanthéoninParistodescribeFoucault’spendulum.Itsbob,hesaid,wasagoldensphereshapedlikeachild’stop.Itswungfromawirethatwassixty-sevenmeters long;because its trajectorychangedover time,heexplained, itprovedbeyondalldoubtthattheearthrotated.ButwhatMarie-Laureremembered,standingattherailasitwhistledpast,was her father saying that Foucault’s pendulum would never stop. It would keep swinging, sheunderstood,aftersheandherfatherleft thePanthéon,aftershehadfallenasleepthatnight.Aftershehadforgottenaboutit,andlivedherentirelife,anddied.

Nowit isasifshecanhearthependulumintheair infrontofher: thathugegoldenbob,aswideacrossasabarrel,swingingonandon,neverstopping.Groovingandregroovingitsinhumantruthintothefloor.

Number4rueVauborel

Ashes,ashes:snowinAugust.Theshellingresumedsporadicallyafterbreakfast,andnow,aroundsixP.M.,hasceased.Amachinegunfiressomewhere,asoundlikeachainofbeadspassingthroughfingers.SergeantMajorvonRumpelcarriesacanteen,ahalfdozenampulesofmorphine,andhisfieldpistol.Over the seawall.Over thecauseway toward thehugesmolderingbulwarkofSaint-Malo.Out in theharbor,thejettyhasbeenshatteredinmultipleplaces.Ahalf-submergedfishingboatdriftssternup.

Insidetheoldcity,mountainsofstoneblocks,sacks,shutters,branches,irongrillework,andchimneypotsfilltheruedeDinan.Smashedflowerboxesandcharredwindowframesandshatteredglass.Somebuildingsstillsmoke,andthoughvonRumpelkeepsadamphandkerchiefpressedoverhismouthandnose,hehastostopseveraltimestogatherhisbreath.

Hereadeadhorse,startingtobloat.Hereachairupholsteredinstripedgreenvelvet.Herethetornshreds of a canopy proclaim a brasserie. Curtains swing idly from broken windows in the strange,flickeringlight;theyunnervehim.Swallowsflytoandfro,lookingforlostnests,andsomeoneveryfarawaymightbescreaming,oritmightbethewind.Theblastshavestrippedmanyshopsignsofftheirbrackets,andthegibbetshangforsaken.

Aschnauzertrotsafterhim,whining.Nooneshoutsdownfromawindowtowarnhimawayfrommines. Indeed, in fourblockshe seesonlyone soul, awomanoutsidewhatwas, thedaybefore, themovie-house.Dustpaninonehand,broomnowheretobeseen.Shelooksupathim,dazed.Throughanopendoorbehindher, rowsof seats havecrumpledbeneathgreat slabsof ceiling.Beyond them, thescreenstandsunblemished,notevenstainedbysmoke.

“Show’s not till eight,” she says in herBreton French, and he nods as he limps past.On the rueVauborel,vastquantitiesofslatetileshaveslidoffroofsanddetonatedinthestreets.Scrapsofburnedpaperfloatoverhead.Nogulls.Evenifthehousehascaughtfire,hethinks,thediamondwillbethere.Hewillpluckitfromtheasheslikeawarmegg.

But the tall, slender house remains nearly unscathed.Elevenwindows on the facade,most of theglassout.Bluewindowframes,oldgraniteofgraysandtans.Fourofitssixflowerboxeshangon.Themandatedlistofoccupantsclingstoitsfrontdoor.M.EtienneLeBlanc,age63.MlleMarie-LaureLeBlanc,age16.Allthedangersheiswillingtoendure.FortheReich.Forhimself.Noonestopshim.Noshellscomewhistlingin.Sometimestheeyeofahurricaneisthesafestplace

tobe.

WhatTheyHave

Whenisitdayandwhennight?Timeseemsbettermeasuredbyflashes:Volkheimer’sfieldlightflicksoff,flickson.

WernerwatchesVolkheimer’sash-dustedfaceinthereflectedglow,hisministrationsasheleansoverBernd.Drink, saysVolkheimer’smouth as he holds his canteen to Bernd’s lips, and shadows lungeacrossthebrokenceilinglikeacircleofwraithspreparingtofeast.

Berndtwistshisfaceaway,panicinhiseyes,andtriestoexaminehisleg.Theflashlightswitchesoffandthedarknessrushesback.InWerner’sduffel,hehashischildhoodnotebook,hisblanket,anddrysocks.Threerations.Thisis

all thefoodtheyhave.Volkheimerhasnone.Berndhasnone.Theyhaveonlytwocanteensofwater,eachhalf-empty.Volkheimerhasalsodiscoveredabucketofpaintbrushesinacornerwithsomewaterysludgeinthebottom,buthowdesperatewilltheyhavetobecometodrinkthat?

Twostickgrenades:Model24s,oneineachofthesidepocketsofVolkheimer’scoat.Hollowwoodhandles on the bottom, high-explosive charges in a steel can on top—handheld bombs the boys atSchulpforta called potato mashers. Twice already Bernd has begged Volkheimer to try one on theimpactedmessofthestairwell,toseeiftheycanblasttheirwayout.Buttouseagrenadedownhere,insuchclosequarters,beneathrubblepresumablylitteredwithlive88-millimetershells,wouldbesuicide.

Then there’s the rifle:Volkheimer’s bolt-actionKarabiner 98K, loadedwith five rounds. Enough,thinksWerner.Plenty.Theywouldneedonlythree,oneforeach.

Sometimes,inthedarkness,Wernerthinksthecellarmayhaveitsownfaintlight,perhapsemanatingfrom the rubble, the spacegoingabit redderas theAugustdayabove themprogresses towarddusk.Afterawhile,heislearning,eventotaldarknessisnotquitedarkness;morethanoncehethinkshecanseehisspreadfingerswhenhepassestheminfrontofhiseyes.

Werner thinks of his childhood, the skeins of coal dust suspended in the air onwintermornings,settlingonwindowsills, inthechildren’sears, intheir lungs,exceptdownhereinthishole, thewhitedustistheinverse,asifheistrappedinsomedeepminethatisthesamebutalsotheoppositeoftheonethatkilledhisfather.

Darkagain.Lightagain.Volkheimer’santicash-dustedfacematerializesinfrontofWerner,hisrankinsigniapartially tornoff one shoulder.With thebeamofhis field light, he showsWerner that he isholding twobentscrewdriversandaboxofelectrical fuses.“Theradio,”hesays intoWerner’sgoodear.

“Haveyousleptatall?”Volkheimerturnsthelightontohisownface.Beforewerunoutofbattery,sayshismouth.Wernershakeshishead.Theradioishopeless.Hewantstoclosehiseyes,forget,giveup.Waitfor

theriflebarreltotouchhistemple.ButVolkheimerwantstomakeanargumentthatlifeisworthliving.The filaments of the bulb inside his field light glow yellow: weaker already. Volkheimer’s

illuminatedmouthisredagainst theblackness.Wearerunningoutof time,his lipssay.Thebuildinggroans.Wernerseesgreengrass,cracklingflies,sunlight.Thegatesofasummerestateopeningwide.WhendeathcomesforBernd,itmightaswellcomeforhimalso.Saveasecondtrip.Yoursister,saysVolkheimer.Thinkofyoursister.

TripWire

Her bladder will not hold much longer. She scales the cellar steps and holds her breath and hearsnothingforthirtyheartbeats.Forty.Thenshepushesopenthetrapdoorandclimbsintothekitchen.

Nooneshootsher.Shehearsnoexplosions.Marie-Laure crunches over the fallen kitchen shelves and crosses into Madame Manec’s tiny

apartment, the twocans swingingheavily inhergreat-uncle’s coat.Throat stinging,nostrils stinging.Thesmokeslightlythinnerinhere.

Sherelievesherself in thebedpanat thefootofMadameManec’sbed.Pullsupherstockingsandrebuttonshergreat-uncle’scoat.Isitafternoon?Shewishesforthethousandthtimethatshecouldtalktoherfather.Woulditbebetter togoout intothecity,especially if it isstilldaylight,andtrytofindsomeone?

Asoldierwouldhelpher.Anyonewould.Thoughevenasthethoughtrises,shedoubtsit.Theunsteady feeling inher legs, sheknows, stems fromhunger. In the tumultof thekitchen, she

cannot findacanopener,but shedoes findaparingknife inMadameManec’sknifedrawerand thelargecoarsebrickMadameusedtopropopenthefireplacegrate.

Shewilleatwhateverisinsideoneofthetwocans.Thenshewillwaitabitlongerincaseherunclecomeshome,incaseshehearsanyonepassby,thetowncrier,afireman,anAmericanservicemanwithgallantryonhismind.Ifshehearsnoonebythetimesheishungryagain,shewillgooutintowhatisleftofthestreet.

First she climbs to the third floor todrink from thebathtub.Withher lips against its surface, shetakes long inward pulls. Pooling, burbling in her gut. A trick she and Etienne have learned over ahundredinsufficientmeals:beforeyoueat,drinkasmuchwaterasyoucan,andyouwillfeelfullmorequickly.“Atleast,Papa,”shesaysoutloud,“Iwassmartaboutthewater.”

Thenshesitsonthethird-floorlandingwithherbackagainstthetelephonetable.Shebracesoneofthecansbetweenherthighs,holdsthepointoftheknifeagainstitslid,andraisesthebricktotapdownontheknifehandle.Butbeforeshecanbringthebrickdown,thetripwirebehindherjerks,andthebellrings,andsomeoneentersthehouse.

Five

January1941

JanuaryRecess

ThecommandantmakesaspeechaboutvirtueandfamilyandtheemblematicfirethatSchulpfortaboyscarryeverywheretheygo,abowlofpureflametostokethenation’shearths,führerthisandführerthat,his words crashing intoWerner’s ears in a familiar battery, one of the most daring boys mutteringafterward,“Oh,I’vegotahotbowlofsomethinginmycore.”

Inthebunkroom,Frederickleansover therimofhisbed.Hisfacepresentsamapofpurplesandyellows.“Whydon’tyoucometoBerlin?Fatherwillbeworking,butyoucouldmeetMother.”

FortwoweeksFrederickhaslimpedaroundbruisedandslow-footedandpuffy,andnotoncehashespokentoWernerwithanythingmorethanhisowngentlebrandofdistractedkindness.NotoncehasheaccusedWernerofbetrayal,eventhoughWernerdidnothingwhileFrederickwasbeatenandhasdonenothing since: did not hunt down Rödel or point a rifle at Bastian or bang indignantly on Dr.Hauptmann’sdoor,demandingjustice.AsifFrederickunderstandsalreadythatbothhavebeenassignedtotheirspecificcourses,thatthereisnodeviatingnow.

Wernersays,“Idon’thave—”“Motherwillpayyourfare.”Fredericktiltsbackupandstaresattheceiling.“It’snothing.”Thetrainrideisasleepysix-hourepic,everyhourtheirricketycarshuntedontoasidingtolettrains

full of soldiers, headed for the front, hurry past. FinallyWerner and Frederick disembark at a dimcharcoal-coloredstationandclimbalongflightofstairs,eachsteppaintedwiththesameexclamation—BerlinsmokesJunos!—andriseintothestreetsofthelargestcityWernerhaseverseen.

Berlin!Theverynameliketwosharpbellsofglory.Capitalofscience,seatoftheführer,nurserytoBohr, Einstein, Staudinger, Bayer. Somewhere in these streets, plastic was invented, X-rays werediscovered,continentaldriftwasidentified.Whatmarvelsdoessciencecultivateherenow?Supermansoldiers,Dr.Hauptmannsays,andweather-makingmachinesandmissilesthatcanbesteeredbymenathousandmilesaway.

Theskydropssilverthreadsofsleet.Grayhousesruninconverginglinestothehorizon,bunchedasiftofendoffcold.Theypassshopsstuffedwithhangingmeatsandadrunkwithabrokenmandolinonhislapandatrioofstreetwalkershuddledbeneathanawningwhocatcalltheboysintheiruniforms.

Frederick leads them into a five-story town house one block off a pretty avenue called theKnesebeckstrasse.Herings#2anda returningbuzzechoesfrominsideand thedoorunlatches.Theycome into a dim foyer and stand before a pair of matched doors. Frederick presses a button andsomethinghighinthebuildingrattlesandWernerwhispers,“Youhaveanelevator?”

Frederick smiles. The machinery clangs downward and the lift clanks into place and Frederickpushesthewoodendoorsinward.Wernerwatchestheinteriorofthebuildingslidepastinamazement.Whentheyreachthesecondfloor,hesays,“Canwerideitagain?”

Frederick laughs. They go down. Back up. Down, up, to the lobby a fourth time, andWerner ispeering into the cables andweights above the car, trying to understand itsmechanism,when a tinywomanentersthebuildingandshakesoutherumbrella.Withherotherhand,shecarriesapapersack,andhereyesrapidlyapprehendtheboys’uniformsandtheintensewhitenessofWerner’shairandthelivid bruises beneath Frederick’s eyes. On the breast of her coat, a mustard-yellow star has beencarefullystitched.Perfectlystraight,onevertexdown,anotherup.Dropsfalllikeseedsfromthetipofherumbrella.

“Good afternoon, Frau Schwartzenberger,” says Frederick. He backs up against the wall of theelevatorcarandgesturesforhertoenter.

Shesqueezes into theliftandWernersteps inbehindher.Fromthetopofhersackjutsasheafofwitheredgreens.Hercollar,hecansee,isseparatingfromtherestofthecoat;threadsaregivingway.Ifsheweretoturn,theireyeswouldbeahand’swidthapart.

Frederickpresses2,then5.Noonespeaks.Theoldwomanrubsthetremblingtipofanindexfingeracrossoneeyebrow.Theliftclangsuponefloor.FredericksnapsopenthecageandWernerfollowshimout.Hewatchestheoldwoman’sgrayshoesrisepasthisnose.Alreadythedoorto#2isopening,andanapronedwomanwithbaggyarmsandadownyfacerushesoutandembracesFrederick.Shekisseshimonbothcheeks,thentoucheshisbruiseswithherthumbs.

“It’sallright,Franny,horseplay.”Theapartmentissleekandshiny,fullofdeepcarpetsthatswallownoise.Bigrearwindowslookout

intotheheartsoffourleaflesslindens.Sleetstillfallingoutside.“Motherisn’thomeyet,”Frannysays,smoothingdownherapronwithbothpalms.Hereyesstayon

Frederick.“You’resureyou’reallright?”Fredericksays,“Ofcourse,”andtogetherheandWernerpadintoawarm,clean-smellingbedroom

and Frederick slides open a drawer, and when he turns around, he’s wearing eyeglasses with blackframes.HelooksatWernershyly.“Oh,comeon,youdidn’talreadyknow?”

Withhisglasseson,Frederick’sexpressionseemstoease;hisfacemakesmoresense—this,Wernerthinks, is who he is. A soft-skinned boy in glasses with taffy-colored hair and the finest trace of amustacheneedledacrosshislip.Birdlover.Richkid.

“Ibarelyhitanythinginmarksmanship.Youreallydidn’tknow?”“Maybe,”saysWerner.“MaybeIknew.Howdidyoupasstheeyeexams?”“Memorizedthecharts.”“Don’ttheyhavedifferentones?”“Imemorizedallfour.Fathergotthemaheadoftime.Motherhelpedmestudy.”“Whataboutyourbinoculars?”“They’represcription.Costafortune.”Theysit inabigkitchenatabutcher’sblockwithamarblecap.ThemaidnamedFrannyemerges

withadarkloafandaroundofcheese,andshesmilesatFrederickasshesetsitdown.TheytalkaboutChristmasandhowFrederickwassorrytomissit,andthemaidpassesoutthroughaswingingdoorandreturnswithtwowhiteplatessodelicatethattheyringwhenshesetsthemdown.

Werner’smindreels:Alift!AJewess!Amaid!Berlin!TheyretreatintoFrederick’sbedroom,whichispopulatedwithtinsoldiersandmodelairplanesandwoodencratesfullofcomicbooks.Theylieontheir stomachs andpage through comics, feeling thepleasureof beingoutsideof school, glancing ateachothernowandthenasifcurioustolearnwhethertheirfriendshipwillcontinuetoexistinanotherplace.

Frannycalls,“I’mgoing,”andassoonasthedoorcloses,FredericktakesWernerbythearmintothelivingroomandclimbsaladderbuiltalongtallhardwoodshelvesandslidesasidealargewickerbasketand,frombehindit,bringsdownahugebook:twovolumesenfoldedingoldenslipcovers,eachasbigasacribmattress.“Here.”Hisvoiceglows;hiseyesglow.“ThisiswhatIwantedtoshowyou.”

Insidearelushfull-colorpaintingsofbirds.Twowhitefalconsswoopovereachother,beaksopen.Abloodred flamingo holds its black-tipped beak over stagnant water. Resplendent geese stand on aheadlandandpeerintoaheavysky.Frederickturnsthepageswithbothhands.Pipiryflycatcher.Buff-breastedmerganser.Red-cockadedwoodpecker.Manyofthemlargerinthebookthaninreallife.

“Audubon,”Fredericksays,“wasanAmerican.Walkedtheswampsandwoodsforyears,backwhenthatwholecountrywasjustswampsandwoods.He’dspendalldaywatchingoneindividualbird.Thenhe’d shoot it andprop it upwithwires and sticks andpaint it. Probablyknewmore than anybirderbeforeorsince.He’deatmostofthebirdsafterhepaintedthem.Canyouimagine?”Frederick’svoicetrembleswithardency.Gazingup.“Thosebrightmistsandyourgunonyourshoulderandyoureyessetfirmlyinyourhead?”

WernertriestoseewhatFredericksees:atimebeforephotography,beforebinoculars.Andherewassomeonewillingtotrampoutintoawildernessbrimmingwiththeunknownandbringbackpaintings.Abooknotsomuchfullofbirdsasfullofevanescence,ofblue-winged,trumpetingmysteries.

HethinksoftheFrenchman’sradioprogram,ofHeinrichHertz’sPrinciplesofMechanics—doesn’therecognizethethrillinFrederick’svoice?Hesays,“Mysisterwouldlovethis.”

“Fathersayswe’renotsupposedtohaveit.Sayswehavetokeepithiddenuptherebehindthebasketbecauseit’sAmericanandwasprintedinScotland.It’sjustbirds!”

Thefrontdooropensandfootstepsclackacrossthefoyer.Frederickhurriesthevolumesbackinsidetheirslipcovers;hecalls,“Mother?”andawomanwearingagreenskisuitwithwhitestripesdownthelegs enters crying, “Fredde! Fredde!” She embraces her son and holds him backwith straight armswhile she runs a fingertip over amostly healed cut along his forehead. Frederick looks off over hershoulderwithatraceofpaniconhisface.Isheafraidthatshe’llseehewaslookingattheforbiddenbook?Orthatshe’llbeangryabouthisbruises?Shedoesnotsayanythingbutmerelystaresatherson,tangledinthoughtsWernercannotguess,thenremembersherself.

“AndyoumustbeWerner!”Thesmilesweepsbackontoherface.“Frederickhaswrittenlotsaboutyou!Lookat thathair!Oh,weadoreguests.”Sheclimbs the ladderandrestores theheavyAudubonvolumestotheirshelfoneatatime,asthoughputtingawaysomethingirritating.ThethreeofthemsitatthevastoaktableandWernerthanksherforthetrainticketandshetellsastoryaboutamanshe“ranintojustnow,unbelievablereally,”whoapparentlyisafamoustennisplayerandeverynowandthenshereachesacrossandsqueezesFrederick’sforearm.“Youwouldhavebeenabsolutelyamazed,”shesaysmorethanonce,andWernerstudieshisfriend’sfacetogaugewhetherornothewouldhavebeenamazed,andFrannyreturnstosetoutwineandmoreRauchkäseandforanhourWernerforgetsaboutSchulpforta, about Bastian and the black rubber hose, about the Jewess upstairs—the things thesepeoplehave!Aviolinonastandinthecornerandsleekfurnituremadefromchromiumsteelandabrasstelescopeandasterlingsilverchesssetbehindglassandthismagnificentcheesethattasteslikesmokehasbeenstirredintobutter.

WineglowssleepilyinWerner’sstomachandsleetticksdownthroughthelindenswhenFrederick’smother announces that they are going out. “Tighten up your ties, won’t you?” She applies powderbeneathFrederick’seyesandtheywalktoabistro,thekindofrestaurantWernerhasneverdreamedofentering,andaboyinawhitejacket,barelyolderthantheyare,bringsmorewine.

A constant streamof diners come to their table to shakeWerner’s and Frederick’s hands and askFrederick’smotherinlowsycophanticvoicesaboutherhusband’slatestadvancement.Wernernoticesagirlinthecorner,radiant,dancingbyherself,throwingherfacetotheceiling.Eyesclosed.Thefoodisrich,andeverynowandthenFrederick’smotherlaughs,andFrederickabsentlytouchesthemakeuponhis facewhile hismother says, “Well, Fredde has all the best there at that school, all the best,” andseeminglyeveryminutesomenewfacecomesalongandkissesFrederick’smotheronbothcheeksandwhispers in her ear. When Werner overhears Frederick’s mother say to a woman, “Oh, theSchwartzenberger crone will be gone by year’s end, then we’ll have the top floor, du wirst schonsehen,”heglancesatFrederick,whosesmudgedeyeglasseshavegoneopaqueinthecandlelight,whose

makeuplooksstrangeandlewdnow,asthoughithasintensifiedthebruisesratherthanconcealedthem,andafeelingofgreatuneasinessovertakeshim.HehearsRödelswingthehose,thesmackofitacrossFrederick’supflungpalms.HehearsthevoicesoftheboysinhisKameradschaftenbackinZollvereinsing,Live faithfully, fight bravely, and die laughing. The bistro is overcrowded; everyone’s mouthsmove too quickly; the woman talking to Frederick’s mother is wearing a nauseating quantity ofperfume;andinthewaterylightitseemssuddenlyasifthescarftrailingfromthedancinggirl’sneckisanoose.

Fredericksays,“Areyouallright?”“Fine,it’sdelicious,”butWernerfeelssomethinginsidehimscrewtighter,tighter.Onthewayhome,Frederickandhismotherwalkahead.Sheloopsherslenderarmthroughhisand

talkstohiminalowvoice.Freddethis,Freddethat.Thestreetisempty,thewindowsdead,theelectricsignsswitchedoff.Innumerableshops,millionssleepinginbedsaroundthem,andyetwherearetheyall?As they reachFrederick’sblock,awoman inadress, leaningagainstabuilding,bendsoverandvomitsonthesidewalk.

Inthetownhouse,Frederickpullsonpajamasmadeofjelly-greensilkandfoldshisglassesonthenightstand and climbs barefoot into his brass childhood bed. Werner gets into a trundle bed thatFrederick’smotherhasapologizedfor threeseparate times,although itsmattress ismorecomfortablethananyhehassleptoninhislife.

Thebuildingfallsquiet.ModelautomobilesglimmeronFrederick’sshelves.“Doyoueverwish,”whispersWerner,“thatyoudidn’thavetogoback?”“FatherneedsmetobeatSchulpforta.Mothertoo.Itdoesn’tmatterwhatIwant.”“Ofcourseitmatters.Iwanttobeanengineer.Andyouwanttostudybirds.BelikethatAmerican

painterintheswamps.Whyelsedoanyofthisifnottobecomewhowewanttobe?”Astillnessintheroom.OutthereinthetreesbeyondFrederick’swindowhangsanalienlight.“Yourproblem,Werner,”saysFrederick,“isthatyoustillbelieveyouownyourlife.”WhenWernerwakes, it’swellpastdawn.Hisheadachesandhiseyeballs feelheavy.Frederick is

alreadydressed,wearingtrousers,anironedshirt,andanecktie,kneelingagainstthewindowwithhisnoseagainsttheglass.“Graywagtail.”Hepoints.Wernerlookspasthimintothenakedlindens.

“Doesn’tlooklikemuch,doeshe?”murmursFrederick.“Hardlyacoupleofouncesoffeathersandbones.ButthatbirdcanflytoAfricaandback.Poweredbybugsandwormsanddesire.”

Thewagtailhopsfromtwigtotwig.Wernerrubshisachingeyes.It’sjustabird.“Tenthousandyearsago,”whispersFrederick,“theycamethroughhereinthemillions.Whenthis

placewasagarden,oneendlessgardenfromendtoend.”

HeIsNotComingBack

Marie-LaurewakesandthinksshehearstheshuffleofPapa’sshoes,theclinkofhiskeyring.Fourthfloorfifthfloorsixth.Hisfingersbrushthedoorknob.Hisbodyradiatesafaintbutpalpableheatinthechair beside her. His little tools rasp across wood. He smells of glue and sandpaper and Gauloisesbleues.

Butitisonlythehousegroaning.Theseathrowingfoamagainstrocks.Deceitsofthemind.Onthe twentiethmorningwithoutanywordfromherfather,Marie-Lauredoesnotgetoutofbed.

Shenolongercaresthathergreat-uncleputonanancientnecktieandstoodbythefrontdoorontwoseparateoccasionsandwhisperedweirdrhymestohimself—àlapommedeterre,jesuisparterre;auharicot, je suisdans l’eau—trying and failing to summon the courage togoout.Sheno longerbegsMadameManectotakehertothetrainstation,towriteanotherletter,tospendanotherfutileafternoonattheprefecturetryingtopetitionoccupationauthoritiestolocateherfather.Shebecomesunreachable,sullen. She does not bathe, does not warm herself by the kitchen fire, ceases to ask if she can gooutdoors.Shehardlyeats.“Themuseumsaysthey’researching,child,”whispersMadameManec,butwhenshetriestopressherlipstoMarie-Laure’sforehead,thegirljerksbackwardasifburned.

ThemuseumrepliestoEtienne’sappeals;theyreportthatMarie-Laure’sfatherneverarrived.“Neverarrived?”saysEtiennealoud.ThisbecomesthequestionthatdragsitsteeththroughMarie-Laure’smind.Whydidn’themakeitto

Paris?Ifhecouldn’t,whydidn’thereturntoSaint-Malo?Iwillneverleaveyou,notinamillionyears.Shewantsonlytogohome,tostandintheirfour-roomflatandhearthechestnuttreerustleoutside

herwindow;hearthecheesesellerraisehisawning;feelherfather’sfingersclosearoundhers.Ifonlyshehadbeggedhimtostay.Noweverythinginthehousescaresher: thecreakingstairs,shutteredwindows,emptyrooms.The

clutterandsilence.Etiennetriesperformingsillyexperimentstocheerher:avinegarvolcano,atornadoinabottle.“Canyouhearit,Marie?Spinninginthere?”Shedoesnotfeigninterest.MadameManecbringsheromelets,cassoulet,brochettesoffish,fabricatingmiraclesoutofrationticketsandthedregsofhercupboards,butMarie-Laurerefusestoeat.

“Likeasnail,”sheoverhearsEtiennesayoutsideherdoor.“Curledupsotightinthere.”Butsheisangry.AtEtiennefordoingsolittle,atMadameManecfordoingsomuch,atherfather

fornotbeinghere tohelpherunderstandhis absence.Ather eyes for failingher.At everythingandeveryone.Whoknewlovecouldkillyou?Shespendshourskneelingbyherselfonthesixthfloorwiththewindowopenandtheseahurlingarcticair intotheroom,herfingersonthemodelofSaint-Maloslowlygoingnumb.SouthtotheGateofDinan.WesttothePlageduMôle.BacktotherueVauborel.EverysecondEtienne’shousegrowscolder;everyseconditfeelsasifherfatherslipsfartheraway.

Prisoner

OneFebruarymorning,thecadetsarerousedfromtheirbedsattwoA.M.anddrivenoutintotheglitter.In the center of the quadrangle, torches burn. Keg-chested Bastian waddles out with his bare legsshowingbeneathhiscoat.

FrankVolkheimeremerges fromtheshadows,dragginga tatteredandskeletalman inmismatchedshoes.Volkheimersetshimdownbesidethecommandant,whereastakehasbeendrivenintothesnow.MethodicallyVolkheimertiestheman’storsotothestake.

Avault of stars hangsoverhead; the collectivebreathof the cadetsmingles slowly, nightmarishlyabovethecourtyard.

Volkheimerretreats;thecommandantpaces.“Youboyswouldnotbelievewhatacreaturethisis.Whatafoulbeast,acentaur,anUntermensch.”Everyonecranestosee.Theprisoner’sanklesarecuffedandhisarmsboundfromwriststoforearms.

Histhinshirthassplitattheseamsandhegazesintosomemiddledistancewithhypothermicslackness.HelooksPolish.Russian,maybe.Despitehisfetters,hemanagestoswaylightlybackandforth.

Bastiansays,“Thismanescapedfromaworkcamp.Triedtoviolateafarmhouseandstealaliteroffreshmilk.Hewasstoppedbeforehecoulddosomethingmorenefarious.”Hegesturesvaguelybeyondthewalls.“Thisbarbarianwouldtearoutyourthroatsinasecondifwelethim.”

SincethevisittoBerlin,agreatdreadhasbeenbloominginsideWerner’schest.Itcamegradually,asslow-movingas the sun’spassage across the sky,but nowhe findshimselfwriting letters to Jutta inwhich hemust skirt the truth,must contend that everything is finewhen things do not feel fine.Hedescends into dreams inwhichFrederick’smothermutates into a leering, small-moutheddemon andlowersDr.Hauptmann’strianglesoverhishead.

Athousandfrozenstarspresideoverthequad.Thecoldisinvasive,mindless.“This look?”Bastiansays,andflourisheshis fathand.“Thewayhe’sgotnothing left?AGerman

soldierneverreachesthispoint.There’sanameforthislook.It’scalled‘circlingthedrain.’ ”The boys try not to shiver. The prisoner blinks down at the scene as if from a very high perch.

Volkheimerreturnscarryingaclatteringraftofbuckets;twootherseniorsuncoilawaterhoseacrossthequadrangle. Bastian explains: First the instructors. Then upperclassmen. Everyone will file past andsoaktheprisonerwithabucketofwater.Everymanintheschool.

Theystart.Onebyone,eachinstructortakesafullbucketfromVolkheimerandflingsitscontentsattheprisonerafewfeetaway.Cheersriseintothefrozennight.

At the first two or three dousings, the prisoner comes awake, rocking back on his heels.Verticalcreasesappearbetweenhiseyes;helookslikesomeonetryingtoremembersomethingvital.

Amongtheinstructorsintheirdarkcapes,Dr.Hauptmanngoespast,hisglovedfingerspinchinghiscollararoundhisthroat.Hauptmannacceptshisbucketandthrowsasheetofwateranddoesn’tlingertowatchitland.

Thewaterkeepscoming.Theprisoner’sfaceempties.Heslumpsover theropesproppinghimup,andhis torso slidesdown the stake, and everynowand thenVolkheimer comesout of the shadows,loomingfantasticallyhuge,andtheprisonerstraightensagain.

Theupperclassmenvanishinsidethecastle.Thebucketsmakeamuted,frozenclankingastheyarerefilled.Thesixteen-year-oldsfinish.Thefifteen-year-oldsfinish.ThecheerslosetheirgustoandapurelongingtofleefloodsWerner.Run.Run.

Threeboysuntilhis turn.Twoboys.Werner tries tofloat imagesinfrontofhiseyes,but theonlyones thatcomearewretched: thehaulingmachineabovePitNine; thehunchedminerswalkingas iftheydraggedtheweightofenormouschains.Theboyfromtheentranceexamstremblingbeforehefell.Everyone trapped in their roles: orphans, cadets, Frederick, Volkheimer, the old Jewess who livesupstairs.EvenJutta.

Whenhisturnarrives,Wernerthrowsthewaterlikealltheothersandthesplashhitstheprisonerinthechestandaperfunctorycheerrises.Hejoinsthecadetswaitingtobereleased.Wetboots,wetcuffs;hishandshavebecomesonumb,theydonotseemhisown.

Five boys later, it is Frederick’s turn. Frederick,who clearly cannot seewellwithout his glasses.Who has not been cheering when each bucketful of water finds its mark. Who is frowning at theprisonerasthoughherecognizessomethingthere.

AndWernerknowswhatFrederickisgoingtodo.Frederickhastobenudgedforwardbytheboybehindhim.Theupperclassmanhandshimabucket

andFrederickpoursitoutontheground.Bastianstepsforward.Hisfaceflaresscarletinthecold.“Givehimanother.”AgainFredericksloshesitontotheiceathisfeet.Hesaysinasmallvoice,“Heisalreadyfinished,

sir.”Theupperclassmanhandsover a thirdpail. “Throw it,” commandsBastian.Thenight steams, the

starsburn,theprisonersways,theboyswatch,thecommandanttiltshishead.Frederickpoursthewaterontotheground.“Iwillnot.”

PlageduMôle

Marie-Laure’s father has been missing without word for twenty-nine days. She wakes to MadameManec’sblockypumpsclimbingtothethirdfloorthefourththefifth.

Etienne’svoiceonthelandingoutsidehisstudy:“Don’t.”“Hewon’tknow.”“Sheismyresponsibility.”SomeunexpectedsteelemergesinMadameManec’svoice.“Icannotstandbyonemomentlonger.”She climbs the last flight.Marie-Laure’s door creaks open; the old woman crosses the floor and

placesherheavy-bonedhandonMarie-Laure’sforehead.“You’reawake?”Marie-Laurerollsherselfintothecornerandspeaksthroughlinens.“Yes,Madame.”“I’mtakingyouout.Bringyourcane.”Marie-Laure dresses herself;MadameManecmeets her at the bottomof the stairswith a heel of

bread.ShetiesascarfoverMarie-Laure’shead,buttonshercoatallthewaytothecollar,andopensthefrontdoor.MorninginlateFebruary,andtheairsmellsrainyandcalm.

Marie-Laurehesitates,listening.Herheartbeatstwofoursixeight.“Hardlyanyoneisoutyet,dear,”whispersMadameManec.“Andwearedoingnothingwrong.”Thegatecreaks.“Onestepdown,nowstraighton,that’sit.”ThecobbledstreetpressesupirregularlyagainstMarie-

Laure’sshoes;thetipofhercanecatches,vibrates,catchesagain.Alightrainfallsonrooftops,tricklesthroughrunnels,beadsuponherscarf.Soundricochetsbetweenthehighhouses;shefeels,asshedidinherfirsthourhere,asifshehassteppedintoamaze.

Farabovethem,someoneshakesadusteroutawindow.Acatmewls.Whatterrorsgnashtheirteethouthere?WhatwasPapasoanxioustoprotectherfrom?Theymakeoneturn,thenasecond,andthenMadameManecsteersherleftwhereMarie-Lauredoesnotexpectherto,wherethecitywalls,furredwithmoss,havebeenscrollingalongunbroken,andthey’resteppingthroughagateway.

“Madame?”Theypassoutofthecity.“Stairshere,mindyourself,onedown,two,thereyouare,easyascake...”Theocean.Theocean!Rightinfrontofher!Socloseallthistime.Itsucksandboomsandsplashes

and rumbles; it shifts anddilates and fallsover itself; the labyrinthofSaint-Malohasopenedontoaportalofsoundlargerthananythingshehaseverexperienced.LargerthantheJardindesPlantes,thantheSeine,largerthanthegrandestgalleriesofthemuseum.Shedidnotimagineitproperly;shedidnotcomprehendthescale.

Whensheraisesherfacetothesky,shecanfeelthethousandtinyspinesofraindropsmeltontohercheeks, her forehead.ShehearsMadameManec’s raspybreathing, and thedeep soundingof the seaamongtherocks,andthecallsofsomeonedownthebeachechoingoffthehighwalls.Inhermindshecanhearherfatherpolishinglocks.Dr.Geffardwalkingalongtherowsofhisdrawers.Whydidn’ttheytellheritwouldbelikethis?

“That’sMonsieurRadomcallingtohisdog,”saysMadameManec.“Nothingtoworryabout.Here’smyarm.Sitdownandtakeoffyourshoes.Rollupyourcoatsleeves.”

Marie-Lauredoesassheistold.“Aretheywatching?”

“TheBoches?Sowhat if they are?Anoldwomanand agirl? I’ll tell themwe’redigging clams.Whatcantheydo?”

“Unclesaysthey’veburiedbombsinthebeaches.”“Don’tyouworryaboutthat.Heisfrightenedofanant.”“Hesaysthemoonpullstheoceanback.”“Themoon?”“Sometimes the sun pulls too. He says that around the islands, the tides make funnels that can

swallowboatswhole.”“Wearen’tgoinganywherenearthere,dear.We’rejustonthebeach.”Marie-LaureunwindsherscarfandMadameManectakesit.Briny,weedy,pewter-coloredairslips

downhercollar.“Madame?”“Yes?”“WhatdoIdo?”“Justwalk.”She walks. Now there are cold round pebbles beneath her feet. Now crackling weeds. Now

somethingsmoother:wet,unwrinkledsand.Shebendsandspreadsherfingers.It’slikecoldsilk.Cold,sumptuoussilkontowhichtheseahaslaidofferings:pebbles,shells,barnacles.Tinyslipsofwrack.Herfingersdigandreach; thedropsofrain touchthebackofherneck, thebacksofherhands.Thesandpullstheheatfromherfingertips,fromthesolesofherfeet.

A months-old knot inside Marie-Laure begins to loosen. She moves along the tide line, almostcrawling at first, and imagines the beach stretching off in either direction, ringing the promontory,embracingtheouterislands,thewholefiligreedtraceryoftheBretoncoastlinewithitswildcapesandcrumbling batteries and vine-choked ruins. She imagines the walled city behind her, its soaringramparts, its puzzle of streets. All of it suddenly as small as Papa’smodel. Butwhat surrounds themodel isnot somethingher fatherconveyed toher;what’sbeyond themodel is themostcompellingthing.

Aflockofgullssquallsoverhead.Eachofthehundredthousandtinygrainsofsandinherfistsgrindsagainstitsneighbor.Shefeelsherfatherpickherupandspinheraroundthreetimes.

No occupation soldier comes to arrest them; no one even speaks to them. In three hoursMarie-Laure’snumbfingersdiscoverastrandedjellyfish,anencrustedbuoy,andathousandpolishedstones.Shewadestoherkneesandsoaksthehemofherdress.WhenMadameManecfinallyleadsher—dampand dazzled—back to the rueVauborel,Marie-Laure climbs all five flights and raps on the door ofEtienne’sstudyandstandsbeforehim,wetsandstuckalloverherface.

“Youweregonealongtime,”hemurmurs.“Iworried.”“Here,Uncle.”Fromherpockets,shebringsupshells.Barnacles,cowries,thirteenlumpsofquartz

grittywithsand.“Ibroughtyouthis.Andthisandthisandthis.”

Lapidary

Inthreemonths,SergeantMajorvonRumpelhastraveledtoBerlinandStuttgart;hehasassessedthevalueofahundredconfiscated rings, adozendiamondbracelets, aLatviancigarettecase inwhichalozengeofbluetopaztwinkled;now,backinParis,hehassleptattheGrandHôtelforaweekandsentforthhisquerieslikebirds.Everynightthemomentreturnstohim:whenheclaspedthatpear-shapeddiamondbetweenhisthumbandforefinger,madehugebythelensofhisloupe,andbelievedheheldtheone-hundred-and-thirty-three-caratSeaofFlames.

Hestared into thestone’s ice-blue interior,whereminiaturemountain rangesseemed tosendbackfire,crimsonsandcoralsandviolets,polygonsofcolortwinklingandcoruscatingasherotatedit,andhealmostconvincedhimselfthatthestoriesweretrue,thatcenturiesagoasultan’ssonworeacrownthatblindedvisitors,thatthekeeperofthediamondcouldneverdie,thatthefabledstonehadcaromeddownthroughthepegsofhistoryanddroppedintohispalm.

Therewasjoyinthatmoment—triumph.Butanunexpectedfearmixedwithit;thestonelookedlikesomething enchanted, not meant for human eyes. An object that, once looked at, could never beforgotten.

But.Eventuallyreasonwonout.Thejointsofthediamond’sfacetswerenotquiteassharpastheyshouldhavebeen.Thegirdlejustslightlywaxy.Moretelling,thestonebetrayednodelicatecracks,nopinpoints, not a single inclusion. A real diamond, his father used to say, is never entirely free ofinclusions.Arealdiamondisneverperfect.

Hadhe expected it tobe real?Tobekeptpreciselywherehewished itwouldbe?Towin suchavictoryinasingleday?

Ofcoursenot.Onemight think von Rumpel would be frustrated, but he is not. On the contrary, he feels quite

hopeful.Themuseumwouldneverhavecommissionedsuchahigh-qualityfakeiftheydidnotpossessthe real thing somewhere. Over the past weeks in Paris, in the hours between other tasks, he hasnarrowedalistofsevenlapidariestothree,thentoone:ahalf-AlgeriannamedDupontwhocameofagecutting opal. It appears Dupont was making money before the war by faceting spinels into falsediamondsfordowagersandbaronesses.Alsoformuseums.

OneFebruarymidnight,vonRumpelletshimselfintoDupont’sfastidiousshopnotfarfromSacré-Coeur. He examines a copy of Streeter’s Precious Stones and Gems; drawings of cleavage panes;trigonometric charts used for faceting. When he finds several painstaking iterations of a mold thatmatchexactlythesizeandpear-cutshapeofthestoneinthevaultatthemuseum,heknowshehashisman.

At von Rumpel’s request, Dupont is furnishedwith forged food-ration tickets. Now von Rumpelwaits.Heprepareshisquestions:Didyoumakeotherreplicas?Howmany?Doyouknowwhohasthemnow?

OnthelastdayofFebruary1941,adapperlittleGestapomancomestohimwiththenewsthattheunwittingDuponthastriedtousetheforgedtickets.Hehasbeenarrested.Kinderleicht:child’splay.

It’sanattractiveanddrizzlywinter’snight,scrapsofmeltingsnowshoredupagainsttheedgesofthePlacede laConcorde, the city lookingghostly, itswindows jeweledwith raindrops.Aclose-croppedcorporalchecksvonRumpel’sidentificationandpointshimnottoacellbuttoahigh-ceilingedthird-

storyofficewhereatypistsitsbehindadesk.Onthewallbehindher,apaintedwisteriavinefraysintoatangledmodernistsprayofcolorthatmakesvonRumpeluneasy.

Dupontiscuffedtoacheapdiningchairinthecenteroftheroom.Hisfacehasthecolorandpolishoftropicalwood.VonRumpelexpectedamélangeoffearandindignationandhunger,butDupontsitsupright.Oneofthelensesofhiseyeglassesisalreadyfractured,butotherwisehelookswellenough.

Thetypisttwistshercigaretteintoanashtray,abrightredsmearoflipstickonitsbutt.Theashtrayisfull:fiftystubssquashedinthere,limbless,somehowgory.

“Youcango,”saysvonRumpel,noddingather,andlevelshisattentiononthelapidary.“HecannotspeakGerman,sir.”“Wewillbefine,”hesaysinFrench.“Shutthedoor,please.”Dupontlooksup,someglandwithinhimleachingcourageintohisblood.VonRumpeldoesnothave

toforcethesmile;itcomeseasilyenough.Hehopesfornames,butallheneedsisanumber.

DearestMarie-Laure—

WeareinGermanynowanditisfine.I’vemanagedtofindanangelwhowilltrytogetthistoyou.Thewinterfirsandaldersareverybeautifulhere.And—youarenotgoingtobelievethis,butyouwillhavetotrustme—theyserveuswonderfulfood.First-class:quailandduckandstewedrabbit.Chickenlegsandpotatoesfriedwithbaconandapricottarts.Boiledbeefwithcarrots.Coqauvinonrice.Plumtarts.Fruitsandcrèmeglacée.Asmuchaswecaneat.Isolookforwardtothemeals!BepolitetoyouruncleandMadametoo.Thankthemforreadingthistoyou.AndknowthatI

amalwayswithyou,thatIamrightbesideyou.

YourPapa

Entropy

Foraweekthedeadprisonerremainsstrappedtothestakeinthecourtyard,hisfleshfrozengray.Boysstopandask thecorpsedirections;someonedresseshim inacartridgebeltandhelmet.Afterseveraldays,apairofcrowstaketostandingonhisshoulders,chiselingawaywiththeirbeaks,andeventuallythecustodiancomesoutwithtwothird-yearboysandtheyhackthecorpse’sfeetoutoftheicewithamaulandtiphimintoacartandrollhimaway.

Three times inninedays,Frederick is chosenas theweakest in fieldexercises.Bastianwalksoutfartherthanever,andcountsmorequicklythanever,sothatFrederickhastorunfourorfivehundredyards,oftenthroughdeepsnow,andtheboysraceafterhimasiftheirlivesdependonit.Eachtimeheiscaught;eachtimeheisdrubbedwhileBastianlookson;eachtimeWernerdoesnothingtostopit.

Fredericklastssevenblowsbeforefalling.Thensix.Thenthree.Henevercriesoutandneveraskstoleave, and this in particular seems to make the commandant quake with homicidal frustration.Frederick’sdreaminess,hisotherness—it’sonhimlikeascent,andeveryonecansmellit.

WernertriestolosehimselfinhisworkinHauptmann’slab.Hehasconstructedaprototypeoftheirtransceiverandtestsfusesandvalvesandhandsetsandplugs—buteveninthoselatehours,itisasiftheskyhasdimmedandtheschoolhasbecomeadarker,evermorediabolicalplace.Hisstomachbothershim.Hegetsdiarrhea.HewakesindistantquartersofthenightandseesFrederickinhisbedroominBerlin,wearinghiseyeglassesandnecktie,freeingtrappedbirdsfromthepagesofamassivebook.You’reasmartboy.You’lldowell.One eveningwhenHauptmann is down the hall in his office,Werner glances over at imperious,

sleepyVolkheimerinthecornerandsays,“Thatprisoner.”Volkheimerblinks,stoneturningtoflesh.“Theydothateveryyear.”Hetakesoffhiscapandruns

onehandoverthedensestubbleofhishair.“Theysayhe’saPole,aRed,aCossack.Hestoleliquororkeroseneormoney.Everyyearit’sthesame.”

Under the seams of the hour, boys struggle in a dozen different arenas. Four hundred childrencrawlingalongtheedgeofarazor.

“Alwaysthesamephrasetoo,”Volkheimeradds.“ ‘Circlingthedrain.’ ”“Butwasitdecenttoleavehimouttherelikethat?Evenafterhewasdead?”“Decencydoesnotmattertothem.”ThenHauptmann’scrispbootheelscomeclickingintotheroom,

andVolkheimerleansbackintothecorner,andhiseyesocketsrefillwithshadow,andWernerdoesnothavethechancetoaskhimwhichthemhemeans.

BoysleavedeadmiceinFrederick’sboots.Theycallhimapoof,Blowjob,countlessotherjuvenilesobriquets.Twice,afifth-yeartakesFrederick’sfieldglassesandsmearsthelenseswithexcrement.

Wernertellshimselfthathetries.EverynighthepolishesFrederick’sbootsforhimuntiltheyshineafootdeep—onelessreasonforabunkmaster,orBastian,oranupperclassmantojumponhim.Sundaymornings in the refectory, they sit quietly in a sunbeamandWerner helps himwith his schoolwork.Frederickwhispers that in thespring,hehopes to findskylarknests in thegrassesoutside theschoolwalls.Onceheliftshispencilandstaresintospaceandsays,“Lesserspottedwoodpecker,”andWernerhearsabird’sdistantthrummingtravelacrossthegroundsandthroughthewall.

Intechnicalsciences,Dr.Hauptmannintroducesthelawsofthermodynamics.“Entropy,whocansaywhatthatis?”

Theboyshunchovertheirdesks.Nooneraisesahand.Hauptmannstalkstherows.Wernertriesnottotwitchasinglemuscle.

“Pfennig.”“Entropyisthedegreeofrandomnessordisorderinasystem,Doctor.”HiseyesfixonWerner’sforaheartbeat,aglancebothwarmandchilling.“Disorder.Youhearthe

commandantsayit.Youhearyourbunkmasterssayit.Theremustbeorder.Lifeischaos,gentlemen.And what we represent is an ordering to that chaos. Even down to the genes.We are ordering theevolutionofthespecies.Winnowingouttheinferior,theunruly,thechaff.ThisisthegreatprojectoftheReich,thegreatestprojecthumanbeingshaveeverembarkedupon.”

Hauptmannwriteson theblackboard.Thecadets inscribe thewords into their compositionbooks.Theentropyofaclosedsystemneverdecreases.Everyprocessmustbylawdecay.

TheRounds

AlthoughEtiennecontinuestoofferobjections,MadameManecwalksMarie-Lauretothebeacheverymorning.Thegirlknotshershoesherself,feelsherwaydownthestairwell,andwaitsinthefoyerwithhercaneinherfistwhileMadameManecfinishesupinthekitchen.

“Icanfindmyownway,”Marie-Lauresaysthefifthtimetheystepout.“Youdon’thavetolead.”Twenty-twopacestotheintersectionwiththerued’Estrées.Fortymoretothelittlegate.Ninesteps

downandshe’sonthesandandthetwentythousandsoundsoftheoceanengulfher.She collects pinecones dropped by trees who knows how far away. Thick hanks of rope. Slick

globulesofstrandedpolyps.Onceadrownedsparrow.HergreatestpleasureistowalktothenorthendofthebeachatlowtideandsquatbelowanislandthatMadameManeccallsLeGrandBéandletherfingerswhisk around in the tidepools.Only then,withher toes and fingers in the cold sea, doeshermindseemtofullyleaveherfather;onlythendoesshestopwonderinghowmuchofhisletterwastrue,whenhe’llwriteagain,whyhehasbeenimprisoned.Shesimplylistens,hears,breathes.

Her bedroom fills with pebbles, seaglass, shells: forty scallops along the windowsill, sixty-onewhelks along the top of the armoire. She arranges them by specieswhenever she can, then by size.Smallestontheleft,largestontheright.Shefillsjars,pails,trays;theroomassumesthesmellofthesea.

Mostmornings,afterthebeach,shemakestheroundswithMadameManec,goingtothevegetablemarket, occasionally to the butcher’s, then delivering food to whichever neighborsMadameManecdecidesaremostinneed.Theyclimbanechoingstairwell,raponadoor;anoldwomaninvitesthemin,asksfornews, insistsall threeof themdrinka thimblefulofsherry.MadameManec’senergy,Marie-Laure is learning, is extraordinary; sheburgeons, shootsoff stalks,wakes early,works late, concoctsbisqueswithoutadropofcream,loaveswithlessthanacupofflour.Theyclomptogetherthroughthenarrowstreets,Marie-Laure’shandon thebackofMadame’sapron, following theodorsofherstewsandcakes;insuchmomentsMadameseemslikeagreatmovingwallofrosebushes,thornyandfragrantandcracklingwithbees.

Still-warmbreadtoanancientwidownamedMadameBlanchard.SouptoMonsieurSaget.SlowlyMarie-Laure’sbrainbecomesathree-dimensionalmapinwhichexistglowinglandmarks:athickplanetree in the Place aux Herbes; nine potted topiaries outside the Hôtel Continental; six stairs up apassagewaycalledtherueduConnétable.

Severaldaysaweek,MadamebringsfoodtoCrazyHaroldBazin,aveteranoftheGreatWarwhosleepsinanalcovebehindthelibraryinsunorsnow.Wholosthisnose,leftear,andeyetoshellfire.Whowearsanenameledcoppermaskoverhalfhisface.

Harold Bazin loves to talk about the walls and warlocks and pirates of Saint-Malo. Over thecenturies,hetellsMarie-Laure,thecityrampartshavekeptoutbloodthirstymarauders,Romans,Celts,Norsemen.Somesayseamonsters.Forthirteenhundredyears,hesays,thewallskeptoutbloodthirstyEnglishsailorswhowouldparktheirshipsoffshoreandlaunchflamingprojectilesatthehouses,whowouldtrytoburneverythingandstarveeverybody,whowouldstopatnothingtokillthemall.

“The mothers of Saint-Malo,” he says, “used to tell their children: Sit up straight. Mind yourmanners.OranEnglishmanwillcomeinthenighttocutyourthroat.”

“Harold,please,”saysMadameManec.“You’llfrightenher.”

InMarch,EtienneturnssixtyandMadameManecstewslittleclams—palourdes—withshallotsandservesthemalongsidemushroomsandquartersoftwohard-boiledeggs:theonlytwoeggs,shereports,shecouldfindinthecity.EtiennetalksinhissoftvoiceabouttheeruptionofKrakatoa,how,inallofhisearliestmemories,ashfromtheEastIndiesturnedthesunsetsoverSaint-Malobloodred,bigveinsofcrimsonglowingabovetheseaeveryevening;andtoMarie-Laure,herpocketslinedwithsand,herfaceaglowfromwind,theoccupationseems,foramoment,athousandmilesaway.ShemissesPapa,Paris,Dr.Geffard,thegardens,herbooks,herpinecones—allareholesinherlife.Butoverthesepastfewweeks,herexistencehasbecometolerable.Atleast,outonthebeaches,herprivationandfeararerinsedawaybywindandcolorandlight.

Mostafternoons,aftermakingthemorningroundswithMadame,Marie-Lauresitsonherbedwiththe window open and travels her hands over her father’s model of the city. Her fingers pass theshipbuilder’sshedsontheruedeChartres,passMadameRuelle’sbakeryontherueRobertSurcouf.Inher imagination she hears the bakers sliding about on the flour-slick floor, moving in the way sheimaginesiceskatersmustmove,bakingloavesinthesamefour-hundred-year-oldoventhatMonsieurRuelle’sgreat-great-grandfatherused.Herfingerspassthecathedralsteps—hereanoldmanclipsrosesinagarden;here,besidethelibrary,CrazyHaroldBazinmurmurstohimselfashepeerswithhisoneeye intoanemptywinebottle;here is theconvent;here’s therestaurantChezChuchebeside thefishmarket; here’sNumber 4 rueVauborel, its door slightly recessed,where downstairsMadameManeckneelsbesideherbed, shoesoff, rosarybeadsslipping through fingers,aprayer forpracticallyeverysoulinthecity.Here,inafifth-floorroom,Etiennewalksbesidehisemptyshelves,trailinghisfingersovertheplaceswherehisradiosoncestood.Andsomewherebeyondthebordersofthemodel,beyondthebordersofFrance,inaplaceherfingerscannotreach,herfathersitsinacell,adozenofhiswhittledmodelsonawindowsill, aguardcoming towardhimwithwhat shewantsverybadly tobelieve is afeast—quailandduckandstewedrabbit.Chickenlegsandpotatoesfriedwithbaconandapricottarts—adozentrays,adozenplatters,asmuchashecaneat.

NadelimHeuhaufen

Midnight.Dr.Hauptmann’shoundsboundthroughfrozenfieldsbesidetheschool,dropsofquicksilverskitteringthroughthewhite.BehindthemcomesHauptmanninhisfurcap,walkingwithshortstridesas though counting paces over some great distance. In the rear comesWerner, carrying the pair oftransceiversheandHauptmannhavebeentestingformonths.

Hauptmannturns,hisfacebright.“Nicespothere,goodsight lines,set itdown,Pfennig.I’vesentourfriendVolkheimerahead.He’ssomewhereonthehill.”Wernerseesnotracks,onlyahumpedswaleofglitterinthemoonlight,andthewhiteforestbeyond.

“HehastheKXtransmitterinanammunitionbox,”Hauptmannsays.“Heistoconcealhimselfandbroadcaststeadilyuntilwefindhimorhisbatterydies.EvenIdonotknowwhereheis.”Hesmackshisglovedhands together, and thedogs swirl aroundhim, theirbreath smoking.“Tensquarekilometers.Locatethetransmitter,locateourfriend.”

Wernerlooksoutatthetenthousandsnow-mantledtrees.“Outthere,sir?”“Outthere.”Hauptmanndrawsaflaskfromhispocketandunscrewsitwithoutlookingatit.“Thisis

thefunpart,Pfennig.”Hauptmannstampsaclearinginthesnow,andWernersetsupthefirsttransceiver,usesmeasuring

tapetopaceofftwohundredmeters,andsetsupthesecond.Heuncoilsthegroundingwires,raisestheaerials,andswitchesthemon.Alreadyhisfingersarenumb.

“Tryeightymeters,Pfennig.Typicallyteamswon’tknowwhatbandtosearch.Butfortonight,ourfirstfieldtest,we’llcheatabit.”

Wernerputsontheheadsetandfillshisearswithstatic.HedialsuptheRFgain,adjuststhefilter.Beforelong,hehastunedinbothreceiverstoVolkheimer’stransmitterpingingalong.“Ihavehim,sir.”

Hauptmannstartssmilinginearnest.Thedogscaperandsneezewithexcitement.Fromhiscoatheproducesagreasepencil.“Justdoitontheradio.Teamswon’talwayshavepaper,notinthefield.”

Werner sketches out the equation on the metal casing of the transceiver and starts plugging innumbers.Hauptmannhandshimasliderule.IntwominutesWernerhasavectorandadistance: twoandahalfkilometers.

“Andthemap?”Hauptmann’slittlearistocraticfacegleamswithpleasure.Wernerusesaprotractorandcompasstodrawthelines.“Leadon,Pfennig.”Wernerfolds themapintohiscoatpocket,packsupthetransceivers,andcarriesoneineachhand

likematchingsuitcases.Tinysnowcrystalssiftdownthrough themoonlight.Soon theschooland itsoutbuildingslookliketoysonthewhiteplainbelow.Themoonslipslower,ahalf-liddedeye,andthedogsstickclosetotheirmaster,mouthssteaming,andWernersweats.

Theydropintoaravineandclimbout.Onekilometer.Two.“Sublimity,” Hauptmann says, panting, “you knowwhat that is, Pfennig?”He is tipsy, animated,

almost prattling. Never hasWerner seen him like this. “It’s the instant when one thing is about tobecomesomethingelse.Daytonight,caterpillartobutterfly.Fawntodoe.Experimenttoresult.Boytoman.”

Far up a third climb, Werner unfolds the map and double-checks his bearings with a compass.Everywherethesilenttreesgleam.Notrackssavetheirown.Theschoollostbehindthem.“ShallIsetoutthetransceiversagain,sir?”

Hauptmannputshisfingerstohislips.Werner triangulates again and sees how close they are to his original reading—under half a

kilometer.Herepacksthetransceiversandpicksuphispace,huntingnow,onthescent,allthreedogssensingittoo,andWernerthinks:Ihavefoundawayin,Iamsolvingit,thenumbersarebecomingreal.And the treesunload siftingsof snowand thedogs freeze and twitch their noses, lockedon a scent,pointingasifatapheasant,andHauptmannholdsupapalm,andfinallyWerner,comingupthroughagapbetweentrees,laboringashecarriesthebigcases,seestheformofamanlyingfaceupinthesnow,transmitterathisfeet,antennarisingintothelowbranches.

TheGiant.Thedogstrembleintheirstances.Hauptmannkeepshispalmup.Withhisotherhand,heunholsters

hispistol.“Thisclose,Pfennig,youcannothesitate.”Volkheimer’s left side faces them. Werner can see the vapor of his breath rise and disperse.

HauptmannaimshisWaltherrightatVolkheimer,andforalongandstartlingmoment,Werneriscertainthathisteacherisabouttoshoottheboy,thattheyareingravedanger,everysinglecadet,andhecannothelpbuthearJuttaasshestoodbesidethecanal:Isitrighttodosomethingonlybecauseeveryoneelseisdoingit?SomethinginWerner’ssoulshutsitsscalyeyes,andthelittleprofessorraiseshispistolandfiresitintothesky.

Volkheimer leaps immediately into a squat, his head comingaroundas thehounds release towardhim,andWerner’sheartfeelsasifithasbeenblowntopiecesinhischest.

Volkheimer’sarmscomeupasthedogschargehim,buttheyknowhim;theyareleapingonhiminplay, barking and scampering, andWernerwatches the huge boy throwoff the dogs as if theywerehousecats. Dr. Hauptmann laughs. His pistol smokes, and he takes a long drink from his flask andpassesittoWerner,andWernerputsittohislips.Hehaspleasedhisprofessorafterall;thetransceiverswork;heisoutintheluminous,starlitnightfeelingthestingingglowofbrandyflowintohisgut—

“This,”saysHauptmann,“iswhatwe’redoingwiththetriangles.”The dogs circle and duck and romp. Hauptmann relieves himself beneath the trees. Volkheimer

trudgestowardWernerluggingthebigKXtransmitter;hegrowseverlarger;herestsahugemittenedhandonWerner’scap.

“It’sonlynumbers,”hesays,quietlyenoughthatHauptmanncannothear.“Puremath, cadet,” addsWerner, mimicking Hauptmann’s clipped accent. He presses his gloved

fingertipstogether,allfivetofive.“Youhavetoaccustomyourselftothinkingthatway.”ItisthefirsttimeWernerhasheardVolkheimerlaugh,andhiscountenancechanges;hebecomesless

menacing andmore like a benevolent, humongous child.More like the person he becomeswhen helistenstomusic.

AllthenextdaythepleasureofhissuccesslingersinWerner’sblood,thememoryofhowitseemedalmostholytohimtowalkbesidebigVolkheimerbacktothecastle,downthroughthefrozentrees,pastthe rooms of sleeping boys ranked like gold bars in strongrooms—Werner felt an almost fatherlyprotectiveness for theothersasheundressedbesidehisbunk,as lumberingVolkheimercontinuedontoward the dormitories of the upperclassmen, an ogre among angels, a keeper crossing a field ofgravestonesatnight.

Proposal

Marie-Lauresitsinhercustomaryspotinthecornerofthekitchen,closesttothefireplace,andlistenstothefriendsofMadameManeccomplain.

“Thepriceofmackerel!”saysMadameFontineau.”You’dthinktheyhadtosailtoJapanforit!”“Icannotremember,”saysMadameHébrard,thepostmistress,“whataproperplumtasteslike.”“And these ridiculous shoe ration coupons,” says Madame Ruelle, the baker’s wife. “Theo has

number3,501andtheyhaven’tevencalled400!”“It’snotjustthebrothelsontherueThévenardanymore.They’regivingallthesummerapartments

tothefreelancers.”“BigClaudeandhiswifearegettingextrafat.”“DamnedBocheshavetheirlightsonallday!”“Icannotbearonemorenightstuckindoorswithmyhusband.”Nineofthemsitaroundthesquaretable,kneespressedtoknees.Rationcardrestrictions,abysmal

puddings, thedeterioratingqualityof fingernailvarnish—thesearecrimes they feel in their souls.TohearsomanyoftheminaroomtogetherconfusesandexcitesMarie-Laure:theyaregiddywhentheyshould be serious, somber after jokes;Madame Hébrard cries over the nonavailability of Demerarasugar; another woman’s complaint about tobacco disintegrates midsentence into hysterics about thephenomenalsizeoftheperfumer’sbackside.Theysmellofstalebread,ofstuffylivingroomscrammedwithdarktitanicBretonfurnishings.

MadameRuellesays,“SotheGautiergirlwantstogetmarried.Thefamilyhastomeltallitsjewelrytogetthegoldfortheweddingring.Thegoldgetstaxedthirtypercentbyoccupationauthorities.Thenthejeweler’sworkistaxedanotherthirtypercent.Bythetimethey’vepaidhim,there’snoringleft!”

Theexchangerateisafarce,thepriceofcarrotsindefensible,duplicityliveseverywhere.EventuallyMadameManecdeadboltsthekitchendoorandclearsherthroat.Thewomenfallquiet.

“We’re theoneswhomake theirworld run,”MadameManecsays.“You,MadameGuiboux,yourson repairs their shoes.MadameHébrard, you and your daughter sort theirmail.And you,MadameRuelle,yourbakerymakesmuchoftheirbread.”

Theairstretchestight;Marie-Laurehasthesensethattheyarewatchingsomeoneslideontothiniceorholdapalmoveraflame.

“Whatareyousaying?”“Thatwedosomething.”“Putbombsintheirshoes?”“Poopinthebreaddough?”Brittlelaughter.“Nothingsoboldasallthat.Butwecoulddosmallerthings.Simplerthings.”“Likewhat?”“FirstIneedtoknowifyou’rewilling.”Achargedsilenceensues.Marie-Laurecanfeelthemallpoisedthere.Ninemindsswingingslowly

around.Shethinksofherfather—imprisonedforwhat?—andaches.Twowomen leave, claiming obligations involving grandchildren. Others tug at their blouses and

rattle theirchairsas though the temperatureof thekitchenhasgoneup.Six remain.Marie-Lauresits

among them,wonderingwhowillcave,whowill tattle,whowillbe thebravest.Whowill lieonherbackandletherlastbreathcurluptotheceilingasacurseupontheinvaders.

YouHaveOtherFriends

“Look out, Pusswood,”Martin Burkhard yells as Frederick crosses the quad. “I’m coming for youtonight!”Heconvulseshispelvismaniacally.

SomeonedefecatesonFrederick’sbunk.WernerhearsVolkheimer’svoice:Decencydoesnotmattertothem.

“Bed-shitter,”spitsaboy,“bringmemyboots.”Frederickpretendsnottohear.NightafternightWernerretreatsintoHauptmann’slaboratory.Threetimesnowtheyhavegoneout

intothesnowtotrackdownVolkheimer’stransmitter,andeachtimetheyhavefoundhimmoredirectly.Duringthemostrecentfieldtest,Wernermanagedtosetupthetransceivers,findthetransmission,andplotVolkheimer’s locationonthemapinunderfiveminutes.Hauptmannpromises trips toBerlin;heunrolls schematics from an electronics factory in Austria and says, “Several ministries havedemonstratedenthusiasmforourproject.”

Wernerissucceeding.Heisbeingloyal.Heisbeingwhateverybodyagreesisgood.Andyeteverytimehewakesandbuttonshistunic,hefeelsheisbetrayingsomething.

One night he andVolkheimer trudge back through the slush,Volkheimer carrying the transmitter,both receivers, and the folded antenna under one arm. Werner walks behind, content to be in hisshadow.Thetreesdrip; theirbranchesseemmomentsawayfromeruptingintobloom.Spring.IntwomoremonthsVolkheimerwillbegivenhiscommissionandgotowar.

TheystopamomentsoVolkheimercanrest,andWernerbendstoexamineoneofthetransceivers,drawsalittlescrewdriverfromhispocket,andtightensaloosehingeplate.Volkheimerlooksdownathimwithgreattenderness.“Whatyoucouldbe,”hesays.

ThatnightWernerclimbs intobedandstaresupat theundersideofFrederick’smattress.Awarmwind blows against the castle, and somewhere a shutter bangs and snowmelt trickles down the longdownspouts.Asquietlyashecanmanage,hewhispers,“Areyouawake?”

Frederickleansoverthesideofhisbunk,andforamomentinthenearlycompletedarknessWernerbelievestheywillfinallysaytoeachotherwhattheyhavenotbeenabletosay.

“Youcouldgohome,youknow,toBerlin.Leavethisplace.”Frederickonlyblinks.“Yourmotherwouldn’tmind.She’dprobablyliketohaveyouaround.Frannytoo.Justforamonth.

Even aweek.As soon as you leave, the cadetswill let up, and by the time you return, they’ll havemovedontosomeoneelse.Yourfatherwouldn’tevenhavetoknow.”

ButFredericktipsbackintohisbedandWernercannolongerseehim.Hisvoicecomesreflectingdownfromtheceiling.

“Maybeit’dbebetter ifwearen’tfriendsanymore,Werner.”Tooloud,dangerouslyloud.“Iknowit’saliability,walkingwithme,eatingwithme,alwaysfoldingmyclothesandshiningmybootsandtutoringme.Youhaveyourstudiestothinkof.”

Wernerclencheshiseyes.Amemoryofhisatticbedroomswampshim:clickingofmousefeetinthewalls, sleet tapping thewindow.The ceiling so slopedhe could standonly in the spot closest to thedoor.And the feeling that somewhere just behind his vision, ranged like spectators in a gallery, hismotherandfatherandtheFrenchmanfromtheradiowereallwatchinghimthroughtherattlingwindowtoseewhathewoulddo.

HeseesJutta’screstfallenface,bentoverthepiecesoftheirbrokenradio.Hehasthesensationthatsomethinghugeandemptyisabouttodevourthemall.

“That’snotwhatImeant,”Wernersaysintohisblanket.ButFredericksaysnothingmore,andbothboysliemotionlessalongtime,watchingthebluespokesofmoonlightrotatethroughtheroom.

OldLadies’ResistanceClub

Madame Ruelle, the baker’s wife—a pretty-voiced woman who smells mostly of yeast but alsosometimesoffacepowderorthesweetperfumeofslicedapples—strapsastepladdertotheroofofherhusband’s car and drives theRoute deCarentan at duskwithMadameGuiboux and rearranges roadsignswitharatchetset.TheyreturndrunkandlaughingtothekitchenofNumber4rueVauborel.

“Dinanisnowtwentykilometerstothenorth,”saysMadameRuelle.“Rightinthemiddleofthesea!”Threedays later,MadameFontineauoverhears that theGermangarrisoncommander is allergic to

goldenrod. Madame Carré, the florist, tucks great fistfuls of it into an arrangement headed for thechâteau.

Thewomenfunnelashipmentofrayontothewrongdestination.Theyintentionallymisprintatraintimetable.MadameHébrard, the postmistress, slides an important-looking letter fromBerlin into herunderpants,takesithome,andstartshereveningfirewithit.

TheycomespillingintoEtienne’skitchenwithgleefulreportsthatsomeonehasheardthegarrisoncommandersneezing,orthatthedogshitplacedonabrotheldoorstepreachedthetargetofaGerman’sshoebottomperfectly.MadameManecpourssherryorciderorMuscadet;someonesitsstationedbythedoortoserveassentry.SmallandstoopedMadameFontineauboaststhatshetieduptheswitchboardatthechâteauforanhour;dowdyandstrappingMadameGuibouxsaysshehelpedhergrandsonspaintastraydogthecolorsoftheFrenchflagandsentitrunningthroughthePlaceChateaubriand.

Thewomencackle,thrilled.“WhatcanIdo?”askstheancientwidowMadameBlanchard.“Iwanttodosomething.”

MadameManec asks everyone to giveMadameBlanchard theirmoney. “You’ll get it back,” shesays,“don’tworry.Now,MadameBlanchard,you’vehadbeautifulhandwritingallyourlife.TakethisfountainpenofMasterEtienne’s.Oneveryfive-francnote,Iwantyoutowrite,FreeFranceNow.Noonecanaffordtodestroymoney,right?Onceeveryonehasspenttheirbills,ourlittlemessagewillgooutalloverBrittany.”

Thewomenclap.MadameBlanchardsqueezesMadameManec’shandandwheezesandblinksherglossyeyesinpleasure.

SometimesEtienne comesdowngrumbling, one shoeon, and thewholekitchengoesquietwhileMadameManecfixeshisteaandsetsitonatrayandEtiennecarriesitbackupstairs.Thenthewomenstartupagain,scheming,gabbling.MadameManecbrushesMarie-Laure’shair in longabsentmindedstrokes.“Seventy-sixyearsold,”shewhispers,“andIcanstillfeellikethis?Likealittlegirlwithstarsinmyeyes?”

Diagnosis

ThemilitarydoctortakesSergeantMajorvonRumpel’stemperature.Inflatesthebloodpressurecuff.Examines his throat with a penlight. This very morning von Rumpel inspected a fifteenth-centurydavenportandsuperviseditsinstallmentontoarailcarmeantforMarshalGöring’shuntinglodge.Theprivatewhobroughtittohimdescribedplunderingthevillatheytookitfrom;hecalledit“shopping.”

ThedavenportmakesvonRumpel thinkof aneighteenth-centuryDutch tobaccoboxmadeoutofbrassandcopperandencrustedwithtinydiamondsthatheexaminedearlierthisweek,andthetobaccoboxsendshisthoughts,asinexorablyasgravity,backtotheSeaofFlames.Inhisweakermoments,heimagineswalkinginsomefuturehourbetweenarcadesofpillarsinthegreatFührermuseumatLinz,hisheels clacking smartly on themarble, twilight cascading through highwindows.He sees a thousandcrystalline display cases, so clear they seem to float above the floor; inside them wait the world’smineral treasures, harvested from every hole on the globe: dioptase and topaz and amethyst andCaliforniarubellite.

Whatwasthephrase?Likestarsflungoffthebrowsofarchangels.Andintheverycenterofthegallery,aspotlightfallsthroughtheceilingontoapedestal;there,inside

aglasscube,glowsasmallbluestone...ThedoctorasksvonRumpeltolowerhistrousers.Thoughthebusinessofwarhasnotletupforeven

aday,vonRumpelhasbeenhappyformonths.Hisresponsibilitiesaredoubling;therearenot,itturnsout, a lot ofAryan diamond experts in theReich. Just threeweeks ago, outside a tiny sun-streakedstationwestofBratislava,heexaminedanenvelopefullofperfectlyclear,well-facetedstones;behindhimrumbledatruckfullofpaintingswrappedinpaperandpackedinstraw.TheguardswhisperedthataRembrandtwasinthere,andpiecesofafamousaltarpiecefromCracow.Allbeingsenttoasaltminesomewhere deep beneath the Austrian village of Altaussee, where a mile-long tunnel drops into aglittering arcade filled with shelving three stories high, upon which the high command is stackingEurope’sfinestart.Theywillassembleeverythingunderoneunassailableroof,atempletothehumanendeavor.Visitorswillmarvelatitforathousandyears.

Thedoctorprobeshisgroin.“Nopain?”“None.”“Norhere?”“None.”ItwouldhavebeentoomuchtohopefornamesfromthelapidaryinParis.Dupont,afterall,would

nothaveknownwhohadbeengiventhereplicasofthediamond;hehadnoinsightintothelast-secondsafeguardsofthemuseum.ButDupontwasofservicenonetheless;vonRumpelneededanumber,andhegotit.

Three.Thedoctorsays,“Youmaydress,”andwasheshishandsatasink.In the twomonths leading up to the invasion of France, Dupont fashioned three replicas for the

museum.Didheusetherealdiamondtomakethem?Heusedacasting.Heneversawtherealdiamond.VonRumpelbelievedhim.

Threereplicas.Plustherealstone.Somewhereonthisplanetamongitssextilliongrainsofsand.Fourstones,oneoftheminthebasementofthemuseum,lockedinasafe.Threemoretofind.There

are moments when von Rumpel feels impatience rising in him like bile, but he forces himself to

swallowitback.Itwillcome.Hebuckleshisbelt.Thedoctorsays,“Weneed to takeabiopsy.Youwillwant to telephoneyour

wife.”

Weakest(#3)

Thescalesofcrueltytip.MaybeBastianexactssomefinalvendetta;maybeFrederickgoeslookingforhisonlywayout.AllWernerknowsforcertainisthatoneAprilmorninghewakestofindthreeinchesofslushonthegroundandFredericknotinhisbunk.

He does not show at breakfast or poetics or morning field exercises. Each story Werner hearscontainsitsownflawsandcontradictions,asthoughthetruthisamachinewhosegearsarenotmeshing.Firsthehears thatagroupofboystookFrederickoutandsetuptorchesinthesnowandtoldhimtoshoot the torches with his rifle—to prove he had adequate eyesight. Then Werner hears that theybroughthimchartsforeyeexams,andwhenhecouldnotreadthem,theyforce-fedthechartstohim.

Butwhatdoesthetruthmatterinthisplace?WernerimaginestwentyboysclosingoverFrederick’sbody like rats; he sees the fat, gleaming face of the commandant, throat spilling out of his collar,reclinedlikeakingonsomehigh-backedoakthrone,whilebloodslowlyfills thefloor, risespasthisankles,pasthisknees...

Wernerskipslunchandwalksinadazetotheschool’sinfirmary.He’sriskingdetentionorworse;it’sa sunny, bright noon, but his heart is being crushed slowly in a vise, and everything is slow andhypnotic,andhewatcheshisarmworkasitpullsopenthedoorasifhe’speeringthroughseveralfeetofbluewater.

Asinglebedwithbloodinit.Bloodonthepillowandonthesheetsandevenontheenameledmetalofthebedframe.Pinkragsinabasin.Half-unrolledbandageonthefloor.ThenursebustlesoverandgrimacesatWerner.Outsideofthekitchens,sheistheonlywomanattheschool.

“Whysomuchblood?”heasks.Shesetsfourfingersacrossher lips.Debatingperhapswhether to tellhimorpretendshedoesnot

know.Accusationorresignationorcomplicity.“Whereishe?”“Leipzig. For surgery.” She touches a roundwhite button on her uniformwithwhatmight be an

inconvenientlytremblingfinger.Otherwisehermannerisentirelystern.“Whathappened?”“Shouldn’tyoubeatnoontimemeal?”Eachtimeheblinks,heseesthemenofhischildhood,laid-offminersdriftingthroughbackalleys,

menwithhooksforfingersandvacuumsforeyes;heseesBastianstandingoverasmokingriver,snowfallingallaroundhim.Führer,folk,fatherland.Steelyourbody,steelyoursoul.

“Whenwillhebeback?”“Oh,”shesays,asoftenoughword.Sheshakesherhead.Abluesoapboxonthetable.Aboveitaportraitofsomeforegoneofficerinacrumblingframe.Some

previousboysentthroughthisplacetodie.“Cadet?”Wernerhas to siton thebed.Thenurse’s face seems tooccupymultipledistances, amaskatopa

maskatopamask.WhatisJuttadoingatthisexactmoment?Wipingthenoseofsomewailingnewbornor collecting newspapers or listening to presentations from army nurses or darning another sock?Prayingforhim?Believinginhim?

Hethinks:Iwillneverbeabletotellheraboutthis.

DearestMarie-Laure—

Theothersinmycellaremostlykind.Sometelljokes.Here’sone:HaveyouheardabouttheWehrmachtexerciseprogram?Yes,eachmorningyouraiseyourhandsaboveyourheadandleavethemthere!Haha.Myangelhaspromisedtodeliverthisletterformeatgreatrisk.Itisverysafeandnice

tobeoutofthe“Gasthaus”forabit.Wearebuildingaroadnowandtheworkisgood.Mybodyisgettingstronger.TodayIsawanoaktreedisguisedasachestnuttree.Ithinkitiscalledachestnutoak.Iwouldlikeverymuchtoasksomeofthebotanistsinthegardensaboutitwhenwegethome.IhopeyouandMadameandEtiennewillkeepsendingthings.Theysaywewillbeallowedto

receiveoneparceleach,sosomethinghastogetthrougheventually.Idoubttheywouldletmekeepanytoolsbutitwouldbewonderfuliftheywould.Youabsolutelywouldnotbelievehowprettyitishere,machérie,andhowfarwearefromdanger.Iamincrediblysafe,assafeassafecanbe.

YourPapa

Grotto

It’ssummerandMarie-LaureissittinginthealcovebehindthelibrarywithMadameManecandCrazyHaroldBazin.Throughhiscoppermask,throughamouthfulofsoup,Haroldsays,“Iwanttoshowyousomething.”

He leads Marie-Laure and MadameManec down what Marie-Laure thinks is the rue du Boyer,thoughitcouldbetherueVincentdeGournayortheruedesHautesSalles.Theyreachthebaseoftherampartsandturnright,followingalaneMarie-Laurehasnotbeenonbefore.Theydescendtwosteps,pass throughacurtainofhanging ivy, andMadameManec says, “Harold,please,what is this?”Thealleygrowsnarrowerandnarroweruntiltheymustwalksinglefile,thewallscloseoneitherside,andthen they stop. Marie-Laure can feel stone blocks mounting vertically on both sides to brush theirshoulders:theyseemtoriseforever.Ifherfatherhasbuiltthisalleyintohismodel,herfingershavenotdiscoveredityet.

Harold rummages in his filthy trousers, breathing hard behind his mask. Where the wall of therampartsshouldbe,ontheirleft,Marie-Laurehearsalockgiveway.Agatecreaksopen.“Watchyourhead,”hesays,andhelpsherthrough.Theyclamberdownintoacramped,moistspacethatpositivelyreeksofthesea.“We’rebeneaththewall.Twentymetersofgraniteontopofus.”

Madamesays,“Really,Harold,it’sgloomyasagraveyardinhere,”butMarie-Laureventuresabitfarther,thesolesofhershoesslipping,theflooranglingdown,andthenhershoestouchwater.

“Feel this,” says Harold Bazin, and crouches and brings her hand to a curved wall which iscompletelystuddedwithsnails.Hundredsofthem.Thousands.

“Somany,”shewhispers.“I don’t know why. Maybe because they’re safe from gulls? Here, feel this, I’ll turn it over.”

Hundredsoftiny,squirminghydraulicfeetbeneathahorny,ridgedtop:aseastar.“Bluemusselshere.Andhere’sadeadstonecrab,canyoufeelhisclaw?Watchyourheadnow.”

The surf breaks nearby;water purls past her shoes.Marie-Laurewades forward; the floor of theroomissandy,thewaterbarelyankle-deep.Fromwhatshecantell,it’salowgrotto,maybefouryardslongandhalfaswide,shapedlikealoafofbread.Atthefarendisathickgratethroughwhichlustrous,clearseawindwashes.Herfingertipsdiscoverbarnacles,weeds,athousandmoresnails.“Whatisthisplace?”

“RememberItoldyouaboutthedogsofthewatch?Alongtimeago,citykennelkeeperswouldkeepthemastiffsinhere,dogsasbigashorses.Atnightacurfewbellwouldring,andthedogswouldbeletlooseontothebeachestoeatanysailorwhodaredcomeashore.Somewherebeneaththosemusselsisastonewiththedate1165scratchedintoit.”

“Butthewater?”“Evenatthehighesttides,itdoesn’tgetmorethanwaist-deep.Backthenthetidesmighthavebeen

lower.Weusedtoplayinhereasboys.Meandyourgrandfather.Sometimesyourgreat-uncletoo.”Thetideflowspasttheirfeet.Everywheremusselsclickandsigh.Shethinksofthewildoldseamen

wholivedinthistown,smugglersandpirates,sailingoverthedarkseas,windingtheirshipsbetweententhousandreefs.

“Harold,weshouldgonow,”callsMadameManec,hervoiceechoing.“Thisisnoplaceforayounggirl.”

Marie-Laurecalls,“It’sfine,Madame.”Hermitcrabs.Anemonessendingoutatinyjetofseawaterwhenshepokesthem.Galaxiesofsnails.Astoryoflifeimmanentineach.

FinallyMadameManeccoaxes themoutof thekennel,andCrazyHarold leadsMarie-Laurebackthrough the gate and locks it behind them. Before they reach the Place Broussais,MadameManecwalkingoutfront,hetapsMarie-Laure’sshoulder.Hiswhispercomesinherleftear;hisbreathsmellslikecrushedinsects.“Couldyoufindthatplaceagain,doyouthink?”

“Ithinkso.”Heputssomethingironinherhand.“Doyouknowwhatitis?”Marie-Laureclosesherfist.“It’sakey.”

Intoxicated

Every day there isword of another victory, another advance.Russia collapses like an accordion. InOctober the student body gathers around a big wireless to listen to the führer declare OperationTyphoon.GermancompaniesplantflagsmilesfromMoscow;Russiawillbetheirs.

Wernerisfifteen.AnewboysleepsinFrederick’sbed.Sometimesatnight,WernerseesFrederickwhen he is not there. His face appears over the edge of the upper bunk, or his silhouette pressesbinoculars to thewindowpane. Frederick:who did not die but did not recover. Broken jaw, crackedskull,braintrauma.Noonewaspunished,noonequestioned.AblueautomobilecametotheschoolandFrederick’smothergotoutandwalkedintothecommandant’sresidenceandemergedsoonafterward,tiltedagainsttheweightofFrederick’sduffelbag,lookingverysmall.Sheclimbedbackintothecaranditdroveaway.

Volkheimerisgone;therearestoriesthathehasbecomeafearsomesergeantintheWehrmacht.ThatheledaplatoonintothelasttownontheroadtoMoscow.HackedoffthefingersofdeadRussiansandsmokedtheminapipe.

Thenewestcropofcadetsgrowwildintheirurgencytoprovethemselves.Theysprint,shout,hurlthemselvesoverobstacles;infieldexercisestheyplayagamewheretenboysgetredarmbandsandtengetblack.Thegameendswhenoneteamhasalltwenty.

ItseemstoWernerasifalltheboysaroundhimareintoxicated.Asif,ateverymeal,thecadetsfilltheir tin cups not with the cold mineralized water of Schulpforta but with a spirit that leaves themglazed and dazzled, as if theyward off a vast and inevitable tidalwave of anguish only by stayingforeverdrunkonrigorandexerciseandgleamingboot leather.Theeyesof themostbullheadedboysradiateashiningdetermination:everyounceoftheirattentionhasbeentrainedtoferretoutweakness.TheystudyWernerwithsuspicionwhenhereturnsfromHauptmann’slab.Theydonottrustthathe’sanorphan,thathe’softenalone,thathisaccentcarriesawhisperoftheFrenchhelearnedasachild.Weareavolleyofbullets,singthenewestcadets,wearecannonballs.Wearethetipofthesword.Wernerthinksofhomeallthetime.Hemissesthesoundofrainonthezincroofabovehisdormer;

theferalenergyoftheorphans;thescratchysingingofFrauElenaassherocksababyintheparlor.Thesmell of the cokingplant coming inunder thedawn, the first reliable smell of everyday.MostlyhemissesJutta:herloyalty,herobstinacy,thewayshealwaysseemstorecognizewhatisright.

ThoughinWerner’sweakermoments,heresentsthosesamequalitiesinhissister.Perhapsshe’stheimpurityinhim,thestaticinhissignalthatthebulliescansense.Perhapsshe’stheonlythingkeepinghim from surrendering totally. If you have a sister back home, you’re supposed to think of her as aprettygirlinapropagandaposter:rosy-cheeked,brave,steadfast.She’swhomyoufightfor.Whomyoudie for. But Jutta? Jutta sends letters that the school censor blacks out almost completely. She asksquestionsthatshouldnotbeasked.OnlyWerner’saffiliationwithDr.Hauptmann—hisprivilegedstatusasthefavoriteofthetechnicalsciencesprofessor—keepshimsafe.AcompanyinBerlinisproducingtheir transceiver, and already some of their units are coming back fromwhat Hauptmann calls “thefield,”blownapartorburnedordrownedinmudordefective,andWerner’sjobistorebuildthemwhileHauptmann talks into his telephone or writes requisitions for replacement parts or spends wholefortnightsawayfromtheschool.

WeekspasswithoutalettertoJutta.Wernerwritesfourlines,asmatteringofplatitudes—Iamfine;Iamsobusy—andhandsittothebunkmaster.Dreadswampshim.

“You have minds,” Bastian murmurs one evening in the refectory, each boy hunching almostimperceptibly fartheroverhis foodas thecommandant’s fingergrazes thebackofhisuniform.“Butmindsarenottobetrusted.Mindsarealwaysdriftingtowardambiguity,towardquestions,whenwhatyoureallyneediscertainty.Purpose.Clarity.Donottrustyourminds.”

Wernersitsinthelablateatnight,aloneagain,andtrollsthefrequenciesontheGrundigtuberadiothatVolkheimerusedtoborrowfromHauptmann’soffice,searchingformusic,forechoes,forwhat,heisnotsure.Heseescircuitsbreakapartandre-form.HeseesFrederickstaringintohisbookofbirds;heseesthefuroroftheminesatZollverein,theshuntingcars,thebanginglocks,thetrundlingconveyors,smokestacks silting the sky day and night; he sees Jutta slashing back and forth with a lit torch asdarknessencroachesfromallsides.Windpressesagainstthewallsofthelab—wind,thecommandantlovestoremindthem,thatcomesallthewayfromRussia,aCossackwind,thewindofcandle-eatingbarbarianswithhogs’headswhowillstopatnothingtodrinkthebloodofGermangirls.Gorillaswhomustbewipedofftheearth.

Staticstatic.Areyouthere?Finallyheshutsofftheradio.Intothestillnesscomethevoicesofhismasters,echoingfromoneside

ofhisheadwhilememoryspeaksfromtheother.Openyoureyesandseewhatyoucanwiththembeforetheycloseforever.

TheBladeandtheWhelk

TheHôtel-DieudiningroomisbigandsomberandfullofpeopletalkingaboutU-boatsoffGibraltarandtheinequitiesofcurrencyexchangeandfour-strokemarinedieselengines.MadameManecorderstwobowlsofchowderthatsheandMarie-Laurepromptlyfinish.Shesaysshedoesnotknowwhattodonext—shouldtheykeepwaiting?—sosheorderstwomore.

Atlastamaninrustlingclothingsitsdownwiththem.“YouaresureyournameisMadameWalter?”MadameManecsays,“YouaresureyournameisRené?”Apause.“Andher?”“Myaccomplice.Shecantellifsomeoneislyingjustbyhearinghimspeak.”He laughs.They talk about theweather.Sea air exudes from theman’s clothes, as if hehasbeen

blownherebyagale.Whilehe talks,hemakesungainlymovementsandbumpsthe tableso that thespoonsclatterintheirbowls.Finallyhesays,“Weadmireyourefforts,Madame.”

ThemanwhocallshimselfRenéstartstalkingextremelysoftly.Marie-Laurecatchesonlyphrases:“Lookforspecialinsigniaontheirlicenseplates.WHforarmy,WLforairforce,WMfornavy.Andyoucould note—or find someone who could—every vessel that comes in and out of the harbor. Thisinformationisverymuchindemand.”

MadameManecisquiet.IfmoreissaidthatMarie-Laurecannotoverhear—ifthereisapantomimegoingonbetweenthem,notespassed,stratagemsagreedupon—shecannotsay.Somelevelofaccordisreached,andsoonenoughsheandMadameManecarebackinthekitchenatNumber4rueVauborel.MadameManec clatters around in the cellar and hauls up canning supplies. This verymorning, sheannounces, shehasmanaged toprocurewhatmightbe the last twocratesofpeaches inFrance.ShehumsasshehelpsMarie-Laurewiththepeeler.

“Madame?”“Yes,Marie.”“Whatisapseudonym?”“Itisafakename,analternatename.”“IfIweretohaveone,whatsortofnamecouldIchoose?”“Well,”saysMadameManec.Shepitsandquartersanotherpeach.“Youcanbeanything.Youcanbe

theMermaidifyoulike.OrDaisy?Violet?”“HowabouttheWhelk?IthinkIwouldliketobetheWhelk.”“TheWhelk.Thatisanexcellentpseudonym.”“Andyou,Madame?Whatwouldyouliketobe?”“Me?”MadameManec’s knife pauses.Crickets sing in the cellar. “I think Iwould like to be the

Blade.”“TheBlade?”“Yes.”Theperfumeofthepeachesmakesabrightruddycloud.“TheBlade?”repeatsMarie-Laure.Thentheybothstartlaughing.

DearWerner,Whydon’tyouwrite?XXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKS

HEREXXXXThefoundriesrundayandnightandthestacksneverstopsmokingandit’sbeencoldheresoeveryoneburnseverythingtostaywarm.Sawdust,hardcoal,softcoal,lime,garbage.WarwidowsXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXandeverydaytherearemore.I’mworkingatthelaundrywiththetwins,HannahandSusanne,andClaudiaFörster,yourememberher,we’remendingtunicsandtrousersmostly.I’mgettingbetterwithaneedlesoatleastI’mnotprickingmyselfallthetime.RightnowIjustfinishedmyhomework.Doyouhavehomework?Therearefabricshortagesandpeoplebringinslipcovers,curtains,oldcoats.Anythingthatcanbeusedtheysaymustbeused.Justlikeallofushere.Ha.Ifoundthisunderyouroldcot.Seemslikeyoucoulduseit.

Love,Jutta

InsidethehomemadeenvelopewaitsWerner’schildhoodnotebook,hishandwritingacrossthecover:Questions.Acrossitspagesswarmboyhooddrawings,inventions:anelectricbedheaterhewantedtobuildforFrauElena;abicyclewithchainstodrivebothwheels.Canmagnetsaffectliquids?Whydoboatsfloat?Whydowefeeldizzywhenwespin?

Adozenemptypagesattheback.Juvenileenough,presumably,tomakeitpastthecensor.Aroundhimsoundsthedinofboots,clatterofrifles.Stocksontheground,barrelsagainstthewall.

Grab cups off hooks, plates off racks. Queue up for boiled beef. Over him breaks a wave ofhomesicknesssoacutethathehastoclamphiseyes.

AliveBeforeYouDie

MadameManecgoesintoEtienne’sstudyonthefifthfloor.Marie-Laurelistensonthestairs.“Youcouldhelp,”Madamesays.Someone—likelyMadame—opensawindow,andthebrightairof

the sea washes onto the landing, stirring everything: Etienne’s curtains, his papers, his dust,Marie-Laure’slongingforherfather.

Etiennesays,“Please,Madame.Closethewindow.Theyareroundingupblackoutoffenders.”Thewindowstaysopen.Marie-Laurecreepsdownanotherstair.“Howdoyouknowwhomtheyroundup,Etienne?AwomaninRenneswasgivenninemonthsin

prisonfornamingoneofherhogsGoebbels,didyouknowthat?ApalmreaderinCancalewasshotforpredictingdeGaullewouldreturninthespring.Shot!”

“Thoseareonlyrumors,Madame.”“MadameHébrardsaysthataDinardman—agrandfather,Etienne—wasgiventwoyearsinprison

forwearingtheCrossofLorraineunderhiscollar.Iheardthey’regoingtoturnthewholecityintoabigammunitiondump.”

Hergreat-unclelaughssoftly.“Itallsoundslikesomethingasixth-formerwouldmakeup.”“Everyrumorcarriesaseedoftruth,Etienne.”AllofEtienne’sadultlife,Marie-Laurerealizes,MadameManechastendedhisfears.Skirtedthem,

mitigatedthem.Shecreepsdownonemorestair.MadameManecissaying,“Youknowthings,Etienne.Aboutmaps,tides,radios.”“It’salreadytoodangerous,allthosewomeninmyhouse.Peoplehaveeyes,Madame.”“Who?”“Theperfumer,forone.”“Claude?”Shesnorts.“LittleClaudeistoobusysmellinghimself.”“Claude isnot so littleanymore.Even Ican seehis familygetsmore than theothers:moremeat,

moreelectricity,morebutter.Iknowhowsuchprizesarewon.”“Thenhelpus.”“Idon’twanttomaketrouble,Madame.”“Isn’tdoingnothingakindoftroublemaking?”“Doingnothingisdoingnothing.”“Doingnothingisasgoodascollaborating.”Thewindgusts. InMarie-Laure’smind, it shifts andgleams, drawsneedles and thorns in the air.

Silverthengreenthensilveragain.“Iknowways,”saysMadameManec.“Whatways?Whomhaveyouputyourtrustin?”“Youhavetotrustsomeonesometime.”“Ifyoursameblooddoesn’t run in thearmsand legsof thepersonyou’renext to,youcan’t trust

anything.Andeventhen.It’snotapersonyouwishtofight,Madame,it’sasystem.Howdoyoufightasystem?”

“Youtry.”“Whatwouldyouhavemedo?”“Dig out that old thing in the attic. You used to knowmore about radios than anyone in town.

AnyoneinBrittany,perhaps.”

“They’vetakenallthereceivers.”“Not all. People have hidden things everywhere. You’d only have to read numbers, is how I

understand it, numbers on strips of paper. Someone—I don’t knowwho,maybeHaroldBazin—willbringthemtoMadameRuelle,andshe’llcollectthemandbakethemessagesrightintothebread.Rightintoit!”Shelaughs;toMarie-Laure,hervoicesoundstwentyyearsyounger.

“HaroldBazin.YouaretrustingHaroldBazin?Youarecookingsecretcodesintobread?”“WhatfatKrautisgoingtoeatthoseawfulloaves?Theytakeallthegoodflourforthemselves.We

bringhomethebread,youtransmitthenumbers,thenweburnthepieceofpaper.”“Thisisridiculous.Youactlikechildren.”“It’sbetterthannotactingatall.Thinkofyournephew.ThinkofMarie-Laure.”Curtainsflapandpapersrustleandthetwoadultshaveastandoffinthestudy.Marie-Laurehascrept

soclosetohergreat-uncle’sdoorwaythatshecantouchthedoorframe.MadameManecsays,“Don’tyouwanttobealivebeforeyoudie?”“Marieisalmostfourteenyearsold,Madame.Notsoyoung,notduringwar.Fourteen-year-oldsdie

thesameasanybodyelse.ButIwantfourteentobeyoung.Iwant—”Marie-Laurescootsbackupastep.Havetheyseenher?ShethinksofthestonekennelCrazyHarold

Bazinledherto:thesnailsgatheredintheirmultitudes.Shethinksofthemanytimesherfatherputheronhisbicycle:she’dbalanceontheseat,andhewouldstandonthepedals,andthey’dglideoutintotheroarofsomeParisianboulevard.She’dholdhishipsandbendherknees,andthey’dflybetweencars,downhills,throughgauntletsofodorandnoiseandcolor.

Etiennesays,“Iamgoingbacktomybook,Madame.Shouldn’tyoubepreparingdinner?”

NoOut

InJanuary1942,WernergoestoDr.Hauptmanninhisglowing,firelitoffice,twiceaswarmastherestofthecastle,andaskstobesenthome.Thelittledoctorissittingbehindhisbigdeskwithananemic-lookingroastedbirdonadishinfrontofhim.Quailordoveorgrouse.Rollsofschematicsonhisright.Hishoundssplayontherugbeforethefire.

Wernerstandswithhiscapinhishands.Hauptmannshutshiseyesandrunsafingertipacrossoneeyebrow.Wernersays,“Iwillworktopaythetrainfare,sir.”

ThebluefretworkofveinsinHauptmann’sforeheadpulsates.Heopenshiseyes.“You?”Thedogslook up as one, a three-headed hydra. “You who gets everything? Who comes here and listens toconcertsandnibbleschocolatesandwarmsyourselfbythefire?”

AshredofroastedbirddancesonHauptmann’scheek.Perhapsforthefirsttime,Wernerseesinhisteacher’sthinningblondhair,inhisblacknostrils,inhissmall,almostelfinears,somethingpitilessandinhuman,somethingdeterminedonlytosurvive.

“Perhapsyoubelieveyouaresomebodynow?Somebodyofimportance?”Wernerclencheshiscapbehindhisbacktokeephisshouldersfromquaking.“No,sir.”Hauptmannfoldshisnapkin.“Youareanorphan,Pfennig,withnoallies.IcanmakeyouwhateverI

wanttomakeyou.Atroublemaker,acriminal,anadult.IcansendyoutothefrontandmakesureyouarecrouchedinatrenchintheiceuntiltheRussianscutoffyourhandsandfeedthemtoyou.”

“Yes,sir.”“Youwillbegivenyourorderswhen the school is ready togiveyouyourorders.No sooner.We

servetheReich,Pfennig.Itdoesnotserveus.”“Yes,sir.”“Youwillcometothelabtonight.Asusual.”“Yes,sir.”“Nomorechocolates.Nomorespecialtreatment.”Inthehallwiththedoorshutbehindhim,Wernerpresseshisforeheadagainstthewall,andavision

ofhisfather’slastmomentscomestohim,thecrushingpressofthetunnels,theceilinglowering.Jawpinnedagainstthefloor.Skullsplintering.Icannotgohome,hethinks.AndIcannotstay.

TheDisappearanceof HaroldBazin

Marie-LaurefollowstheodorofMadameManec’ssoupthroughthePlaceauxHerbesandholdsthewarmpotoutsidethealcovebehindthelibrarywhileMadamerapsonthedoor.

Madamesays,“WhereisMonsieurBazin?”“Musthavemovedon,”saysthelibrarian,thoughthedoubtinhisvoiceisonlypartiallydisguised.“WherecouldHaroldBazinmoveto?”“I’mnotsure,MadameManec.Please.Itiscold.”Thedoorcloses.MadameManecswears.Marie-LaurethinksofHaroldBazin’sstories: lugubrious

monstersmadeofseafoam,mermaidswithfishyprivateparts,theromanceofEnglishsieges.“He’llbeback,”saysMadameManec,asmuchtoherselfastoMarie-Laure.ButthenextmorningHaroldBazinisnotback.Orthenext.

Onlyhalfthegroupattendsthefollowingmeeting.“Dotheythinkhewashelpingus?”whispersMadameHébrard.“Washehelpingus?”“Ithoughthewascarryingmessages.”“Whatsortofmessages?”“Itisgettingtoodangerous.”MadameManecpaces;Marie-Laurecanalmostfeeltheheatofherfrustrationfromacrosstheroom.

“Leave,then.”Hervoicesmolders.“Allofyou.”“Don’tberash,”saysMadameRuelle.“We’lltakeabreak,aweekortwo.Waitforthingstosettle.”HaroldBazinwithhiscoppermaskandboyishavidityandhisbreath likecrushed insects.Where,

Marie-Laurewonders,dotheytakepeople?The“Gasthaus”herfatherwastakento?Wheretheywritelettershomeaboutwonderfulfoodandmythicaltrees?Thebaker’swifeclaimsthey’resenttocampsinthemountains.Thegrocer’swife says they’re sent tonylon factories inRussia. It seemsas likely toMarie-Laure that the people just disappear. The soldiers throw a bag over whomever they want toremove, run electricity through him, and then that person is gone, vanished.Expelled to some otherworld.

Thecity,thinksMarie-Laure,isslowlybeingremadeintothemodelupstairs.Streetssuckedemptyonebyone.Eachtimeshestepsoutside,shebecomesawareofallthewindowsaboveher.Thequietisfretful,unnatural.It’swhatamousemustfeel,shethinks,asitstepsfromitsholeintotheopenbladesofameadow,neverknowingwhatshadowmightcomecruisingabove.

EverythingPoisoned

Newsilkbannershangabovetherefectorytables,ablazewithslogans.Theysay,Disgraceisnottofallbuttolie.Theysay,Beslimandslender,asfastasagreyhound,astoughasleather,ashardasKruppsteel.Everyfewweeksanotherinstructorvanishes,suckedupintotheengineofthewar.Newinstructors,

elderlytownsmenofunreliablesobrietyanddisposition,arebroughtin.Allofthem,Wernernotices,areinsomewaybroken:theylimp,orareblindinoneeye,ortheirfacesarelopsidedfromstrokesorthepreviouswar.Thecadetsshowlessrespecttothenewinstructors,whointurnhaveshortertempers,andsoontheschoolfeelstoWernerlikeagrenadewithitspinpulled.

Strangethingsstarthappeningwiththeelectricity.Itgoesoutforfifteenminutes,thensurges.Clocksrunfast,lightbulbsbrighten,flare,andpop,andsendasoftrainofglassfallingintothecorridors.Daysof darkness ensue, the switches dead, the grid empty.Thebunk rooms and showers become icy; forlighting,thecaretakerresortstotorchesandcandles.Allthegasolineisgoingtothewar,andfewcarscometrundlingthroughtheschoolgates;foodisdeliveredbythesamewitheredmule,itsribsshowingasitdragsitscart.

More than onceWerner slices the sausage on his plate to find pinkworms squirming inside.Theuniformsofthenewcadetsarestifferandcheaperthanhisown;nolongerdotheyhaveaccesstoliveammunitionformarksmanship.WernerwouldnotbesurprisedifBastianstartedhandingoutrocksandsticks.

Andyetallthenewsisgood.WeareatthegatestotheCaucasus,proclaimsHauptmann’sradio,wehave taken oil fields, we will take Svalbard. We move with astounding speed. Five thousand sevenhundredRussianskilled,forty-fiveGermanslost.

Everysixorsevendays,thesametwopallidcasualtyassistanceofficersentertherefectory,andfourhundredfacesgoashenfromtheeffortofnot turning towatch.Theboysmoveonly theireyes,onlytheir thoughts, tracking in theirminds the passage of the two officers as theymove between tables,seekingoutthenextboywhosefatherhasbeenkilled.

Thecadet theystopbehindoften tries topretendthathedoesn’tnotice theirpresence.Heputshisforkinhismouthandchews,andusuallyitisthenthatthetallerofficer,asergeant,setsahandontheboy’s shoulder. The boy looks up at themwith a fullmouth and an unsteady face, and follows theofficersout,andthebigoakdoubledoorscreakshut,andthelunchroomslowlyexhalesandedgesbacktolife.

ReinhardWöhlmann’s father falls.KarlWesterholzer’s father falls.MartinBurkhard’s father falls,andMartintellseverybody—ontheverysamenighthisshoulderistapped—thatheishappy.“Doesn’teverything,”hesays,“dieatlastandtoosoon?Whowouldnotbehonoredtofall?Tobeapavingstoneontheroadtofinalvictory?”WernerlooksforuneasinessinMartin’seyesbutcannotfindit.

ForWerner,doubts turnup regularly.Racialpurity,politicalpurity—Bastianspeaks toahorrorofanysortofcorruption,andyet,Wernerwondersinthedeadofnight,isn’tlifeakindofcorruption?Achildisborn,andtheworldsetsinuponit.Takingthingsfromit,stuffingthingsintoit.Eachbiteoffood, each particle of light entering the eye—the body can never be pure. But this is what thecommandantinsistsupon,whytheReichmeasurestheirnoses,clockstheirhaircolor.Theentropyofaclosedsystemneverdecreases.

AtnightWernerstaresupatFrederick’sbunk,thethinslats,themiserablestainedmattress.Anothernewboysleepsupthere,DieterFerdinand,asmallmuscularkidfromFrankfurtwhodoeseverythingheistoldwithaterrifyingferocity.

Someonecoughs;someoneelsemoans.Atrainsoundsitslonesomewhistlesomewhereoutbeyondthe lakes.Totheeast,always the trainsmoveto theeast,beyondtherimsof thehills; theygo to thehugetroddenborderlandsofthefront.Evenashesleeps,thetrainsaremoving.Thecatapultsofhistoryrattlingpast.

Wernerlaceshisbootsandsingsthesongsandmarchesthemarches,actinglessoutofdutythanoutofatimeworndesiretobedutiful.Bastianwalkstherowsofboysattheirdinners.“What’sworsethandeath,boys?”

Somepoorcadetiscalledtoattention.“Cowardice!”“Cowardice,” agrees Bastian, and the boy sits while the commandant slogs forward, nodding to

himself,pleased.Latelythecommandantspeaksmoreandmoreintimatelyoftheführerandthelatestthing—prayers, petroleum, loyalty—that he requires. The führer requires trustworthiness, electricity,bootleather.Wernerisbeginningtosee,approachinghissixteenthbirthday,thatwhattheführerreallyrequiresisboys.Greatrowsofthemwalkingtotheconveyorbelttoclimbon.Giveupcreamfortheführer, sleep for the führer, aluminum for the führer.Give upReinhardWöhlmann’s father andKarlWesterholzer’sfatherandMartinBurkhard’sfather.

InMarch1942,Dr.HauptmanncallsWernerintohisoffice.Half-packedcrateslitterthefloor.Thehoundsarenowheretobeseen.Thelittlemanpaces,anditisnotuntilWernerannounceshimselfthatHauptmannstops.Helooksasifheisslowlybeingengulfedbysomethingbeyondhiscontrol.“IhavebeencalledtoBerlin.Theywantmetocontinuemyworkthere.”Hauptmannliftsanhourglassfromashelfandsetsitinacrate,andhispalesilver-tippedfingershangintheair.

“Itwillbeasyoudreamed,sir.Thebestequipment,thebestminds.”“Thatisall,”saysDr.Hauptmann.Wernerstepsintothehall.Outonthesnow-dustedquad,thirtyfirst-formersjoginplace,theirbreath

showinginshort-livedplumes.Chubby,slick-chinned,abominableBastianyellssomething.Heraisesone short arm and the boys turn on their heels, raise their rifles above their heads, and run faster inplace,theirkneesflashinginthemoonlight.

Visitors

TheelectricbellringsatNumber4rueVauborel.EtienneLe-Blanc,MadameManec,andMarie-Laurestopchewingatthesametime,eachthinking:Theyhavefoundmeout.Thetransmitterintheattic,thewomeninthekitchen,thehundredtripstothebeach.

Etiennesays,“Youareexpectingsomeone?”MadameManecsays,“Noone.”Thewomenwouldcometothekitchendoor.Thebellringsagain.Allthreegotothefoyer;MadameManecopensthedoor.Frenchpolicemen, twoof them.Theyare there, theyexplain,at therequestof theNaturalHistory

MuseuminParis.Thejarringoftheirbootheelsontheboardsofthefoyerseemsloudenoughtoshatterthewindows.Thefirstoneiseatingsomething—anapple,Marie-Lauredecides.Thesecondsmellsofshavingbalm.Androastedmeat.Asiftheyhavebeenfeasting.

All five—Etienne,Marie-Laure,MadameManec, and the twomen—sit in the kitchen around thesquaretable.Themenrefuseabowlofstew.Thefirstclearshisthroat.“Rightorwrong,”hesays,“hehasbeenconvictedoftheftandconspiracy.”

“Allprisoners,politicalorotherwise,”saysthesecond,“areforcedtodolabor,eveniftheyhavenotbeensentencedtoit.”

“ThemuseumhaswrittentowardensandprisondirectorsalloverGermany.”“Wedonotyetknowexactlywhichprison.”“WebelieveitcouldbeBreitenau.”“We’recertaintheydidnotholdapropertribunal.”Etienne’svoicecomesspiralingupfrombesideMarie-Laure.“Isthatagoodprison?Imean,oneof

thebetterones?”“I’mafraidtherearenogoodGermanprisons.”Atruckpassesinthestreet.TheseafoldsontothePlageduMôlefiftyyardsaway.Shethinks:They

justsaywords,andwhatarewordsbutsoundsthesemenshapeoutofbreath,weightlessvaporstheysendinto theairof thekitchentodissipateanddie.Shesays:“Youhavecomeall thiswayto tellusthingswealreadyknow.”

MadameManectakesherhand.Etiennemurmurs,“WedidnotknowaboutthisplacecalledBreitenau.”Thefirstpolicemansays,“Youtoldthemuseumhehasmanagedtosmuggleouttwoletters?”Thesecond:“Mayweseethem?”OffgoesEtienne,contenttobelievethatsomeoneisonthejob.Marie-Laureoughttobehappytoo,

butsomethingmakeshersuspicious.SherememberssomethingherfathersaidbackinParis,onthefirstnightoftheinvasion,astheywaitedforatrain.Everyoneislookingoutforhimself.

Thefirstpolicemansnapsfleshoffhisapplewithhisteeth.Aretheylookingather?Tobesoclosetothemmakesherfeelfaint.Etiennereturnswithbothletters,andshecanhearthemenpassingthepagesbackandforth.

“Didhespeakofanythingbeforeheleft?”“Ofanyparticularactivitiesorerrandsweshouldbeawareof?”TheirFrench is good, veryParisian, butwhoknowswhere their loyalties lie? If your same blood

doesn’truninthearmsandlegsofthepersonyou’renextto,youcan’ttrustanything.Everythingfeels

compressedandsubmarinetoMarie-Laurejustthen,asifthefiveofthemhavebeensubmergedintoamurkyaquariumoverfulloffish,andtheirfinskeepbumpingastheyshiftabout.

Shesays,“Myfatherisnotathief.”MadameManec’shandsqueezeshers.Etienne says, “He seemed concerned for his job, for his daughter. For France, of course. Who

wouldn’tbe?”“Mademoiselle,” says the firstman.He is talkingdirectly toMarie-Laure. “Was there no specific

thinghementioned?”“Nothing.”“Hehadmanykeysatthemuseum.”“Heturnedinhiskeysbeforeheleft.”“Maywelookatwhateverhebroughtherewithhim?”Thesecondmanadds,“Hisbags,perhaps?”“Hetookhisrucksackwithhim,”saysMarie-Laure,“whenthedirectoraskedhimtoreturn.”“Maywelookanyway?”Marie-Laurecanfeelthegravityintheroomincrease.Whatdotheyhopetofind?Sheimaginesthe

radioequipmenthighaboveher:microphone,transceiver,allthosedialsandswitchesandcables.Etiennesays,“Youmay.”Theygointoeveryroom.Thirdfloorfourthfifth.Onthesixth, theystandinhergrandfather’sold

bedroomandopenthehugewardrobewithitsheavydoorsandcrossthehallandstandoverthemodelofSaint-MaloinMarie-Laure’sroomandwhispertoeachotherandthentrompbackdownstairs.

Theyaska totalofonequestion:about threeFreeFrench flags rolledup ina second-floorcloset.WhydoesEtiennehavethem?

“Youputyourselfinjeopardykeepingthose,”saysthesecondpoliceman.“Youwouldnotwant theauthorities to thinkyouare terrorists,” says the first. “Peoplehavebeen

arrested for less.”Whether this isofferedas favoror threat remainsunclear.Marie-Laure thinks:DotheymeanPapa?

Thepolicemenfinishtheirsearchandsaygoodnightwithperfectpolitenessandleave.MadameManeclightsacigarette.Marie-Laure’sstewiscold.Etienne fumbleswith the fireplace grate.He shoves the flags one after another into the fire. “No

more.Nomore.”Hesaysthesecondlouderthanthefirst.“Nothere.”MadameManec’svoice:“Theyfoundnothing.Thereisnothingtofind.”Theacridsmellofburningcottonfillsthekitchen.Hergreat-unclesays,“Youdowhatyoulikewith

yourlife,Madame.Youhavealwaysbeenthereforme,andIwilltrytobethereforyou.Butyoumaynolongerdothesethingsinthishouse.Andyoumaynotdothemwithmygreat-niece.”

ToMyDearSisterJutta—

Itisverydifficultnow.EvenpaperishardtoXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXWehadXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXnoheatintheXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXX.Frederickusedtosaythereisnosuchthingasfreewillandthateveryperson’spathispredeterminedforhimjustlikeXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXandthatmymistakewasthatIXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXXXXXXCENSORMARKSHEREXXXX.Ihopesomedayyoucanunderstand.LovetoyouandFrauElenatoo.Siegheil.

TheFrogCooks

In theweeks tocome,MadameManec isperfectlycordial;shewalkswithMarie-Laure to thebeachmostmornings,takeshertothemarket.Butsheseemsabsent,askinghowMarie-LaureandEtiennearedoingwithperfectcourtesy,sayinggoodmorningasiftheyarestrangers.Oftenshedisappearsforhalfaday.

Marie-Laure’safternoonsbecomelonger,lonelier.Oneeveningshesitsatthekitchentablewhilehergreat-unclereadsaloud.Thevitalitywhichthesnail’seggspossesssurpassesbelief.Wehaveseencertainspecies frozenin

solidblocksofice,andyetregaintheiractivitywhensubjectedtotheinfluencesofwarmth.Etienne pauses. “We should make supper. It doesn’t appear that Madame will be back tonight.”

Neitherofthemmoves.Hereadsanotherpage.Theyhavebeenkeptforyearsinpillboxes,andyetonsubjectingthemtomoisture,havecrawledaboutappearingaswellasever...Theshellmaybebroken,andevenportionsofitremoved,andyetafteracertainlapseoftimetheinjuredpartswillberepairedbyadepositionofshellymatteratthefracturedparts.

“There’shope formeyet!” saysEtienne, and laughs, andMarie-Laure is reminded thathergreat-unclewasnotalwayssofearful, thathehadalifebeforethiswarandbeforethelastonetoo;thathewasonceayoungmanwhodwelledintheworldandloveditasshedoes.

EventuallyMadameManeccomesthroughthekitchendoorandlocksitbehindherandEtiennesaysgoodevening rathercoldlyandafteramomentMadameManecsays itback.Somewhere in thecity,GermansareloadingweaponsordrinkingbrandyandhistoryhasbecomesomenightmarefromwhichMarie-Lauredesperatelywishesshecouldwake.

MadameManec takes a pot from thehanging rack and fills itwithwater.Herknife falls throughwhatsoundslikepotatoes,thebladestrikingthewoodencuttingboardbeneath.

“Please,Madame,”saysEtienne.“Allowme.Youareexhausted.”Buthedoesnotgetup,andMadameManeckeepschoppingpotatoes,andwhensheisdone,Marie-

Laurehearsherpushaloadofthemintothewaterwiththebackofherknife.ThetensionintheroommakesMarie-Laurefeeldizzy,asifshecansensetheplanetrotating.

“SinkanyU-boatstoday?”murmursEtienne.“BlowupanyGermantanks?”MadameManecsnapsopen thedoorof the icebox.Marie-Laurecanhearher rummage througha

drawer.Amatchflares;acigarettelights.SoonenoughabowlofundercookedpotatoesappearsbeforeMarie-Laure.Shefeelsaroundthetabletopforaforkbutfindsnone.

“Do you knowwhat happens, Etienne,” saysMadameManec from the other side of the kitchen,“whenyoudropafroginapotofboilingwater?”

“Youwilltellus,Iamsure.”“Itjumpsout.Butdoyouknowwhathappenswhenyouputthefroginapotofcoolwaterandthen

slowlybringittoaboil?Youknowwhathappensthen?”Marie-Laurewaits.Thepotatoessteam.MadameManecsays,“Thefrogcooks.”

Orders

Wernerissummonedbyaneleven-year-oldinfullregaliatothecommandant’soffice.Hewaitsonawoodenbenchinaslowlybuildingpanic.Theymustsuspectsomething.Maybetheyhavediscoveredsomefactabouthisparentagethatevenhedoesn’tknow,somethingruinous.HerememberswhenthelancecorporalcamethroughthedoorofChildren’sHousetoescorthimtoHerrSiedler’s:thecertaintythat the instruments of the Reich could see through walls, through skin, into the very soul of eachsubject.

Afterseveralhours thecommandant’sassistantcallshim inandsetsdownhisballpointand looksacrosshisdeskasthoughWernerisoneamongavastseriesoftrivialproblemshemustputright.“Ithascometoourattention,cadet,thatyouragehasbeenrecordedincorrectly.”

“Sir?”“Youareeighteenyearsold.Notsixteen,asyouhaveclaimed.”Wernerpuzzles.Theabsurdityisplain:heremainssmallerthanmostofthefourteen-year-olds.“Ourformertechnicalsciencesprofessor,Dr.Hauptmann,hascalledourattentiontothediscrepancy.

HehasarrangedthatyouwillbesenttoaspecialtechnologydivisionoftheWehrmacht.”“Adivision,sir?”“Youhavebeenhereunderfalsepretenses.”Hisvoice isoilyandpleased;hischin isnonexistent.

Out a window the school band practices a triumphal march.Werner watches a Nordic-looking boystaggerbeneaththeweightofatuba.

“Thecommandanturgeddisciplinaryaction,butDr.HauptmannsuggestedthatyouwouldbeeagertoofferyourskillstotheReich.”Frombehindhisdesk,theassistantproducesafoldeduniform—slate-gray, eagleon thebreast,Litzenon the collar.Then agreen-black coal-scuttle helmet, obviously toolarge.

Thebandblares,thenstops.Thebandinstructorscreamsnames.Thecommandant’sassistantsays,“Youareverylucky,cadet.Toserveisanhonor.”“When,sir?”“You’llreceiveinstructionswithinafortnight.Thatisall.”

Pneumonia

Bretonspring,andagreatonslaughtofdampinvadesthecoast.Fogonthesea,foginthestreets,foginthemind.MadameManec gets sick.WhenMarie-Laure holds her hand overMadame’s chest, heatseemstosteamupoutofhersternumasthoughshecooksfromtheinside.Herbreathingdevolvesintotrainsofoceaniccoughs.

“Iwatchthesardines,”murmursMadame,“andthetermites,andthecrows...”Etiennesummonsadoctorwhoprescribesrest,aspirin,andaromaticvioletcomfits.Marie-Lauresits

withMadamethroughtheworstofit,strangehourswhentheoldwoman’shandsgoverycoldandshetalks about being in charge of theworld. She is in charge of everything, but no one knows. It is atremendousburden,shesays,toberesponsibleforeverylittlething,everyinfantborn,everyleaffallingfromeverytree,everywavethatbreaksontothebeach,everyantonitsjourney.

DeepinMadame’svoice,Marie-Laurehearswater:atollsandarchipelagoesandlagoonsandfjords.Etienne proves to be a tender nurse. Washcloths, broth, now and then a page from Pasteur or

Rousseau.Hismannerforgivingheralltransgressionspastandpresent.HewrapsMadameinquilts,buteventuallysheshiverssodeeply,soprofoundly,thathetakesthebigheavyragrugoffthefloorandlaysitontopofher.

DearestMarie-Laure—

Yourparcelsarrived,twoofthem,datedmonthsapart.Joyisnotastrongenoughword.Theyletmekeepthetoothbrushandcombthoughnotthepapertheywerewrappedin.Northesoap.HowIwishtheywouldletushavesoap!Theysaidournextrepostingwouldbetoachocolatefactorybutitwascardboard.Alldaywemanufacturecardboard.Whatdotheydowithsomuch?Allmylife,Marie-Laure,Ihavebeentheonecarryingthekeys.NowIhearthemjanglingin

themorningswhentheycomeforus,andeverytimeIreachinmyownpocket,onlytofinditempty.WhenIdream,IdreamIaminthemuseum.Rememberyourbirthdays?Howtherewerealwaystwothingsonthetablewhenyouwoke?

I’msorryitturnedoutlikethis.Ifyoueverwishtounderstand,lookinsideEtienne’shouse,insidethehouse.Iknowyouwilldotherightthing.ThoughIwishthegiftwerebetter.Myangelisleaving,soifIcangetthistoyou,Iwill.IdonotworryaboutyoubecauseIknow

youareverysmartandkeepingyourselfsafe.Iamsafetoosoyoushouldnotworry.ThankEtienneforreadingthistoyou.Thankinyourheartthebravesoulwhocarriesthisletterawayfrommeandonitswaytoyou.

YourPapa

Treatments

VonRumpel’s doctor says that fascinating research is being done onmustard gases. That the anti-tumorpropertiesofanynumberofchemicalsarebeingexplored.Theprognosis is lookingup: in testsubjects,lymphoidtumorshavebeenseentoreduceinsize.ButtheinjectionsmakevonRumpeldizzyandweak. In the days following, he can hardlymanage to comb his hair or convince his fingers tobuttonhiscoat.Hismindplaystricks,too:hewalksintoaroomandforgetswhyhe’sthere.Hestaresata superior and forgetswhat theman just said.The sounds of passing cars are like the tines of forksdraggedalonghisnerves.

TonighthewrapshimselfinhotelblanketsandorderssoupandunwrapsabundlefromVienna.ThemousybrownlibrarianhassentcopiesoftheTavernierandtheStreeterandeven—mostremarkably—stencil duplicates of de Boodt’s 1604 Gemmarum et Lapidum Historia, written entirely in Latin.EverythingshecouldfindconcerningtheSeaofFlames.Nineparagraphstotal.

Ittakesallhisconcentrationtobringthetextsintofocus.Agoddessoftheearthwhofellinlovewithagodof thesea.Aprincewhorecoveredfromcatastrophic injuries,whoruledfromwithinabluroflight.VonRumpelcloseshiseyesandseesa flame-hairedgoddesscharge through the tunnelsof theearth,dropsofflameglowinginherwake.Hehearsapriestwithnotonguesay,Thekeeperofthestonewill live forever. He hears his father say, See obstacles as opportunities, Reinhold. See obstacles asinspirations.

Heaven

Forafewweeks,MadameManecgetsbetter.ShepromisesEtienneshewillrememberherage,nottrytobeeverythingtoeveryone,notfight thewarbyherself.OnedayinearlyJune,almostexactly twoyearsaftertheinvasionofFrance,sheandMarie-LaurewalkthroughafieldofQueenAnne’slaceeastofSaint-Malo.MadameManectoldEtiennethattheyweregoingtoseeifstrawberrieswereavailableattheSaint-Servanmarket,butMarie-Laure is certain thatwhen they stopped togreet awomanon thewayhere,Madamedroppedoffoneenvelopeandpickedupanother.

AtMadame’ssuggestion,theyliedownintheweeds,andMarie-LaurelistenstohoneybeesminetheflowersandtriestoimaginetheirjourneysasEtiennedescribedthem:eachworkerfollowingarivuletof odor, looking for ultraviolet patterns in the flowers, filling baskets on her hind legs with pollengrains,thennavigating,drunkandheavy,allthewayhome.

Howdotheyknowwhatpartstoplay,thoselittlebees?MadameManec takes off her shoes and lights a cigarette and lets out a contented groan. Insects

drone:wasps,hoverflies,apassingdragonfly—EtiennehastaughtMarie-Lauretodistinguisheachbyitssound.

“What’saroneomachine,Madame?”“Somethingtohelpmakepamphlets.”“Whatdoesithavetodowiththatwomanwemet?”“Nothingtotroubleyourselfover,dear.”Horsesnicker,andthewindcomesofftheseagentleandcoolandfullofsmells.“Madame?WhatdoIlooklike?”“Youhavemanythousandsoffreckles.”“Papausedtosaytheywerelikestarsinheaven.Likeapplesinatree.”“Theyarelittlebrowndots,child.Thousandsoflittlebrowndots.”“Thatsoundsugly.”“Onyou,theyarebeautiful.”“Doyouthink,Madame,thatinheavenwewillreallygettoseeGodface-to-face?”“Wemight.”“Whatifyou’reblind?”“I’dexpectthatifGodwantsustoseesomething,we’llseeit.”“UncleEtiennesaysheavenislikeablanketbabiesclingto.Hesayspeoplehaveflownairplanesten

kilometersabovetheearthandfoundnokingdomsthere.Nogates,noangels.”MadameManeccracksoffaraggedchainofcoughsthatsendstremorsoffearthroughMarie-Laure.

“Youarethinkingofyourfather,”shefinallysays.“Youhavetobelieveyourfatherwillreturn.”“Don’tyouevergettiredofbelieving,Madame?Don’tyoueverwantproof?”MadameManecrestsahandonMarie-Laure’sforehead.Thethickhandthatfirstremindedherofa

gardener’sorageologist’s.“Youmustneverstopbelieving.That’sthemostimportantthing.”TheQueenAnne’slaceswaysonitstaproots,andthebeesdotheirsteadywork.Ifonlylifewerelike

aJulesVernenovel,thinksMarie-Laure,andyoucouldpageaheadwhenyoumostneededto,andlearnwhatwouldhappen.“Madame?”

“Yes,Marie.”“Whatdoyouthinktheyeatinheaven?”

“I’mnotsosuretheyneedtoeatinheaven.”“Noteat!Youwouldnotlikethat,wouldyou?”ButMadameManecdoesnotlaughthewayMarie-Laureexpectsherto.Shedoesn’tsayanythingat

all.Herbreathclattersinandout.“DidIoffendyou,Madame?”“No,child.”“Areweindanger?”“Nomorethananyotherday.”Thegrassestossandshimmy.Thehorsesnicker.MadameManecsays,almostwhispering,“Nowthat

Ithinkaboutit,child,Iexpectheavenisalotlikethis.”

Frederick

Wernerspendsthelastofhismoneyontrainfare.Theafternoonisbrightenough,butBerlinseemsnotto want to accept the sunlight, as though its buildings have become gloomier and dirtier and moresplotchyinthemonthssincehelastvisited.Thoughperhapswhathaschangedaretheeyesthatseeit.

Ratherthanringthebellrightaway,Wernerlapstheblockthreetimes.Theapartmentwindowsareuniformlydark;whetherunlitorblackedout,hecannottell.Atacertainpointoneachcircuit,hepassesastorefrontfilledwithundressedmannequins,andthoughheknowseachtimethatitismerelyatrickofthelight,hecannotstophiseyesfromseeingthemascorpsesstrungupbywires.

Finallyheringsthebellfor#2.Noonebuzzesdown,andhenoticesfromthenameplatesthattheyarenolongerin#2.Theirnameison#5.

Herings.Areturningbuzzissuesfrominside.Theliftisoutoforder,sohewalksup.Thedooropens.Franny.Withthedownyfaceandswingingflapsofskinunderherarms.Shegives

himalookthatonetrappedpersongivesanother;thenFrederick’smotherswishesoutofasideroomwearingtennisclothes.“Why,Werner—”

Shelosesherselfmomentarilyintroubledreverie,surroundedbysleekfurniture,someofitwrappedinthickwoolblankets.Doessheblamehim?Doesshethinkheispartiallyresponsible?Perhapsheis?Butthenshecomesawakeandkisseshimonbothcheeks,andherbottomlipquiverslightly.Asifhismaterializationispreventingherfromkeepingcertainshadowsatbay.

“Hewon’tknowyou.Don’ttrytomakehimremember.Itwillonlyupsethim.Butyouarehere.Isupposethat’ssomething.Iwasabouttogo,verysorryIcannotstay.Showhimin,Franny.”

Themaidleadshimintoagranddrawingroom,itsceilingsaswirlwithplasterflourishes,itswallspainted a delicate eggshell blue. No paintings have been hung yet and the shelves wait empty andcardboardboxesstandopenonthefloor.Fredericksitsataglass-toppedtableatthebackoftheroom,bothtableandboylookingsmallamidtheclutter.Hishairhasbeencombedhardtooneside,andhisloosecottonshirthasbunchedupbehindhisshoulderssothathiscollarisskewed.Hiseyesdonotrisetomeethisvisitor’s.

Hewearshissameoldblack-framedglasses.Someonehasbeenfeedinghim,andthespoonrestsontheglasstableandblobsofporridgeclingtoFrederick’swhiskersandhisplacemat,whichisawoolenthingfeaturinghappypink-cheekedchildreninclogs.Wernercannotlookatit.

FrannybendsandpushesthreemorespoonfulsintoFrederick’smouthandwipeshischin,foldsuphisplacemat,andwalksthroughaswingingdoorintowhatmustbeakitchen.Wernerstandswithhishandscrossedinfrontofhisbelt.

Oneyear.More than that. Frederickhas to shavenow,Werner realizes.Or someonehas to shavehim.

“Hello,Frederick.”FrederickrollshisheadbackandlookstowardWernerthroughhissmudgedlensesdownthelineof

hisnose.“I’mWerner.Yourmothersaidyoumightnotremember?I’myourfriendfromschool.”Frederick seems not somuch to be looking atWerner as through him.On the table is a stack of

paper,ontopofwhichathickandclumsyspiralhasbeendrawnbyaheavyhand.

“Didyoumakethis?”Wernerliftsthetopmostdrawing.Beneaththatpageisanother,thenanother,thirtyorfortyspirals,eachtakingupawholesheet,allinthesameseverelead.Frederickdropshischintohischest,possiblyanod.Wernerglancesaround:atrunk,aboxoflinens,thepaleblueofthewallsandtherichwhiteofthewainscot.LatesunlightglidesthroughtallFrenchwindows,andtheairtastesofsilverpolish.Thisfifth-floorapartmentisindeednicerthanthesecond-floorone—theceilingshighanddecoratedwithpunchedtinandstuccoflourishes:fruits,flowers,bananaleaves.

Frederick’s lip is curled andhis upper teeth showand a stringof drool swings fromhis chin andtouchesthepaper.Werner,unabletobearitasecondlonger,callsforthemaid.Frannypeeksoutoftheswingingdoor.“Where,”heasks,“isthatbook?Theonewiththebirds?Inthegoldslipcover?”

“Idon’tthinkweeverhadabooklikethat.”“No,youdid—”Frannyonlyshakesherheadandlacesherfingersacrossherapron.Wernerliftstheflapsofboxes,peeringin.“Surelyit’saroundhere.”Frederickhasbeguntodrawanewspiralonablanksheet.“Maybeinthis?”FrannystandsbesideWernerandpluckshiswristoffthecrateheisabouttoopen.“Idonotthink,”

sherepeats,“weeverhadabooklikethat.”Werner’swholebodyhasstartedtoitch.Outthehugewindows,thelindenstossbackandforth.The

lightfades.Anunlitsignatopabuildingtwoblocksawayreads,BerlinsmokesJunos.Frannyhasalreadyretreatedbackintothekitchen.WernerwatchesFrederickcreateanothercrudespiral,thepencillockedinhisfist.“I’mleavingSchulpforta,Frederick.They’rechangingmyageandsendingmetothefront.”Frederickliftsthepencil,studying,thenreappliesit.“Lessthanaweek.”Frederickworkshismouthasiftochewair.“Youlookpretty,”hesays.Hedoesnotlookdirectlyat

Werner,andhiswordsareclosetomoans.“Youlookpretty,verypretty,Mama.”“I’mnot yourmama,” hissesWerner. “Comeon, now.”Frederick’s expression is entirelywithout

artifice. Somewhere in the kitchen, the maid is listening. There is no other sound, not of traffic orairplanesortrainsorradiosorthespecterofFrauSchwartzenbergerrattlingthecageoftheelevator.Nochanting no singing no silk banners no bands no trumpets no mother no father no slick-fingeredcommandant dragging a finger across his back. The city seems utterly still, as though everyone islistening,waitingforsomeonetoslip.

Werner looks at the blue of the walls and thinks of Birds of America, yellow-crowned heron,Kentuckywarbler,scarlettanager,birdaftergloriousbird,andFrederick’sgazeremainsstuckinsometerriblemiddleground,eacheyeastagnantpoolintowhichWernercannotbeartolook.

Relapse

InlateJune1942,forthefirsttimesinceherfever,MadameManecisnotinthekitchenwhenMarie-Laure wakes. Could she already be at the market? Marie-Laure taps on her door, waits a hundredheartbeats.Sheopensthereardoorandcallsintothealley.GloriouswarmJunedawn.Pigeonsandcats.Screechoflaughterfromaneighboringwindow.

“Madame?”Herheartaccelerates.ShetapsagainonMadameManec’sdoor.“Madame?”When she lets herself in, she hears the rattle first.As though aweary tide stirs stones in the old

woman’slungs.Sourodorsofsweatandurinerisefromthebed.HerhandsfindMadame’sface,andtheoldwoman’scheekissohotthatMarie-Laure’sfingersrecoilasthoughscalded.Shescramblesupstairs,stumbling, shouting, “Uncle! Uncle!” the whole house turning scarlet in her mind, roof turning tosmoke,flameschewingthroughwalls.

EtiennecrouchesonhispoppingkneesbesideMadame,thenscurriestothetelephoneandspeaksafewwords.HereturnstoMadameManec’sbedsideatatrot.Overthenexthourthekitchenfillswithwomen,MadameRuelle,MadameFontineau,MadameHébrard.Thefirstfloorbecomestoocrowded;Marie-Laurepacesthestaircase,upanddown,upanddown,asthoughworkingherwayupanddownthespireofanenormousseashell.Thedoctorcomesandgoes,theoccasionalwomanclosesherbonyhandaroundMarie-Laure’sshoulder,andatexactlytwoo’clockbythebongingofthecathedralbells,thedoctorreturnswithamanwhosaysnothingbeyondgoodafternoon,whosmellsofdirtandclover,wholiftsMadameManecandcarriesheroutintothestreetandsetsheronahorsecartasthoughsheisabagofmilledoats and thehorse’s shoes clop awayand thedoctor strips thebedsheets andMarie-LaurefindsEtienneinthecornerofthekitchenwhispering:Madameisdead,Madameisdead.

Six

8August1944

SomeoneintheHouse

Apresence,aninhalation.Marie-Lauretrainsallofhersensesontheentrywaythreeflightsbelow.Theoutergatesighsshut,thenthefrontdoorcloses.

Inherhead,herfatherreasons:Thegateclosedbeforethedoor,notafter.Whichmeans,whoeveritis,heclosedthegatefirst,thenshutthedoor.He’sinside.

Allthehairsonthebackofherneckstandup.Etienneknowshewouldhavetriggeredthebell,Marie.Etiennewouldbecallingforyoualready.Bootsinthefoyer.Fragmentsofdishescrunchingunderfoot.ItisnotEtienne.The distress is so acute, it is almost unbearable. She tries to settle hermind, tries to focus on an

imageofacandleflameburningatthecenterofherribcage,asnaildrawnupintothecoilsofitsshell,butherheartbangs inher chest andpulsesof fear cycleupher spine, and she is suddenlyuncertainwhetherasightedpersoninthefoyercanlookupthecurvesofthestairwellandseeallthewaytothethirdfloor.Sheremembershergreat-unclesaidthattheywouldneedtowatchoutforlooters,andtheairstirswith phantom blurs and rustles, andMarie-Laure imagines charging past the bathroom into thecobwebbedsewingroomhereonthethirdfloorandhurlingherselfoutthewindow.

Boots in thehall.Theslideofadishacross the flooras it iskicked.A fireman,aneighbor, someGermansoldierhuntingfood?Arescuerwouldbecallingforsurvivors,machérie.Youhavetomove.Youhavetohide.The footfalls travel toward Madame Manec’s room. They go slowly; maybe it’s dark. Could it

alreadybenight?Fourorfiveorsixoramillionheartbeatsrollby.Shehashercane,Etienne’scoat,thetwocans,the

knife,thebrick.Modelhouseinherdresspocket.Thestoneinsidethat.Waterinthetubattheendofthehall.

Move.Go.Apotorpan,presumablyknockedoffitshookinthebombing,wobblesonthekitchentiles.Heexits

thekitchen.Returnstothefoyer.Stand,machérie.Standupnow.Shestands.Withherrighthand,shefindstherailing.Heisatthebaseofthestairs.Shealmostcries

out.Butthensherecognizes—justashesetshisfootonthefirststair—thathisstrideisoutofrhythm.One-pause-twoone-pause-two.Itisawalkshehasheardbefore.ThelimpofaGermansergeantmajorwithadeadvoice.Go.Marie-Laure takes each step as deliberately as she can. Grateful now that she does not have her

shoes.Herheartknockssofuriouslyagainstthecageofherchestthatshefeelscertainthemanbelowwillhearit.

Uptothefourthfloor.Eachstepawhisper.Thefifth.Onthesixth-floorlanding,shepausesbeneaththechandelierandtriestolisten.ShehearstheGermanclimbthreeorfourmorestairsandtakeabriefasthmaticpause.Thenonagain.Awoodenstepcomplainsbeneathhisweight; itsoundstoher likeasmallanimalbeingcrushed.

Hestopsonwhatshebelievesisthethird-floorlanding.Whereshewasjustsitting.Herwarmthstillthereonthewoodfloorbesidethetelephonetable.Herdissipatedbreath.

Wheredoesshehavelefttorun?Hide.Toherleftwaitshergrandfather’soldroom.Toherrightwaitsherlittlebedroom,thewindowglass

blownout.Straightaheadisthetoilet.Stillthefaintreekofsmokeeverywhere.Hisfootfallscrossthelanding.One-pause-twoone-pause-two.Wheezing.Climbingagain.Ifhetouchesme,shethinks,Iwilltearouthiseyes.Sheopensthedoortohergrandfather’sbedroomandstops.Belowher,themanpausesagain.Hashe

heardher?Isheclimbingmorequietly?Outintheworldwaitsamultitudeofsanctuaries—gardensfullofbrightgreenwind;kingdomsofhedges;deeppoolsof forest shade throughwhichbutterflies floatthinkingonlyofnectar.Shecangettononeofthem.

Shefindsthehugewardrobeat thefarendofHenri’sroomandopensthetwomirroreddoorsandparts theold shirtshanging insideand slidesopen the falsedoorEtiennehasbuilt into itsback.Shesqueezes into the tiny spacewhere the ladder rises to the garret.Then she reaches back through thewardrobe,findsitsdoors,andclosesthem.

Protectmenow,stone,ifyouareaprotector.Silently,saysthevoiceofherfather.Makenonoise.Withonehand,shefindsthehandleEtiennehas

riggedonto the falsepanelon thebackof thewardrobe.Sheglides it shut,onecentimeterata time,untilshehearsitclickintoplace,thentakesabreathandholdsitforaslongasshecan.

TheDeathof WalterBernd

ForanhourBerndmurmuredgibberish.ThenhewentsilentandVolkheimersaid,“God,havemercyonyourservant.”ButnowBerndsitsupandcallsforlight.Theyfeedhimthelastofthewaterinthefirstcanteen.AsinglethreadofitrunsdownthroughhiswhiskersandWernerwatchesitgo.

Bernd sits in the glimmer of the field light and looks fromVolkheimer toWerner. “On leave lastyear,”hesays,“Ivisitedmyfather.Hewasold;hewasoldallmylife.Butnowheseemedespeciallyold.Ittookhimforeverjusttocrosshiskitchen.Hehadapackageofcookies,littlealmondcookies.Heputthemoutonaplate,justthepackagelyingcrosswise.Neitherofusateany.Hesaid,‘Youdon’thavetostay.I’dlikeyoutostay,butyoudon’thaveto.Youprobablyhavethingstodo.Youcangooffwithyourfriendsifyouwantto.’Hekeptsayingthat.”

Volkheimerswitchesoffthelight,andWernerapprehendssomethingexcruciatingheldatbaythereinthedarkness.

“Ileft,”saysBernd.“Iwentdownthestairsandintothestreet.Ihadnowheretogo.Nobodytosee.Ididn’thaveanyfriendsinthattown.Ihadriddentrainsallgoddamndaytoseehim.ButIleft,justlikethat.”

Thenhe’squiet.Volkheimerrepositionshimon thefloorwithWerner’sblanketoverhim,andnotlongafterward,Bernddies.

Wernerworksontheradio.MaybehedoesitforJutta,asVolkheimersuggested,ormaybehedoesitsohedoesnothavetothinkaboutVolkheimercarryingBerndintoacornerandpilingbricksontohishands,hischest,his face.Wernerholds the field light inhismouthandgatherswhathecan:asmallhammer, three jars of screws, eighteen-gauge line cord from a shattered desk lamp. Inside awarpedcabinetdrawer,miraculously,hediscoversazinc-carboneleven-voltbatterywithablackcatprintedontheside.AnAmericanbattery,itssloganofferingninelives.Wernerspotlightsitintheflickeringorangeglow, amazed. He checks its terminals. Still plenty of charge.When the field light battery dies, hethinks,we’llhavethis.

Herightsthecapsizedtable.Setsthecrushedtransceiverontop.Wernerdoesnotyetbelievethereismuchpromise in it,butmaybe it’senough togive themindsomething todo,aproblemtosolve.HeadjustsVolkheimer’slightinhisteeth.Triesnottothinkabouthungerorthirst,thestopperedvoidinhisleftear,Berndinthecorner,theAustriansupstairs,Frederick,FrauElena,Jutta,anyofit.

Antenna.Tuner.Capacitor.Hismind,whileheworks,isalmostquiet,almostcalm.Thisisanactofmemory.

Sixth-floorBedroom

VonRumpellimpsthroughtheroomswiththeirfadedwhitemoldingsandancientkerosenelampsandembroidered curtains and belle époque mirrors and ships in glass bottles and push-button electricalswitches,alldead.Fainttwilightanglesthroughsmokeandshutterslatsinhazyredstripes.

Temple to theSecondEmpire, this house.Abathtub three-quarters full of coldwater on the thirdfloor.Deeplyclutteredroomsonthefourth.Nodollhousesyet.Heclimbstothefifthfloor,sweating.Worrying he got everythingwrong.Theweight in his gut swings pendulously.Here’s a large ornateroomcrammedwithtrinketsandcratesandbooksandmechanicalparts.Adesk,abed,adivan,threewindowsoneachside.Nomodel.

Tothesixthfloor.Ontheleft,atidybedroomwithasinglewindowandlongcurtains.Aboy’scaphangsonthewall;atthebackloomsamassivewardrobe,mothballedshirtshunginside.

Backtothelanding.Here’salittlewatercloset,thetoiletfullofurine.Beyondit,afinalbedroom.Seashellsarelinedalongeveryavailablesurface,shellsonthesillsandonthedresserandjarsfullofpebbles linedupon thefloor,allarrangedbysomeindiscerniblesystem,andhere,here!Hereon theflooratthefootofthebedsitswhathehasbeensearchingfor,awoodenmodelofthecity,nestledlikeagift.Asbigasadiningtable.Brimmingwithtinyhouses.Exceptforflakesofplasterinitsstreets,thelittlecity isentirelyundamaged.Thesimulacrumnowmorewhole than theoriginal.Aworkofclearmagnificence.

Inthedaughter’sroom.Forher.Ofcourse.VonRumpelfeelsasifhehascometriumphantlytotheendofalongjourney,andashesitsonthe

edgeofthebed,twinflaresofpainridingupfromhisgroin,hehasthecurioussensationofhavingbeenherebefore,ofhavinglivedinaroomlikethis,sleptinalumpybedlikethis,collectedpolishedstonesandarrayedthemlikethis.Asthoughsomehowthiswholesethasbeenwaitingforhisreturn.

Hethinksofhisowndaughters,howmuchtheywould love toseeacityona table.Hisyoungestwouldwanthimtokneelbesideher.Let’s imagineall thepeoplehavingtheirsupper,she’dsay.Let’simagineus,Papa.

Outsidethebrokenwindow,outsidethelatchedshutters,Saint-MaloissoquietthatvonRumpelcanhear therustleofhisownheartbeatshiftinghairs inhis innerear.Smokeblowingover theroof.Ashfallinglightly.Anymomentthegunswillstartagain.Gentlynow.Itwillbeinheresomewhere.Itisjustlikethelocksmithtorepeathimself.Themodel—itwillbeinsidethemodel.

MakingtheRadio

OneendofwireWernercrimpsaroundashornpipestandingdiagonallyupfromthefloor.Withspit,hewipescleanthelengthofthewireandcoilsitahundredtimesaroundthebaseofthepipe,makinganew tuning coil. The other end he slings through a bent strutwedged into the congestion of timber,stone,andplasterthathasbecometheirceiling.

Volkheimerwatchesfromtheshadows.Amortarshellexplodessomewhereinthecity,andaflurryofdustsiftsdown.

Thediodegoesbetweenfreeendsofthetwowiresandmeetstheleadsofthebatterytocompletethecircuit.WernerrunsthebeamofVolkheimer’slightovertheentireoperation.Ground,antenna,battery.Finallyhebracestheflashlightbetweenhisteethandraisesthetwinleadsoftheearphoneinfrontofhiseyesandstripsthemagainstthethreadsofascrewandtouchesthenakedendstothediode.Invisibly,electronsbumbledownthewires.

Thehotelabovethem—what is leftof it—makesaseriesofunearthlygroans.Timbersplinters,asthough the rubble teeterson some final fulcrum.As thougha singledragonflycouldalighton it andtriggeranavalanchethatwillburythemforgood.

Wernerpressesthebudoftheearphoneintohisrightear.Itdoesnotwork.Heturnsoverthedentedradiocase,peersintoit.RapsVolkheimer’sfadinglightbacktolife.Settle

themind.Envisionthedistributionofcurrent.Herechecksthefuses,valves,plugpins;hetogglesthereceive/send switch, blows dust off the meter selector. Replaces the leads to the battery. Tries theearphoneagain.

Andthereitis,asifheiseightyearsoldagain,crouchedbesidehissisteronthefloorofChildren’sHouse:static.Richandsteady.Inhismemory,Juttasayshisname,andonitstailcomesasecond,lessexpected image: twin ropes strung from the front ofHerr Siedler’s house, the great smooth crimsonbannerhangingfromthem,unsoiled,deeplyred.

Wernerscansfrequenciesbyfeel.Nosquelch,nosnapofMorsecode,novoices.Staticstaticstaticstaticstatic.Inhisfunctioningear, intheradio, intheair.Volkheimer’seyesstayonhim.Dustfloatsthroughthefeeblebeamoftheflashlight:tenthousandparticles,turningsoftly,twinkling.

IntheAttic

TheGermanshutsthewardrobedoorsandhobblesaway,andMarie-Laurestaysonthebottomrungoftheladderforacountofforty.Sixty.Onehundred.Theheartscramblingtodeliveroxygenatedblood,themind scrambling to unravel the situation. A sentence Etienne once read aloud returns:Even theheart,whichinhigheranimals,whenagitated,pulsateswithincreasedenergy,inthesnailundersimilarexcitement,throbswithaslowermotion.

Slowtheheart.Flexyourfeet.Makenosound.Shepresseshereartothefalsepanelonthebackofthewardrobe.Whatdoesshehear?Mothsgnawingawayathergrandfather’sancientsmocks?Nothing.

Slowly,impossibly,Marie-Laurefindsherselfgrowingsleepy.Shefeelsforthecansinherpockets.Howtoopenonenow?Withoutmakingnoise?Only thing to do is climb. Seven rungs up into the long triangular tunnel of the garret. The raw-

timberedceilingrisesonbothsidestowardthepeak,justhigherthanthetopofherhead.Heathaslodgeditselfuphere.Nowindow,noexit.Nowhereelsetorun.Nowayoutexcepttheway

shehascome.Heroutstretchedfingersfindanoldshavingbowl,anumbrellastand,andacratefullofwhoknows

what.Theatticfloorboardsbeneathherfeetareaswideacrossasherhands.Sheknowsfromexperiencehowmuchnoiseapersonwalkingonthemmakes.

Don’tknockanythingover.IftheGermanopensthewardrobeagainandyanksasidethehangingclothesandsqueezesthrough

thedoorandclimbsupintotheattic,whatwillshedo?Knockhimontheheadwiththeumbrellastand?Jabhimwiththeparingknife?

Scream.Die.Papa.Shecrawls along thecenterbeam, fromwhich thenarrowplanksof flooringemanate, toward the

stonebulkofthechimneyatthefarend.Thecenterbeamisthickestandwillbequieter.Shehopesshehasnotbecomedisoriented.Shehopesheisnotbehindher,levelingapistolatherback.

Batscryalmostinaudiblyouttheatticventandsomewherefaraway,onanavalshipperhaps,orwayoutpastParamé,aheavygunfires.Crack. Pause.Crack. Pause. Then the long scream as the shell comes flying in, the fhump as it

explodesonanouterisland.Aghastlycreepingterrorrisesfromaplacebeyondthoughts.Someinnermosttrapdoorshemustleap

upon immediately and lean againstwith all herweight and padlock shut. She takes off the coat andspreadsitacrossthefloor.Shedaresnotpullherselfupforfearofthenoiseherkneeswillmakeontheboards.Timepasses.Nothingfromdownstairs.Couldhehavegone?Soquickly?

Ofcourseheisnotgone.Sheknows,afterall,whyheishere.Toherleft,severalelectricalcordswindalongthefloor.JustaheadisEtienne’sboxofoldrecords.

Hiswind-upVictrola.His old recordingmachine.The lever he uses to hoist the aerial alongside thechimney.

Shehugsherkneestoherchestandtriestobreathethroughherskin.Soundlessly,likeasnail.Shehasthetwocans.Thebrick.Theknife.

Seven

August1942

Prisoners

AdangerouslyunderweightcorporalinthreadbarefatiguescomesforWerneronfoot.Longfingers,athatch of thinning hair beneath his cap. One of his boots has lost its lace, and its tongue lollscannibalistically.Hesays,“You’relittle.”

Werner,inhisnewfieldtunicandoversizehelmetandregulationGottmitunsbeltbuckle,drawshisshouldersback.Themansquintsatthehugeschoolinthedawn,thenbendsandunzipsWerner’sduffeland rifles through the three carefully foldedNPEAuniforms.He raises apair of trousers against thelightandseemsdisappointedthat theyarenotremotelyhissize.Afterheclosesthebag,hethrowsitoverhisshoulder;whethertokeepormerelycarryit,Wernercannotguess.

“I’mNeumann.TheycallmeTwo.There’sanotherNeumann,thedriver.He’sOne.Thenthere’stheengineerandthesergeantandyou,soforwhateverit’sworth,that’sfiveagain.”

No trumpets, no ceremony. This isWerner’s induction into theWehrmacht. They walk the threemiles from the school to the village. In a delicatessen, black flies swim over a half dozen tables.NeumannTwoorders twoplatesofcalves’ liverandeatsboth,usingdark littlebreadrolls tosoptheblood.His lips shine.Wernerwaits forexplanations—where they’regoing,what sortofunithe’llbejoining—butnoneareforthcoming.Thecolorofthearmsdisplayedunderthecorporal’sshoulderstrapsand collar tabs is wine-red, but Werner can’t remember what that is supposed to signify. Armoredinfantry?Chemicalwarfare?Theoldfraucollectstheplates.NeumannTworemovesasmalltinfromhiscoat,dumpsthreeroundpillsonthetable,andgulpsthemdown.ThenheputsthetinbackinsidehiscoatandlooksatWerner.“Backachepills.Youhavemoney?”

Wernershakeshishead.FromapocketNeumannTwopullssomecrumpledandfilthyreichsmarks.Beforetheyleave,heasksthefrautobringadozenhard-boiledeggsandhandsWernerfour.

From Schulpforta they ride a train through Leipzig and disembark at a switching stationwest ofLodz. Soldiers from an infantry battalion lie along the platform, all of them asleep, as though someenchantress has cast a spell over them.Their faded uniforms look spectral in the dimness, and theirbreathing seems synchronized, and the effect is ghostly andunnerving.Nowand then a loudspeakermutters destinations Werner has never heard of—Grimma, Wurzen, Grossenhain—though no trainscomeorgo,andthemendonotstir.

NeumannTwositswithhislegsspreadandeatseggsoneafteranother,pilingtheshellsintoatowerinsidehisupturnedcap.Duskfalls.Asoft,tidalsnoringissuesfromthesleepingcompany.WernerfeelsasthoughheandNeumannTwoaretheonlysoulsawakeintheworld.

Wellafterdark,awhistlesounds in theeastandthedrowsingsoldiersstir.Wernercomesoutofahalfdreamandsitsup.NeumannTwoisalreadyuprightbesidehim,palmscuppedagainsteachother,asthoughattemptingtoholdasphereofdarknessinthebowlofhishands.

Couplings rattle, brake blocks grind againstwheels, and a train emerges from the gloom,movingfast.Firstcomesablacked-out locomotive,boltedoverwitharmor,exhalinga thickgeyserofsmokeandsteam.Behind the locomotiverumblea fewclosedcarsand thenamachinegun inablister, twogunnerscrouchingbesideit.

Allofthecarsfollowingthegunners’carareflatcarsloadedwithpeople.Somestand;morekneel.Two cars pass, three, four. Each car appears to have a wall of sacks along the front to serve aswindbreak.

The rails below the platform shine dully as they bounce beneath the weight. Nine flatcars, ten,eleven.Allfull.Thesacks,astheypass,seemstrange:theylookasthoughtheyhavebeensculptedoutofgrayclay.NeumannTworaiseshischin.“Prisoners.”

Wernertriestopickoutindividualsasthecarsblurpast:asunkencheek,ashoulder,aglitteringeye.Aretheywearinguniforms?Manysitwiththeirbacksagainstthesacksatthefrontofthecar:theylooklikescarecrowsshippingwesttobestakedinsometerriblegarden.Someoftheprisoners,Wernersees,aresleeping.

Afaceflashespast,paleandwaxy,oneearpressedtothefloorofthecar.Wernerblinks.Thosearenotsacks.Thatisnotsleep.Eachcarhasawallofcorpsesstackedinthe

front.Onceitbecomesclearthatthetrainwillnotstop,allthesoldiersaroundthemsettleandclosetheir

eyes once more. Neumann Two yawns. Car after car the prisoners come, a river of human beingspouring out of the night. Sixteen seventeen eighteen: why count? Hundreds and hundreds of men.Thousands.Eventually from the darkness rushes a final flatcarwhere again the living recline on thedead,followedbytheshadowofanotherguninablisterandfourorfivegunnersandthenthetrainisgone.

Thesoundoftheaxlesfades;silencesealsitselfbackovertheforest.SomewhereinthatdirectionisSchulpfortawithitsdarkspires,itsbedwettersandsleepwalkersandbullies.SomewherebeyondthatthegroaningleviathanthatisZollverein.TherattlingwindowsofChildren’sHouse.Jutta.

Wernersays,“Theyweresittingontheirdead?”NeumannTwoclosesaneyeandcockshisheadlikeariflemanaimingintothedarknesswherethe

trainhasreceded.“Bang,”hesays.“Bang,bang.”

TheWardrobe

In the days following the death ofMadameManec,Etienne does not comeout of his study.Marie-Laure imagines him hunched on the davenport, mumbling children’s rhymes and watching ghostsshuttlethroughthewalls.Behindthedoor,hissilenceissocompletethatsheworrieshehasmanagedtodeparttheworldaltogether.

“Uncle?Etienne?”MadameBlanchardwalksMarie-Laure to St.Vincent’s forMadameManec’smemorial.Madame

Fontineau cooks enough potato soup to last aweek.MadameGuiboux brings jam.MadameRuelle,somehow,hasbakedacrumbcake.

Hours wear out and fall away.Marie-Laure sets a full plate outside Etienne’s door at night andcollects an empty plate in the morning. She stands alone in Madame Manec’s room and smellspeppermint,candlewax,sixdecadesofloyalty.Housemaid,nurse,mother,confederate,counselor,chef—what ten thousand things was Madame Manec to Etienne? To them all? German sailors sing adrunkensonginthestreet,andahousespideroverthestovespinsanewwebeverynight,andtoMarie-Laurethisisadoublecruelty:thateverythingelsekeepsliving,thatthespinningearthdoesnotpauseforevenaninstantinitstriparoundthesun.Poorchild.PoorMonsieurLeBlanc.Likethey’recursed.Ifonlyherfatherwouldcomethroughthekitchendoor.Smileattheladies,sethispalmsonMarie-

Laure’scheeks.Fiveminuteswithhim.Oneminute.Afterfourdays,Etiennecomesoutofhisroom.Thestairscreakashedescends,andthewomenin

thekitchenfallsilent.Inagravevoice,heaskseveryonetopleaseleave.“Ineededtimetosaygoodbye,andnowImustlookaftermyselfandmyniece.Thankyou.”

Assoonasthekitchendoorhasclosed,heturnsthedeadboltsandtakesMarie-Laure’shands.“Allthelightsareoffnow.Verygood.Please,standoverhere.”

Chairsslideaway.Thekitchentableslidesaway.Shecanhearhimfumblingattheringinthecenterofthefloor:thetrapdoorcomesup.Hegoesdownintothecellar.

“Uncle?Whatdoyouneed?”“This,”hecalls.“Whatisit?”“Anelectricsaw.”She can feel something bright kindle in her abdomen. Etienne starts up the stairs, Marie-Laure

trailingbehind.Secondfloor,third,fourthfifthsixth,leftturnintohergrandfather’sroom.Heopensthedoorsofthegiganticwardrobe,liftsouthisbrother’soldclothes,andplacesthemonthebed.Herunsanextensioncordoutontothelandingandplugsitin.Hesays,“Itwillbeloud.”

Shesays,“Good.”Etienneclimbs into thebackof thewardrobe,and thesawyowls to life.Thesoundpermeates the

walls,thefloor,Marie-Laure’schest.Shewondershowmanyneighborshearit,ifsomewhereaGermanathisbreakfasthascockedhisheadtolisten.

Etienneremovesarectanglefromthebackofthewardrobe,thencutsthroughtheatticdoorbehindit.Heshutsdownthesawandwrigglesthroughtherawhole,uptheladderbehindit,andintothegarret.

She follows. All morning Etienne crawls along the attic floor with cables and pliers and tools herfingers do not understand, weaving himself into the center of what she imagines as an intricateelectronicnet.Hemurmurstohimself;hefetchesthickbookletsorelectricalcomponentsfromvariousroomsonthelowerstories.Theatticcreaks;housefliesdrawelectric-blueloopsintheair.Lateintheevening,Marie-Lauredescendstheladderandfallsasleepinhergrandfather’sbedtothesoundofhergreat-uncleworkingaboveher.

Whenshewakes,barnswallowsarechirringbeneaththeeavesandmusicisrainingdownthroughtheceiling.

“ClairdeLune,”a song thatmakesher thinkof leaves fluttering,andof thehard ribbonsof sandbeneathher feetat lowtide.Themusicslinksandrisesandsettlesback toearth,and then theyoungvoiceofherlong-deadgrandfatherspeaks:Thereareninety-sixthousandkilometersofbloodvesselsinthehumanbody,children!Almostenoughtowindaroundtheearthtwoandahalftimes...

Etiennecomesdownthesevenladderrungsandsqueezesthroughthebackofthewardrobeandtakesher hands inhis.Beforehe speaks, sheknowswhat hewill say. “Your father askedme tokeepyousafe.”

“Iknow.”“Thiswillbedangerous.Itisnotagame.”“Iwanttodoit.Madamewouldwant—”“Tellittome.Tellmethewholeroutine.”“Twenty-twopacesdowntherueVauboreltotherued’Estrées.Thenrightforsixteenstormdrains.

LeftontherueRobertSurcouf.Ninemorestormdrainstothebakery.Igotothecounterandsay,‘Oneordinaryloaf,please.’ ”

“Howwillshereply?”“Shewillbesurprised.But Iamsupposed tosay, ‘Oneordinary loaf,’andshe issupposed tosay,

‘Andhowisyouruncle?’ ”“Shewillaskaboutme?”“She is supposed to. That’s how she will know that you are willing to help. It’s what Madame

suggested.Partoftheprotocol.”“Andyouwillsay?”“Iwill say, ‘Myuncle iswell, thankyou.’AndIwill take the loafandput it inmyknapsackand

comehome.”“Thiswillhappenevennow?WithoutMadame?”“Whywouldn’tit?”“Howwillyoupay?”“Arationticket.”“Dowehaveanyofthose?”“Inthedrawerdownstairs.Andyouhavemoney,don’tyou?”“Yes.Wehavesomemoney.Howwillyoucomebackhome?”“Straightback.”“Bywhichroute?”“NinestormdrainsdowntherueRobertSurcouf.Rightontherued’Estrées.Sixteendrainsbackto

the rue Vauborel. I know it all, Uncle, I have it memorized. I’ve been to the bakery three hundredtimes.”

“Youmustn’tgoanywhereelse.Youmustn’tgotothebeaches.”“I’llcomedirectlyback.”

“Youpromise?”“Ipromise.”“Thengo,Marie-Laure.Golikethewind.”

East

TheyrideinboxcarsthroughLodz,Warsaw,Brest.Formiles,outtheopendoor,Wernerseesnosignofhumans save the occasional railcar capsized beside the tracks, twisted and scarred by some kind ofexplosion.Soldiersclamberonandoff, lean,pale,eachcarryingapack,rifle,andsteelhelmet.Theysleepdespitenoise,despitecold,despitehunger,asthoughdesperatetostayremovedfromthewakingworldforaslongaspossible.

Rows of pines divide endlessmetal-colored plains.The day is sunless.NeumannTwowakes andurinates out the door and takes the pillbox from his coat and swallows two or three more tablets.“Russia,”hesays,thoughhowhehasmarkedthetransition,Wernercannotguess.

Theairsmellsofsteel.At dusk the train stops andNeumann Two leadsWerner on foot through rows of ruined houses,

beamsandbricks lyingincharredheaps.Whatwallsstandare linedwith theblackcrosshatchingsofmachine-gunfire.It’snearlydarkwhenWernerisdeliveredtoamuscleboundcaptaindiningaloneonasofathatconsistsofawoodenframeandsprings.Inatinbowl,inthecaptain’slap,steamsacylinderofboiled gray meat. He studies Werner awhile without saying anything, wearing a look not ofdisappointmentbuttiredamusement.

“Notmakingthemanybigger,arethey?”“No,sir.”“Howoldareyou?”“Eighteen,sir.”Thecaptainlaughs.“Twelve,morelike.”Heslicesoffacircleofmeatandchewsalongtimeand

finally reaches into his mouth with two fingers and flings away a string of gristle. “You’ll want toacquaintyourselfwiththeequipment.Seeifyoucandobetterthanthelastonetheysent.”

NeumannTwoleadsWernertotheopenbackofanunwashedOpelBlitz,across-countrythree-tontruckwithawoodenshellbuiltonto theback.Dentedgasolinecansarestrapped tooneflank.Bullettrails have leftwandering perforations down the other. The leaden dusk drains away.NeumannTwobringsWernerakerosenelantern.“Gadgetsareinside.”

Thenhevanishes.Noexplanations.Welcometowar.Tinymothsswirlinthelanternlight.FatiguesettlesintoeverypartofWerner.IsthisDr.Hauptmann’sideaofarewardorapunishment?HelongstositonthebenchesinChildren’sHouseagain,tohearFrauElena’ssongs,tofeeltheheatpumpingoffthe potbelly stove and the high voice of Siegfried Fischer rhapsodizing about U-boats and fighterplanes, to see Jutta drawing at the far end of the table, sketching out the thousandwindows of herimaginarycity.

Inside the truck box lives a smell: clay, spilled dieselmixedwith something putrid.Three squarewindowsreflect thelanternlight.It’saradiotruck.Onabenchalongtheleftwallsitapairofgrimylistening decks the size of bed pillows. A folding RF antenna that can be raised and lowered frominside.Three headsets, aweapon rack, storage lockers.Wax pencils, compasses,maps.And here, inbatteredcases,waittwoofthetransceivershedesignedwithDr.Hauptmann.

To see them all theway out here soothes him, as though he has turned and found an old friendfloatingbesidehiminthemiddleofthesea.Hetugsthefirsttransceiverfromitscaseandunscrewsthebackplate.Itsmeteriscracked,severalfusesareblown,andthetransmitterplugismissing.Hefishes

fortools,asocketkey,copperwire.Helooksouttheopendooracrossthesilentcamptowherestarsarespuninthousandsacrossthesky.

DoRussiantankswaitoutthere?Trainingtheirgunsonthelanternlight?HeremembersHerrSiedler’sbigwalnutPhilco.Stareintothewires,concentrate,assess.Eventually

apatternwillassertitself.Whenhenextlooksup,asoftglowshowsbehindalineofdistanttrees,asifsomethingisburning

outthere.Dawn.Ahalfmileaway,twoboyswithsticksslouchbehindadroveofbonycattle.Wernerisopeningthesecondtransceivercasewhenagiantappearsinthebackofthetruckshell.

“Pfennig.”Themanhangshislongarmsfromthetopbarofthetruckcanopy;heeclipsestheruinedvillage,the

fields,therisingsun.“Volkheimer?”

OneOrdinaryLoaf

Theystandinthekitchenwiththecurtainsdrawn.Shestillfeelstheexhilarationofleavingthebakerywiththewarmweightoftheloafinherknapsack.

Etiennetearsapartthebread.“There.”Hesetsatinypaperscroll,nobiggerthanacowrieshell,inherpalm.

“Whatdoesitsay?”“Numbers.Lotsofthem.Thefirstthreemightbefrequencies,Ican’tbesure.Thefourth—twenty-

threehundred—mightbeanhour.”“Willwedoitnow?”“We’llwaituntilitisdark.”Etienneworkswiresupthroughthehouse,threadingthembehindwalls,connectingonetoabellon

thethirdfloor,beneaththetelephonetable,anothertoasecondbellintheattic,andathirdtothefrontgate.ThreetimeshehasMarie-Lauretestit:shestandsinthestreetandswingsopentheoutergate,andfromdeepinsidethehousecometwofaintrings.

Nexthebuildsafalsebackintothewardrobe,installingitonaslidingtracksoitcanbeopenedfromeitherside.Atdusktheydrinkteaandchewthemealy,densebreadfromtheRuelles’bakery.Whenitisfullydark,Marie-Laurefollowshergreat-uncleupthestairs,throughthesixth-floorroom,anduptheladderintotheattic.Etienneraisestheheavytelescopingantennaalongsidethelineofthechimney.Heflipsswitches,andtheatticfillswithadelicatecrackle.

“Ready?”Hesoundslikeherfatherwhenhewasabouttosaysomethingsilly.Inhermemory,Marie-Laurehears the twopolicemen:Peoplehavebeenarrested for less.AndMadameManec:Don’t youwanttobealivebeforeyoudie?

“Yes.”Heclearshisthroat.Heswitchesonthemicrophoneandsays,“567,32,3011,50506,110,90,146,

7751.”Off go the numbers, winging out across rooftops, across the sea, flying to who knows what

destinations.ToEngland,toParis,tothedead.Heswitches toasecondfrequencyandrepeats the transmission.A third.Thenheshuts thewhole

thingoff.Themachineticksasitcools.“Whatdotheymean,Uncle?”“Idon’tknow.”“Dotheytranslateintowords?”“Isupposetheymust.”Theygodownthe ladderandclamberout through thewardrobe.Nosoldierswait in thehallwith

guns drawn. Nothing seems different at all. A line comes back to Marie-Laure from Jules Verne:Science,mylad,ismadeupofmistakes,buttheyaremistakeswhichitisusefultomake,becausetheyleadlittlebylittletothetruth.

Etiennelaughsasthoughtohimself.“DoyourememberwhatMadamesaidabouttheboilingfrog?”“Yes,Uncle.”“Iwonder,whowassupposedtobethefrog?Her?OrtheGermans?”

Volkheimer

Theengineerisataciturn,pungentmannamedWalterBerndwhosepupilsaremisaligned.Thedriverisagap-toothedthirty-year-oldtheycallNeumannOne.WernerknowsthatVolkheimer,theirsergeant,cannotbeolderthantwenty,butinthehardpewter-coloredlightofdawn,helookstwicethat.“Partisansarehitting the trains,”he explains. “They’reorganized, and the captainbelieves they’re coordinatingtheirattackswithradios.”

“Thelasttechnician,”saysNeumannOne,“didn’tfindanything.”“It’sgoodequipment,”saysWerner.“Ishouldhavethembothfunctioninginanhour.”AgentlenessflowsintoVolkheimer’seyesandhangsthereamoment.“Pfennig,”hesays,lookingat

Werner,“isnothinglikeourlasttechnician.”Theybegin.TheOpelbouncesdownroadsthatarehardlymorethancattletrails.Everyfewmiles

they stop and set up a transceiver on some hump or ridge. They leave Bernd and skinny, leeringNeumannTwo—onewith a rifle and the otherwearing headphones. Then they drive a few hundredyards,enoughtobuildthebaseofatriangle,calculatingdistancealltheway,andWernerswitchesontheprimaryreceiver.Heraises the truck’saerial,putson theheadset,andscans thespectra, trying tofindanythingthatisnotsanctioned.Anyvoicethatisnotallowed.

Alongtheflat,immensehorizon,multiplefiresseemalwaystobeburning.MostofthetimeWernerridesfacingbackward,lookingatlandtheyareleaving,backtowardPoland,backintotheReich.

Nooneshootsat them.Fewvoicescomeshearingoutof thestatic,and theoneshedoeshearareGerman.AtnightNeumannOnepulls tinsof little sausagesoutofammunitionboxes,andNeumannTwomakestiredjokesaboutwhoresheremembersorinvents,andinnightmaresWernerwatchestheshapesofboyscloseoverFrederick,thoughwhenhedrawscloser,FredericktransformsintoJutta,andshestaresatWernerwithaccusationwhiletheboyscarryoffherlimbsonebyone.

Every hour Volkheimer pokes his head into the back of the Opel and meets Werner’s eyes.“Nothing?”

Wernershakeshishead.Hefiddleswiththebatteries,reconsiderstheantennas,triple-checksfuses.AtSchulpforta,withDr.Hauptmann,itwasagame.HecouldguessVolkheimer’sfrequency;healwaysknewwhetherVolkheimer’s transmitterwas transmitting.Outherehedoesn’t knowhoworwhenorwhereoreveniftransmissionsarebeingbroadcast;outherehechasesghosts.Alltheydoisexpendfueldriving past smoldering cottages and chewed-up artillery pieces and unmarked graves, whileVolkheimerpasseshisgianthandoverhisclose-croppedhead,growingmoreuneasybytheday.Frommilesawaycomesthethunderofbigguns,andstilltheGermantransporttrainsarebeinghit,bendingtracksandflippingcattlecarsandmaimingtheführer’ssoldiersandfillinghisofficerswithfury.

Isthatapartisanthere,thatoldmanwiththesawcuttingtrees?Thatoneleaningovertheengineofthatcar?Whataboutthosethreewomencollectingwateratthecreek?

Frostsshowupatnight,throwingasilversheetacrossthelandscape,andWernerwakesinthebackof the truck with his fingers mashed in his armpits and his breath showing and the tubes of thetransceiverglowingafaintblue.Howdeepwillthesnowbe?Sixfeet,ten?Ahundred?

Milesdeep,thinksWerner.Wewilldriveovereverythingthatoncewas.

Fall

Stormsrinsethesky,thebeaches,thestreets,andaredsundipsintothesea,settingallthewest-facinggranite in Saint-Malo on fire, and three limousineswithwrappedmufflers glide down the rue de laCrosselikewraiths,andadozenorsoGermanofficers,accompaniedbymencarryingstagelightsandmoviecameras,climbthestepstotheBastiondelaHollandeandstrolltherampartsinthecold.

Fromhisfifth-floorwindow,Etiennewatchesthemthroughabrasstelescope,nearlytwentyinall:captainsandmajorsandevenalieutenantcolonelholdinghiscoatatthecollarandgesturingatfortsontheouterislands,oneoftheenlistedmentryingtolightacigaretteinthewind,theotherslaughingashishatgoesflyingoverthebattlements.

Across the street, from the front door ofClaudeLevitte’s house, threewomen spill out laughing.LightsburninClaude’swindows,thoughtherestoftheblockhasnoelectricity.Someoneopensathird-storywindowandthrowsoutashotglass,andoffitgoesspinning,overandover,downtowardtherueVauborel,andoutofsight.

Etiennelightsacandleandclimbstothesixthfloor.Marie-Laurehasfallenasleep.Fromhispocket,hetakesacoilofpaperandunrollsit.Hehasalreadygivenuptryingtocrackthecode:hehaswrittenout the numbers, gridded them, added, multiplied; nothing has come of it. And yet it has. BecauseEtienne has stopped feeling nauseated in the afternoons; his vision has stayed clear, his heartuntroubled.Indeed,ithasbeenoveramonthsincehehashadtocurlupagainstthewallinhisstudyandpray thathedoesnot seeghosts shambling through thewalls.WhenMarie-Laurecomes through thefrontdoorwith thebread,whenhe’sopening the tinyscroll inhis fingers, loweringhismouth to themicrophone,hefeelsunshakable;hefeelsalive.56778.21.4567.1094.467813.Thenthetimeandfrequencyforthenextbroadcast.Theyhavebeenatitforseveralmonths,newslipsofpaperarrivinginsidealoafofbreadeveryfew

days, and latelyEtienneplaysmusic.Alwaysatnight andnevermore thana shardof song: sixtyorninetysecondsatthemost.DebussyorRavelorMassenetorCharpentier.Hesetsthemicrophoneinthebellofhiselectrophone,ashedidyearsbefore,andletstherecordspin.

Who listens? Etienne imagines shortwave receivers disguised as oatmeal boxes or tucked underfloorboards,receiversburiedbeneathflagstonesorconcealedinsidebassinets.Heimaginestwoorthreedozen listenersupanddownthecoast—maybemore tuning inoutatsea,captain’ssetsonfreeshipshauling tomatoes or refugees or guns—Englishmenwho expect the numbers but not themusic,whomustwonder:Why?

TonightheplaysVivaldi.“L’Autunno—Allegro.”ArecordhisbrotherboughtatashopontherueSainte-Margueritefourdecadesagoforfifty-fivecentimes.

Theharpsichordplucksalong,theviolinsmakebigbaroqueflourishes—thelow,angledspaceoftheatticbrimswithsound.Beyondtheslates,ablockawayandthirtyyardsbelow,twelveGermanofficerssmileforcameras.

Listentothis,thinksEtienne.Hearthis.Someonetoucheshisshoulder.Hehastobracehimselfagainsttheslopingwalltoavoidfallingover.

Marie-Laurestandsbehindhiminhernightdress.Theviolinsspiraldown,thenbackup.EtiennetakesMarie-Laure’shandandtogether,beneaththe

low,slopingroof—therecordspinning, the transmittersending itover theramparts, right throughthe

bodiesoftheGermansandouttosea—theydance.Hespinsher;herfingersflickerthroughtheair.Inthecandlelight,shelooksofanotherworld,herfaceallfreckles,andinthecenterofthefrecklesthosetwoeyeshangunmovingliketheeggcasesofspiders.Theydonottrackhim,buttheydonotunnervehim,either;theyseemalmosttoseeintoaseparate,deeperplace,aworldthatconsistsonlyofmusic.

Graceful.Lean.Coordinatedasshewhirls,thoughhowsheknowswhatdancingis,hecouldneverguess.

Thesongplayson.Heletsitgotoolong.Theantennaisstillup,probablydimlyvisibleagainstthesky;thewholeatticmightaswellshinelikeabeacon.Butinthecandlelight,inthesweetrushoftheconcerto,Marie-Laurebitesherlowerlip,andherfacegivesoffasecondaryglow,remindinghimofthemarshesbeyondthetownwalls,inthosewinterduskswhenthesunhassetbutisn’tfullyswallowed,andbigpatchesof reedscatch redpoolsof lightandburn—placesheused togowithhisbrother, inwhatseemslikelifetimesago.

This,hethinks,iswhatthenumbersmean.The concerto ends. A wasp goes tap tap tap along the ceiling. The transmitter remains on, the

microphonetuckedintothebelloftheelectrophoneastheneedletracestheoutermostgroove.Marie-Laurebreathesheavily,smiling.

Aftershehasgonebacktosleep,afterEtiennehasblownouthiscandle,hekneelsforalongtimebesidehisbed.ThebonyfigureofDeathridesthestreetsbelow,stoppinghismountnowandthentopeer intowindows.Hornsoffireonhisheadandsmokeleakingfromhisnostrilsand, inhisskeletalhand, a list newly chargedwith addresses. Gazing first at the crew of officers unloading from theirlimousinesintothechâteau.

ThenattheglowingroomsoftheperfumerClaudeLevitte.ThenatthedarktallhouseofEtienneLeBlanc.Passusby,Horseman.Passthishouseby.

Sunflowers

Theydriveadusty tracksurroundedbysquaremilesofdyingsunflowers so tall that theyseem liketrees.Thestemshavedriedandstiffened,andthefacesboblikeprayingheads,andastheOpelbellowspast,WernerfeelsasiftheyarebeingwatchedbytenthousandCyclopiceyes.NeumannOnebrakesthetruck,andBerndunslingshisrifleandtakesthesecondtransceiverandwadesaloneintothestalkstosetitup.WernerraisesthebigantennaandsitsinhisusualspotintheboxoftheOpelwithhisheadseton.

Upinthecab,NeumannTwosays,“Youneverscrambledhereggs,youoldvirgin.”“Shutyourmouth,”saysNeumannOne.“Youjerkyourselftosleepatnight.Bleedyourweasel.Poundyourflounder.”“Sodoeshalfthearmy.GermansandRussiansalike.”“LittlepubescentAryanbackthereisdefinitelyaflounderpounder.”Overthetransceiver,Berndreadsofffrequencies.Nothingnothingnothing.NeumannOnesays,“ThetrueAryanisasblondasHitler,asslimasGöring,andastallasGoebbels

—”LaughterfromNeumannTwo.“Fuckif—”Volkheimersays,“Enough.”It’slateafternoon.Alldaytheyhavemovedthroughthisstrangeanddesolateregionandhaveseen

nothing but sunflowers.Werner runs the needle through the frequencies, switches bands, retunes thetransceiver again, scouring the static. The air swarms with it day and night, a great, sad, sinisterUkrainianstaticthatseemstohavebeenherelongbeforehumansfiguredouthowtohearit.

VolkheimerclambersoutofthetruckandlowershistrousersandpeesintotheflowersandWernerdecidestotrimtheaerial,butbeforehedoes,hehears—assharpandclearandmenacingasthebladeofa knife flashing in the sun—a volley of Russian.Adeen, shest, vosyem. Every fiber of his nervoussystemleapsawake.

He turns up the volume as far as itwill go andpresses the headphones against his ears.Again itcomes:Ponye-something-feshky,shere-something-doroshoi . . .Volkheimer is looking at him throughtheopenbackofthetruckshellasthoughhecansenseit,asthoughheiscomingawakeforthefirsttime in months, as he did that night out in the snow when Hauptmann fired his pistol, when theyrealizedWerner’stransceiversworked.

Wernerturnsthefine-tunedialfractionally,andabruptlythevoiceboomsintohisears,Dvee-nat-set,shayst-nat-set, davt-set-adeen, nonsense, terrible nonsense, pipelined directly into his head; it’s likereachingintoasackfullofcottonandfindingarazorbladeinside,everythingconstantandundeviatingandthenthatonedangerousthing,sosharpyoucanhardlyfeelitopenyourskin.

VolkheimerrapshismassivefistonthesideoftheOpeltoquiettheNeumanns,andWernerrelaysthechanneltoBerndonthefartransceiverandBerndfindsitandmeasurestheangleandrelaysitbackandnowWernersettlesintodothemath.Thesliderule,thetrigonometry,themap.TheRussianisstilltalkingwhenWernerpullshisheadsetdownaroundhisneck.“Northnorthwest.”

“Howfar?”Onlynumbers.Puremath.“Oneandahalfkilometers.”“Aretheybroadcastingnow?”

Wernerclosesonecupoftheheadphonesoveranear.Henods.NeumannOnestartstheOpelwitharoar and Bernd comes crashing back through the flowers carrying the first transceiver andWernerwithdraws the aerial and theygrindoff the road anddirectly through the sunflowers, punching themdownastheygo.Thetallestarenearlyastallasthetruck,andtheirbigdryheadsdrumtheroofofthecabandthesidesofthebox.

NeumannOnewatchestheodometerandcallsoutdistances.Volkheimerdistributesweapons.TwoKarabiner98Ks.TheWalthersemiautomaticwiththescope.Besidehim,BerndloadscartridgesintothemagazineofhisMauser.Bong,gothesunflowers.Bongbongbong.ThetruckyawslikeashipatseaasNeumannOnecoaxesitoverruts.

“Elevenhundredmeters,”callsNeumannOne,andNeumannTwoscramblesonto thehoodof thetruckandpeersabovethefieldwithbinoculars.Tothesouth,theflowersgivewaytoapatchofraveledgherkins.Beyond those, ringed by bare dirt, stands a pretty cottagewith a thatched roof and stuccowalls.

“Thelineofyarrow.Endofthefield.”Volkheimerraiseshisscope.“Anysmoke?”“None.”“Anantenna?”“Hardtosay.”“Shutoffthemotor.Onfootfromhere.”Everythinggoesquiet.Volkheimer, Neumann Two, and Bernd carry their weapons into the flowers and are swallowed.

NeumannOne stays behind thewheel,Werner in the truck shell.No landmines explode in front ofthem.AllaroundtheOpel,theflowerscreakontheirstemsandnodtheirheliotropicfacesasifinsomesadaccord.

“Fuckers are going to be surprised,” whispers Neumann One. His right thigh jogs up and downseveral times a second.Behind him,Werner raises the aerial as high as he dares and clamps on theheadphones and switches on the transceiver. The Russian is reading what sounds like letters of thealphabet.Peh zhehkahchehyumyakee znak.Eachutterance seems to rise from the aural cotton forWerner’searsalone,thenmeltsaway.NeumannOne’svibratinglegshakesthetrucklightly,andthesunflaresthroughtheremnantsofinsectssmearedacrossthewindows,andacoldwindsetsthewholefieldrustling.

Won’t there be sentries? Lookouts? Armed partisans sidling up right now behind the truck? TheRussian on the radio is a hornet in each ear, zvou kaz vukalov—who knows what horrors he’sdispensing, troop positions, train schedules; hemight be giving artillery gunners the truck’s locationright now—andVolkheimer iswalking out of the sunflowers, as large a target as a human has everpresented,holdinghisriflelikeabaton;itseemsimpossiblethatthecottagecouldeveraccommodatehim,asthoughVolkheimerwillengulfthehouseinsteadoftheotherwayaround.

Firsttheshotscomethroughtheairaroundtheheadphones.Afractionofasecondlater,theycomethroughtheheadphonesthemselves,soloudthatWerneralmosttearsthemoff.Theneventhestaticcutsout,and thesilence in theheadphones feels likesomethingmassivemoving throughspace,aghostlyairshipslowlydescending.

NeumannOneopensandclosestheboltofhisrifle.Werner remembers crouching next to his cot with Jutta after the Frenchman would sign off, the

windowsrattlingfromsomepassingcoaltrain,theechoofthebroadcastseemingtoglimmerintheairforamoment,asthoughhecouldreachoutandletitfloatdownintohishands.

Volkheimerreturnswithinkspatteredonhisface.Heraisestwohugefingerstohisforehead,pusheshishelmetback,andWernercanseethatit isnotink.“Setthehouseafire,”hesays.“Quickly.Don’twastediesel.”HelooksatWerner.Hisvoicetender,almostmelancholy.“Salvagetheequipment.”

Werner setsdown theheadphones,putsonhishelmet.Swifts swoopoutover the sunflowers.Hisvisionmakesslowloops,asthoughsomethinghasgonewrongwithhisbalance.NeumannOnehumsinfrontofhimashecarriesacanoffuelthroughthestalks.Theybreakthroughthesunflowerstowardthecottage,steppingthroughAaron’srod,wildcarrot,alltheleavesbrownedfromfrost.Besidethefrontdooradogliesinthedust,chinonitspaws,andforamomentWernerthinksitisonlysleeping.

Thefirstdeadmanisonthefloorwithanarmtrappedbeneathhimandacrimsonmesswherehisheadshouldbe.Onthetableisasecondman:slumpedasifsleepingonhisear,onlytheedgesofhiswoundshowing,awhorishpurple.Bloodthathasspreadacrossthetablethickenslikecoolingwax.Itlooksalmostblack.Strange to thinkofhisvoice still flying through theair, alreadya country away,growingweakereverymile.

Tornpants,grimyjackets,oneofthemeninsuspenders;theydonotwearuniforms.NeumannOnetearsdownapotato-sackcurtainandtakesitoutsideandWernercanhearhimsplash

itwith diesel.NeumannTwo pulls the suspenders off the second deadman and takes some braidedshallotsfromthelintelandbundlesthemagainsthischestandleaves.

Inthekitchen,asmallbrickofcheesesitshalfeaten.Aknifebesideitwithafadedwoodenhandle.Werneropensasinglecupboard.Insidedwellsadenofsuperstition:jarsofdarkliquids,unlabeledpainremedies,molasses,tablespoonsstucktothewood,somethingmarked,inLatin,belladonna,somethingelsemarkedwithanX.

Thetransmitterispoor,high-frequency:probablysalvagedfromaRussiantank.Itseemslittlemorethan a handful of components shoveled into a box. The ground-plane antenna installed beside thecottagemighthavesentthetransmissionsthirtymiles,ifthat.

Wernergoesout, looksbackat thehouse,bone-white in thefailing light.He thinksof thekitchencupboard with its strange potions. The dog that did not do its job. These partisans may have beeninvolvedinsomedarkforestmagic,buttheyshouldnothavebeentinkeringwiththehighermagicofradio.Heslingshis rifleandcarries thebigbattered transmitter—its leads, its inferiormicrophone—throughtheflowerstotheOpel,itsenginerunning,NeumannTwoandVolkheimeralreadyinthecab.HehearsDr.Hauptmann:Ascientist’sworkisdeterminedbytwothings:hisinterestsandthoseofhistime.Everythinghasledtothis:thedeathofhisfather;allthoserestlesshourswithJuttalisteningtothecrystalradiointheattic;HansandHerribertwearingtheirredarmbandsundertheirshirtssoFrauElenawould not see; four hundred dark, glittering nights at Schulpforta building transceivers for Dr.Hauptmann. The destruction of Frederick. Everything leading to this moment as Werner piles thehaphazardCossackequipment into theshellof the truckandsitswithhisbackagainst thebenchandwatchesthelightfromtheburningcottageriseabovethefield.Berndclimbsinbesidehim,rifleinhislap,andneitherbotherstoclosethebackdoorwhentheOpelroarsintogear.

Stones

SergeantMajor von Rumpel is summoned to a warehouse outside Lodz. It is the first time he hastraveledsincecompletinghistreatmentsinStuttgart,andhefeelsasthoughthedensityofhisboneshasdecreased.Sixguardsinsteelhelmetswaitinsiderazorwire.Muchheel-clickingandsalutingensues.He takesoffhiscoatandsteps intoazippered jumpsuitwithnopockets.Threedeadboltsgiveway.Throughadoor,fourenlistedmeninidenticaljumpsuitsstandbehindtableswithjeweler’slampsboltedtoeach.Plywoodhasbeennailedoverallthewindows.

Adark-hairedGefreiterexplainstheprotocol.Afirstmanwillprythestonesoutoftheirsettings.Asecondwillscrubthemonebyoneinabathofdetergent.Athirdwillweigheach,announceitsmass,and pass it to von Rumpel, who will examine the stone through a loupe and call out the clarity—Included, Slightly Included, Almost Loupe-Clean. A fifth man, the Gefreiter, will record theassessments.

“We’llworkinten-hourshiftsuntilwe’redone.”VonRumpelnods.Alreadyhis spine feels as if itmight splinter.TheGefreiter drags a padlocked

sack frombeneathhis table,unthreadsachain from its throat,andupends itontoavelvet-lined tray.Thousandsofjewelsspillout:emeralds,sapphires,rubies.Citrine.Peridot.Chrysoberyl.Amongthemtwinkle hundreds upon hundreds of little diamonds, most still in necklaces, bracelets, cuff links, orearrings.

Thefirstmancarriesthetraytohisstation,setsanengagementringinhisvise,andpeelsbacktheprongswithtweezers.Downthelinecomesthediamond.VonRumpelcountstheotherbagsbeneaththetable:nine.“Where,”hebeginstoask,“didtheyall—”

Butheknowswheretheycamefrom.

Grotto

MonthsafterthedeathofMadameManec,Marie-Laurestillwaitstoheartheoldwomancomeupthestairs,herlaboredbreathing,hersailor’sdrawl.Jesus’smother,child,it’sfreezing!Shenevercomes.

Shoesatthefootofthebed,beneaththemodel.Caneinthecorner.Downtothefirstfloor,whereherknapsackhangsonitspeg.Out.Twenty-twopacesdowntherueVauborel.Thenrightforsixteenstormdrains.TurnleftontherueRobertSurcouf.Ninemoredrainstothebakery.Oneordinaryloaf,please.Andhowisyouruncle?Myuncleiswell,thankyou.Sometimestheloafhasawhitescrollinsideandsometimesitdoesnot.SometimesMadameRuelle

has managed to procure a few groceries for Marie-Laure: cabbage, red peppers, soap. Back to theintersectionwiththerued’Estrées.InsteadofturningleftontotherueVauborel,Marie-Laurecontinuesstraight.Fiftystepstotheramparts,ahundredorsomorealongthebaseofthewallstothemouthofthealleythatgrowsevernarrower.

Withher fingers,shefinds the lock; fromhercoatshepulls the ironkeyHaroldBazingaveherayear before. The water is icy and shin-deep; her toes go numb in an instant. But the grotto itselfcomprisesitsownslickuniverse,andinsidethisuniversespincountlessgalaxies:here,intheupturnedhalfofasinglemusselshell,livesabarnacleandatinyspindleshelloccupiedbyastillsmallerhermitcrab.Andontheshellofthecrab?Ayetsmallerbarnacle.Andonthatbarnacle?

Inthedampboxoftheoldkennel,thesoundoftheseawashesawayallothersounds;shetendstothesnailsasthoughtoplantsinagarden.Tidetotide,momenttomoment:shecomestolistentothecreaturessuckandshiftandsqueak,tothinkofherfatherinhiscell,ofMadameManecinherfieldofQueenAnne’slace,ofheruncleconfinedfortwodecadesinsidehisownhouse.

Thenshefeelsherwaybacktothegateandlocksitbehindher.Thatwinter theelectricity isoutmore than it ison;Etienne linksapairofmarinebatteries to the

transmitter so that he can broadcast when the power is off. They burn crates and papers and evenantique furniture to keep warm. Marie-Laure drags the heavy rag rug from the floor of MadameManec’sapartmentallthewaytothesixthflooranddrapesitoverherquilt.Somemidnights,herroomgrowssocoldthatshehalfbelievesshecanhearfrostsettlingontothefloor.

Anyfootfallinthestreetcouldbeapoliceman.Anyrumbleofanenginecouldbeadetachmentsenttohaulthemaway.

UpstairsEtiennebroadcastsagainandshethinks:Ishouldstationmyselfbythefrontdoorincasetheycome.Icouldbuyhimafewminutes.Butitistoocold.Farbettertostayinbedbeneaththeweightoftheruganddreamherselfbackintothemuseum,trailherfingersalongrememberedwalls,makeherwayacrosstheechoingGrandGallerytowardthekeypound.AllshehastodoiscrossthetiledfloorandturnleftandtherePapawillbebehindthecounter,standingathiskeycutter.

He’llsay,Whattookyousolong,bluebird?He’llsay,Iwillneverleaveyou,notinamillionyears.

Hunting

InJanuary1943,Wernerfindsasecondillegaltransmissioncomingfromanorchardonwhichashellhasfallen,crackingmostofthetreesinhalf.Twoweekslater,hefindsathird,thenafourth.Eachnewfindseemsonlyavariationofthelast:thetriangleclosesin,eachsegmentshrinkingsimultaneously,thevertices growing closer, until they are reduced to a single point, a barn or a cottage or a factorybasementorsomedisgustingencampmentintheice.

“Heisbroadcastingnow?”“Yes.”“Inthatshed?”“Doyouseetheantennaalongtheeasternwall?”Whenever he can, Werner records what the partisans say on magnetic tape. Everybody, he is

learning,likestohearthemselvestalk.Hubris,liketheoldeststories.Theyraisetheantennatoohigh,broadcastfortoomanyminutes,assumetheworldofferssafetyandrationalitywhenofcourseitdoesnot.

The captain sendsword that he is thrilledwith their progress; hepromisesholiday leaves, steaks,brandy.AllwintertheOpelrovesoccupiedterritories,citiesthatJuttarecordedintheirradiologcomingtolife—Prague,Minsk,Ljubljana.

SometimesthetruckpassesagroupofprisonersandVolkheimerasksNeumannOnetoslow.Hesitsupverystraight,lookingforanymanaslargeasheis.Whenheseesone,herapsthedash.NeumannOnebrakes,andVolkheimerpostholesout into thesnow,speaks toaguard,andwades inamong theprisoners,usuallywearingonlyashirtagainstthecold.

“Hisrifleisinthetruck,”NeumannOnewillsay.“Lefthisfuckingriflerighthere.”Sometimeshe’stoofaraway.OthertimesWernerhearshimperfectly.“Ausziehen,”Volkheimerwill

say,hisbreathplumingoutinfrontofhim,andalmosteverytime,thebigRussianwillunderstand.Takeitoff.AstrappingRussianboywiththefaceofsomeoneforwhomnoremainingthingonearthcouldbesurprising.Exceptperhapsthis:anothergiantwadingtowardhim.

Off comemittens, awool shirt, a battered coat.Onlywhen he asks for their boots do their faceschange:theyshaketheirhead,lookuporlookdown,rolltheireyeslikefrightenedhorses.Tolosetheirboots,Wernerunderstands,meanstheywilldie.ButVolkheimerstandsandwaits,bigmanagainstbigman,andalwaystheprisonercaves.Hestandsinhiswreckedsocksinthetrampledsnowandtriestomake eye contact with the other prisoners, but nonewill look at him. Volkheimer holds up variousitems,triesthemon,handsthembackiftheydonotfit.Thenhestampsbacktothetruck,andNeumannOnedropstheOpelintogear.

Creakingice,villagesburninginforests,nightswhereitbecomestoocoldeventosnow—thatwinterpresentsastrangeandhauntedseasonduringwhichWernerprowlsthestaticlikeheusedtoprowlthealleyswithJutta,pullingherinthewagonthroughthecoloniesofZollverein.Avoicematerializesoutofthedistortioninhisheadphones,thenfades,andhegoesferretingafterit.There,thinksWernerwhenhefindsitagain,there:afeelinglikeshuttingyoureyesandfeelingyourwaydownamile-longthreaduntilyourfingernailsfindthetinylumpofaknot.

SometimesdayspassafterhearingafirsttransmissionbeforeWernersnaresthenext;theypresentaproblem to solve, something towrap hismind around: better, surely, than fighting in some stinking,frozen trench, full of lice, theway the old instructors at Schulpforta fought in the firstwar. This is

cleaner,moremechanical,awarwagedthroughtheair,invisibly,andthefrontlinesareanywhere.Isn’tthereakindofravishingdelightinthechaseofit?Thetruckbouncingalongthroughthedarkness,thefirstsignsofanantennathroughthetrees?Ihearyou.Needlesinthehaystack.Thornsinthepawofthelion.Hefindsthem,andVolkheimerplucksthem

out.Allwinter theGermans drive their horses and sledges and tanks and trucks over the same roads,

packingdownthesnow, transforming it intoaslickbloodstained ice-cement.AndwhenApril finallycomes,reekingofsawdustandcorpses,thecanyonwallsofsnowgivewaywhiletheiceontheroadsremains stubbornly fixed, a luminous, internecinenetworkof invasion: a recordof the crucifixionofRussia.

OnenighttheycrossabridgeovertheDnieperwiththedomesandbloomingtreesofKievloomingaheadandashblowingeverywhereandprostitutesbundledinthealleys.Inacafé,theysittwotablesdown from an infantryman notmuch older thanWerner. He stares into a newspaper with twitchingeyeballsandsipscoffeeandlooksdeeplysurprised.Astonished.

Wernercannotstopstudyinghim.FinallyNeumannOneleansover.“Knowwhyhelookslikethat?”Wernershakeshishead.“Frostbitetookhiseyelids.Poorbastard.”Maildoesnotreachthem.MonthspassandWernerdoesnotwritetohissister.

TheMessages

Occupationauthoritiesdecreethateveryhousemusthavealistof itsoccupantsfixedtoitsdoor:M.Etienne LeBlanc, age 62. Mlle Marie-Laure LeBlanc, age 15. Marie-Laure tortures herself withdaydreamsoffeastslaidoutonlongtables:plattersofslicedporkloin,roastedapples,bananaflambé,pineappleswithwhippedcream.

Onemorning in the summer of 1943, she walks to the bakery in a slow-falling rain. The queuestretchesoutthedoor.WhenMarie-Laurefinallyreachestheheadoftheline,MadameRuelletakesherhandsandspeaksverysoftly.“Askifhecanalsoreadthis.”Beneaththeloafcomesafoldedpieceofpaper.Marie-Laureputstheloafintoherknapsackandbunchesthepaperinherfist.Shepassesoverarationticket,findsherwaydirectlyhome,anddead-boltsthedoorbehindher.

Etienneshufflesdownstairs.“Whatdoesitsay,Uncle?”“Itsays,MonsieurDroguetwantshisdaughterinSaint-Coulombtoknowthatheisrecoveringwell.”“Shesaidit’simportant.”“Whatdoesitmean?”Marie-Laure removesherknapsackand reaches insideand tearsoff ahunkofbread.She says, “I

thinkitmeansthatMonsieurDroguetwantshisdaughtertoknowthatheisallright.”Overthenextweeks,morenotescome.AbirthinSaint-Vincent.AdyinggrandmotherinLaMare.

MadameGardinierinLaRabinaiswantshersontoknowthatsheforgiveshim.Ifsecretmessageslurkinsidethesemissives—ifMonsieurFayouhadaheartattackandpassedgentlyawaymeansBlowuptheswitchingyardatRennes—Etiennecannotsay.Whatmattersis thatpeoplemustbelistening,thatordinarycitizensmusthaveradios,thattheyseemtoneedtohearfromeachother.Heneverleaveshishouse,seesnoonesaveMarie-Laure,andyetsomehowhehasfoundhimselfatthenexusofawebofinformation.

He keys themicrophone and reads the numbers, then themessages. He broadcasts them on fivedifferentbands,givesinstructionsforthenexttransmission,andplaysabitofanoldrecord.Atmostthewholeexercisetakessixminutes.

Toolong.Almostcertainlytoolong.Yetnoonecomes.Thetwobellsdonotring.NoGermanpatrolscomebangingupthestairstoput

bulletsintheirheads.Althoughshehasthemmemorized,mostnightsMarie-LaureasksEtiennetoreadherthelettersfrom

herfather.Tonighthesitsontheedgeofherbed.TodayIsawanoaktreedisguisedasachestnuttree.Iknowyouwilldotherightthing.Ifyoueverwishtounderstand,lookinsideEtienne’shouse,insidethehouse.“Whatdoyouthinkhemeansbywritinginsidethehousetwice?”“We’vebeenoveritsomanytimes,Marie.”“Whatdoyouthinkheisdoingrightnow?”“Sleeping,child.Iamsureofit.”She rolls onto her side, and he hauls the hem of her quilts past her shoulders and blows out the

candle and stares into the miniature rooftops and chimneys of the model at the foot of her bed. Amemoryrises:Etiennewasinafieldeastofthecitywithhisbrother.Itwasthesummerwhenfireflies

showedupinSaint-Malo,andtheirfatherwasveryexcited,buildinglong-handlednetsforhisboysandgivingthemjarswithwiretofastenoverthetops,andEtienneandHenriracedthroughthetallgrassasthe fireflies floated away from them, illuming on and off, always seeming to rise just beyond theirreach,asiftheearthweresmolderingandtheseweresparksthattheirfootfallshadproddedfree.

Henrihad saidhewanted toput somanybeetles inhiswindow that shipscould seehisbedroomfrommilesaway.

Iftherearefirefliesthissummer,theydonotcomedowntherueVauborel.Nowitseemsthereareonlyshadowsandsilence.Silenceisthefruitoftheoccupation;ithangsinbranches,seepsfromgutters.MadameGuiboux,motherof theshoemaker,has left town.AshasoldMadameBlanchard.Somanywindowsaredark.It’sasifthecityhasbecomealibraryofbooksinanunknownlanguage,thehousesgreatshelvesofillegiblevolumes,thelampsallextinguished.

Butthereisthemachineintheatticatworkagain.Asparkinthenight.A faint clattering rises from the alley, and Etienne peers through the shutters of Marie-Laure’s

bedroom,downsixstories,andseestheghostofMadameManecstandingthereinthemoonlight.Sheholdsoutahand,andsparrowslandonebyoneonherarms,andshetuckseachoneintohercoat.

Loudenvielle

ThePyreneesgleam.Apittedmoonstandsontheircrestsasif impaled.SergeantMajorvonRumpeltakesacabthroughplatinummoonlighttoacommissariatandstandsacrossfromapolicecaptainwhocontinuallydragstheindexandmiddlefingersofhislefthandthroughhisconsiderablemustache.

TheFrenchpolicehavemadeanarrest.Someonehasburglarized thechaletof aprominentdonorwithtiestotheNaturalHistoryMuseuminParis,andtheburglarhasbeenapprehendedwithatravelcasestuffedwithgems.

Hewaitsalongtime.Thecaptainreviewsthefingernailsofhislefthand,thenhisright,thenhisleftagain.VonRumpelisfeelingveryweaktonight,queasyreally;thedoctorsaysthetreatmentsareover,thattheyhavemadetheirassaultonthetumorandnowtheymustwait,butsomemorningshecannotstraightenafterhefinishestyinghisshoes.

Acararrives.Thecaptaingoesouttogreetit.VonRumpelwatchesthroughthewindow.Fromthebackseat,twopolicemenproduceafrail-lookingmaninabeigesuitwithaperfectpurple

bruisearoundhislefteye.Handscuffed.Aspatteringofbloodonhiscollar.Asthoughhehasjustleftoff playing a villain in some movie. The policemen shepherd the prisoner inside while the captainremovesahandbagfromthecar’strunk.

VonRumpeltakeshiswhiteglovesfromhispocket.Thecaptaincloseshisofficedoor,setsthebagatophisdesk,andpullshisblinds.Tiltstheshadeofhisdesklamp.Inaroomsomewherebeyond,vonRumpelcanhearacelldoorclangshut.Fromthehandbagthecaptainremovesanaddressbook,astackofletters,andawoman’scompact.Thenheplucksoutafalsebottomfollowedbysixvelvetbundles.

He unwraps them one at a time. The first contains three gorgeous pieces of beryl: pink, fat,hexagonal.Insidethesecondisasingleclusterofaqua-coloredAmazonite,gentlystriatedwithwhite.Insidethethirdisapear-cutdiamond.

AthrillleapsintothetipsofvonRumpel’sfingers.Fromapocket,thecaptainwithdrawsaloupe,alookofnakedgreedbloomingonhisface.Heexaminesthediamondforalongtime,turningitthiswayand that. Through von Rumpel’s mind sail visions of the Führermuseum, glittering cases, bowersbeneathpillars,jewelsbehindglass—andsomethingelsetoo:afaintpower,likealowvoltage,comingoffthestone.Whisperingtohim,promisingtoerasehisillness.

Finally the captain looks up, the impress of his loupe a tight pink circle around his eye. Thelamplightsetsagleamonhiswetlips.Heplacesthejewelbackonthetowel.

Fromtheothersideofthedesk,vonRumpelpicksupthediamond.Justtherightweight.Coldinhisfingers,eventhroughthecottonofthegloves.Deeplysaturatedwithblueatitsedges.

Doeshebelieve?Duponthasalmostkindledafireinsideit.Butwiththelenstohiseye,vonRumpelcanseethatthe

stoneisidenticaltotheoneheexaminedinthemuseumtwoyearsbefore.Hesetsthereproductionbackonthedesk.

“Butattheminimum,”thecaptainsaysinFrench,hisfacefalling,“wemustX-rayit,no?”“Dowhateveryou’dlike,byallmeans.I’lltakethoseletters,please.”Beforemidnightheisathishotel.Twofakes.Thisisprogress.Twofound,twolefttofind,andone

ofthetwomustbereal.Fordinner,heorderswildboarcookedwithfreshmushrooms.Andafullbottleof Bordeaux. Especially during wartime, such things remain important. They are what separate thecivilizedmanfromthebarbarian.

Thehotelisdraftyandthediningroomisempty,butthewaiterisexcellent.Hepourswithgraceandstepsaway.Onceintheglass,asdarkasblood,theBordeauxseemsalmostasthoughitisalivingthing.Von Rumpel takes pleasure in knowing that he is the only person in the world who will have theprivilegeoftastingitbeforeitisgone.

Gray

December1943.Ravinesofcoldsinkbetweenthehouses.Theonlywoodlefttoburnisgreenandthewholecitysmellsofwoodsmoke.Walkingtothebakery,fifteen-year-oldMarie-Laureisaschilledasshehaseverbeen.Indoors, it islittlebetter.Straysnowflakesseemtodrift throughtherooms,blownthroughgapsinthewalls.

She listens to her great-uncle’s footfalls across the ceiling, and his voice—310 1467 507 2222576881—andthenhergrandfather’ssong,“ClairdeLune,”strainsoverherlikeabluemist.

Airplanesmakelow,lazypassesoverthecity.SometimestheysoundsoclosethatMarie-Laurefearstheymightgrazetherooftops,knockoverchimneyswiththeirbellies.Butnoplanescrash,nohousesexplode.NothingseemstochangeatallexceptMarie-Lauregrows:shecannolongerwearanyoftheclothes her father carried here in his rucksack three years before.And her shoes pinch; she takes towearingthreepairsofsocksandapairofEtienne’soldtasseledloafers.

TherumorsarethatonlyessentialpersonnelandthosewithmedicalreasonswillbeallowedtostayinSaint-Malo.“We’renotleaving,”saysEtienne.“Notwhenwemightfinallybedoingsomegood.Ifthedoctorwon’tgiveusnotes,we’llpayforthemsomeotherway.”

Forportionsofeveryday,shemanagestoloseherselfinrealmsofmemory:thefaintimpressionsofthe visualworld before shewas six, when Pariswas like a vast kitchen, pyramids of cabbages andcarrots everywhere; bakers’ stalls overflowing with pastries; fish stacked like cordwood in thefishmongers’ booths, the runnels awash in silver scales, alabaster gulls swooping down to carry offentrails. Every corner she turned billowedwith color: the greens of leeks, the deep purple glaze ofeggplants.

Nowherworldhasturnedgray.GrayfacesandgrayquietandagraynervousterrorhangingoverthequeueatthebakeryandtheonlycolorintheworldbrieflykindledwhenEtienneclimbsthestairstotheattic, knees cracking, to readonemore stringof numbers into the ether, to send another ofMadameRuelle’smessages,toplayasong.Thatlittleatticburstingwithmagentaandaquamarineandgoldforfiveminutes,andthentheradioswitchesoff,andthegrayrushesbackin,andherunclestumpsbackdownthestairs.

Fever

MaybeitcomesfromthestewinsomenamelessUkrainiankitchen;maybepartisanshavepoisonedthewater;maybeWerner simply sits too long in toomany damp placeswith the headset over his ears.Regardless,thefevercomes,andwithitterriblediarrhea,andasWernercrouchesinthemudbehindtheOpel,hefeelsasifheisshittingoutthelastofhiscivilization.Wholehourspassduringwhichhecandonomore thanpresshischeekagainst thewallof the truckshellseekingsomethingcold.Thentheshiverstakeover,hardandfast,andhecannotwarmhisbody;hewantstoleapintoafire.

Volkheimer offers coffee;NeumannTwooffers the tablets thatWerner knowsbynoware not forbackaches.Hedeclinesboth,and1943becomes1944.WernerhasnotwrittenJutta inalmostayear.Thelastletterhehasfromherissixmonthsoldandbegins:Whydon’tyouwrite?

Stillhemanages tofindillegal transmissions,oneeverytwoweeksorso.Hesalvages the inferiorSovietequipment,milledfrommarginalsteel,clumsilysoldered;it’sallsounsystematic.Howcantheyfight awarwith such lousyequipment?The resistance ispitched toWerner as supremelyorganized;they are dangerous, disciplined insurgents; they follow thewordsof ferocious, lethal leaders.But heseesfirsthandhowtheycanbesolooselyalliedastobebasicallyineffectual—theyarewretchedandfilthy;theyliveinholes.Theyareragtagdesperadoeswithnothingtolose.

And it seems he can nevermake headway into understandingwhich theory is closer to the truth.Because really, Werner thinks, they are all insurgents, all partisans, every single person they see.AnyonewhoisnotaGermanwantstheGermansdead,eventhemostsycophanticofthem.Theyshyawayfromthetruckasitrattles intotown;theyhidetheirfaces, theirfamilies; theirshopsbrimwithshoespluckedoffthedead.

Lookatthem.Whathefeelsontheworstdaysofthatrelentlesswinter—whilerustcolonizesthetruckandrifles

and radios,whileGermandivisions retreat all around them—isadeep scorn for all thehumans theypass. The smoking, ruined villages, the broken pieces of brick in the street, the frozen corpses, theshatteredwalls,theupturnedcars,thebarkingdogs,thescurryingratsandlice:howcantheylivelikethat? Out here in the forests, in the mountains, in the villages, they are supposed to be pulling updisorder by the root.The total entropyof any system, saidDr.Hauptmann,will decreaseonly if theentropyofanothersystemwillincrease.Naturedemandssymmetry.Ordnungmusssein.

And yetwhat order are theymaking out here? The suitcases, the queues, thewailing babies, thesoldiers pouring back into the citieswith eternity in their eyes—inwhat system is order increasing?Surely not in Kiev, or Lvov, orWarsaw. It’s all Hades. There are just somany humans, as if hugeRussianfactoriescastnewmeneveryminute.Killathousandandwe’llmaketenthousandmore.

February finds them inmountains.Werner shivers in the back of the truck while Neumann Onegrindsdownswitchbacks.Trenchessnakebelowtheminanendlessnet,Germanpositionsononeside,Russianpositionsbeyond.Thickribbonsofsmokestripe thevalley;occasionalflaresofordnanceflylikeshuttlecocks.

Volkheimerunfoldsablanketandwraps itaroundWerner’sshoulders.Hisbloodsloshesbackandforthinsidehimlikemercury,andoutthewindows,inagapinthemist, thenetworkoftrenchesandartillery below shows itself very clearly for amoment, andWerner feels he is gazing down into thecircuitryofanenormousradio,eachsoldierdownthereanelectronflowingsinglefiledownhisownelectricalpath,withnomoresayinthematterthananelectronhas.Thenthey’rearoundabendandhe

feelsonlythepresenceofVolkheimernexttohim,acoldduskoutthewindows,bridgeafterbridge,hillafter hill, all the time descending.Metallic, tatteredmoonlight shatters across the road, and awhitehorsestandschewing ina field,andasearchlight rakes thesky,and in the litwindowofamountaincabin,forasplitsecondastheyrumblepast,WernerseesJuttaseatedatatable,thebrightfacesofotherchildrenaroundher,FrauElena’sneedlepointoverthesink,thecorpsesofadozeninfantsheapedinabinbesidethestove.

TheThirdStone

HestandsinachâteauoutsideAmiens,northofParis.Thebigoldhousemoansinthedark.Thehomebelongs toaretiredpaleontologistandvonRumpelbelieves it ishere that thechiefofsecurityat themuseum inParis fled during the chaos following the invasionofFrance three years ago.Apeacefulplace,insulatedbyfields,enwombedinhedges.Heclimbsastaircasetoalibrary.Abookshelfhasbeenpeeledopen;thestrongboxisbehindit.TheGestaposafecrackerisgood:wearsastethoscope,doesnotbotherwithaflashlight.Inafewminutes,hehasitopen.

Anoldhandgun,aboxofcertificates,astackof tarnishedsilvercoins.Andinsideavelvetbox,abluepear-cutdiamond.

The redheart inside the stone shows itselfone second,becomescompletely inaccessible thenext.InsidevonRumpel,hopebraidswithdesperation;heisalmostthere.Theoddsareinhisfavor,aren’tthey? But he knows before he sets it under the lamp. That same elation crashing out of him. Thediamondisnotreal;ittooistheworkofDupont.

Hehasfoundallthreefakes.Allhisluckisspent.Thedoctorsaysthetumorisgrowingagain.Theprospectsofthewararenosediving—GermanyretreatsacrossRussia,acrosstheUkraine,uptheankleofItaly.Beforelong,everyoneintheEinsatzstabReichsleiterRosenberg—themenouttherescouringthe continent for hidden libraries, concealed prayer scrolls, closeted impressionist paintings—will behandedriflesandsentintothefire.IncludingvonRumpel.Solongashekeepsit,thekeeperofthestonewillliveforever.Hecannotgiveup.Andyethishandsgrowsoheavy.Hisheadisaboulder.Oneatthemuseum,onetothehomeofamuseumsupporter,onesentwithachiefofsecurity.What

sortofmanwouldtheychooseforathirdcourier?TheGestapomanwatcheshim,hisattentiononthestone, his left hand on the door of the strongbox. Not for the first time, von Rumpel thinks of theextraordinaryjewelsafeatthemuseum.Likeapuzzlebox.Inallhistravels,hehasseennothingelselikeit.Whocouldhaveconceivedofit?

TheBridge

InaFrenchvillagefartothesouthofSaint-Malo,aGermantruckcrossingabridgeisblownup.SixGermansoldiersdie.Terroristsareblamed.Nightandfog,whisperthewomenwhocomebytocheckonMarie-Laure.ForeveryKrautlost,they’llkilltenofus.Policegodoor-to-doordemandinganyable-bodiedmancomeoutforaday’swork.Digtrenches,unloadrailwaywagons,pushbarrowsofcementbags,constructinvasionobstaclesinafieldoronabeach.EveryonewhocanmustworktostrengthentheAtlanticWall.Etiennestandssquintinginthedoorwaywithhisdoctor’snotesinhishand.Coldairblowingoverhimandfearbillowingbackwardintothehall.

MadameRuellewhispersthatoccupationauthoritiesareblamingtheattackonanelaboratenetworkofanti-occupation radiobroadcasts.Shesays thatcrewsarebusy lockingaway thebeachesbehindanetworkofconcertinawireandhugewoodenjackscalledchevauxdefrise.Alreadytheyhaverestrictedaccesstothewalkwaysatoptheramparts.

Shehandsovera loafandMarie-Laurecarries ithome.WhenEtiennebreaks itopen, there isyetanotherpieceofpaperinside.Ninemorenumbers.“Ithoughttheymighttakeabreak,”hesays.

Marie-Laureisthinkingofherfather.“Maybe,”shesays,“itisevenmoreimportantnow?”Hewaitsuntildark.Marie-Lauresitsinthemouthofthewardrobe,thefalsebackopen,andlistens

toheruncleswitchonthemicrophoneandtransmitterintheattic.Hismildvoicespeaksnumbersintothegarret.Thenmusicplays,softandlow,fullofcellostonight,anditcutsoutmidstream.

“Uncle?”Ittakeshimalongtimetocomedowntheladder.Hetakesherhand.Hesays,“Thewarthatkilled

yourgrandfatherkilledsixteenmillionothers.OneandahalfmillionFrenchboysalone,mostofthemyoungerthanIwas.TwomillionontheGermanside.Marchthedeadinasingle-fileline,andforelevendays and eleven nights, they’d walk past our door. This is not rearranging street signs, what we’redoing, Marie. This is not misplacing a letter at the post office. These numbers, they’re more thannumbers.Doyouunderstand?”

“Butwearethegoodguys.Aren’twe,Uncle?”“Ihopeso.Ihopeweare.”

RuedesPatriarches

VonRumpelentersanapartmenthouseinthe5tharrondissement.Thesimperinglandladyonthefirstfloortakesthesheafofrationticketsheoffersandburiestheminherhousecoat.Catsswarmherankles.Behindher,anoverdecoratedflatreeksofdeadappleblossoms,confusion,oldage.

“Whendidtheyleave,Madame?”“Summerof1940.”Shelooksasifshemighthiss.“Whopaystherent?”“Idon’tknow,Monsieur.”“DothecheckscomefromtheNaturalHistoryMuseum?”“Ican’tsay.”“Whenwasthelasttimesomeonecame?”“Noonecomes.Thechecksaremailed.”“Fromwhere?”“Idon’tknow.”“Andnooneleavesorenterstheflat?”“Notsincethatsummer,”shesays,andretreatswithhervulturefaceandvulturefingernailsintothe

redolentdark.Uphegoes.Asingledeadboltonthefourthfloormarksthelocksmith’sflat.Inside,thewindowsare

boardedoverwithwoodveneer,andanairless,pearlylightseepsthroughtheknotholes.Asthoughhehasclimbedintoadarkboxhunginsideacolumnofpurelight.Cabinetshangopen,sofacushionssitslightly cockeyed, a kitchen chair is toppledon its side.Everything speaksof a hastydepartureor arigoroussearchorboth.Ablackrimofalgaeringsthetoiletbowlwherethewaterhasslippedaway.Heinspectsthebedroom,bathroom,kitchen,somefiendishandimmitigablehopeflaringwithinhim:Whatif—?

Alongthetopofaworkbenchstandtinybenches,tinylampposts,tinytrapezoidsofpolishedwood.Little vise, little box of nails, little bottles of glue long since hardened.Beside the bench, beneath adropcloth,asurprise:acomplicatedmodelofthe5tharrondissement.Thebuildingsareunpaintedbutotherwisebeautifullydetailed.Shutters,doors,windows,stormdrains.Nopeople.Atoy?

Intheclosethangafewmoth-eatengirl’sdressesandasweateronwhichembroideredgoatschewflowers. Dusty pinecones line the windowsill, arranged large to small. On the floor of the kitchen,frictionstripshavebeennailedintothewood.Aplaceofquietdiscipline.Calm.Order.Asinglelineoftwinerunsbetweenthetableandthebathroom.Aclockstandsdeadwithoutglassonitsface.It’snotuntilhefindsthreehugespiral-boundfoliosofJulesVerneinBraillethathesolvesit.

Asafemaker.Brilliantwithlocks.Liveswithinwalkingdistanceofthemuseum.Employedthereallhisadultlife.Humble,novisibleaspirationsforwealth.Ablinddaughter.Plentyofreasonstobeloyal.

“Whereareyouhiding?”hesaysaloudtotheroom.Thedustswirlsinthestrangelight.Inside a bag or a box. Tucked behind a baseboard or stashed in a compartment beneath the

floorboardsorplasteredupinsideawall.Heopensthekitchendrawersandchecksbehindthem.Buttheprevioussearcherswouldhavecheckedallofthis.

Slowlyhisattentionreturns to thescalemodelof theneighborhood.Hundredsof tinyhouseswithmansardroofsandbalconies.Itisthisexactneighborhood,herealizes,colorlessanddepopulatedand

miniaturized.Atinyspectralversionofit.Onebuildinginparticularappearssmoothedandwornbytheinsistenceoffingers:thebuildinghe’sin.Home.

Heputshiseyetostreetlevel,becomesagodloomingovertheLatinQuarter.Withtwofingers,hecould pinch out anyone he chooses, nudge half a city into shadow. Flip it upside down.He sets hisfingersatoptheroofoftheapartmenthouseinwhichhekneels.Wigglesitbackandforth.Itliftsfreeofthemodeleasily,asthoughdesignedtodoso.Herotatesitinfrontofhiseyes:eighteenlittlewindows,sixbalconies,atinyentrancedoor.Downhere—behindthiswindow—lurksthelittlelandladywithhercats.Andhere,onthefourthfloor,himself.

Onitsbottomhefindsatinyhole,notatallunlikethekeyholeinthejewelsafeinthemuseumhesaw three years before.Thehouse is, he realizes, a container.A receptacle.Heplayswith it awhile,tryingtosolveit.Turnsitover,triesthebottom,theside.

Hisheartratesoars.Somethingwetandfeverishrisesontohistongue.Doyouhavesomethinginsideofyou?VonRumpelsetsthelittlehouseonthefloor,raiseshisfoot,andcrushesit.

WhiteCity

InApril1944theOpelrattlesintoawhitecityfullofemptywindows.“Vienna,”saysVolkheimer,andNeumannTwo fulminates aboutHapsburgpalacesandWiener schnitzel andgirlswhosevulvas tastelikeapplestrudel.TheysleepinaoncestatelyOldWorldsuitewiththefurnitureshoredupagainstthewalls and chicken feathers clogging the marble sinks and newspapers tacked clumsily across thewindows.Down below, a switching yard presents awilderness of train tracks.Werner thinks ofDr.Hauptmannwithhiscurlsandfur-linedgloves,whoseVienneseyouthWernerimaginedspentinvibrantcaféswherescientists-to-bediscussedBohrandSchopenhauer,wheremarblestatuesstareddownfromledgeslikekindlygodparents.

Hauptmann,who,presumably,isstillinBerlin.Oratthefront,likeeveryoneelse.The city commander has no time for them. A subordinate tells Volkheimer there are reports of

resistancebroadcastswashingoutoftheLeopoldstadt.Roundandroundthedistricttheydrive.Coldfoghangsinthebuddingtrees,andWernersitsinthebackofthetruckandshivers.Theplacesmellstohimofcarnage.

For five days he hears nothing on his transceiver but anthems and recorded propaganda andbroadcasts frombeleaguered colonels requesting supplies, gasoline,men. It is all unraveling,Wernercanfeelit;thefabricofthewartearingapart.

“That’s the Staatsoper,” says Neumann Two one night. The facade of a grand building risesgracefully,pilasteredandcrenelated.Statelywingssoaroneitherside,somehowbothheavyandlight.ItstrikesWernerjustthenaswondrouslyfutiletobuildsplendidbuildings,tomakemusic,tosingsongs,toprinthugebooksfullofcolorfulbirdsinthefaceoftheseismic,engulfingindifferenceoftheworld—whatpretensionshumanshave!Whybothertomakemusicwhenthesilenceandwindaresomuchlarger?Why light lampswhen the darknesswill inevitably snuff them?WhenRussian prisoners arechainedby threes and fours to fenceswhileGermanprivates tuck livegrenades in their pockets andrun?

Operahouses!Cities on themoon!Ridiculous.Theywould all dobetter to put their faceson thecurbsandwaitfortheboyswhocomethroughthecitydraggingsledgesstackedwithcorpses.

AtmidmorningVolkheimerorders them topark in theAugarten.Thesunburnsaway the fogandreveals the firstbloomson the trees.Wernercan feel the fever flickering insidehim,astovewith itsdoor latched.NeumannOne,who, ifhewerenot scheduled todie tenweeks fromnowin theAlliedinvasionofNormandy,mighthavebecomeabarberlaterinlife,whowouldhavesmelledoftalcandwhiskeyandputhisindexfingerintomen’searstopositiontheirheads,whosepantsandshirtsalwayswouldhavebeencoveredwithclippedhairs,who,inhisshop,wouldhavetapedpostcardsoftheAlpsaroundthecircumferenceofabigcheapwaverymirror,whowouldhavebeenfaithfultohisstoutwifefortherestofhislife—NeumannOnesays,“Timeforhaircuts.”

Hesetsastoolon thesidewalkandthrowsamostlycleantoweloverBernd’sshouldersandsnipsaway.Wernerfindsastate-sponsoredstationplayingwaltzesandsetsthespeakerintheopenbackdoorof the Opel so all can hear. Neumann One cuts Bernd’s hair, thenWerner’s, then pouchy, wreckedNeumann Two’s. Werner watches Volkheimer climb onto the stool and close his eyes when aparticularly plangent waltz comes on, Volkheimer who has killed a hundred men by now at least,probablymore,walkingintopatheticradio-transmittingshacksinhishugeexpropriatedboots,sneakingup behind some emaciatedUkrainianwith headphones on his ears and amicrophone at his lips and

shootinghimin thebackof thehead, thengoingto the truckto tellWerner tocollect thetransmitter,makingtheordercalmly,sleepily,evenwiththepiecesofthemanonthetransmitterlikethat.

VolkheimerwhoalwaysmakessurethereisfoodforWerner.Whobringshimeggs,whoshareshisbroth,whosefondnessforWernerremains,itseems,unshakable.

The Augarten proves a thorny place to search, full of narrow streets and tall apartment houses.Transmissionsbothpassthroughthebuildingsandreflectoffthem.Thatafternoon,longafterthestoolhas been put away and thewaltzes have stopped,whileWerner sitswith his transceiver listening tonothing,alittleredheadedgirlinamarooncapeemergesfromadoorway,maybesixorsevenyearsold,smallforherage,withbigcleareyesthatremindhimofJutta’s.Sherunsacrossthestreettotheparkandplays therealone,beneath thebudding trees,whilehermotherstandson thecornerandbites thetipsofherfingers.Thegirlclimbsintotheswingandpendulumsbackandforth,pumpingherlegs,andwatchingheropenssomevalveinWerner’ssoul.Thisislife,hethinks,thisiswhywelive,toplaylikethisonadaywhenwinterisfinallyreleasingitsgrip.HewaitsforNeumannTwotocomearoundthetruckandsaysomethingcrass,tospoilit,buthedoesn’t,andneitherdoesBernd,maybetheydon’tseeheratall,maybethisonepurethingwillescapetheirdefilement,andthegirlsingsassheswings,ahighsong thatWerner recognizes, a counting song that girls jumping rope in the alley behindChildren’sHouseusedtosing,Eins,zwei,Polizei,drei,vier,Offizier,andhowhewouldliketojoinher,pushherhigherandhigher,singfünf,sechs,alteHex,sieben,acht,guteNacht!ThenhermothercallssomethingWerner cannot hear and takes the girl’s hand. They pass around a corner, little velvet cape trailingbehind,andaregone.

Not an hour later, he snares somethingwinging in out of the static: a simple broadcast in SwissGerman.Hitnine,transmittingat1600,thisisKX46,doyoureceive?Hedoesnotunderstandallofit.Then it goes.Werner crosses the square and tunes the second transceiver himself.When they speakagain,hetriangulatesandplugsthenumbersintotheequation,thenlooksupandseeswithhisnakedeyeswhatlooksverymuchlikeawireantennatrailingdownthesideofanapartmenthouseflankingthesquare.

Soeasy.AlreadyVolkheimer’s eyes have come alive, a lionwho has caught the scent. As though he and

Wernerhardlyneedtospeaktocommunicate.“Seethewiretrailingdownthere?”Wernerasks.Voklheimerglassesthebuildingwithbinoculars.“Thatwindow?”“Yes.”“It’snottoodenseinhere?Alltheseflats?”“That’sthewindow,”saysWerner.Theygo in.Hedoesnothearanyshots.Fiveminutes later, theycallhimup intoa fifth-floor flat

wallpaperedwithadizzyingfloralprint.Heexpectstobeaskedtolookovertheequipment,asusual,butthereisnone:nocorpses,notransmitter,notevenasimplelisteningset.Justornatelampsandanembroideredsofaandtheswarmingrococowallpaper.

“Pry up the floorboards,” orders Volkheimer, but after Neumann Two pries up several and peersdown,it’sclearthattheonlythingundertheboardsisdecades-oldhorsehairforinsulation.

“Anotherflat,maybe?Anotherfloor?”Wernercrossesintoabedroomandslidesopenthewindowandpeersoveranironbalcony.Whathe

thoughtwasanantennaisnothingmorethanapaintedrodrunupthesideofapilaster,probablymeanttoanchoraclothesline.Notanantennaatall.Butheheardatransmission.Didn’the?

Anachereachesupthroughthebaseofhisskull.Helaceshishandsbehindhisheadandsitsontheedgeofanunmadebedandlooksattheclotheshere—aslipfoldedoverthebackofachair,apewter-backedhairbrushonthebureau,rowsoftinyfrostedbottlesandpotsonavanity,allofitinarticulablyfeminine to him,mysterious and confusing, in thewayHerr Siedler’swife confused him four yearsbeforeasshehitchedupherskirtandkneltinfrontofherbigradio.

Awoman’sroom.Wrinkledsheets,asmelllikeskinlotionintheair,andaphotographofayoungman—nephew? lover? brother?—on a dressing table.Maybe hismathwaswrong.Maybe the signalscatteredoffthebuildings.Maybethefeverhasscrambledhiswits.Onthewallpaperinfrontofhim,rosesappeartodrift,rotate,swapplaces.

“Nothing?”callsVolkheimerfromtheotherroom,andBerndcallsback,“Nothing.”Insomealternateuniverse,Wernerconsiders,thiswomanandFrauElenacouldhavebeenfriends.A

realitymorepleasant than thisone.Thenhe sees,hungon thedoorknob, amaroon squareofvelvet,hoodattached,achild’scape,andatexactlythatmomentintheotherbedroom,NeumannTwomakesacrylikeahigh,surprisedgargleandthereisasingleshot,thenawoman’sscream,thenmoreshots,andVolkheimerstridespast,hurrying,andtherestfollow,andtheyfindNeumannTwostandinginfrontofaclosetwithbothhandsonhisrifleandthesmellofgunpowderallaround.Onthefloorisawoman,onearmsweptbackwardasifshehasbeenrefusedadance,andinsidetheclosetisnotaradiobutachildsittingonherbottomwithabulletthroughherhead.Hermooneyesareopenandmoistandhermouthisstretchedbackinanovalofsurpriseanditisthegirlfromtheswingsandshecannotbeoversevenyearsold.

Wernerwaitsforthechildtoblink.Blink,hethinks,blinkblinkblink.AlreadyVolkheimerisclosingtheclosetdoor,thoughitwon’tcloseallthewaybecausethegirl’sfootisstickingoutofit,andBerndiscoveringthewomanonthebedwithablanket,andhowcouldNeumannTwonothaveknown,butofcoursehedidn’t,becausethatishowthingsarewithNeumannTwo,witheverybodyinthisunit,inthisarmy,inthisworld,theydoasthey’retold,theygetscared,theymoveaboutwithonlythemselvesinmind.Namemesomeonewhodoesnot.

NeumannOneshouldersout,somethingrancidinhiseyes.NeumannTwostandstherewithhisnewhaircut,hisfingersplayingsenselesstrillsonthestockofhisrifle.“Whydidtheyhide?”hesays.

Volkheimertucksthechild’sfootgentlybackinsidethecloset.“There’snoradiohere,”hesays,andshutsthedoor.ThreadsofnauseareachuparoundWerner’swindpipe.

Outside,thestreetlampsshudderinalatewind.Cloudsridewestoverthecity.WernerclimbsintotheOpel,feelingasif thebuildingsarerearingaroundhim,growingtallerand

warping.Hesitswithhisforeheadagainstthelisteningdecksandissickbetweenhisshoes.Soreally,children,mathematically,alloflightisinvisible.BerndclimbsinandpullsthedoorshutandtheOpelcomestolife,tiltingasitroundsacorner,and

Wernercanfeelthestreetsrisingaroundthem,whorlingslowlyintoanengulfingspiral,intothecenterofwhichthetruckwillarcdownward,tracingdeeperanddeeperallthetime.

TwentyThousandLeaguesUndertheSea

OntheflooroutsideMarie-Laure’sbedroomdoorwaitssomethingbigwrappedinnewsprintandtwine.Fromthestairwell,Etiennesays,“Happysixteenthbirthday.”

Shetearsawaythepaper.Twobooks,onestackedatoptheother.ThreeyearsandfourmonthshavepassedsincePapaleftSaint-Malo.Onethousandtwohundredand

twenty-fourdays.AlmostfouryearshavepassedsinceshehasfeltBraille,andyetthelettersrisefromhermemoryasifsheleftoffreadingyesterday.Jules.Verne.Twenty.Thousand.Leagues.Part.One.Part.Two.Shethrowsherselfathergreat-uncleandhangsherarmsaroundhisneck.“Yousaidyounevergottofinish.Ithought,ratherthanmyreadingittoyou,maybeyoucouldread

ittome?”“Buthow—?”“MonsieurHébrard,thebookseller.”“Whennothingisavailable?Andthey’resoexpensive—”“Youhavemadealotoffriendsinthistown,Marie-Laure.”Shestretchesoutonthefloorandopenstothefirstpage.“I’mgoingtostartitalloveragain.From

thebeginning.”“Perfect.”“ ‘ChapterOne,’ ”shereads.“ ‘AShiftingReef.’ ”Theyear1866wasmarkedbyastrangeevent,an

unexplainable occurrence, which is undoubtedly still fresh in everyone’s memory . . . She gallopsthroughthefirsttenpages,thestorycomingback:worldwidecuriosityaboutwhatmustbeamythicalseamonster, famedmarine biologist Professor PierreAronnax setting off to discover the truth. Is itmonster or moving reef? Something else? Any page now, Aronnax will plunge over the rail of thefrigate;notlongafterward,heandtheCanadianharpoonerNedLandwillfindthemselvesonCaptainNemo’ssubmarine.

Beyondthecarton-coveredwindow,rainsiftsdownfromaplatinum-coloredsky.Adovescrabblesalongtheguttercallinghoohoohoo.Outintheharborasturgeonmakesasingleleaplikeasilverhorseandthenisgone.

Telegram

AnewgarrisoncommanderhasarrivedontheEmeraldCoast,acolonel.Trim,smart,efficient.Wonmedals at Stalingrad. Wears a monocle. Invariably accompanied by a gorgeous French secretary-interpreterwhomayormaynothaveconsortedwithRussianroyalty.

Heisaverage-sizedandprematurelygray,butbysomecontrivanceofcarriageandposture,hemakesthemenwho stand before him feel smaller. The rumor is that this colonel ran an entire automobilecompanybeforethewar.ThatheisamanwhounderstandsthepoweroftheGermansoil,whofeelsitsdarkprehistoricvigorthuddinginhisverycells.Thathewillneveracquiesce.

Every night he sends telegrams from the district office in Saint-Malo.Among the sixteen officialcommuniquéssentonthethirtiethofApril,1944,isamissivetoBerlin.

=NOTICEOFTERRORISTBROADCASTSINCÔTESD’ARMORWEBELIEVESAINT-LUNAIREORDINARDORSAINT-MALOORCANCALE=REQUESTASSISTANCETOLOCATEANDELIMINATE

Dotdotdashdash,offitgoesintothewiresbeltedacrossEurope.

Eight

9August1944

FortNational

On the third afternoon of the siege of Saint-Malo, the shelling lulls, as though all the artillerymenabruptly fell asleep at their guns.Trees burn, cars burn, houses burn.German soldiers drinkwine inblockhouses.Apriestinthecollegecellarscattersholywateronthewalls.Twohorses,gonemadwithfear,kickthroughthedoorofthegarageinwhichthey’vebeenshutandgallopbetweenthesmolderinghousesontheGrandRue.

Aroundfouro’clock,anAmericanfieldhowitzer,twomilesaway,letsflyasingleimproperlyrangedshell. Itsailsover thecitywallsandburstsagainst thenorthernparapetofFortNational,wherethreehundred and eightyFrenchmen are being held against theirwillwithminimal cover.Nine are killedinstantly.Oneofthemstillclutchingthehandofbridgehewasplayingwhentheshellstruck.

IntheAttic

ForallofMarie-Laure’sfouryearsinSaint-Malo,thebellsatSt.Vincent’shavemarkedthehours.Butnowthebellshaveceased.Shedoesnotknowhowlongshehasbeentrappedintheatticorevenifitisdayornight.Timeisaslipperything:loseholdofitonce,anditsstringmightsailoutofyourhandsforever.

Herthirstbecomessoacute,sheconsidersbitingintoherownarmtodrinktheliquidthatcoursesthere.Shetakesthecansoffoodfromhergreat-uncle’scoatandsetsherlipsontheirrims.Bothtasteoftin.Theircontentsjustamillimeteraway.Don’triskit,saysthevoiceofherfather.Don’triskthenoise.Justone,Papa.Iwillsavetheother.TheGermanisgone.Almostcertainlyheisgonebynow.Whyhasn’tthetripwiresprung?Becausehecutthewire.OrIsleptthroughthebell.Anyofahalfdozenotherreasons.Whywouldheleavewhenwhatheseeksishere?Whoknowswhatheseeks?Youknowwhatheseeks.Iamsohungry,Papa.Trytothinkaboutsomethingelse.Roaringfallsofclear,coolwater.Youwillsurvive,machérie.Howcanyouknow?Becauseofthediamondinyourcoatpocket.BecauseIleftitheretoprotectyou.Allithasdoneisputmeinmoredanger.Thenwhyhasn’tthehousebeenhit?Whyhasn’titcaughtfire?It’sarock,Papa.Apebble.Thereisonlyluck,badorgood.Chanceandphysics.Remember?Youarealive.IamonlyalivebecauseIhavenotyetdied.Donotopenthecan.Hewillhearyou.Hewillnothesitatetokillyou.HowcanhekillmeifIcannotdie?Round and round the questions run;Marie-Laure’smind threatens to boil over. Just now she has

pulledherselfupontothepianobenchat theendoftheatticandisrunningherhandsoverEtienne’stransmitter,tryingtoapprehenditsswitchesandcoils—herethephonograph,herethemicrophone,hereoneoffourleadsconnectedtothepairofbatteries—whenshehearssomethingbelowher.

Avoice.Verycarefully,shelowersherselfoffthebenchandpresseshereartothefloor.Heisdirectlybelowher.Urinatingintothesixth-floortoilet.Dribblingoutasadintermittenttrickle

andgroaningasthoughtheprocesscauseshimtorment.Betweengroans,hecalls,“DasHäuschenfehlt,wobistduHäuschen?”

Somethingiswrongwithhim.“DasHäuschenfehlt,wobistduHäuschen?”Noreplies.Whomishetalkingto?From somewhere beyond the house come the thump of distantmortars and the screech of shells

hurtlingoverhead.She listens to theGermanmovefromthe toilet towardherbedroom.Limping that

samelimp.Muttering.Unhinged.Häuschen:whatdoesitmean?Thespringsofhermattresscreak;shewouldknowthatsoundanywhere.Hashebeensleepinginher

bedallthistime?Sixdeepreportssoundoneaftertheother,deeperthanantiaircraftguns,fartheraway.Navalguns.Thencomedrums,cymbals, thegongsofexplosions,drawingacrimson latticeover theroof.Thelullisending.

Abyssinhergut,desertinherthroat—Marie-Lauretakesoneofthecansoffoodfromhercoat.Thebrickandtheknifewithinreach.Don’t.IfIkeeplisteningtoyou,Papa,Iwilldieofstarvationwithfoodinmyhands.Her bedroom below remains quiet. The shells come patiently, each round whizzing over at a

predictable interval, scratchinga longscarletparabolaover the roof.Sheuses theirnoise toopen thecan.EEEEEEEEEE goes the shell,ding goes the brick onto the knife, the knife onto the can. Dullterribledetonationsomewhere.Shellsplinterszingingintothewallsofadozenhouses.EEEEEEEEding.EEEEEEEEding.Witheachblowaprayer.Donotlethimhear.Fivebashesandit’sleakingliquid.Withthesixth,shemanagestosawopenaquadrantandbendup

thelidwiththebladeoftheknife.Sheraises itanddrinks.Cool,salty: it isbeans.Cannedcookedgreenbeans.Thewater theyhave

beenboiledinissupremelytasty;herwholebodyseemstoreachuptoabsorbit.Sheemptiesthecan.Insideherhead,herfatherhasgonequiet.

TheHeads

Wernerweavestheantennathroughtherubbledceilingandtouchesittoatwistedpipe.Nothing.Onhis hands and knees, he drags the aerial around the circumference of the cellar, as though ropingVolkheimer into the golden armchair. Nothing. He switches off the dying flashlight andmashes theheadsetagainsthisgoodearandshutshiseyesagainstthedarknessandturnsontherepairedtransceiverandrunstheneedleupanddownthetuningcoil,condensingallhissensesintoone.

Staticstaticstaticstaticstatic.Maybetheyareburiedtoodeeply.Maybetherubbleofthehotelcreatesanelectromagneticshadow.

Maybe something fundamental is broken in the radio thatWerner has not identified. Or maybe theführer’ssuper-scientistshaveengineeredaweapontoendallweaponsandthiswholecornerofEuropeisashatteredwasteandWernerandVolkheimeraretheonlyonesleft.

Hetakesofftheheadphonesandbreakstheconnection.Therationsarelonggone,thecanteensareempty, and the sludge in the bottom of the bucket full of paintbrushes is undrinkable. Both he andVolkheimerhavegaggeddownseveralmouthfuls,andWernerisnotsurehecanstomachanymore.

Thebatteryinsidetheradioisnearlydead.Onceit’sgone,they’llhavethebigAmericaneleven-voltwiththeblackcatprintedontheside.Andthen?

Howmuch oxygen does a person’s respiratory system exchange for carbon dioxide every hour?TherewasatimewhenWernerwouldhavelovedtosolvethatpuzzle.NowhesitswithVolkheimer’stwostickgrenadesinhislap,feelingthelastbrightthingsinsidehimfizzleout.Turningtheshaftofoneandthentheother.He’dignitetheirfusesjusttolightthisplaceup,justtoseeagain.

Volkheimerhastakentoswitchingonhisfieldlightandfocusingitsfrailbeamintothefarcorner,whereeightorninewhiteplasterheadsstandontwoshelves,severaltoppledontotheirsides.Theylooklike the heads of mannequins, only more skillfully fashioned, three with mustaches, two bald, onewearingthecapofasoldier.Evenwiththelightoff,theheadsassumestrangepowerinthedark:purewhite,notquitevisiblebutnotentirelyinvisible,embeddedintoWerner’sretinas,almostglowingintheblackness.

Silentandwatchfulandunblinking.Tricksofthemind.Faces,lookaway.In the blackness, he crawls toward Volkheimer: a comfort to find his friend’s huge knee in the

darkness.Theriflebesidehim.Bernd’scorpsesomewherebeyond.Wernersays,“Didyoueverhearthestoriestheytoldaboutyou?”“Who?”“TheboysatSchulpforta.”“AfewIheard.”“Didyoulikeit?BeingtheGiant?Havingeveryoneafraidofyou?”“Itisnotsofunbeingaskedhowtallyouareallthetime.”A shell detonates somewhere aboveground. Somewhere out there the city burns, the sea breaks,

barnaclesbeattheirfeatheryarms.“Howtallareyou?”Volkheimersnortsonce,abarkofalaugh.“DoyouthinkBerndwasrightaboutthegrenades?”

“No,”saysVolkheimer,hisvoicecomingalert.“Theywouldkillus.”“Evenifwebuiltsomekindofbarrier?”“We’dbecrushed.”Wernertriestomakeouttheheadsacrossthecellarintheblackness.Ifnotthegrenades,thenwhat?

DoesVolkheimerreallybelievesomeoneisgoingtocomeandsavethem?Thattheydeservesaving?“Sowe’rejustgoingtowait?”Volkheimerdoesn’tanswer.“Forhowlong?”Whentheradiobatteriesdie,theAmericaneleven-voltshouldrunthetransceiverforonemoreday.

OrhecouldwirethebulbfromVolkheimer’sfieldlighttoit.Thebatterywillgivethemonemoredayofstatic.Oronemoredayoflight.Buttheywillnotneedlighttousetherifle.

Delirium

A purple fringe flutters around von Rumpel’s vision. Something must have gone wrong with themorphine:hemayhavetakentoomuch.Orelsethediseasehasadvancedfarenoughtoalterhissight.

Ashdrifts throughthewindowlikesnow.Is itdawn?Theglowin theskycouldbethelightfromfires.Sheetssoakedinsweat,hisuniformaswetasifhehasbeenswimminginhissleep.Tasteofbloodinhismouth.

He crawls to the end of the bed and looks at themodel.He has studied every square inch of it.Bashedacorner topieceswith thebuttof awinebottle.The structures in it aremostlyhollow—thechâteau, the cathedral, themarket—butwhybother to smash themallwhenone ismissing, theveryhouseheneeds?

Outintheforsakencity,everyotherstructure,itseems,isburningorcollapsing,buthereinfrontofhimistheinverseinminiature:thecityremains,butthehouseheoccupiesisgone.

Couldthegirlhavecarried itoutwithherwhenshefled?Possible.Theuncledidn’thave itwhentheysenthimtoFortNational.Hewaswellsearched;hecarriednothingbuthispapers—vonRumpelmadesureofit.

Somewhereawallgoestopieces,athousandkilogramsofmasonrycrashingdown.Thatthehousestandswhilesomanyothershavebeendestroyedisevidenceenough.Thestonemust

beinside.Hesimplyneedstofinditwhilethereistime.Clampittohisheartandwaitforthegoddesstothrustherfieryhandthroughitsplanesandburnawayhisafflictions.Burnhiswayoutofthiscitadel,outofthissiege,outofthisdisease.Hewillbesaved.Hesimplyhastodraghimselfupfromthisbedandkeeplooking.Doitmoremethodically.Asmanyhoursasittakes.Teartheplaceapart.Begininthekitchen.Onemoretime.

Water

Marie-Laurehearsthespringsofherbedgroan.HearstheGermanlimpoutofherroomandgodownthestairs.Isheleaving?Givingup?

Itstartstorain.Thousandsoftinydropsthrumontotheroof.Marie-Laurestandsonhertiptoesandpresseshereartotheroofingbeneaththeslates.Listenstothedropstrickledown.Whatwastheprayer?TheoneMadameManecmutteredtoherselfonBastilleDayasthefireworkswentup?LordOurGodYourGraceisapurifyingfire.Shehastomarshalhermind.Useperceptionandlogic.Asherfatherwould,asJulesVerne’sgreat

marinebiologistProfessorPierreAronnaxwould.TheGermandoesnotknowabouttheattic.Shehasthestoneinherpocket;shehasonecanoffood.Theseareadvantages.

Therainisgoodtoo:itwillstiflethefires.Couldshecapturesomeofittodrink?Punchaholeintheslates?Useitinsomeotherway?Maybetocoverhernoise?

Sheknowsexactlywherethetwogalvanizedbucketsare:justinsidethedoorofherroom.Shecangettothem,maybeevencarryonebackup.

No,carryingitupwouldbeimpossible.Tooheavy,toonoisy,allthatwatersloshingeverywhere.Butshecouldgotooneandlowerherfaceintoit.Shecouldfilltheemptycanofbeans.

Theverythoughtofherlipsagainstwater—thetipofhernosetouchingitssurface—summonsupabiologicalcravingbeyondanythingshehasexperienced.Inhermindshefallsintoalake;waterfillsherearsandmouth;herthroatopens.Onesipandshecouldthinkmoreclearly.Shewaitsforherfather’svoiceinherheadtoraiseanobjection,butnonecomes.

Thedistancethroughthefrontofthewardrobe,acrossHenri’sroom,acrossthelanding,andtoherdoorwayrunstwenty-onepaces,giveortake.Shetakestheknifeandtheemptycanfromthefloorandtucks them in her pocket. She creeps down the seven ladder rungs and stays fixed for a long timeagainst the back of the wardrobe. Listening listening listening. The little wooden house is a bumpagainst her ribs as she crouches. Inside its tiny attic, does some tiny likeness ofMarie-Laure wait,listening?Doesthattinyversionofherfeelthissamethirst?

TheonlysoundisthepatteroftherainturningSaint-Malointomud.Itcouldbeatrick.Maybeheheardheropenthecanofbeans,wentnoisilydownstairs,andclimbed

quietlybackup;maybehestandsoutsidethebigwardrobewithhispistoldrawn.LordOurGodYourGraceisapurifyingfire.Sheflattensherhandsagainst thebackof thewardrobeandslidesopen thepanel.Theshirtsdrag

acrossherfaceasshecrawlsthrough.Shesetsherhandsagainsttheinsideofthewardrobedoorsandnudgesoneopen.

Nogunshot.Nothing.Outthenowglasslesswindow,thesoundofrainfallingontheburninghousesisthesoundofpebblesbeingstirredbywaves.Marie-Laurestepsontothefloorofhergrandfather’soldbedroomandsummonshim:acuriousboywithlustroushairwhosmellsofthesea.He’splayful,quick-witted, charged with energy; he takes one of her hands, while Etienne finds the other; the housebecomes as it was fifty years ago: the boys’ well-dressed parents laugh downstairs; a cook shucksoystersinthekitchen;MadameManec,ayoungmaid,freshfromthecountryside,singsonastepladderassheduststhechandelier...

Papa,youhadthekeystoeverything.Theboysleadherintothehall.Shepassesthebathroom.

TracesoftheGerman’ssmellhanginherbedroom:anodorlikevanilla.Beneathitsomethingputrid.Shecannothearanythingbeyond the rainoutsideandherownpulsedischarging inher temples.Shekneelsassoundlesslyasshecanandrunsherhandsalongthegroovesof thefloor.Thesoundofherfingertipsstrikingthebucket’ssideseemslouderthanthegongofacathedralbell.

Rain hums against the roof and walls. Drips past the glassless window. All around her wait herpebblesandseashells.Herfather’smodel.Herquilt.Somewhereinheremustbehershoes.

She lowersher faceand touchesher lips to thewater’s surface.Each swallowseemsas loudasashellburst.Onethreefive;shegulpsbreathesgulpsbreathes.Herentireheadinsidethebucket.

Breathing.Dying.Dreaming.Doeshestir?Ishedownstairs?Ishecomingbackup?Nineeleventhirteen,sheisfull.Herwholegutstretches,sloshes;shehashadtoomuch.Sheslipsthe

canintothebucketandletsitfill.Nowtoretreatwithoutmakingasound.Withoutbumpingawall,thedoor.Withouttripping,withoutspilling.Sheturnsandbeginstocrawl,thefullcanofwaterinherlefthand.

Marie-Lauremakesthedoorwayofherroombeforeshehearshim.Heisthreeorfourstoriesbelow,ransackingoneoftherooms;shehearswhatsoundslikeacrateofballbearingsgetdumpedontothefloor.Theybounce,clatter,androll.

Shereachesoutherrighthand,andhere,justinsideofthedoorway,shediscoverssomethingbigandrectangularandhard,coveredwithcloth.Herbook!Thenovel!Sittingrighthereasthoughherfatherhasplaceditforher.TheGermanmusthavetosseditoffherbed.Sheliftsitasquietlyasshecanandholdsitagainstthefrontofheruncle’scoat.

Canshemakeitdownstairs?Cansheslippasthimandintothestreet?Butalreadythewaterisfillinghercapillaries, improvingtheflowofherblood;alreadyshethinks

morekeenly.Shedoesnotwanttodie;alreadyshehasriskedtoomuch.EvenifshecouldmiraculouslyslippasttheGerman,thereisnopromisethatthestreetswillbesaferthanthehouse.

Shemakesittothelanding.Makesittothethresholdofhergrandfather’sbedroom.Feelsherwaytothewardrobe,climbsthroughtheopendoors,closesthemgentlybehindher.

TheBeams

Shells are careening overhead, quaking the cellar like passing freight trains. Werner imagines theAmericanartillerymen: spotterswith scopesbalancedon rocksor tank treadsorhotel railings; firingofficers computing wind speed, barrel elevation, air temperature; radiomenwith telephone receiverspressedtotheirears,callingintargets.Right threedegrees, repeat range.Calm,wearyvoicesdirecting fire.The same sort of voiceGod

uses,perhaps,whenHecallssoulstoHim.Thisway,please.Onlynumbers.Puremath.Youhavetoaccustomyourselftothinkingthatway.It’sthesameontheir

sidetoo.“My great-grandfather,” Volkheimer says all of a sudden, “was a sawyer in the years before

steamships,wheneverythingwentbysail.”Wernercan’tbesure in theblackness,buthe thinksVolkheimer isstanding, runninghis fingertips

alongoneof the three splinteredbeams thatholdup theceiling.Hiskneesbent toaccommodatehisheight.LikeAtlasabouttoslipintothetraces.

“Back then,” Volkheimer says, “all of Europe needed masts for their navies. But most of thecountries had cut down their big trees.England,Great-Grandfather said, didn’t have a treeworth itswoodonthewholeisland.SothemastsfortheBritishandSpanishnavies,thePortuguesetoo,wouldcome from Prussia, from thewoodswhere I grew up. Great-Grandfather knewwhere all the giantswere.Someof those treeswould takeacrewoffivementhreedays tobringdown.First thewedgeswould go in, like needles, he said, in the hide of an elephant. The biggest trunks could swallow ahundredwedgesbeforethey’dcreak.”

Theartilleryscreams;thecellarshudders.“Great-Grandfather saidhe loved to imagine thebig trees sleddingbehind teamsof horses across

Europe,acrossrivers,acrosstheseatoBritain,wherethey’dbestrippedandtreatedandraisedupagainasmasts,where they’d seedecadesofbattle, givena second life, sailingatop thegreatoceans,untileventuallythey’dfallanddietheirseconddeath.”

AnothershellgoesoverheadandWernerimagineshehearsthewoodinthehugebeamsabovehimsplinter.Thatchunkofcoalwasonceagreenplant,afernorreedthatlivedonemillionyearsago,ormaybetwomillion,ormaybeonehundredmillion.Canyouimagineonehundredmillionyears?

Wernersays,“WhereI’mfrom,theyduguptrees.Prehistoricones.”Volkheimersays,“Iwasdesperatetoleave.”“Iwastoo.”“Andnow?”Bernd molders in the corner. Jutta moves through the world somewhere, watching shadows

disentanglethemselvesfromnight,watchingminerslimppastinthedawn.ItwasenoughwhenWernerwasaboy,wasn’tit?Aworldofwildflowersbloomingupthroughtheshapesofrustycast-offparts.Aworld of berries and carrot peels and Frau Elena’s fairy tales. Of the sharp smell of tar, and trainspassing, andbees humming in thewindowboxes. String and spit andwire and a voice on the radioofferingaloomonwhichtospinhisdreams.

TheTransmitter

Itwaitsonthetabletuckedagainstthechimney.Thetwinmarinebatteriesbelowit.Astrangemachine,builtyearsbefore,totalktoaghost.Ascarefullyasshecan,Marie-Laurecrawlstothepianobenchandeasesherselfup.Someonemusthavearadio—thefirebrigade,ifoneremains,ortheresistance,ortheAmericanshurlingmissilesatthecity.TheGermansintheirundergroundforts.MaybeEtiennehimself.Shetriestoimaginehimhunchedsomewhere,hisfingerstwistingthedialsofaphantomradio.Maybeheassumessheisdead.Maybeheneedsonlytohearaflickerofhope.

She runs her fingers along the stones of the chimney until she finds the lever her uncle installedthere.Shepressesherwholeweightonit,andtheantennamakesafaintgratingnoiseabovetheroofasittelescopesupward.

Tooloud.Shewaits.Countstoonehundred.Nosoundfromdownstairs.Beneaththetable,herfingersfindswitches:oneforthemicrophone,theotherforthetransmitter,she

cannot rememberwhich iswhich. Switch on one, then the other. Inside the big transmitter, vacuumtubesthrum.

Isittooloud,Papa?Nolouderthanthebreeze.Theundertoneofthefires.Shetracesthelinesofthecablesuntilsheissureshehasthemicrophoneinherhand.To shut your eyes is to guess nothing of blindness. Beneath your world of skies and faces and

buildingsexistsarawerandolderworld,aplacewheresurfaceplanesdisintegrateandsoundsribboninshoals through theair.Marie-Laurecansit inanattichighabove thestreetandhear lilies rustling inmarshestwomilesaway.ShehearsAmericansscurryacrossfarmfields,directingtheirhugecannonsatthesmokeofSaint-Malo;shehearsfamiliessnifflingaroundhurricanelampsincellars,crowshoppingfrompiletopile,flieslandingoncorpsesinditches;shehearsthetamarindsshiverandthejaysshriekandthedunegrassburn;shefeelsthegreatgranitefist,sunkdeepintotheearth’scrust,onwhichSaint-Malosits,andtheoceanteethingatitfromallfoursides,andtheouterislandsholdingsteadyagainsttheswirlingtides;shehearscowsdrinkfromstonetroughsanddolphinsrisethroughthegreenwateroftheChannel;shehearsthebonesofdeadwhalesstirfiveleaguesbelow,theirmarrowofferingacenturyoffoodforcitiesofcreatureswhowilllivetheirwholelivesandneveronceseeaphotonsentfromthesun.Shehearshersnailsinthegrottodragtheirbodiesovertherocks.Ratherthanmyreadingittoyou,maybeyoucouldreadittome?With her free hand, she opens the novel in her lap. Finds the lines with her fingers. Brings the

microphonetoherlips.

Voice

On themorning of his fourth day trapped beneathwhatever is left of theHotel ofBees,Werner islisteningtotherepairedtransceiver,featheringthetuningknobbackandforth,whenagirl’svoicesaysdirectly intohisgoodear:At three in themorning Iwasawakenedbyaviolentblow.He thinks: It’shunger,thefever,I’mimaginingthings,mymindisforcingthestatictocoalesce...

Shesays,Isatupinbedandtriedtohearwhatwasgoingon,butsuddenlyIwashurledoutintothemiddleoftheroom.

Shespeaksquiet,perfectlyenunciatedFrench;heraccentiscrisperthanFrauElena’s.Hegrindstheheadphones into his ear . . .Obviously, she says, theNautilushad collidedwith something and thenheeledoveratasharpangle...

SherollsherR ’s,drawsoutherS ’s.Witheachsyllable,thevoiceseemstoburrowabitdeeperintohisbrain.Young,high,hardlymorethanawhisper.Ifitisahallucination,letitbe.OneoftheseicebergsturnedandstrucktheNautilusasitwascruisingunderwater.Theicebergthen

slippedunderitshullandlifteditwithanirresistibleforceintoshallowerwater...Hecanhearherwetthetopofhermouthwithhertongue.Butwhowastosaythatatthatmomentwe

wouldn’t collide against the underside of the barrier, and thus be horribly squashed between twosurfacesofice?Thestaticemergesagain,threateningtowashherout,andhetriesdesperatelytofightitoff;heisachildinhisatticdormer,clingingtoadreamhedoesnotwanttoleave,butJuttahaslaidahandonhisshoulderandiswhisperinghimawake.Weweresuspendedinthewater,buttenmetersoneachsideoftheNautilusroseashiningwallof

ice.Aboveandbelowtherewasthesamewall.She stops reading abruptly and the static roars.When she speaks again, her voice has become an

urgenthiss:Heishere.Heisrightbelowme.Thenthebroadcastcutsout.Hefeathersthetuner,switchesbands:nothing.Hetakesofftheheadset

andmovesinthetotalblacknesstowardwhereVolkheimersitsandgrabswhathethinksishisarm.“Iheardsomething.Please...”

Volkheimerdoesnotmove;heseemsmadeofwood.Werneryankswithallhisstrength,butheistoolittle,tooweak;thestrengthdesertshimalmostassoonasitcame.

“Enough,”comesVolkheimer’svoicefromtheblackness.“Itwon’tdoanygood.”Wernersitsonthefloor.Somewhereintheruinsabovethem,catsarehowling.Starving.Asishe.AsisVolkheimer.

AboyatSchulpfortaoncedescribedforWernerarallyatNuremberg:anoceanofbannersandflags,he said, masses of boys teeming in the lights, and the führer himself on an altar a half mile away,spotlights illuminatingpillarsbehindhim, the atmosphereoversaturatedwithmeaningand anger andrighteousness,HansSchilzercrazyforit,HerribertPomselcrazyforit,everyboyatSchulpfortacrazyfor it,and theonlyperson inWerner’s lifewhocouldsee throughall thatstagecraftwashisyoungersister.How?HowdidJuttaunderstandsomuchmoreabouthowtheworldworked?Whileheknewsolittle?Butwhowastosaythatatthatmomentwewouldn’tcollideagainsttheundersideofthebarrier,and

thusbehorriblysquashedbetweentwosurfacesofice?Heishere.Heisrightbelowme.Dosomething.Saveher.

ButGodisonlyawhitecoldeye,aquarter-moonpoisedabovethesmoke,blinking,blinking,asthecityisgraduallypoundedtodust.

Nine

May1944

EdgeoftheWorld

InthebackoftheOpel,VolkheimerreadsaloudtoWerner.ThepaperJuttahaswrittenonseemslittlemorethantissueinhisgiganticpaws.

...OhandHerrSiedlertheminingofficialsentanotecongratulatingyouonyoursuccesses.Hesayspeoplearenoticing.Doesthatmeanyoucancomehome?HansPfefferingsaystotellyou“abulletfearsthebrave”thoughImaintainthat’sbadadvice.AndFrauElena’stoothacheisbetternowbutshecan’tsmokewhichmakeshercranky,didItellyoushestartedsmoking...

OverVolkheimer’sshoulder,throughthecrackedrearwindowofthetruckshell,Wernerwatchesared-hairedchildinavelvetcapefloatsixfeetabovetheroad.Shepassesthroughtreesandroadsigns,veersaroundcurves;sheisasinescapableasamoon.

NeumannOnecoaxestheOpelwest,andWernercurlsbeneaththebenchinthebackanddoesnotmove forhours,bundled inablanket, refusing tea, tinnedmeat,while the floatingchildpursueshimthrough thecountryside.Deadgirl in the sky,deadgirlout thewindow,deadgirl three inchesaway.Twoweteyesandthatthirdeyeofthebulletholeneverblinking.

Theybouncethroughastringofsmallgreentownswherepollardedtreeslinesleepycanals.Apairofwomenonbicyclespullofftheroadandgapeatthetruckasitspasses:someinfernallorrysenttoblighttheirtown.

“France,”saysBernd.The canopiesof cherry treesdrift overhead, pregnantwithblossoms.Wernerpropsopen theback

dooranddangleshisfeetofftherearbumper,hisheelsjustabovetheflowingroad.Ahorserollsonitsbackingrass;fivewhitecloudsdecoratethesky.

TheyunloadinatowncalledÉpernay,andthehotelkeeperbringswineandchickenlegsandbroththatWernermanagestokeepdown.PeopleatthetablesaroundthemspeakthelanguagethatFrauElenawhisperedtohimasachild.NeumannOneissenttofinddiesel,andNeumannTwoengagesBerndinadebateaboutwhetherornotcowintestineswereusedasinflatablecellsinsidefirst-warzeppelins,andthree boys in berets peer around a doorpost and ogleVolkheimerwith huge eyes. Behind them, sixfloweringmarigoldsintheduskformtheshapeofthedeadgirl,thenbecomeflowersoncemore.

Thehotelkeepersays,“Youwouldlikemore?”Werner cannot shakehis head. Just nowhe’s afraid to set downhis hands in case theypass right

throughthetable.Theydriveallnightandstopatdawnatacheckpointon thenorthern rimofBrittany.Thewalled

citadelofSaint-Malobloomsoutofthedistance.Thecloudspresentdiffusebandsoftendergraysandblues,andbelowthemtheoceandoesthesame.

Volkheimershowstheirorderstoasentry.Withoutaskingpermission,Wernerclimbsoutofthetruckandslipsoverthelowseawallontothebeach.Hewindsthroughaseriesofbarricadesandmakesforthetideline.Tohisrightrunsalineofanti-invasionobstaclesshapedlikeachild’sjacks,strungwithrazorwire,extendingatleastamiledowntheshoreline.

No footprints in the sand. Pebbles and bits ofweed are strung in scalloped lines.A trio of outerislandsbearlowstoneforts;agreenlanternglowsonthetipofajetty.Itfeelsappropriatesomehow,to

havereachedtheedgeofthecontinent,tohaveonlythehammeredsealeftinfrontofhim.AsthoughthisistheendpointWernerhasbeenmovingtowardeversinceheleftZollverein.

Hedipsahandinthewaterandputshisfingersinhismouthtotastethesalt.Someoneisshoutinghis name, butWerner doesnot turn; hewould like nothingmore than to stand here allmorning andwatchtheswellsmoveunderthelight.They’rescreamingnow,Bernd,thenNeumannOne,andfinallyWernerturnstoseethemwaving,andhepickshiswayalongthesandandbackupthroughthelinesofrazorwiretowardtheOpel.

Adozenpeoplewatch.Sentries,ahandfuloftownspeople.Manywithhandsovertheirmouths.“Treadcarefully,boy!”Berndisyelling.“Therearemines!Didn’tyoureadthesigns?”Wernerclimbsintothebackofthetruckandcrosseshisarms.“Haveyoucompletelylostit?”asksNeumannTwo.The fewsouls they see inside theoldcitypress theirbacksupagainstwalls toallow thebattered

Opel to pass. Neumann One stops outside a four-story house with pale blue shutters. “TheKreiskommandantur,” he announces. Volkheimer goes inside and returns with a colonel in fielduniform:theReichswehrcoatandhighbeltandtallblackboots.Onhisheelscometwoaides.

“We believe there is a network of them,” one aide says. “The encoded numbers are followed byannouncements,birthsandbaptismsandengagementsanddeaths.”

“Thenthereismusic,almostalwaysmusic,”saysthesecond.“Whatitmeanswecannotsay.”Thecoloneldragstwofingersalonghisperfectjawline.Volkheimergazesathimandthenhisaides

asthoughassuringworriedchildrenthatsomeinjusticewillberighted.“We’llfindthem,”hesays.“Itwon’ttakelong.”

Numbers

ReinholdvonRumpelvisitsadoctorinNuremberg.Thetumorinthesergeantmajor’sthroat,reportsthe doctor, has grown to four centimeters in diameter. The tumor in the small intestine is harder tomeasure.

“Threemonths,”saysthedoctor.“Maybefour.”Anhour later,vonRumpelhas installedhimselfatadinnerparty.Fourmonths.Onehundredand

twentysunrises,onehundredandtwentymoretimeshehastodraghiscorruptedbodyoutofabedandbuttonitintoauniform.Theofficersatthetabletalkwithindignationaboutothernumbers:theEighthandFifthGermanArmiesretreatnorththroughItaly,theTenthArmymightbeencircled.Romecouldbelost.

Howmanymen?Ahundredthousand.Howmanyvehicles?Twentythousand.Liverisserved.Cubesofitwithsaltandpepper,showeredinarainofpurplegravy.Whentheplates

aretakenaway,vonRumpelhasn’ttouchedhis.Thirty-fourhundredmarks:allhehasleft.Andthreetinydiamondsthathekeepsinanenvelopeinsidehisbillfold.Eachperhapsacarat.

Awomanatthetableenthusesaboutgreyhoundracing,thespeed,thechargeshefeelswatchingit.VonRumpelreachesfortheloopedhandleofhiscoffeecup,triestohidetheshaking.Awaitertoucheshisarm.“Callforyou,sir.FromFrance.”

VonRumpelwalksonwobblylegsthroughaswingingdoor.Thewaitersetsatelephoneonatableandretreats.

“SergeantMajor?ThisisJeanBrignon.”ThenameconjuresnothinginvonRumpel’smemory.“Ihaveinformationaboutthelocksmith.Whomyouaskedaboutlastyear?”“LeBlanc.”“Yes,DanielLeBlanc.Butmycousin,sir.Doyouremember?Youofferedtohelp?YousaidthatifI

foundinformation,youcouldhelphim?”Threecouriers,twofound,onelastpuzzletosolve.VonRumpeldreamsofthegoddessalmostevery

night: hairmadeof flames, fingersmade of roots.Madness.Even as he stands at the telephone, ivytwinesaroundhisneck,climbsintohisears.

“Yes,yourcousin.Whathaveyoudiscovered?”“LeBlancwasaccusedofconspiracy,somethingtodowithachâteauinBrittany.ArrestedinJanuary

1941 on a tip from a local. They found drawings, skeleton keys. He was also photographed takingmeasurementsinSaint-Malo.”

“Acamp?”“Ihavenotbeenabletofindout.Thesystemisratherelaborate.”“Whatabouttheinformer?”“AMalouinnamedLevitte.FirstnameClaude.”VonRumpelthinks.Theblinddaughter,theflatonruedesPatriarches.VacantsinceJune1940while

theNaturalHistoryMuseumpaystherent.Wherewouldyourun,ifyouhadtorunsomewhere?Ifyouhadsomethingvaluabletocarry?Withablinddaughterintow?WhySaint-Malounlesssomeoneyoutrustedlivedthere?

“Mycousin,”JeanBrignonissaying.“You’llhelp?”“Thankyouverymuch,”saysvonRumpel,andsetsthereceiverbackinitscradle.

May

ThelastdaysofMay1944inSaint-MalofeeltoMarie-LaurelikethelastdaysofMay1940inParis:huge and swollen and redolent. As if every living thing rushes to establish a foothold before somecataclysmarrives.TheaironthewaytoMadameRuelle’sbakerysmellsofmyrtleandmagnoliaandverbena; wisteria vines erupt in blossom; everywhere hang arcades and curtains and pendants offlowers.

Shecountsstormdrains:at twenty-oneshepasses thebutcher, thesoundofahosesplashingontotile;attwenty-fivesheisatthebakery.Sheplacesarationcoupononthecounter.“Oneordinaryloaf,please.”

“Andhow is your uncle?”Thewords are the same, but the voice ofMadameRuelle is different.Galvanized.

“Myuncleiswell,thankyou.”MadameRuelledoessomethingshehasneverdone:shereachesacrossthecounterandcupsMarie-

Laure’sfaceinherflourypalms.“Youamazingchild.”“Areyoucrying,Madame?Iseverythingallright?”“Everythingiswonderful,Marie-Laure.”Thehandswithdraw;theloafcomestoher:heavy,warm,

largerthannormal.“Tellyourunclethatthehourhascome.Thatthemermaidshavebleachedhair.”“Themermaids,Madame?”“Theyarecoming,dear.Withintheweek.Putoutyourhands.”Fromacrossthecountercomesawet,

coolcabbage,asbigasacannonball.Marie-Laurecanhardlyfititintothemouthofherknapsack.“Thankyou,Madame.”“Nowgethome.”“Isitclearahead?”“Aswaterfromtherock.Nothinginyourway.Todayisabeautifulday.Adaytoremember.”Thehourhascome.Lessirènesontlescheveuxdécolorés.Herunclehasbeenhearingrumorsonhis

radio that across the Channel, in England, a tremendous armada is gathering, ship after ship beingrequisitioned—fishing vessels and ferries retrofitted, equipped with weapons: five thousand boats,eleventhousandairplanes,fiftythousandvehicles.

Attheintersectionwiththerued’Estrées,sheturnsnotleft,towardhome,butright.Fiftymeterstothe ramparts, a hundred or so more along the base of the walls; from her pocket she pulls HaroldBazin’sironkey.Thebeacheshavebeenclosedforseveralmonths,studdedwithminesandwalledoffwith razorwire,buthere in theoldkennel,outof sightof everyone,Marie-Laurecan sit amonghersnailsanddreamherselfintothemindofthegreatmarinebiologistAronnax,bothguestofhonorandprisoneronCaptainNemo’sgreatmachineofcuriosity,freeofnationsandpolitics,cruisingthroughthekaleidoscopicwondersofthesea.Oh,tobefree!TolieoncemoreintheJardindesPlanteswithPapa.Tofeelhishandsonhers,tohearthepetalsofthetulipstrembleinthewind.Hemadehertheglowinghotcenterofhislife;hemadeherfeelasifeverystepshetookwasimportant.

Areyoustillthere,Papa?Theyarecoming,dear.Withintheweek.

Hunting(Again)

Theysearchdayandnight.Saint-Malo,Dinard,Saint-Servan,Saint-Vincent.NeumannOnecoaxesthebatteredOpeldownstreetssonarrowthat thesidesof the truckshellscrapeagainstwalls.Theypasslittle gray crêperies with their windows smashed and shuttered boulangeries and empty bistros andhillsidesfullofconscriptedRussianspouringcementandheavy-bonedprostitutescarryingwaterfromwellsandtheyfindnobroadcastsofthesortthecolonel’saidesdescribed.WernercanreceivetheBBCfromthenorthandpropagandastationsfromthesouth;sometimeshemanagestosnarerandomflitsofMorsecode.Buthehearsnobirthorweddingordeathannouncements,nonumbers,nomusic.

TheroomWernerandBerndaregiven,onthetopfloorofarequisitionedhotelinthecitywithinthewalls,islikeaplacethattimewantsnopartof:three-hundred-year-oldstuccoquatrefoilsandpalmatecapitalsandspiralinghornsoffruitfestoontheceiling.AtnightthedeadgirlfromViennastridesthehalls.ShedoesnotlookatWernerasshepasseshisopendoor,butheknowsitishesheishunting.

ThehotelkeeperwringshishandswhileVolkheimerpacesthelobby.Airplanescrawlacrossthesky,itseemstoWerner,incrediblyslowly.Asifatanymomentonewillstallanddropintothesea.

“Ours?”asksNeumannOne.“Ortheirs?”“Toohightotell.”Wernerwalkstheupstairscorridors.Onthetopfloor,inwhatisperhapsthehotel’snicestroom,he

standsinahexagonalbathtubandwipesgrimeoffawindowwiththeheelofhispalm.Afewairborneseeds swirl in the wind, then drop into the chasm of shadow between houses. Above him, in thedimness,anine-foot-longqueenbee,withmultipleeyesandgoldenfuzzonherabdomen,curlsacrosstheceiling.

DearJutta,

SorryIhavenotwrittenthesepastmonths.Thefeverismostlygonenowandyoushouldnotworry.IhavebeenfeelingveryclearheadedlatelyandwhatIwanttowriteabouttodayisthesea.Itcontainssomanycolors.Silveratdawn,greenatnoon,darkblueintheevening.Sometimesitlooksalmostred.Oritwillturnthecolorofoldcoins.Rightnowtheshadowsofcloudsaredraggingacrossit,andpatchesofsunlightaretouchingdowneverywhere.Whitestringsofgullsdragoveritlikebeads.Itismyfavoritething,Ithink,thatIhaveeverseen.SometimesIcatchmyselfstaringatitand

forgetmyduties.Itseemsbigenoughtocontaineverythinganyonecouldeverfeel.SayhellotoFrauElenaandthechildrenwhoareleft.

“ClairdeLune”

Tonighttheyworkasectionoftheoldcitytuckedagainstthesouthernramparts.Rainfallssolightlythatitseemsindistinguishablefromfog.WernersitsinthebackoftheOpel;Volkheimerdrowsesonthebench behind him.Bernd is up on the parapetwith the first transceiver under a poncho.He has notkeyedhishandset inhours,whichmeanshe isasleep.Theonly lightcomesfromtheamberfilamentinsideWerner’ssignalmeter.

Thespectrumisallstaticandthenitisnot.MadameLabassendswordthatherdaughterispregnant.MonsieurFereysendslovetohiscousins

atSaint-Vincent.Agreatgustofstaticshearspast.Thevoiceislikesomethingfromalong-agodream.Ahalfdozen

more words flutter through Werner in that Breton accent:Next broadcast Thursday 2300. Fifty-sixseventy-two something . . . memory coming atWerner like a six-car train out of the darkness, thequalityof the transmissionand the tenorof thevoicematching ineveryrespect thebroadcastsof theFrenchmanheused tohear,and thenapianoplays threesinglenotes, followedbyapair, thechordsrisingpeacefully,eachacandleleadingdeeperintoaforest...Therecognitionisimmediate.Itisasifhehasbeendrowningforaslongashecanrememberandsomebodyhasfetchedhimupforair.

Just behindWerner,Volkheimer’s eyelids remain closed. Through the separator between the shellandcab,hecanseethemotionlessshouldersoftheNeumanns.Wernercoversthemeterwithhishand.Thesongunspools,growslouder,andhewaitsforBerndtokeyhismicrophone,tosayhehasheard.

Butnothingcomes.Everyoneisasleep.Andyethasn’tthelittleshellinwhichheandVolkheimersitgoneelectric?

Nowthepianomakesalong,familiarrun,thepianistplayingdifferentscaleswitheachhand—whatsounds like threehands, four—theharmonies like steadily thickeningpearlsona strand, andWernerseessix-year-oldJuttaleantowardhim,FrauElenakneadingbreadinthebackground,acrystalradioinhislap,thecordsofhissoulnotyetsevered.

Thepianorillsthroughitsfinishingmeasures,andthenthestaticwallopsback.Didtheyhear?Cantheyhearhishearthammeringrightnowagainsthisribs?There’stherain,falling

lightlypastthehighhouses.There’sVolkheimer,hischinrestingontheacreageofhischest.Fredericksaidwedon’thavechoices,don’townourlives,butintheenditwasWernerwhopretendedtherewerenochoices,WernerwhowatchedFrederickdumpthepailofwaterathisfeet—Iwillnot—Wernerwhostoodbyas theconsequencescame rainingdown.WernerwhowatchedVolkheimerwade intohouseafterhouse,thesameraveningnightmarerecurringoverandoverandover.

HeremovestheheadsetandeasespastVolkheimertoopenthebackdoor.Volkheimeropensoneeye,huge,golden,lionlike.Hesays,“Nichts? ”

Werner looks up at the stone houses arrayed wall to wall, tall and aloof, their faces damp, theirwindowsdark.Nolamplightanywhere.Noantennas.Therainfallssosoftly,almostsoundlessly,buttoWerneritroars.

Heturns.“Nichts,”hesays.Nothing.

Antenna

AnAustrian antiair lieutenant installs a detachment of eight at theHotel ofBees. Their cook heatsoatmealandbaconinthehotelkitchenwhiletheotherseventakeapartwallsonthefourthfloorwithsledgehammers.Volkheimerchewsslowly,glancingupeverynowandthentostudyWerner.NextbroadcastThursday2300.Wernerheard thevoiceeveryonewas listeningfor,andwhatdidhedo?Lied.Committed treason.

Howmanymenmight be in danger because of this?And yetwhenWerner remembers hearing thatvoice,whenheremembersthatsongfloodinghishead,hetrembleswithjoy.

HalfofnorthernFranceisinflames.Thebeachesaredevouringmen—Americans,Canadians,Brits,Germans,Russians—andallthroughNormandy,heavybomberspulverizecountrytowns.ButouthereinSaint-Malo,thedunegrassgrowslongandblue;Germansailorsstillrundrillsintheharbor;gunnersstillstockpileammunitioninthetunnelsbeneaththefortatLaCité.

TheAustriansattheHotelofBeesuseacranetoloweran88-millimetercannonontoabastionintheramparts. They bolt the gun to a cruciformmount and cover itwith camouflage tarps.Volkheimer’screwworkstwonightsinarow,andWerner’smemoryplaystricksonhim.MadameLabassendswordthatherdaughterispregnant.Sohow,children,does thebrain,which liveswithouta sparkof light,build forusaworld fullof

light?If the Frenchman employs the same transmitter that used to reach all the way to Zollverein, the

antenna will be big. Or else there will be hundreds of yards of wire. Either way: something high,somethingsuretobevisible.

Onthethirdnightafterhearingthebroadcast—Thursday—Wernerstandsinthehexagonalbathtubbeneath thequeenbee.With the shutterspushedopen, he can look tohis left over a jumbleof slaterooftops.Shearwatersskimtheramparts;sleevesofvaporenshroudthesteeple.

Whenever Werner contemplates the old city, it is the chimneys that strike him. They are huge,stackedinrowsoftwentyandthirtyalongeachblock.NotevenBerlinhadchimneyslikethat.

Ofcourse.TheFrenchmanmustbeusingachimney.HehurriesdownthroughthelobbyandpacestheruedesForgeurs,thentheruedeDinan.Staringup

atshutters,gutterlines,lookingforcablesbracketedtobricks,anythingthatmightgivethetransmitteraway.Hewalksupanddownuntilhisneckaches.Hehasbeengonetoolong.Hewillbeupbraided.Volkheimeralreadysensessomethingamiss.Butthen,rightat2300hours,Wernerseesit,hardlyoneblockfromwhere theyparked theOpel:anantennaslidingupalongsideachimney.Notmuchwiderthanabroomstick.

ItrisesperhapstwelvemetersandthenunfoldsasifbymagicintoasimpleT.Ahighhouseontheedgeofthesea.Aspectacularlygoodlocationfromwhichtobroadcast.From

streetlevel,theantennaisallbutinvisible.HehearsJutta’svoice:Ibethedoesthesebroadcastsfromahugemansion,bigasthiswholecolony,aplacewithathousandroomsandathousandservants.Thehouse is tall and narrow, elevenwindows in its facade. Splotchedwith orange lichen, its foundationfurredwithmoss.Number4ontherueVauborel.Openyoureyesandseewhatyoucanwiththembeforetheycloseforever.Hewalksfasttothehotel,headdown,handsinhispockets.

BigClaude

Levitte the perfumer is flabby and plump, basted in his own self-importance. While he talks, vonRumpelstrugglestokeephisbalance;theinterminglingofsomanyodorsinthisshopoverwhelms.Inthecourseofthepastweek,hehashadtomakeashowoftripstoadozendifferentgardenestatesupanddowntheBretoncoast,forcinghiswayintosummerhomestohuntdownpaintingsandsculpturesthateitherdonotexistordonotinteresthim.Allofittojustifyhispresencehere.

Yes,yes, theperfumer is saying,hisgaze flittingovervonRumpel’s insignia, a fewyears agohehelpedauthoritiesapprehendanout-of-townerwhowastakingmeasurementsofbuildings.Heonlydidwhatheknewwasright.

“Wherewashelivingduringthosemonths,thisMonsieurLeBlanc?”Theperfumersquints,calculating.Hisblue-ringedeyestrumpetonemessage:Iwant.Giveme.All

these aching creatures, thinks vonRumpel, toiling under different pressures. But vonRumpel is thepredatorhere.Heneedsonlytobepatient.Indefatigable.Removetheobstaclesonebyone.

Whenheturnstogo,theperfumer’scomplacencysplinters.“Wait,wait,wait.”VonRumpelkeepsonehandonthedoor.“WheredidMonsieurLeBlanclive?”“Withhisuncle.Uselessman.Offhisnut,astheysay.”“Where?”“Rightthere,.”Hepoints.“Numberfour.”

Boulangerie

AfulldaypassesbeforeWernercanfindanhourtoreturn.Awoodendoor,irongateacrossthat.Bluetrimonthewindows.Themorningfogissodensethathecannotseetheroofline.Heentertainspipedreams:theFrenchmanwillinvitehimin.They’lldrinkcoffee,discusshislong-agobroadcasts.Maybethey’llinvestigatesomeimportantempiricalproblemthathasbeentroublinghimforyears.Maybehe’llshowWernerthetransmitter.

Laughable.IfWernerringsthebell,theoldmanwillassumehe’sbeingarrestedasaterrorist.Thathemightbeshotwherehestands.Theantennaonthechimneyinitselfiscauseforexecution.

Wernercouldbangonthedoor,marchtheoldmanaway.Hewouldbeahero.Themistbeginstosuffusewithlight.Somewhere,someoneopensadoorandclosesitagain.Werner

remembers how Jutta would write her letters in a flurry and scribble The Professor, France on theenvelopeanddropthemintothemailboxinthesquare.Imagininghervoicemightfindhisearashishadfoundhers.Oneintenmillion.

AllnighthehaspracticedtheFrenchinhishead:Avantlaguerre.Jevousaientenduàlaradio.Hewillkeephisrifleoverhisshoulder,handsathissides;hewilllooksmall,elfin,nothreatatall.Theoldmanwillbestartled,buthisfearwillbemanageable.He’lllisten.ButasWernerstandsintheslowlydispersing fog at the endof the rueVauborel, rehearsingwhathe’ll say, the front doorofNumber4opens,andoutstepsnotaneminentoldscientistbutagirl.Aslender,pretty,auburn-hairedgirlwithaveryfreckledface,inglassesandagraydress,carryingaknapsackoveroneshoulder.Sheheadstoherleft,makingdirectlyforhim,andWerner’shearttwistsinhischest.

Thestreetistoonarrow;shewillhavecaughthimstaring.Butherheadtracksinacuriousway,herfacetiltedofftooneside.Wernerseestherovingcaneandopaquelensesofherglassesandrealizesthatsheisblind.

Hercaneclicksalongthecobbles.Alreadysheistwentypacesaway.Nooneseemstobewatching;allthecurtainsaredrawn.Fifteenpacesaway.Herstockingshaverunsinthemandhershoesaretoolarge and thewoolen panels of her dress aremottledwith stains. Ten paces, five. She passeswithinarm’s reach,herheadslightlyhigher thanhisown.Without thinking,hardlyunderstandingwhathe’sdoing,Werner follows. The tip of her cane shudders as it knocks against the runnels, finding everystormdrain.Shewalkslikeaballerinaindanceslippers,herfeetasarticulateashands,alittlevesselofgracemovingoutintothefog.Sheturnsright,thenleft,traverseshalfablockandstepsneatlythroughtheopendoorofashop.Arectangularsignaboveitreads:Boulangerie.

Wernerstops.Abovehim, themistgivesway inshreds,andadeepsummerblue reveals itself.Awomanwaters flowers; an old traveler in gabardinewalks a poodle.On a bench sits a goitrous andsallowGermansergeantmajorwithshadowscarvedunderhiseyes.Helowershispaper,staresdirectlyatWerner,thenraiseshisnewspaperagain.

WhyareWerner’shandsshaking?Whycan’thecatchhisbreath?Thegirl emerges from thebakery, stepsneatlyoff thecurbstone, andmakes straight forhim.The

poodle squats to relieve itself on the cobbles, and the girl veers neatly to her left to skirt it. SheapproachesWernerforasecondtime,herlipsworkingsoftly,countingtoherself—deuxtroisquatre—coming so close he can count the freckles on her nose, smell the loaf of bread in her knapsack. Amilliondropletsoffogbeaduponthefuzzofherwooldressandalongthewarpofherhair,andthelightoutlinesherinsilver.

Hestandsriveted.Herlongpaleneckseemstohim,asitpasses,incrediblyvulnerable.Shetakesnonoticeofhim;sheseemstoknownothingbutthemorning.This,hethinks,isthepure

theywerealwayslecturingaboutatSchulpforta.Hepresseshisbackagainstawall.The tipofhercane justmisses the toeofhisboot.Thenshe’s

past,dressswayinglightly,canerovingbackandforth,andhewatcheshercontinueupthestreetuntilthefogswallowsher.

Grotto

AGermanantiairbatteryshootsanAmericanplaneoutofthesky.ItcrashesintotheseaoffParamé,and itsAmericanpilotwadesashore tobe takenprisoner.Etienne sees it as a calamity,butMadameRuelle radiates glee. “Movie-star handsome,” she whispers as she handsMarie-Laure a loaf. “I betthey’llalllooklikehim.”

Marie-Lauresmiles.Everymorningit’sthesame:theAmericansevercloser,theGermansfrayingatthe seams. Every afternoonMarie-Laure reads to Etienne from part 2 ofTwenty Thousand Leagues,bothoftheminnewterritorynow.Tenthousandleaguesinthreeandahalfmonths,writesProfessorAronnax.Wherewerewegoingnow,andwhatdidthefuturehaveinstoreforus?

Marie-Laure puts the loaf in her knapsack, leaves the bakery, and winds toward the ramparts toHaroldBazin’sgrotto.Sheclosesthegate,liftsthehemofherdress,andwadesintotheshallowpool,prayingshedoesnotcrushanycreaturesasshesteps.

Thetideisrising.Shefindsbarnacles,ananemoneassoftassilk;shesetsherfingersaslightlyasshecanonaNassarius.Itstopsmovingimmediately,suckingitsheadandfootinsideitsshell.Thenitresumes,thetwinwandsofitshornsextending,draggingitswhorledshellatopthesledofitsbody.

Whatdoyouseek,littlesnail?Doyouliveonlyinthisonemoment,ordoyouworrylikeProfessorAronnaxforyourfuture?

Whenthesnailhascrossedthepoolandstartedupthefarwall,Marie-Laurepicksuphercaneandclimbsoutinherdrippingoversizedloafers.Shestepsthroughthegateandisabouttolockitbehindherwhenamalevoicesays,“Goodmorning,mademoiselle.”

Shestumbles,almosttrips.Hercanegoesclattering.“What’sinyoursackthere?”HespeaksproperFrench,butshecantellthatheisGerman.Hisbodyobstructsthealley.Thehemof

her dress drips; her shoes squelch outwater; to both sides rise sheerwalls. She keeps her right fistclenchedaroundasparoftheopengate.

“Whatisthatbackthere?Ahidey-hole?”Hisvoicesoundsterriblyclose,butit’shardtoknowforcertaininaplacesocongestedwithechoes.ShecanfeelMadameRuelle’sloafpulsingonherbacklikesomethingalive.Lodged inside it—almostcertainly—isacoiled-upslipofpaper.Onwhichnumberswillspelloutadeathsentence.Forhergreat-uncle,forMadameRuelle.Forthemall.

Shesays,“Mycane.”“Ithasrolledbehindyou,dear.”Behind themanunspools the alley and then thehanging curtainof ivy and then the city.Aplace

whereshecouldscreamandbeheard.“MayIpass,monsieur?”“Ofcourse.”Buthedoesnotseemtomove.Thegatecreakslightly.“Whatdoyouwant,monsieur?”Impossibletokeephervoicefromtrembling.Ifheasksagainabout

theknapsack,herheartwillburst.“Whatdoyoudointhere?”“We’renotallowedonthebeaches.”“Soyoucomehere?”“Tocollectsnails.Imustbegettingalong,monsieur.MayIpleaseretrievemycane?”

“Butyouhavenotcollectedanysnails,mademoiselle.”“MayIpass?”“Firstansweraquestionaboutyourfather.”“Papa?”Somethingcoldinsidehergrowscolder.“Papawillbehereanymoment.”Nowthemanlaughs,andhislaughechoesupbetweenthewalls.“Anymoment,yousay?Yourpapa

who’sinaprisonfivehundredkilometersaway?”Threads of terror spill through her chest. I should have listened, Papa. I never should have gone

outside.“Come now, petite cachotière,” says the man, “don’t look so frightened,” and she can hear him

reachingforher;shesmellsrotonhisbreath,hearsoblivioninhisvoice,andsomething—afingertip?—grazesherwristasshejerksawayandclangsthegateshutinhisface.

Heslips;ittakeslongerthansheexpectsforhimtogettohisfeet.Marie-Laureturnsthekeyinthelock and pockets it and finds her cane as she retreats into the low space of the kennel. Theman’sdesolatevoicepursuesher,evenashisbodyremainsontheothersideofthelockedgate.

“Mademoiselle,youmademedropmynewspaper. Iam justa lowlysergeantmajorhere toaskaquestion.OnesimplequestionandthenIwillleave.”

Thetidemurmurs;thesnailsteem.Istheironworktoonarrowforhimtosqueezethrough?Areitshingesstrongenough?Shepraysthattheyare.Thebulkoftherampartholdsherinitsbreadth.Everytensecondsorso,anewsheetofcoldseawatercomesflowingin.Marie-Laurecanhearthemanpacingout there, one-pause-two one-pause-two, a lurching hobble. She tries to imagine thewatchdogs thatHaroldBazinsaidlivedhereforcenturies:dogsasbigashorses.Dogsthatrippedthecalvesoffmen.Shecrouchesoverherknees.SheistheWhelk.Armored.Impervious.

Agoraphobia

Thirtyminutes.ItshouldtakeMarie-Lauretwenty-one;Etiennehascountedmanytimes.Oncetwenty-three.Oftenshorter.Neverlonger.

Thirty-one.Itisafour-minutewalktothebakery.Fourthereandfourback,andsomewherealongtheway,those

other thirteenor fourteenminutesdisappear.Heknowssheusuallygoes to the sea—shecomesbacksmellingofseaweed,shoeswet,sleevesdecoratedwithalgaeorseafennelortheweedMadameManeccalledpioka.He does not knowwhere she goes exactly, but he has always assured himself that shekeepsherselfsafe.Thathercuriositysustainsher.Thatsheismorecapableinathousandwaysthanheis.

Thirty-twominutes.Outhisfifth-floorwindows,hecanseenoone.Shecouldbelost,scrapingherfingersalongwallsattheedgeoftown,driftingfartherawayeverysecond.Shecouldhavesteppedinfrontofatruck,drownedinapuddle,beenseizedbyamercenarywithfoulnessonhismind.Someonecouldhavefoundoutaboutthebread,thenumbers,thetransmitter.

Bakeryinflames.He hurries downstairs and peers out the kitchen door into the alley. Cat sleeping. Trapezoid of

sunlightontheeast-facingwall.Thisisallhisfault.NowEtiennehyperventilates.Atthirty-fourminutesbyhiswristwatch,heputsonhisshoesandahat

thatbelongedtohisfather.Standsinthefoyersummoningallhisresolve.Whenhelastwentout,almosttwenty-four years ago, he tried tomake eye contact, to present whatmight be considered a normalappearance.Buttheattacksweresly,unpredictable,devastating;theysneakeduponhimlikebandits.First a terrible ominousnesswould fill the air. Then any light, even through closed eyelids, becameexcruciatinglybright.Hecouldnotwalkfor thethunderingofhisownfeet.Littleeyeballsblinkedathim from the cobblestones. Corpses stirred in the shadows.WhenMadameManec would help himhome, he’d crawl into the darkest corner of his bed andbelt pillows aroundhis ears.All his energywouldgointoignoringthepoundingofhisownpulse.

His heart beats icily in a faraway cage. Headache coming, he thinks. Terrible terrible terribleheadache.

Twentyheartbeats.Thirty-fiveminutes.Hetwiststhelatch,opensthegate.Stepsoutside.

Nothing

Marie-Lauretriestoremembereverythingsheknowsaboutthelockandlatchonthegate,everythingshehasfeltwithherfingers,everythingherfatherwouldhavetoldher.Ironrodthreadedthroughthreerustedloops,oldmortiselockwitharustycam.Wouldagunshotbreakit?Themancallsoutnowandthenasherunstheedgeofhisnewspaperoverthebarsofthegate.“ArrivedinJune,notarresteduntilJanuary.Whatwashedoingallthattime?Whywashemeasuringbuildings?”

Shecrouchesagainstthewallofthegrotto,knapsackinherlap.Thewatersurgestoherknees:cold,eveninJuly.Canheseeher?CarefullyMarie-Laureopensherknapsack,breaksopentheloafhiddeninside,andfisheswithherfingersforthecoilofpaper.There.Shecountstothreeandslipsthepieceofpaperintohermouth.

“Just tell me,” the German calls, “if your father left anything with you or spoke about carryingsomethingforthemuseumwhereheusedtowork.ThenIwillwalkaway.Iwon’ttellanyoneaboutthisplace.God’struth.”

The paper disintegrates intomush between her teeth.At her feet, the snails go about theirwork:chewing,scavenging,sleeping.Theirmouths,Etiennehastaughther,containsomethinglikethirtyteethperrow,eightyrowsofteeth,twoandahalfthousandteethpersnail,grazing,scratching,rasping.Highabove the ramparts, gulls course through an open sky. God’s truth? How long do these intolerablemomentslastforGod?Atrillionthofasecond?Theverylifeofanycreatureisaquick-fadingsparkinfathomlessdarkness.That’sGod’struth.

“Theyhavemedoingall thisbusywork,” says theGerman. “AJean Jouvenet inSaint-Brieuc, sixMonetsinthearea,aFabergéegginamanorhousenearRennes.Igetsotired.Don’tyouknowhowlongI’vesearched?”

Why couldn’t Papa have stayed?Wasn’t she themost important thing? She swallows the pulpedshredsofthepaper.Thensherocksforwardonherheels.“Heleftmenothing.”Sheissurprisedtohearhowangrysheis.“Nothing!Justadumbmodelofthistownandabrokenpromise.JustMadame,whoisdead.Justmygreat-uncle,whoisfrightenedofanant.”

Outside the gate, the German falls quiet. Considering her reply, perhaps. Something in herexasperationconvincinghim.

“Now,”shecalls,“youkeepyourwordandgoaway.”

FortyMinutes

Foggiveswaytosunshine.Itassaultsthecobblestones,thehouses,thewindows.Etiennemakesittothebakeryinanicysweatandcutstothefrontofthequeue.MadameRuelle’sfacelooms,moon-white.

“Etienne?But—?”Vermilionspotsopenandcloseinhisvision.“Marie-Laure—”“Sheisnot—?”Beforehecanshakehishead,MadameRuelleisliftingthehingedcounterandusheringhimout;she

has him under the arm. The women in the queue are muttering, intrigued or scandalized or both.MadameRuellehelpshimontotherueRobertSurcouf.ThefaceofEtienne’swatchappearstodistend.Forty-oneminutes?Hecanhardlydothemath.Herhandsgriphisshoulder.

“Wherecouldshehavegone?”Tonguesodry,thoughtssosluggish.“Sometimes...shevisits...thesea.Beforecominghome.”“Butthebeachesareclosed.Therampartstoo.”Shelooksoffoverhishead.“Itmustbesomething

else.”Theyhuddleinthemiddleofthestreet.Somewhereahammerrings.War,Etiennethinksdistantly,is

abazaarwherelivesaretradedlikeanyothercommodity:chocolateorbulletsorparachutesilk.HashetradedallthosenumbersforMarie-Laure’slife?

“No,”hewhispers,“shegoestothesea.”“Iftheyfindthebread,”MadameRuellewhispers,“wewillalldie.”Heglancesagainathiswatch,butit’sasunburninghisretinas.Asinglesideofsaltedbacontwists

inthebutcher’sotherwiseemptywindow,andthreeschoolboysstandonabenchwatchinghim,waitingforhimtofall,andjustasheiscertainthemorningisabouttoshatter,Etienneseesinhismemorytherustedgateleadingtothecrumblingkennelbeneaththeramparts.Aplacewhereheusedtoplaywithhisbrother,Henri,andHaroldBazin.Asmalldrippingcavernwhereaboycouldshoutanddream.

Stick-thin, alabaster-pale Etienne LeBlanc runs down the rue deDinanwithMadameRuelle, thebaker’swife,onhisheels: the least-robust rescueeverassembled.Thecathedralbellschimeone twothree four,all theway toeight;Etienne turnsdown the rueduBoyerand reaches theslightlyangledbase of the ramparts, traveling the paths of his youth, navigating by instinct; he turns right, passesthroughthecurtainofswingingivy,andahead,behindthesamelockedgate, in thegrotto,shivering,wettoherthighs,whollyintact,crouchesMarie-Laurewiththeruinsofaloafofbreadinherlap.“Youcame,”shesayswhensheletsthemin,whenhetakesherfaceinhishands.“Youcame...”

TheGirl

Wernerthinksofher,whetherhewishestoornot.Girlwithacane,girlinagraydress,girlmadeofmist.Thatairofotherworldlinessinthesnarlsofherhairandthefearlessnessofherstep.Shetakesupresidenceinsidehim,alivingdoppelgängertofacedownthedeadViennesegirlwhohauntshimeverynight.

Whoisshe?DaughterofthebroadcastingFrenchman?Granddaughter?Whywouldheendangerherso?

Volkheimerkeepsthemoutinthefield,rovingvillagesalongtheRanceRiver.Itseemscertainthatthebroadcastswillbeblamedforsomething,andWernerwillbe foundout.He thinksof thecolonelwithhisperfectjawlineandflaredpants;hethinksofthesallowsergeantmajoreyeinghimoverthetopof the newspaper. Do they already know? Does Volkheimer?What can save him now? There werenightswhenhe’dstarewithJuttaouttheatticwindowofChildren’sHouseandprayfortheicetogrowoutfromthecanals,toreachacrossthefieldsandenvelopthetinypithouses,crushthemachinery,paveovereverything,sothey’dwakeinthemorningtofindeverythingtheyknewwasgone.Thisisthesortofmiracleheneedsnow.

OnthefirstofAugust,alieutenantcomestoVolkheimer.Thedemandformenonthelines,hesays,isoverwhelming.Anyonenot essential to thedefenseofSaint-Malomustgo.Heneeds at least two.Volkheimer looks them over, each in turn. Bernd too old.Werner the only one who can repair theequipment.

NeumannOne.NeumannTwo.Anhourlater,bothareseatedinthebackofatroopcarrierwiththeirriflesbetweentheirknees.A

greatchangehasoccurredin thecountenanceofNeumannTwo,as thoughhelooksnotathisformercompanionsbut intohis lasthoursonearth.As thoughhe isabout to ride insomeblackchariotataforty-five-degreeangledownintotheabyss.

NeumannOne raises a single steadyhand.Hismouth is expressionless,but in thewrinkles at thecornersofhiseyes,Wernercanseedespair.

“Intheend,”murmursVolkheimerasthetruckheavesaway,“noneofuswillavoidit.”ThatnightVolkheimerdrivestheOpeleastalongacoastalroadtowardCancale,andBerndtakesthe

firsttransceiverouttoaknollinafield,andWerneroperatesthesecondfromthebackofthetruck,andVolkheimerstaysfoldedintothedriver’sseat,hishugekneesjammedagainstthewheel.Fires—perhapsonships—burnfarouttosea,andthestarsshudderintheirconstellations.AttwotwelveA.M.,Wernerknows,theFrenchmanwillbroadcastagain,andWernerwillhavetoswitchoffthetransceiverorelsepretendthathehearsonlystatic.

Hewillcoverthesignalmeterwithhispalm.Hewillkeephisfacecompletelymotionless.

LittleHouse

Etiennesayshenevershouldhavelethertakeonsomuch.Nevershouldhaveputherinsuchdanger.He says she can no longer go outside. In truth,Marie-Laure is relieved. TheGerman haunts her: innightmares,he’saspidercrabthreemetershigh;heclackshisclawsandwhispersOnesimplequestionintoherear.

“Whatabouttheloaves,Uncle?”“Iwillgo.Ishouldhavebeengoingallalong.”On themornings of the fourth and fifth ofAugust, Etienne stands at the front doormumbling to

himself, thenpushesopen thegate andgoesout.Soon afterward, thebell under the third-floor tableringsandhecomesbackinandthrowsbothdeadboltsandstandsinthefoyerbreathingasthoughhehaspassedthroughagauntletofathousanddangers.

Asidefromthebread,theyhavealmostnothingtoeat.Driedpeas.Barley.Powderedmilk.Alastfewtins ofMadameManec’s vegetables.Marie-Laure’s thoughts gallop like bloodhounds over the samequestions. First those policemen two years ago: Mademoiselle, was there no specific thing hementioned?Thenthislimpingsergeantmajorwithadeadvoice.Justtellmeifyourfatherleftanythingwithyouorspokeaboutcarryingsomethingforthemuseum.

Papaleaves.MadameManecleaves.SheremembersthevoicesoftheirneighborsinPariswhenshelosthereyesight:Likethey’recursed.

She tries to forget the fear, the hunger, the questions. She must live like the snails, moment tomoment,centimetertocentimeter.ButontheafternoonofthesixthofAugust,shereadsthefollowinglinestoEtienneonthedavenportinhisstudy:WasittruethatCaptainNemoneverlefttheNautilus?OftenIhadnotseenhimforweeksonend.Whatwashedoingduringthattime?Wasn’titpossiblethathewascarryingoutsomesecretmissioncompletelyunknowntome?

Shesnapsshut thebook.Etiennesays,“Don’tyouwant tofindout if they’regoingtoescapethistime?”ButMarie-Laureisrecitinginherheadthestrangethirdletterfromherfather,thelastoneshereceived.

Rememberyourbirthdays?Howtherewerealwaystwothingsonthetablewhenyouwoke?I’msorryitturnedoutlikethis.Ifyoueverwishtounderstand,lookinsideEtienne’shouse,insidethehouse.Iknowyouwilldotherightthing.ThoughIwishthegiftwerebetter.

Mademoiselle,wastherenospecificthinghementioned?Maywelookatwhateverhebroughtherewithhim?Hehadmanykeysatthemuseum.It’snotthetransmitter.Etienneiswrong.ItwasnottheradiotheGermanwasinterestedin.Itwas

something else, somethinghe thought only shemight knowabout.Andhe heardwhat hewanted tohear.Sheansweredhisonequestionafterall.Justadumbmodelofthistown.Whichiswhyhewalkedaway.LookinsideEtienne’shouse.“What’swrong?”asksEtienne.Insidethehouse.

“Ineedtorest,”sheannounces,andscramblesupthestairstwoatatime,shutsherbedroomdoor,and thrusts her fingers into the miniature city. Eight hundred and sixty-five buildings. Here, near acorner,waitsthetallnarrowhouseatNumber4rueVauborel.Herfingerscrawldownthefacade,findtherecessinthefrontdoor.Shepressesinward,andthehouseslidesupandout.Whensheshakesit,shehearsnothing.Butthehousesnevermadeanynoisewhensheshookthem,didthey?

Evenwith her fingers trembling, it doesn’t takeMarie-Laure long to solve it. Twist the chimneyninetydegrees,slideofftheroofpanelsonetwothree.Afourthdoor,andafifth,onandonuntilyoureachathirteenth,alittlelockeddoornobiggerthana

shoe.So,askedthechildren,howdoyouknowit’sreallythere?Youhavetobelievethestory.Sheturnsthelittlehouseover.Apear-shapedstonedropsintoherpalm.

Numbers

Alliedbombsdemolishtherailstation.TheGermansdisabletheharborinstallations.Airplanesslipinandoutofclouds.EtiennehearsthatwoundedGermansarepouringintoSaint-Servan,thatAmericanshavecapturedMontSaint-Michel,onlytwenty-fivemilesaway,thatliberationisamatterofdays.Hemakes it to the bakery just asMadameRuelle unlocks the door. She ushers him inside. “Theywantlocationsofflakbatteries.Coordinates.Canyoumanageit?”

Etiennegroans.“IhaveMarie-Laure.Whynotyou,Madame?”“I don’t understand maps, Etienne. Minutes, seconds, declination adjustments? You know these

things.Allyouhavetodoisfindthem,plotthem,andbroadcastthecoordinates.”“I’llhavetowalkaroundwithacompassandanotepad.There’snootherwaytodoit.They’llshoot

me.”“It’svitalthattheyreceivepreciselocationsfortheguns.Thinkhowmanylivesitmightsave.And

you’llhavetodoittonight.There’stalkthattomorrowtheywillinternallthemeninthecitybetweeneighteen and sixty. That they’re going to check everyone’s papers, and every man of fighting age,anyonewhocouldbetakingpartintheresistance,willbeimprisonedatFortNational.”

Thebakeryreels;heisbeingcaughtinspiderwebs;theytwistaroundhiswristsandthighs,cracklelike burning paper when hemoves. Every second he becomesmore entangled. The bell tied to thebakerydoor jingles, and someone enters.MadameRuelle’s face seals over like thevisorof aknightclangingdown.

Henods.“Good,”shesays,andtuckstheloafunderhisarm.

Seaof Flames

Itissurfacedbyhundredsoffacets.Overandovershepicksituponlytosetitimmediatelydown,asthoughitburnsherfingers.Herfather’sarrest,thedisappearanceofHaroldBazin,thedeathofMadameManec—couldthisonerockbethecauseofsomuchsorrow?Shehearsthewheezy,wine-scentedvoiceofoldDr.Geffard:Queensmighthavedancedallnightwearingit.Warsmighthavebeenfoughtoverit.Thekeeperof thestonewould live forever,butso longashekept it,misfortuneswould fallonall

thosehelovedoneafteranotherinunendingrain.Thingsarejustthings.Storiesarejuststories.SurelythispebbleiswhattheGermanseeks.Sheoughttoflingopentheshuttersandcastitdown

ontothestreet.Giveittosomeoneelse,anyoneelse.Slipoutofthehouseandhurlitintothesea.Etienneclimbstheladdertotheattic.Shecanhearhimcrossthefloorboardsaboveherandturnon

thetransmitter.Sheputsthestoneinherpocketandpicksupthemodelhouseandcrossesthehall.Butbefore shemakes it to thewardrobe, she stops.Her fathermust havebelieved itwas real.Whyelseconstructtheelaboratepuzzlebox?WhyelseleaveitbehindinSaint-Malo,ifnotinfearthatitcouldbeconfiscatedduringhisjourneyback?Whyelseleaveherbehind?

Itmustatleastlooklikeabluediamondworthtwentymillionfrancs.RealenoughtoconvincePapa.Andifitlooksreal,whatwillheruncledowhensheshowsittohim?Ifshetellshimthattheyoughttothrowitintotheocean?

Shecanheartheboy’svoiceinthemuseum:WhenisthelasttimeyousawsomeonethrowfiveEiffelTowersintothesea?

Whowouldwillinglypartwithit?Andthecurse?Ifthecurseisreal?Andshegivesittohim?Butcursesarenotreal.Earthisallmagmaandcontinentalcrustandocean.Gravityandtime.Isn’t

it?Sheclosesherfist,walksintoherroom,andreplacesthestoneinsidethemodelhouse.Slidesthethreeroofpanelsbackintoplace.Twiststhechimneyninetydegrees.Slipsthehouseinsideherpocket.

Wellaftermidnight,amagnificenthightidearrives,thelargestwavessmashingagainstthebasesoftheramparts, the seagreenandaeratedandnetworkedwith seething raftsofmoonlit foam.Marie-LaurecomesoutofdreamstohearEtiennetappingonherbedroomdoor.

“I’mgoingout.”“Whattimeisit?”“Almostdawn.I’llonlybeanhour.”“Whydoyouhavetogo?”“It’sbetterifyoudon’tknow.”“Whataboutcurfew?”“I’llbequick.”Hergreat-uncle.Whohasnotbeenquickinthefouryearsshehasknownhim.“Whatifthebombingstarts?”“It’salmostdawn,Marie.Ishouldgowhileit’sstilldark.”“Willtheyhitanyhouses,Uncle?Whentheycome?”“Theywon’thitanyhouses.”“Willitbeoverquickly?”

“Quickasaswallow.Yourest,Marie-Laure,andwhenyouwake,I’llbeback.You’llsee.”“Icouldreadtoyouabit?NowthatI’mawake?We’resoclosetotheend.”“WhenI’mback,we’llread.We’llfinishittogether.”Shetriestoresthermind,slowherbreathing.Triesnottothinkaboutthelittlehousenowunderher

pillowandtheterribleburdeninside.“Etienne,”Marie-Laurewhispers,“areyoueversorrythatwecamehere?ThatIgotdroppedinyour

lapandyouandMadameManechadtolookafterme?DidyoueverfeellikeIbroughtacurseintoyourlife?”

“Marie-Laure,”hesayswithouthesitation.Hesqueezesherhandwithbothofhis.“Youarethebestthingthathasevercomeintomylife.”

Somethingseemstobebankingupinthesilence,atide,abreakerrearing.ButEtienneonlysaysasecondtime,“Yourest,andwhenyouwake,I’llbeback,”andshecountshisstepsdownthestairs.

TheArrestof EtienneLeBlanc

Etienne feels strangely good as he steps outside; he feels strong. He is glad Madame Ruelle hasassignedhimthisfinaltask.Hehasalreadytransmittedthelocationofoneair-defensebattery:acannononashelfoframpartbesidetheHotelofBees.Heneedsonlytotakethebearingsoftwomore.Findtwoknownpoints—he’llchoosethecathedralspireandtheouterislandofLePetitBé—thencalculatethelocationofthethirdandunknownpoint.Simpletriangle.Somethingotherthanghostsonwhichhismindcanfix.

Heturnsontotherued’Estrées,skirtsbehindthecollege,makesforthealleybehindtheHôtel-Dieu.Hislegsfeelyoung,hisfeet light.Nooneisabout.Somewherethesuneasesupbehindthefog.Thecity in the predawn is warm and fragrant and sleepy, and the houses on either side seem almostimmaterial.Foramomenthehasavisionthathe’swalkingtheaisleofavasttraincarriage,alltheotherpassengers asleep, the train gliding through darkness toward a city teeming with light: glowingarchways,gleamingtowers,fireworksrising.

Asheapproachesthedarkbulwarkoftheramparts,amaninuniformlimpstowardhimoutoftheblackness.

7August1944

Marie-Laure wakes to the concussions of big guns firing. She crosses the landing and opens thewardrobeand,withthetipofhercane,reachesthroughthehangingshirtsandrapsthreetimesonthefalsebackwall.Nothing.ThenshedescendstothefifthfloorandknocksonEtienne’sdoor.Hisbedisemptyandcool.

He is not on the second floor, nor in thekitchen.Thepennynail beside thedoorwhereMadameManecusedtohangthekeyringisempty.Hisshoesaregone.I’llonlybeanhour.She reins in her panic. Important not to assume theworst. In the foyer, she checks the tripwire:

intact. Then she tears an end off yesterday’s loaf from Madame Ruelle and stands in the kitchenchewing.Thewater—miraculously—hasbeenturnedbackon,soshefillsthetwogalvanizedbucketsandcarriesthemupstairsandsetstheminthecornerofherbedroomandthinksamomentandwalkstothethirdfloorandfillsthebathtubtotherim.

Thensheopenshernovel.CaptainNemohasplantedhisflagontheSouthPole,but ifhedoesn’tmovethesubmarinenorthsoon,theywillbecometrappedinice.Thespringequinoxhasjustpassed;theyfacesixmonthsofunrelentingnight.

Marie-Laurecountsthechaptersthatremain.Nine.Sheistemptedtoreadon,buttheyarevoyagingon theNautilus together, she andEtienne, andas soonashe returns, theywill resume.Anymomentnow.

She rechecks the little houseunder her pillowand fights the temptation to takeout the stone andinsteadreinstallsthehouseinsidethemodelcityatthefootofherbed.Outthewindow,atruckroarstolife.Gullspass,braying likedonkeys,and in thedistance theguns thudagain,and therattlingof thetruckfades,andMarie-Lauretriestoconcentrateonrereadingachapterearlierinthenovel:maketheraiseddotsformletters,theletterswords,thewordsaworld.

Intheafternoon,thetripwirequivers,andthebellhiddenbeneaththethird-floortablegivesasinglering.Intheattichighaboveher,amutedringmatchesit.Marie-Laureliftsherfingersfromthepage,thinking,Atlast,butwhenshewindsdownthestairsandsetsherhandonthedeadboltandcalls,“Whoisthere?”shehearsnotthequietvoiceofEtiennebuttheoilyoneoftheperfumerClaudeLevitte.

“Letmein,please.”Eventhroughthedoorshecansmellhim,peppermint,musk,aldehyde.Beneaththat:Sweat.Fear.Sheundoesbothdeadboltsandopensthedoorhalfway.Hespeaksthroughthehalf-opengate.“Youneedtocomewithme.”“Iamwaitingformygreat-uncle.”“Ihavetalkedtoyourgreat-uncle.”“Youtalkedtohim?Where?”Marie-LaurecanhearMonsieurLevittecrackinghisknucklesoneafter thenext.His lungs toiling

inside his chest. “If you could see, mademoiselle, you’d have seen the evacuation orders. They’velockedthecitygates.”

Shedoesnotreply.“They’redetainingeverymanbetweensixteenandsixty.They’vebeentoldtoassembleatthetower

ofthechâteau.ThentheywillbemarchedtoFortNationalatlowtide.Godbewiththem.”

OutontherueVauborel,everythingsoundscalm.Swallowsswooppastthehouses,andtwodovesbickeronahighgutter.Abicyclistgoesrattlingpast.Thenquiet.Havetheyreallylockedthecitygates?HasthismanreallyspokentoEtienne?

“Willyougowiththem,MonsieurLevitte?”“I plannot to.Youmust get to a shelter immediately.”MonsieurLevitte sniffs. “Or to the crypts

belowNotre-DameatRocabey.WhichiswhereIsentMadame.It’swhatyouruncleaskedmetodo.Leaveabsolutelyeverythingbehind,andcomewithmenow.”

“Why?”“Youruncleknowswhy.Everybodyknowswhy.It’snotsafehere.Comealong.”“Butyousaidthegatestothecityarelocked.”“Yes,Idid,girl,andthat’senoughquestionsfornow.”Hesighs.“Youarenotsafe,andIamhereto

help.”“Unclesaysourcellarissafe.Hesaysifithaslastedforfivehundredyears,itwilllastafewmore

nights.”Theperfumerclearshisthroat.Sheimagineshimextendinghisthicknecktolookintothehouse,the

coatontherack,thecrumbsofbreadonthekitchentable.Everyonecheckingtoseewhateveryoneelsehas. Her uncle could not have asked the perfumer to escort her to a shelter—when is the last timeEtienne has spoken toClaudeLevitte?Again she thinks of themodel upstairs, the stone inside. ShehearsDr.Geffard’svoice:Thatsomethingsosmallcouldbesobeautiful.Worthsomuch.

“HousesareburningatParamé,mademoiselle.They’rescuttlingshipsat theport, they’re shellingthecathedral,andthere’snowateratthehospital.Thedoctorsarewashingtheirhandsinwine.Wine!”TheedgesofMonsieurLevitte’svoiceflutter.SheremembersMadameManecsayingoncethateverytimeatheftwasreportedintown,MonsieurLevittewouldgotobedwithhisbillfoldstuffedbetweenhisbuttocks.

Marie-Lauresays,“Iwillstay.”“Christ,girl,mustIforceyou?”SherememberstheGermanpacingoutsideHaroldBazin’sgate, theedgeofhisnewspaperrattling

thebars,andcloses thedoorafraction.Someonehasput theperfumerupto this.“Surely,”shesays,“mygreat-uncleandIarenottheonlypeoplesleepingbeneathourownrooftonight.”

Shetriesherbesttolookimpassive.MonsieurLevitte’ssmellisoverpowering.“Mademoiselle.”Pleadingnow.“Bereasonable.Comewithmeandleaveeverythingbehind.”“Youmaytalktomygreat-unclewhenhereturns.”Andsheboltsthedoor.She can hear him standing out there.Working out some cost-benefit analysis. Then he turns and

recedes down the street, dragginghis fear like a cart behindhim.Marie-Laure bends beside the halltableandfindsthethreadandresets thetripwire.Whatcouldhehaveseen?Acoat,halfofaloafofbread?Etiennewillbepleased.Outpastthekitchenwindow,swiftsswoopforinsects,andthefilamentsofaspiderwebcatchthelightandshineforaninstantandaregone.

Andyet:whatiftheperfumerwastellingthetruth?Thedaylightdullstogold.Afewcricketsdowninthecellarbegintheirsong:arhythmickree-kree,

evening inAugust, andMarie-Laure hikes her tattered stockings and goes into the kitchen and tearsanotherhunkfromMadameRuelle’sloaf.

Leaflets

Beforedark,theAustriansserveporkkidneyswithwholetomatoesonhotelchina,asinglesilverbeeetched on the rim of every plate. Everyone sits on sandbags or ammunition boxes, and Bernd fallsasleepoverhisbowl,andVolkheimertalksinthecornerwiththelieutenantabouttheradiointhecellar,andaround theperimeterof the room theAustrians chewsteadilybeneath their steel helmets.Brisk,experiencedmen.Menwhodonotdoubttheirpurpose.

When Werner is done with his food, he lets himself into the topfloor suite and stands in thehexagonal bathtub. He nudges the shutter, and it opens a few centimeters. The evening air is abenediction.Belowthewindow,ononeofthebastionedtracesontheseawardsideofthehotel,waitsthebig88.Beyondthegun,beyondtheembrasures,rampartsplungefortyfeettothegreenandwhiteplumesofsurf.Tohis leftwaits thecity,grayanddense.Far in theeast,aredglowrisesfromsomebattlejustoutofsight.TheAmericanshavethempinnedagainstthesea.

ItseemstoWernerthatinthespacebetweenwhateverhashappenedalreadyandwhateveristocomehoversaninvisibleborderland,theknownononesideandtheunknownontheother.Hethinksofthegirlwhomayormaynotbeinthecitybehindhim.Heenvisionsherrunninghercanealongtherunnels.Facingtheworldwithherbarreneyes,herwildhair,herbrightface.

Atleastheprotectedthesecretsofherhouse.Atleasthekepthersafe.Neworders,signedbythegarrisoncommanderhimself,havebeenpostedondoorsandmarketstalls

and lampposts.Nopersonmustattempt to leave theoldcity.Noonemustwalk in thestreetswithoutspecialauthority.

JustbeforeWernerclosestheshutter,asingleairplanecomesthroughthedusk.Fromitsbellyissuesaflockofwhitegrowingslowlylarger.

Birds?Theflockissundering,scattering:itispaper.Thousandsofsheets.Theygustdowntheslopeofthe

roof,skitteracrosstheparapets,stickflatintidaleddiesdownonthebeach.Wernerdescendstothelobby,whereanAustrianholdsonetothelight.“It’sinFrench,”hesays.Wernertakesit.Theinksofreshitsmudgesbeneathhisfingers.Urgentmessagetotheinhabitantsof

thistown,itsays.Departimmediatelytoopencountry.

Ten

12August1944

Entombed

Sheisreadingagain:Whocouldpossiblycalculatetheminimumtimerequiredforustogetout?MightwenotbeasphyxiatedbeforetheNautiluscouldsurface?Wasitdestinedtoperishinthistomboficealong with all those on board? The situation seemed terrible. But everyone faced it squarely anddecidedtodotheirdutytotheend...

Werner listens. The crew chops through the icebergs that have trapped their submarine; it cruisesnorthalongthecoastofSouthAmerica,pastthemouthoftheAmazon,onlytobechasedbygiantsquidintheAtlantic.Thepropellercutsout;CaptainNemoemergesfromhiscabinforthefirsttimeinweeks,lookinggrim.

Wernerhaulshimselfoff the floor, carrying the radio inonehandanddragging thebattery in theother.HetraversesthecellaruntilhefindsVolkheimerinthegoldarmchair.Hesetsdownthebatteryandrunshishandupthebigman’sarmtohisshoulder.Locateshishugehead.ClampstheheadphonesoverVolkheimer’sears.

“Canyouhearher?” saysWerner.“It’sa strangeandbeautiful story, IwishyoucouldunderstandFrench.Agiantsquidhaslodgeditsgiantbeakintothepropellerofthesubmarine,andnowthecaptainhassaidtheymustsurfaceandfightthebeastshandtohand.”

Volkheimerdrawsaslowbreath.Hedoesnotmove.“She’s using the transmitterwewere supposed to find. I found it.Weeks ago.They said itwas a

networkofterrorists,butitwasjustanoldmanandagirl.”Volkheimersaysnothing.“Youknewallalong,didn’tyou?ThatIknew?”VolkheimermustnotbeabletohearWernerthroughtheheadphones.“Shekeepssaying,‘Helpme.’Shebegsherfather,hergreat-uncle.Shesays,‘Heishere.Hewillkill

me.’ ”Amoanshuddersthroughtherubbleabovethem,andinthedarknessWernerfeelsasifheistrapped

insidetheNautilus,twentymetersdown,whilethetentaclesofadozenangrykrakenlashitshull.Heknows the transmittermustbehigh in thehouse.Close to theshelling.Hesays,“Isavedheronly tohearherdie.”

Volkheimershowsnosignsofhavingunderstood.Goneorresolvedtogo:istheremuchdifference?Wernertakesbacktheheadphonesandsitsinthedustbesidethebattery.Thefirstmate,shereads,struggledfuriouslywithothermonsterswhichwereclimbingupthesidesof

theNautilus.Thecrewwereflailingawaywiththeiraxes.Ned,ConseilandIalsodugourweaponsintotheirsoftbodies.Aviolentodorofmuskfilledtheair.

FortNational

Etienne begged his jailers, the guardian of the fort, dozens of his fellow prisoners. “My niece,mygreat-niece,she’sblind,she’salone...”Hetoldthemhewassixty-three,notsixty,astheyclaimed,thathispapershadbeenunfairlyconfiscated,thathewasnotaterrorist;hewobbledbeforetheFeldwebelincharge and stumbled through the few German phrases he could stitch together—“Sie müssen michhelfen! ”“MeineNichteisthereindort! ”—buttheFeldwebelshruggedlikeeverybodyelseandlookedbackatthecityburningacrossthewaterasiftosay:whatcananyonedointhefaceofthat?

ThenthestrayAmericanshellstruckthefort,andthewoundedhowleddowninthemunitionscellar,andthedeadwereburiedunderrocksjustabovethetideline,andEtiennestoppedtalking.

The tideslipsaway, thenclimbsbackup.WhateverenergyEtiennehas leftgoes intoquieting thenoise in his head. Sometimes he almost convinces himself that he can see through the smolderingskeletonsoftheseafrontmansionsatthenorthwesterncornerofthecitytotherooftopofhishouse.Healmostconvinceshimselfitstands.Butthenitdisappearsagainbehindamantleofsmoke.

Nopillow,noblanket.Thelatrineisapocalyptic.Foodcomesirregularly,carriedoutfromthecitadelby the guardian’s wife across the quartermile of rocks at low tide while shells explode in the citybehindher.There’s never enough.Etiennediverts himselfwith fantasies of escape.Slipover awall,swimseveralhundredmeters, draghimself through the shorebreak.Scamper across theminedbeachwithnocovertooneofthelockedgates.Absurd.

Outheretheprisonersseetheshellssmashintothecitybeforetheyhearthem.Duringthelastwar,Etienneknewartillerymenwhocouldpeerthroughfieldglassesanddiscerntheirshells’damagebythecolorsthrownskyward.Graywasstone.Brownwassoil.Pinkwasflesh.

Heshutshiseyes.HerememberslamplithoursinMonsieurHébrard’sbookshoplisteningtothefirstradioheeverheard.HeremembersclimbingintothechoirofthecathedraltolistentoHenri’svoiceasit rose toward theceiling.Heremembers thecrampedrestaurantswith leadedwindowsand linenfoldpanelingwherehisparentstookthemtodinner;andthecorsairs’villaswithscallopedfriezesandDoriccolumns and gold coinsmortared inside thewalls; the storefronts of gunsmiths and shipmasters andmoneychangersandhostelers; thegraffitiHenriused toscratch into thestonesof ramparts, Icannotwait to leave, fuck thisplace.Heremembers theLeBlanchouse,hishouse!Tallandnarrowwith thestaircase spiraling up its center like a spire shell stood on end, where the ghost of his brotheroccasionallyslippedbetweenwalls,whereMadameManec livedanddied,wherenot so longagohecouldsitonadavenportwithMarie-LaureandpretendtheyflewoverthevolcanoesofHawaii,overthecloudforestsofPeru,wherejustaweekagoshesatcross-leggedonthefloorandreadtohimaboutapearl fisheryoff thecoastofCeylon,CaptainNemoandAronnax in theirdivingsuits, the impulsiveCanadianNedLandabouttohurlhisharpoonthroughthesideofashark...Allofitisburning.Everymemoryheevermade.

AboveFortNational, thedawnbecomesdeeply,murderouslyclear.TheMilkyWayafadingriver.Helooksacrosstothefires.Hethinks:Theuniverseisfulloffuel.

CaptainNemo’sLastWords

By noon on the twelfth of August, Marie-Laure has read seven of the last nine chapters into themicrophone. Captain Nemo has freed his ship from the giant squid only to stare into the eye of ahurricane.Pageslater,herammedawarshipfullofmen,passingthroughitshull,Vernewrites,likeasailmaker’sneedlethroughcloth.Nowthecaptainplaysamournful,chillingdirgeonhisorganastheNautilus sleeps in thewastelandsof thesea.Threepagesare left. IfMarie-Laurehasbroughtanyonecomfortbybroadcastingthestory,ifhergreat-uncle,crouchedinsomedankcellarwithahundredmen,tunedherin—ifsometrioofAmericansreclinedinthenighttimefieldsastheycleanedtheirweaponsandtraveledthedarkgangwaysoftheNautiluswithher—shecannotsay.

Butsheisgladtobesoneartheend.DownstairstheGermanhasshoutedtwiceinfrustration,thenfallensilent.Whynot,sheconsiders,

justslidethroughthewardrobeandhandthelittlehousetohimandfindoutifhewillspareher?Firstshewillfinish.Thenshe’lldecide.Againsheopensthemodelhouseandtipsthestoneintoherpalm.Whatwouldhappenifthegoddess

took away the curse?Would the fires go out, would the earth heal over, would doves return to thewindowsills?WouldPapacomeback?

Fillyourlungs.Beatyourheart.Shekeepstheknifebesideher.Fingertipspressedtothelinesofthenovel.TheCanadianharpoonerNedLandhasfoundhiswindowforescape.“Thesea’sbad,”hesaystoProfessorAronnax,“andthewind’sblowingstrong...”“I’mwithyou,Ned.”“Butletmetellyouthatifwe’recaught,I’mgoingtodefendmyself,evenifIdiedoingit.”“We’lldietogether,Nedmyfriend.”Marie-Laure turns on the transmitter. She thinks of the whelks in Harold Bazin’s kennel, ten

thousandof them;howtheycling;howtheydrawthemselvesup into thespiralsof theirshells;how,whenthey’retuckedintothatgrotto, thegullscannotcomeintocarrythemupintotheskyanddropthemontherockstobreakthem.

Visitor

VonRumpeldrinksfromabottleofskunkedwinehehasfoundinthekitchen.Fourdaysinthishouse,and howmanymistakes he hasmade!TheSea of Flames could have been in theParisMuseum allalong—thatsimperingmineralogistandtheassistantdirectorlaughingasheslunkaway,duped,fooled,inveigled.Or theperfumercouldhavebetrayedhim, takingthediamondfromthegirlaftermarchingher away. Or Levitte might have walked her right out of the city while she carried it in her rattyknapsack;or theoldmancouldhave jammed ituphis rectumand is justnowshitting itout, twentymillionfrancsinapileoffeces.

Ormaybethestonewasneverrealatall.Maybeitwasallhoax,allstory.Hehadbeensocertain.Certainhehadfound thehidingspot,solved thepuzzle.Certain thestone

would save him. The girl didn’t know, the old man was out of the picture—everything was set upperfectly.Whatiscertainnow?Onlythemurderousbloominsidehisbody,onlythecorruptionitbringstoeverycell.Inhisearscomesthevoiceofhisfather:Youareonlybeingtested.

SomeonecallstohiminGerman.“Istdawer? ”Father?“Youinthere!”VonRumpellistens.Soundsdrawingnearer throughthesmoke.Hecrawlstothewindow.Setshis

helmetonhishead.Thrustshisheadovertheshatteredsill.AGermaninfantrycorporalsquintsupfromthestreet.“Sir?Ididn’texpect. . .Isthehouseclear,

sir?”“Empty,yes.Whereareyouheaded,Corporal?”“ThefortressatLaCité,sir.Weareevacuating.Leavingeverything.Westillholdthechâteauandthe

BastiondelaHollande.Allotherpersonnelaretofallback.”VonRumpelbraceshischinonthesill,feelingasifhisheadmightseparatefromhisneckandgo

tumblingdowntoexplodeonthestreet.“Theentiretownwillbeinsidethebombline,”thecorporalsays.“Howlong?”“Therewill be a cease-fire tomorrow.Noon, they say.To get civilians out.Then they resume the

assault.”VonRumpelsays,“We’regivingupthecity?”Ashelldetonatesnotfaraway,andtheechoesoftheblastshuntdownbetweenthewreckedhouses,

andthesoldierinthestreetclapsahandoverhishelmet.Bitsofstoneskitteracrossthecobbles.Hecalls,“Youarewithwhichunit,SergeantMajor?”“Continuewithyourwork,Corporal.I’mnearlydonehere.”

FinalSentence

Volkheimerdoesnotstir.Theliquidatthebottomofthepaintbucket,howevertoxicitwas,isgone.Wernerhasheardnothingfromthegirlonanyfrequencyforhowlong?Anhour?More?ShereadabouttheNautilusgettingsuckeddownintoawhirlpool,waveshigherthanhouses,thesubmarinestandingonend,itssteelribscracking,andthenshereadwhatheassumedwasthelastlineofthebook:Thus, tothatquestionaskedsixthousandyearsagobyEcclesiastes,“Thatwhichisfaroff,andexceedingdeep,whocanfinditout?”onlytwomennowhavetherighttoanswer:CaptainNemoandmyself.

Thenthetransmittersnappedoffandtheabsolutedarknessclosedaroundhim.Forthesepastdays—howmany?—ithasfeltasthoughthehungerwereahandinsidehim,thrustingaroundinthecavityofhischest,reachinguptohisshoulderblades,thendownintohispelvis.Scrapingathisbones.Today,though—orisittonight?—thehungerpetersoutlikeaflameforwhichnofuelremains.Emptinessandfullness,intheend,somehowthesame.

WernerblinksuptoseetheViennesegirlinhercapedescendthroughtheceilingasifitisnomorethan a shadow. She carries a paper sack full of withered greens and seats herself amid the rubble.Aroundherswirlsacloudofbees.

Hecanseenothing,buthecanseeher.Shecountsonherfingers.Fortrippinginline,shesays.Forworkingtooslowly.Forarguingover

bread.Forloiteringtoolonginthecamptoilet.Forsobbing.Fornotorganizingherthingsaccordingtoprotocol.

It’ssurelynonsense,yetsomethinghangsinsideit,sometruthhedoesnotwanttoallowhimselftoapprehend,andasshespeaks,sheages,silverhairlaysdownonherhead,hercollarfrays;shebecomesanoldwoman—hisunderstandingofwhohoversattherimofhisconsciousness.Forcomplainingofheadaches.Forsinging.Forspeakingatnightinherbunk.Forforgettingherbirthdateduringeveningmuster.Forunloadingtheshipmenttooslowly.Fornotturninginherkeyscorrectly.Forfailingtoinformtheguard.Forrisingfrombedtoolate.FrauSchwartzenberger—that’swhosheis.TheJewessinFrederick’selevator.Sherunsoutoffingersasshecounts.Forclosinghereyeswhilebeingaddressed.Forhoardingcrusts.Forattemptingtoenterthepark.Forhavinginflamedhands.Foraskingforacigarette.Forafailureofimaginationandinthedarkness,itfeelsasif Wernerhasreachedbottom,asifhehas

been whirling deeper all this time, like the Nautilus sucked under the maelstrom, like his fatherdescending into thepits:aone-waydive fromZollvereinpastSchulpforta,past thehorrorsofRussiaandUkraine,past themotheranddaughter inVienna,hisambitionandshamebecomingoneand thesame,tothenadirinthisbasementontherimofthecontinentwheretheapparitionchantsnonsense—

FrauSchwartzenbergerwalkstowardhim,transformingherselfassheapproachesfromwomantogirl—herhairbecomesredagain,herskinsmooths,aseven-year-oldgirlpressesherfaceupagainsthis,andinthecenterofherforeheadhecanseeaholeblackerthantheblacknessaroundhim,atthebottomofwhich teemsadarkcity fullof souls, ten thousand, fivehundred thousand,all these faces staringupfromalleys,fromwindows,fromsmolderingparks,andhehearsthunder.

Lightning.Artillery.Thegirlevaporates.Thegroundquakes.Theorgans insidehisbodyshake.Thebeamsgroan.Then theslow trickleof

dustandtheshallow,defeatedbreathsofVolkheimerameteraway.

Music#1

SometimeaftermidnightonAugust13,aftersurvivinginhergreat-uncle’satticforfivedays,Marie-Laure holds a record with her left hand while she runs the fingers of her right gently through itsgrooves,reconstructingthewholesonginherhead.Eachriseandfall.ThensheslotstherecordonthespindleofEtienne’selectrophone.

Nowaterforadayandahalf.Nofoodfortwo.Theatticsmellsofheatanddustandconfinementandherownurineintheshavingbowlinthecorner.We’lldietogether,Nedmyfriend.Thesiege,itseems,willneverend.Masonrycrashesintothestreets;thecityfallstopieces;stillthis

onehousedoesnotfall.Shetakestheunopenedcanoutofhergreat-uncle’scoatpocketandsetsitinthecenteroftheattic

floor.For so longshehas saved it.Maybebecause itoffers some last tie toMadameManec.Maybebecauseifsheopensitandfindsitspoiled,thelosswillkillher.

Sheplaces thecanandbrickbeneath thepianobench,where sheknowsshecan find themagain.Then she double-checks the record on the spindle. Lowers the arm, places the needle at the outsideedge.Findsthemicrophoneswitchwithherlefthand,thetransmitterswitchwithherright.

Sheisgoingtoturnitupasloudasitwillgo.IftheGermanisinthehouse,hewillhear.He’llhearpianomusicdrainingdownthroughtheupperstoriesandcockhishead,andthenhe’llrovethesixthfloorlikeaslaveringdemon.Eventuallyhe’llsethiseartothedoorsofthewardrobe,whereitwillbelouderstill.

Whatmazesthereareinthisworld.Thebranchesoftrees,thefiligreeofroots,thematrixofcrystals,thestreetsherfatherre-createdinhismodels.Mazesinthenodulesonmurexshellsandinthetexturesofsycamorebarkandinsidethehollowbonesofeagles.Nonemorecomplicatedthanthehumanbrain,Etiennewouldsay,whatmaybethemostcomplexobjectinexistence;onewetkilogramwithinwhichspinuniverses.

Sheplacesthemicrophoneintothebell-shapedspeakeroftheelectrophone,switchesontherecordplayer,andtheplatebeginstospin.Theatticcrackles.InhermindshewalksapathintheJardindesPlantes,theairgolden,thewindgreen,thelongfingersofwillowsdriftingacrosshershoulders.Aheadisherfather;heextendsahand,waiting.

Thepianostartstoplay.Marie-Laurereachesbeneaththebenchandlocatestheknife.Shecrawlsalongthefloortothetopof

theseven-rungladderandsitswithherfeetdanglingandthediamondinsidethehouseinherpocketandtheknifeinherfist.

Shesays,“Comeandgetme.”

Music#2

Beneaththestarsoverthecity,everythingsleeps.Gunnerssleep,nunsinacryptbeneaththecathedralsleep,childreninoldcorsairs’cellarssleepinthelapsofsleepingmothers.ThedoctorinthebasementoftheHôtel-Dieusleeps.WoundedGermansinthetunnelsbelowthefortofLaCitésleep.BehindthewallsofFortNational,Etiennesleeps.Everythingsleepssavethesnailsclimbingtherocksandtheratsscurryingamongthepiles.

InaholebeneaththeruinsoftheHotelofBees,Wernersleepstoo.OnlyVolkheimerisawake.HesitswiththebigradioinhislapwhereWernerhassetitandthedyingbatterybetweenhisfeetandstaticwhisperinginbothearsnotbecausehebelieveshewillhearanythingbutbecausethisiswhereWernerhas left the headphones.Because he does not have thewill to push themoff.Because he convincedhimselfhoursagothattheplasterheadsontheothersideofthecellarwillkillhimifhemoves.

Impossibly,thestaticcoalescesintomusic.Volkheimer’seyesopenaswideastheycan.Strainingtheblacknessforeverystrayphoton.Asingle

pianorunsupscales.Thenbackdown.Helistenstothenotesandthesilencesbetweenthem,andthenfinds himself leading horses through a forest at dawn, trudging through snow behind his great-grandfather,whowalkswithasawdrapedoverhishugeshoulders,thesnowsqueakingbeneathbootsandhooves,all thetreesabovethemwhisperingandcreaking.Theyreachtheedgeofafrozenpond,whereapinegrowsastallasacathedral.Hisgreat-grandfathergoestohiskneeslikeapenitent,fitsthesawintoagrooveinthebark,andbeginstocut.

Volkheimer stands. Finds Werner’s leg in the darkness, puts the headphones on Werner’s ears.“Listen,”hesays,“listen,listen...”

Wernercomesawake.Chordsfloatpastintransparentriffles.“ClairdeLune.”Claire:agirlsoclearyoucanseerightthroughher.

Volkheimersays,“Hookthelighttothebattery.”“Why?”“Doit.”Evenbeforethesonghasstoppedplaying,Wernerdisconnectstheradiofromthebattery,unscrews

thebezelandbulbfromthedeadfieldlight,touchesittotheleads,andgivesthemasphereoflight.Atthebackcornerof thecellar,Volkheimerdragsblocksofmasonryandpiecesof timberandshatteredsections ofwall out of the rubble, stopping now and then only to lean over his knees and catch hisbreath.Hestacksthemintoabarrier.ThenhepullsWernerbehindthismakeshiftbunker,unscrewsthebaseofagrenadeandyanksthepullcordtoignitethefive-secondfuse.Wernersetsonehandoverhishelmet,andVolkheimerthrowsthegrenadeattheplacewherethestairwellusedtobe.

Music#3

VonRumpel’sdaughterswere fat, roiling littlebabies,weren’t they?Bothof themalwaysdroppingtheirrattlesorrubberpacifiersandtanglingthemselvesinblankets,whysotortured,littleangels?Butthey grew! Despite all his absences. And they could sing, especially Veronika.Maybe theyweren’tgoingtobefamous,buttheycouldsingwellenoughtopleaseafather.They’dweartheirbigfeltbootsandthoseawfulshapelessdressestheirmothermadeforthem,primrosesanddaisiesembroideredalongthe collars, and fold their hands behind their backs, and belt out lyrics they were too young tounderstand.

Menclustertomelikemothsaroundaflame,andiftheirwingsburn,IknowI’mnottoblame.

Inwhatmightbeamemoryoradream,vonRumpelwatchesVeronika,theearlyriser,kneelonthefloor ofMarie-Laure’s room in the predawn darkness and march a doll in a white gown alongsideanotherinagraysuitdownthestreetsofthemodelcity.Theyturnleft,thenright,untiltheyreachthestepsofthecathedral,whereathirddollwaits,dressedinblack,onearmraised.Weddingorsacrifice,hecannotsay.ThenVeronikasingssosoftlythathecannothearthewords,onlythemelody,lesslikethe soundsmade by a human voice andmore like the notesmade by a piano, and the dolls dance,swayingfromfoottofoot.

Themusicstops,andVeronikavanishes.Hesitsup.Themodelat thefootofthebedbleedsawayandisalongtimerestoringitself.Somewhereabovehim,thevoiceofayoungmanstartsspeakinginFrenchaboutcoal.

Out

Forasplitsecond,thespacearoundWernertearsinhalf,asthoughthelastmoleculesofoxygenhavebeenrippedoutofit.Thenshardsofstoneandwoodandmetalstreakpast,ringingagainsthishelmet,sizzling into the wall behind them, and Volkheimer’s barricade collapses, and everywhere in thedarkness,thingsscuttleandslide,andhecannotfindanyairtobreathe.Butthedetonationcreatessometectonicshiftinthebuilding’srubble,andthereisasnapfollowedbymultiplecascadesinthedarkness.WhenWernerstopscoughingandpushesthedebrisoffhischest,hefindsVolkheimerstaringupatasingleshearedholeofpurplelight.

Sky.Nightsky.Ashaftofstarlightslicesthroughthedustanddropsalongtheedgeofamoundofrubbletothefloor.

ForamomentWerner inhales it.ThenVolkheimerurgeshimbackandclimbshalfwayup the ruinedstaircaseandbeginswhalingawayattheedgesoftheholewithapieceofrebar.Theironclangsandhishandslacerateandhissix-daybeardglowswhitewithdust,butWernercanseethatVolkheimermakesquickprogress:thesliveroflightbecomesavioletwedge,wideracrossthantwoofWerner’shands.

Withonemoreblow,Volkheimermanagestopulverizeabigslabofdebris,muchofitcrashingontohishelmetandshoulders, and then it is simplyamatterof scrabblingandclimbing.Hesqueezeshisupperbodythroughthehole,hisshouldersscrapingontheedges,hisjackettearing,hipstwisting,andthenhe’sthrough.HereachesdownforWerner,hiscanvasduffel,andtherifle,andpullsthemallup.

Theykneelatopwhatwasonceanalley.Starlighthangsovereverything.NomoonWernercansee.Volkheimer turns his bleeding palms up as though to catch the air, to let it seep into his skin likerainwater.

Only twowalls of the hotel stand, joined at the corner, bits of plaster attached to the innerwall.Beyond it, houses display their interiors to the night. The rampart behind the hotel remains, thoughmanyofitsembrasuresalongthetophavebeenshattered.Theseapresentsabarelyaudiblewashontheotherside.Everythingelseisrubbleandsilence.Starlightrainsontoeverycrenellation.Howmanymendecomposeinthepilesofstonebeforethem?Nine.Maybemore.

Theymake for the leeof the ramparts, bothof themstaggering likedrunks.When they reach thewall,VolkheimerblinksdownatWerner.Thenoutatthenight.Hisfacesodustedwhitehelookslikeacolossusmadeofpowder.

Fiveblockstothesouth,isthegirlstillplayingherrecording?Volkheimersays,“Taketherifle.Go.”“Andyou?”“Food.”Wernerrubshiseyesagainst thegloryofthestarlight.Hefeelsnohunger,asifhehasridhimself

foreverofthenuisanceofeating.“Butwillwe—?”“Go,”saysVolkheimeragain.Werner looksathimalast time:his tornjacketandshovel jaw.The

tendernessofhisbighands.Whatyoucouldbe.Didheknow?Allalong?Wernermovesfromcovertocover.Canvasbaginhislefthand,rifleinhisright.Fiveroundsleft.In

his mind he hears the girl whisper: He is here. He will kill me. West down a canyon of rubble,scramblingoverbricksandwiresandpiecesofroofslates,manyofthemstillhot,thestreetsapparently

abandoned, thoughwhateyesmight trackhimfrombehindshatteredwindows,GermanorFrenchorAmericanorBritish,hecannotsay.Possiblythecrosshairsofasnipercenteronhimthisverysecond.

Hereasingleplatformshoe.Herea fretworkwoodenchefonhisback,holdingaboardonwhichremainschalkedtoday’ssoup.Heregreattangledcoilsofbarbedwire.Everywherethereekofcorpses.

Crouchingintheleeofwhatwasatouristgiftshop—afewsouvenirplatesintheirracks,eachwithadifferent name painted on the rim and arranged alphabetically—Werner locates himself in the city.CoiffeurDamesacrossthestreet.Abankwithnowindows.Adeadhorse,attachedtoitscart.Hereandthereanintactbuildingstandswithoutitswindowglass,thefiligreedtrailsofsmokegrownupfromitswindowsliketheshadowsofivythathavebeenrippedaway.

Whatlightshinesatnight!Heneverknew.Daywillblindhim.Werner turns right on what he believes is the rue d’Estrées. Number 4 on the rue Vauborel still

stands. Every window on its facade has been broken but the walls are hardly scorched; two of itswoodenflowerboxeshangon.Heisrightbelowme.Theysaidwhatheneededwascertainty.Purpose.Clarity.Thatpigeon-chestedcommandantBastian

withhisgrandmother’swalk;hesaidtheywouldstripthehesitationoutofhim.Weareavolleyofbullets,wearecannonballs.Wearethetipofthesword.Whoistheweakest?

Wardrobe

VonRumpelwobblesbeforethemightycabinet.Peersintotheoldclothesinside.Waistcoats,stripedtrousers, moth-chewed chambray shirts with tall collars and comically long sleeves. Boys’ clothes,decadesold.

Whatisthisroom?Thebigmirrorsonthewardrobedoorsarespottedblackwithage,andoldleatherbootsstandbeneathalittledesk,andawhiskbroomhangsfromapeg.Onthedeskstandsaphotographofaboyinbreechesonabeachatdusk.

Beyondthebrokenwindowhangsawindlessnight.Ashesswirlinginstarlight.Thevoicefilteringthroughtheceilingrepeatsitself...Thebrainislockedintotaldarkness,ofcourse,children...Andyettheworlditconstructs...loweringinpitchandwarpingasthebatteriesdie,thelessonslowingasthoughtheyoungmanisexhausted,andthenitstops.

Heartgalloping,headfailing,candleinonehand,pistolintheother,vonRumpelturnsagaintothewardrobe.Bigenoughtoclimbinside.Howdidsuchamonstrousthingevergetuptothesixthfloor?

He brings the candle closer and sees, in the shadows of the hanging shirts, what he missed onpreviousinspections: trails throughthedust.Madebyfingersorkneesorboth.Withthebarrelofhispistol,henudgestheclothes.Howdeepdoesitgo?

He leansall theway inside, andashedoes,hehears a chime, twinbells tinklingbothaboveandbelow.Thesoundmakeshimjerkbackward,andheknockshisheadonthetopofthewardrobe,andthecandlefalls,andvonRumpellandsonhisback.

He watches the candle roll, its flame pointing up.Why?What curious principle demands that acandleflametaperalwaystowardthesky?

Fivedaysinthishouseandnodiamond,thelastGerman-controlledportinBrittanynearlylost,theAtlanticWall with it. Already he has lived beyond the deadline the doctor predicted. And now thetollingoftwotinybells?Thisishowdeathcomes?

Thecandlerollsgently.Towardthewindow.Towardthecurtains.Downstairsthedoorofthehousecreaksopen.Someonestepsinside.

Comrades

Shatteredcrockery litters the foyer—impossible tobenoiselessasheenters.Akitchen fullofdebriswaitsdownacorridor.Hallwaydeepwithdriftsofash.Chairoverturned.Staircaseahead.Unlessshehasmovedinthepastfewminutes,shewillbehighinthehouse,closetothetransmitter.

Rifle inbothhands, bagoverhis shoulder,Werner starts up.At each landing a rushingblacknessthrowsoff his vision. Spots open and close at his feet.Books have been throwndown the stairwell,alongwithpapers,cords,bottles,andwhatmightbepiecesofantiquedollhouses.Second floor thirdfourthfifth:allinthesamestate.Hehasnosenseofhowmuchnoisehemakesorwhetheritmatters.

Onthesixthfloor,thestairsappeartoend.Threehalf-opendoorsframethelanding:onetotheleft,oneahead,onetotheright.Hegoestohisright,rifleup;heexpectstheflashofgunbarrels,thejawsofademonswingingopen.Instead,abrokenwindowilluminatesaswaybackedbed.Agirl’sdresshangsinanarmoire.Hundredsoftinythings—pebbles?—linethebaseboards.Twobucketsstandinacorner,halffullofwhatmightbewater.

Ishetoolate?HepropsVolkheimer’srifleagainstthebedandraisesabucketanddrinksonce,twice.Out the window, far beyond the neighboring block, beyond the ramparts, the single light of a boatappearsanddisappearsasitrisesandfallsondistantswells.

Avoicebehindhimsays,“Ah.”Werner turns. In front of him totters a German officer in field dress. The five bars and three

diamondsofasergeantmajor.Paleandbruised,leantothepointofinfirmity,heshamblestowardthebed.Therightsideofhisthroatspillsweirdlyabovethetightnessofhiscollar.“Idonotrecommend,”hesays,“mixingmorphinewithBeaujolais.”Aveinonthesideoftheman’sforeheadthrobslightly.

“Isawyou,”saysWerner.“Infrontofthebakery.Withanewspaper.”“And you, little Private. I saw you.” In his smileWerner recognizes an assumption that they are

kindred,comrades.Accomplices.Thateachhascometothishouseseekingthesamething.Behindthesergeantmajor,acrossthehall,impossibly:flames.Acurtainintheroomdirectlyacross

thelandinghascaughtfire.Alreadyflamesarelickingtheceiling.Thesergeantmajorloopsonefingerunderhiscollarandpullsagainstitstightness.Hisfacegauntandhisteethmaniacal.Hesitsonthebed.Starlightwinksoffthebarrelofhispistol.

Atthefootofthebed,Wernercanjustmakeoutalowtableuponwhichscaled-downwoodenhousescrowdtogethertoformacity.IsitSaint-Malo?Hiseyesflashfromthemodeltotheflamesacrossthehall to Volkheimer’s rifle leaning against the bed. The officer bends forward and looms over theminiaturecitylikesometormentedgargoyle.

Tendrilsofblacksmokehavebeguntosnakeintothehall.“Thecurtain,sir.It’sonfire.”“Thecease-fireisscheduledfornoon,orsotheysay,”vonRumpelsaysinanemptyvoice.“Noneed

torush.Plentyoftime.”Hejogsthefingersofonehanddownaminiaturestreet.“Wewantthesamething,youandI,Private.Butonlyoneofuscanhaveit.AndonlyIknowwhereitis.Whichpresentsaproblemforyou.Isithereorhereorhereorhere?”Herubshishandstogether,thenliesbackonthebed.Hepointshispistolattheceiling.“Isitupthere?”

Intheroombeyondthelanding,theburningcurtainsloughsoffitsrod.Maybeitwillgoout,thinksWerner.Maybeitwillgooutonitsown.

Wernerthinksaboutthemeninthesunflowersandahundredothers:eachlaydeadinhishutortruckorbunker,wearingthelookofsomeonewhohadcaughtthetuneofafamiliarsong.Acreasebetween

the eyes, a slackness to themouth.A look that said:So soon?Butdoesn’t it play for everybody toosoon?

Firelightplaysacrossthehall.Stillonhisback,thesergeantmajortakesthepistolinbothhandsandopensandclosesthebreech.“Drinksomemore,”hesays,andgesturestowardthebucketinWerner’shands.“Icanseehowthirstyyouare.Ididn’tpeeinit,Ipromise.”

Wernersetsdownthebucket.Thesergeantmajorsitsupandtiltshisheadbackandforthasthoughworking out kinks in his neck.Then he aims his gun atWerner’s chest. Fromdown the hall, in thedirection of the burning curtain, comes a muted clattering, something bouncing down a ladder andstrikingthefloor,andthesergeantmajor’sattentionswingstowardthenoise,andthebarrelofhispistoldips.

WernerlungesforVolkheimer’srifle.Allyourlifeyouwait,andthenitfinallycomes,andareyouready?

TheSimultaneityof Instants

Thebrickclapsontothefloor.Thevoicesstop.Shecanhearascuffleandthentheshotcomeslikeabreachofcrimsonlight:theeruptionofKrakatoa.Thehousebrieflyrivenintwo.

Marie-Laurehalfslides,halffallsdowntheladderandpressesherearagainstthefalsebackofthewardrobe.FootstepshurryacrossthelandingandenterHenri’sroom.Thereisasplashandahiss,andshesmellssmokeandsteam.

Nowthefootstepsbecomehesitant;theyaredifferentfromthesergeantmajor’s.Lighter.Stepping,stopping.Openingthedoorsofthewardrobe.Thinking.Figuringitout.

She can hear a light brushing sound as he runs his fingers along the back of the wardrobe. Shetightenshergriponthehandleoftheknife.

Threeblockstotheeast,FrankVolkheimerblinksashesitsinadevastatedapartmentonthecorneroftheruedesLauriersandtherueThévenard,eatingfromatinofsweetyamswithhisfingers.Acrosstherivermouth,beneathfourfeetofconcrete,anaideholdsopenthegarrisoncommander’sjacketasthe colonel swings one arm through one sleeve, then the other. At precisely the same moment, anineteen-year-oldAmericanscoutclimbingthehillsidetowardthepillboxesstopsandturnsandreachesanarmdownforthesoldierbehindhim;while,withhischeekbonepressedtoagranitepaveratFortNational,EtienneLeBlancdecidesthatifheandMarie-Laurelivethroughthis,whateverhappens,hewillletherpickaplaceontheequatorandtheywillgo,bookaticket,rideaship,flyanairplane,untilthey stand together in a rain forest surrounded by flowers they’ve never smelled, listening to birdsthey’veneverheard.ThreehundredmilesawayfromFortNational,ReinholdvonRumpel’swifewakesherdaughterstogotoMassandcontemplatesthegoodlooksofherneighborwhohasreturnedfromthewarwithoutoneofhisfeet.Notallthatfarfromher,JuttaPfennigsleepsintheultramarineshadowsofthegirls’dormitoryanddreamsoflightthickeningandsettlingacrossafieldlikesnow;andnotallthatfarfromJutta,theführerraisesaglassofwarm(butneverboiled)milktohislips,asliceofOldenburgblackbreadonhisplateandawholeapplebesideit,hisdailybreakfast;whileinaravineoutsideKiev,two inmates rub their hands in sand because they have become slippery, and then they take up thestretcheragainwhileasonderkommandostirsthefirebelowthemwithasteelpole;awagtailflitsfromflagstonetoflagstoneinacourtyardinBerlin,searchingforsnailstoeat;andattheNapolaschoolatSchulpforta,onehundredandnineteentwelve-andthirteen-year-oldswaitinaqueuebehindatrucktobehandedthirty-poundantitanklandmines,boyswho,inalmostexactlyoneyear,maroonedamidtheRussianadvance,theentireschoolcutofflikeanisland,willbegivenaboxoftheReich’slastbitterchocolate and Wehrmacht helmets salvaged from dead soldiers, and then this final harvest of thenation’syouthwillrushoutwiththechocolatemeltingintheirgutsandoverlargehelmetsbobbingontheir shorn heads and sixty Panzerfaust rocket launchers in their hands in a last spasm of futility todefendabridgethatnolongerrequiresdefending,whileT-34tanksfromtheWhiteRussianarmycomeclickingandrumblingtowardthemtodestroythemall,everylastchild;dawninSaint-Malo,andthereis a twitch on the other side of thewardrobe—Werner hearsMarie-Laure inhale,Marie-Laure hearsWerner scrape three fingernails across thewood, a sound not unlike the sound of a record coursingbeneaththesurfaceofaneedle,theirfacesanarm’sreachapart.

Hesays,“Es-tulà? ”

AreYouThere?

Heisaghost.Heisfromsomeotherworld.HeisPapa,MadameManec,Etienne;heiseveryonewhohasleftherfinallycomingback.Throughthepanelhecalls,“Iamnotkillingyou.Iamhearingyou.Onradio. Iswhy I come.”Hepauses, fumbling to translate. “The song, light of themoon?”She almostsmiles.

We all come into existence as a single cell, smaller than a speck of dust.Much smaller. Divide.Multiply.Add and subtract.Matter changes hands, atoms flow in and out,molecules pivot, proteinsstitch together, mitochondria send out their oxidative dictates; we begin as a microscopic electricalswarm.Thelungsthebraintheheart.Fortyweekslater,sixtrillioncellsgetcrushedintheviseofourmother’sbirthcanalandwehowl.Thentheworldstartsinonus.

Marie-Laureslidesopen thewardrobe.Werner takesherhandandhelpsherout.Her feet find thefloorofhergrandfather’sroom.

“Messouliers,”shesays.“Ihavenotbeenabletofindmyshoes.”

SecondCan

Thegirlsitsverystillinthecornerandwrapshercoataroundherknees.Thewayshetucksheranklesupagainstherbottom.Thewayherfingersflutterthroughthespacearoundher.Eachathinghehopesnevertoforget.

Gunsboomtotheeast:thecitadelbeingbombardedagain,thecitadelbombardingback.Exhaustion breaks over him. In French he says, “Therewill be a—aWaffenruhe. Stopping in the

fighting.Atnoon.Sopeoplecangetoutofthecity.Icangetyouout.”“Andyouknowthisistrue?”“No,”hesays.“Idonotknowitistrue.”Quietnow.Heexamineshistrousers,hisdustycoat.The

uniformmakeshimanaccompliceineverythingthisgirlhates.“Thereiswater,”hesays,andcrossestotheothersixth-floorroomanddoesnotlookatvonRumpel’sbodyinherbedandretrievesthesecondbucket.Herwholeheaddisappearsinsideitsmouth,andhersticklikearmshugitssidesasshegulps.

Hesays,“Youareverybrave.”Shelowersthebucket.“Whatisyourname?”Hetellsher.Shesays,“WhenIlostmysight,Werner,peoplesaidIwasbrave.Whenmyfatherleft,

peoplesaidIwasbrave.Butitisnotbravery;Ihavenochoice.Iwakeupandlivemylife.Don’tyoudothesame?”

Hesays,“Notinyears.Buttoday.TodaymaybeIdid.”Herglassesaregone,andherpupilslookliketheyarefullofmilk,butstrangelytheydonotunnerve

him.HeremembersaphraseofFrauElena’s:bellelaide.Beautifulugly.“Whatdayisit?”Helooksaround.Scorchedcurtainsandsootfannedacrosstheceilingandcardboardpeelingoffthe

windowandtheveryfirstpalelightofpredawnleakingthrough.“Idon’tknow.It’smorning.”Ashellscreamsoverthehouse.Hethinks:Ionlywanttositherewithherforathousandhours.But

theshelldetonatessomewhereandthehousecreaksandWernersays,“Therewasamanwhousedthattransmitteryouhave.Whobroadcastlessonsaboutscience.WhenIwasaboy.Iusedtolistentothemwithmysister.”

“Thatwasthevoiceofmygrandfather.Youheardhim?”“Manytimes.Welovedthem.”Thewindow glows. The slow sandy light of dawn permeates the room. Everything transient and

aching;everythingtentative.Tobehere,inthisroom,highinthishouse,outofthecellar,withher:itislikemedicine.

“Icouldeatbacon,”shesays.“What?”“Icouldeatawholepig.”Hesmiles.“Icouldeatawholecow.”“Thewomanwhoused to livehere, thehousekeeper,shemade themostwonderfulomelets in the

world.”“WhenIwaslittle,”hesays,orhopeshesays,“weusedtopickberriesbytheRuhr.Mysisterand

me.We’dfindberriesasbigasourthumbs.”Thegirlcrawlsintothewardrobeandclimbsaladderandcomesbackdownclutchingadentedtin

can.“Canyouseewhatthisis?”

“There’snolabel.”“Ididn’tthinktherewas.”“Isitfood?”“Let’sopenitandfindout.”Withonestrokefromthebrick,hepuncturesthecanwiththetipoftheknife.Immediatelyhecan

smellit:theperfumeissosweet,sooutrageouslysweet,thathenearlyfaints.Whatistheword?Pêches.Lespêches.

Thegirlleansforward;thefrecklesseemtobloomacrosshercheeksassheinhales.“Wewillshare,”shesays.“Forwhatyoudid.”

Hehammerstheknifeinasecondtime,sawsawayatthemetal,andbendsupthelid.“Careful,”hesays,andpassesittoher.Shedipsintwofingers,digsupawet,soft,slipperything.Thenhedoesthesame.Thatfirstpeachslithersdownhisthroatlikerapture.Asunriseinhismouth.

Theyeat.Theydrinkthesyrup.Theyruntheirfingersaroundtheinsideofthecan.

BirdsofAmerica

Whatwonders in this house! She shows him the transmitter in the attic: its double battery, its old-fashionedelectrophone,thehand-machinedantennathatcanberaisedandloweredalongthechimneybyan ingenious systemof levers.Evenaphonograph record that she sayscontainshergrandfather’svoice, lessons in science for children. And the books! The lower floors are blanketed with them—Becquerel,Lavoisier,Fischer—alifetimeofreading.Whatitwouldbeliketospendtenyearsinthistallnarrowhouse,shutteredfromtheworld,studyingitssecretsandreadingitsvolumesandlookingatthisgirl.

“Doyouthink,”heasks,“thatCaptainNemosurvivedthewhirlpool?”Marie-Lauresitsonthefifth-floorlandinginheroversizecoatasthoughwaitingforatrain.“No,”

shesays.“Yes.Idon’tknow.Isupposethatisthepoint,no?Tomakeuswonder?”Shecocksherhead.“Hewasamadman.AndyetIdidn’twanthimtodie.”

Inthecornerofhergreat-uncle’sstudy,amidatumultofbooks,hefindsacopyofBirdsofAmerica.Areprint,notnearlyas largeas theonehesaw inFrederick’s living room,butdazzlingnonetheless:fourhundredand thirty-fiveengravings.Hecarries itout to the landing.“Hasyouruncleshownyouthis?”

“Whatisit?”“Birds.Birdafterbirdafterbird.”Outside,shellsflybackandforth.“Wemustgetlowerinthehouse,”shesays.Butforamomentthey

donotmove.CaliforniaPartridge.CommonGannet.FrigatePelican.Werner can still seeFrederickkneeling at hiswindow,nose to theglass.Little graybirdhopping

aboutintheboughs.Doesn’tlooklikemuch,doesit?“CouldIkeepapagefromthis?”“Whynot.Wewillleavesoon,no?Whenitissafe?”“Atnoon.”“Howwillweknowitistime?”“Whentheystopshooting.”Airplanescome.Dozensanddozensofthem.Wernershiversuncontrollably.Marie-Laureleadshim

to the first floor, where ash and soot lie a half inch deep over everything, and he pushes capsizedfurnitureoutofthewayandhaulsopenthecellardoorandtheyclimbdown.Somewhereabove,thirtybombersletflytheirpayloadsandWernerandMarie-Laurefeelthebedrockshake,hearthedetonationsacrosstheriver.

Could he, by somemiracle, keep this going?Could they hide here until thewar ends?Until thearmiesfinishmarchingbackandforthabovetheirheads,untilalltheyhavetodoispushopenthedoorand shift some stones aside and the house has become a ruin beside the sea?Until he can hold herfingers inhispalmsandleadherout into thesunshine?Hewouldwalkanywheretomakeithappen,bearanything; inayearor threeyearsor ten,FranceandGermanywouldnotmeanwhat theymeantnow;theycouldleavethehouseandwalktoatourists’restaurantandorderasimplemealtogetherandeatitinsilence,thecomfortablekindofsilenceloversaresupposedtoshare.

“Doyouknow,”Marie-Laureasksinagentlevoice,“whyhewashere?Thatmanupstairs?”“Becauseoftheradio?”Evenashesaysit,hewonders.“Maybe,”shesays.“Maybethat’swhy.”Inanotherminutethey’reasleep.

Cease-fire

Grittysummerlightspillsthroughtheopentrapdoorintothecellar.Itmightalreadybeafternoon.Nogunsfiring.Forafewheartbeats,Wernerwatcheshersleep.

Thentheyhurry.Hecannotfindtheshoessheasksfor,buthefindsapairofmen’sloafersinaclosetandhelpsherputthemon.OverhisuniformhepullsonsomeofEtienne’stweedtrousers,alongwithashirtwhosesleevesaretoolong.IftheyrunintoGermans,hewillspeakonlyFrench,sayheishelpingherleavethecity.IftheyrunintoAmericans,hewillsayheisdeserting.

“Therewillbeacollectionpoint,”hesays,“somewherethey’regatheringrefugees,”thoughhe’snotsurehesaysitcorrectly.Hefindsawhitepillowcaseinanupturnedcabinetandfoldsit intohercoatpocket.“Whenitcomestime,holdthisashighasyoucan.”

“Iwilltry.Andmycane?”“Here.”Inthefoyer,theyhesitate.Neithersurewhatwaitsontheothersideofthedoor.Heremembersthe

overheateddancehallfromtheentranceexamsfouryearsbefore:ladderboltedtothewall,crimsonflagwithitswhitecircleandblackcrossbelow.Youstepforward;youjump.

Outside,mountainsofrubblehunkereverywhere.Chimneysstandwiththeirbricksrawtothelight.Smoketroweledacrossthesky.Heknowsthattheshellshavebeencomingfromtheeast,thatsixdaysagotheAmericanswerealmosttoParamé,sohemovesMarie-Laureinthatdirection.

Anymoment theywillbeseen,byeitherAmericansorhisownarmy,andmade todosomething.Work, join, confess, die. From somewhere comes the sound of fire: the sound of dried roses beingcrumbledinafist.Noothersounds;nomotors,noairplanes,nodistantpopofgunfireorhowlingofwoundedmenoryappingofdogs.Hetakesherhandtohelpheroverthepiles.Noshellsfallandnoriflescrackandthelightissoftandshotthroughwithash.

Jutta,hethinks,Ifinallylistened.For twoblocks they seenobody.MaybeVolkheimer is eating—this iswhatWernerwould like to

imagine,giganticVolkheimereatingbyhimselfatalittletablewithaviewofthesea.“It’ssoquiet.”Hervoicelikeabright,clearwindowofsky.Herfaceafieldoffreckles.Hethinks:Idon’twantto

letyougo.“Aretheywatchingus?”“Idon’tknow.Idon’tthinkso.”Ablockahead,heseesmovement: threewomencarryingbundles.Marie-Laurepullsathissleeve.

“Whatisthiscrossstreet?”“TheruedesLauriers.”“Come,”shesays,andwalkswithhercanetappingbackandforthinherrighthand.Theyturnright

and left, past a walnut tree like a giant charred toothpick jammed into the ground, past two crowspickingatsomethingunidentifiable,untiltheyreachthebaseoftheramparts.Airbornecreepersofivyhangfromanarchwayoveranarrowalley.Fartohisright,Wernercanseeawomaninbluetaffetadragagreatoverstuffedsuitcaseoveracurbstone.Aboyinpantsmeantforayoungerchildfollows,beretthrownbackonhishead,somekindofshinyjacketon.

“Thereareciviliansleaving,mademoiselle.ShallIcalltothem?”

“I needonly amoment.”She leads himdeeper down the alley. Sweet, unfettered ocean air poursthroughagapinthewallhecannotsee:theairthrobswithit.

Attheendofthealleytheyreachanarrowgate.Shereachesinsidehercoatandproducesakey.“Isthetidehigh?”

Hecanjustseethroughthegateintoalowspace,boundedbyagrateonthefarside.“Thereiswaterdownthere.Wehavetohurry.”

Butsheisalreadypassingthroughthegateanddescendingintothegrottoinherbigshoes,movingwith confidence, running her fingers along thewalls as though they are old friends she thought shemightnevermeetagain.Thetidepushesalowrifflethroughthepool,anditwashesoverhershinsanddampens the hemof her dress. Fromher coat, she takes some smallwooden thing and sets it in thewater.Shespeakslightly,hervoiceechoing:“Youneedtotellme,isitintheocean?Itmustbeintheocean.”

“Itisin.Wemustgo,mademoiselle.”“Areyoucertainit’sinthewater?”“Yes.”Sheclimbsout,breathless.Pusheshimbackthroughthegateandlocksitbehindthem.Hehandsher

the cane. Then they head back down the alley, her shoes squelching as she goes. Out through thehanging ivy.Turn left.Straight ahead a ragged streamofpeople crosses an intersection: awoman, achild,twomencarryingathirdonastretcher,allthreewithcigarettesintheirmouths.

ThedarknessreturnstoWerner’seyes,andhefeelsfaint.Soonhislegswillgiveout.Acatsitsintheroadlickingapawandsmoothingitoveritsearsandwatchinghim.Hethinksoftheoldbrokenminershe’dseeinZollverein,sittinginchairsoroncrates,notmovingforhours,waitingtodie.Tomenlikethat,timewasasurfeit,abarreltheywatchedslowlydrain.Whenreally,hethinks,it’saglowingpuddleyoucarryinyourhands;youshouldspendallyourenergyprotectingit.Fightingforit.Workingsohardnottospillonesingledrop.

“Now,”hesaysintheclearestFrenchhecanmuster,“here’sthepillowcase.Yourunyourhandalongthatwall.Can you feel it?You’ll reach an intersection, keep going straight. The street looksmostlyclear.Keepthepillowcasehigh.Rightoutinfrontlikethis,doyouunderstand?”

Sheturnstohimandchewsherbottomlip.“Theywillshoot.”“Notwith thatwhite flag.Not agirl.There areothers ahead.Follow thiswall.”He setsherhand

againstitasecondtime.“Hurry.Rememberthepillowcase.”“Andyou?”“Iwillgointheotherdirection.”She turns her face toward his, and though she cannot see him, he feels he cannot bear her gaze.

“Won’tyoucomewithme?”“Itwillbebetterforyouifnooneseesyouwithme.”“ButhowwillIfindyouagain?”“Idon’tknow.”Shereachesforhishand,setssomethinginhispalm,andsqueezeshishandintoafist.“Goodbye,

Werner.”“Goodbye,Marie-Laure.”Thenshegoes.Everyfewpaces,thetipofhercanestrikesabrokenstoneinthestreet,andittakesa

whiletopickherwayaroundit.Stepsteppause.Stepstepagain.Hercanetesting,thewethemofherdress swinging, the white pillowcase held aloft. He does not look away until she is through theintersection,downthenextblock,andoutofsight.

Hewaitstohearvoices.Guns.Theywillhelpher.Theymust.Whenheopenshishand,thereisalittleironkeyinhispalm.

Chocolate

MadameRuellefindsMarie-Laurethateveninginarequisitionedschool.Shegripsherhandanddoesnotletgo.ThecivilaffairspeoplehavestacksofconfiscatedGermanchocolateinrectangularcartons,andMarie-LaureandMadameRuelleeattoomanytocount.

In themorning, theAmericans take thechâteauand the last anti-airbatteryand free theprisonersheldatFortNational.MadameRuellepullsEtienneoutoftheprocessingqueue,andhewrapsMarie-Laure in his arms.The colonel in his underground fortress across the river holds out for threemoredays,untilanAmericanairplanecalledaLightningdropsatankofnapalmthroughanairvent,oneshotinamillion,and fiveminutes later,awhitesheetcomesuponapoleand thesiegeofSaint-Malo isover.Sweepplatoons removeall the incendiarydevices theycan find,andarmyphotographersgo inwiththeirtripods,andahandfulofcitizensreturnfromfarmsandfieldsandcellarstodriftthroughtheruinedstreets.OnAugust25,MadameRuelleisallowedbackintothecitytocheckontheconditionofthebakery,butEtienneandMarie-Lauretravelintheotherdirection,towardRennes,wheretheybookaroomat ahotel called theUniversewith a functioningboiler andeach takes a two-hourbath. In thewindow glass as night falls, hewatches her reflection feel itsway toward the bed.Her hands pressagainstherface,thenfallaway.

“We’llgotoParis,”hesays.“I’veneverbeen.Youcanshowittome.”

Light

Werner is captured a mile south of Saint-Malo by three French resistance fighters in streetclothesrovingthestreetsinalorry.Firsttheybelievetheyhaverescuedalittlewhite-hairedoldman.Thentheyhear his accent, notice the German tunic beneath the antique shirt, and decide they have a spy, afabulous catch. Then they realize Werner’s youth. They hand him off to an American clerk in arequisitionedhotel transformed intoadisarmamentcenter.At firstWernerworries they’re takinghimdownstairs—please,notanotherpit—butheisbroughttothethirdfloor,whereanexhaustedinterpreterwhohasbeenbookingGermanprisoners for amonthnoteshisnameand rank, thenasks a few rotequestionswhiletheclerkriflesthroughWerner’scanvasduffelandhandsitback.

“Agirl,”WernersaysinFrench,“didyousee—?”buttheinterpreteronlysmirksandsayssomethingtotheclerkinEnglish,asthougheveryGermansoldierhehasinterviewedhasaskedaboutagirl.

He’sushered into a courtyard encircledwith razorwire,where eightornineotherGermans sit intheirhighbootsholdingbatteredcanteens,onedressedinwomen’sclothesinwhichheapparentlytriedtodesert.TwoNCOsandthreeprivatesandnoVolkheimer.

Atnighttheyservesoupinacauldron,andhegulpsdownfourhelpingsfromatincup.Fiveminuteslater,heissickinthecorner.Thesoupwon’tstaydowninthemorningeither.Shoalsofcloudsswimthroughthesky.Hisleftearadmitsnosound.HelingersoverimagesofMarie-Laure—herhands,herhair—evenasheworriesthattoconcentrateonthemtoolongistoriskwearingthemout.Adayafterhisarrest,he ismarchedeast inagroupof twenty to joina largergroupwhere theyarepenned inawarehouse.Throughtheopendoors,hecannotseeSaint-Malo,buthehearstheairplanes,hundredsofthem,andagreatpallofsmokehangsoverthehorizondayandnight.TwicemedicstrygivingWernerbowls of gruel, but it will not stay down. He’s been able to keep nothing in his stomach since thepeaches.

Maybe his fever is returning;maybe the sludge they drank in the hotel cellar has poisoned him.Maybehisbodyisgivingup.Ifhedoesnoteat,heunderstands,hewilldie.Butwhenhedoeseat,hefeelsasifhewilldie.

Fromthewarehouse,theyaremarchedtoDinan.Mostoftheprisonersareboysormiddle-agedmen,the shattered remains of companies. They carry ponchos, duffels, crates; a few tote brightly coloredsuitcasesclaimedfromwhoknowswhere.Amongthemwalkpairsofmenwhofoughtsidebyside,butmostarestrangerstooneanother,andallhaveseenthingstheywishtoforget.Alwaysthereisthesenseofatidebehindthem,rising,gatheringmass,carryingwithitaslowandvindictiverage.

HewalksinthetweedtrousersofMarie-Laure’sgreat-uncle;overhisshoulder,hecarrieshisduffel.Eighteenyearsold.Allhislifehisschoolmasters,hisradio,hisleaderstalkedtohimaboutthefuture.Andyetwhatfutureremains?Theroadaheadisblank,andthelinesofhisthoughtsallinclineinward:heseesMarie-Lauredisappeardownthestreetwithhercanelikeashblownoutofafire,andafeelingoflongingcrashesagainsttheundersideofhisribs.

OnthefirstofSeptember,Wernercannotgettohisfeetwhenhewakes.Twoofhisfellowprisonershelphimtothebathroomandback,thenlayhiminthegrass.AyoungCanadianinamedic’shelmetshinesapenlightintoWerner’seyesandloadshimintoatruck,andheisdrivensomedistanceandsetinatentfullofdyingmen.Anurseputsfluidintohisarm.Spoonsasolutionintohismouth.

For aweek he lives in the strange greenish light beneath the canvas of that huge tent, his duffelclutchedinonehandandthehardcornersofthelittlewoodenhouseclampedintheother.Whenhehas

the strength,he fiddleswith it.Twist thechimney, slideoff the threepanelsof the roof, look inside.Builtsocleverly.

Everyday,onhisrightandleft,anothersoulescapestowardthesky,anditsoundstohimasifhecanhearfarawaymusic,asifadoorhasbeenshutonagrandoldradioandhecanlistenonlybyputtinghisgoodearagainstthematerialofhiscot,althoughthemusicissoft,andtherearemomentswhenheisnotcertainitisthereatall.

Thereissomethingtobeangryat,Wernerissure,buthecannotsaywhatitis.“Won’teat,”saysanurseinEnglish.Armbandofamedic.“Fever?”“High.”Therearemorewords.Thennumbers.Inadream,heseesabrightcrystallinenightwiththecanals

allfrozenandthelanternsoftheminers’housesburningandthefarmersskatingbetweenthefields.HeseesasubmarineasleepinthelightlessdepthsoftheAtlantic;Juttapressesherfacetoaportholeandbreathesontheglass.HehalfexpectstoseeVolkheimer’shugehandappear,helphimup,andclaphimintotheOpel.

AndMarie-Laure?Canshestillfeelthepressureofhishandagainstthewebbingbetweenherfingersashecanfeelhers?

Onenighthesitsup.Incotsaroundhimareafewdozensickorwounded.AwarmSeptemberwindpoursacrossthecountrysideandsetsthewallsofthetentrippling.

Werner’sheadswivelslightlyonhisneck.Thewindisstrongandgustingstronger,andthecornersofthetentstrainagainsttheirguyropes,andwheretheflapsatthetwoendscomeup,hecanseetreesbuckandsway.Everythingrustles.Wernerzipshisoldnotebookandthelittlehouseintohisduffelandtheman beside himmurmurs questions to himself and the rest of the ruined company sleeps. EvenWerner’sthirsthasfaded.Hefeelsonlytheraw,impassivesurgeofthemoonlightasitstrikesthetentabove him and scatters. Out there, through the open flaps of the tent, clouds hurtle above treetops.TowardGermany,towardhome.

Silverandblue,blueandsilver.Sheetsofpapertumbledowntherowsofcots,andinWerner’schestcomesaquickening.Hesees

FrauElenakneelbesidethecoalstoveandbankupthefire.Childrenintheirbeds.BabyJuttasleepsinhercradle.Hisfatherlightsalamp,stepsintoanelevator,anddisappears.

ThevoiceofVolkheimer:Whatyoucouldbe.Werner’sbodyseemstohavegoneweightlessunderhisblanket,andbeyondtheflappingtentdoors,

thetreesdanceandthecloudskeepuptheirhugebillowingmarch,andheswingsfirstonelegandthentheotherofftheedgeofthebed.

“Ernst,”saysthemanbesidehim.“Ernst.”ButthereisnoErnst;themeninthecotsdonotreply;theAmericansoldieratthedoorofthetentsleeps.Wernerwalkspasthimintothegrass.

Thewindmovesthroughhisundershirt.Heisakite,aballoon.Once,heandJuttabuiltalittlesailboatfromscrapsofwoodandcarriedittotheriver.Juttapainted

thevesselinecstaticpurplesandgreens,andshesetitonthewaterwithgreatformality.Buttheboatsaggedassoonasthecurrentgotholdofit.Itfloateddownstream,outofreach,andtheflatblackwaterswallowedit.JuttablinkedatWernerwithweteyes,pullingatthebatteredloopsofyarninhersweater.

“It’sall right,”he toldher.“Thingshardlyeverworkon the first try.We’llmakeanother,abetterone.”

Didthey?Hehopestheydid.Heseemstorememberalittleboat—amoreseaworthyone—glidingdownariver.Itsailedaroundabendandleftthembehind.Didn’tit?

Themoonlightshinesandbillows;thebrokencloudsscudabovethetrees.Leavesflyeverywhere.But themoonlightstaysunmovedby thewind,passing throughclouds, throughair, inwhatseemstoWernerlikeimpossiblyslow,imperturbablerays.Theyhangacrossthebucklinggrass.

Whydoesn’tthewindmovethelight?Acrossthefield,anAmericanwatchesaboyleavethesicktentandmoveagainstthebackgroundof

thetrees.Hesitsup.Heraiseshishand.“Stop,”hecalls.“Halt,”hecalls.ButWernerhascrossedtheedgeofthefield,wherehestepsonatriggerlandminesettherebyhis

ownarmythreemonthsbefore,anddisappearsinafountainofearth.

Eleven

1945

Berlin

InJanuary1945,FrauElenaandthelastfourgirlslivingatChildren’sHouse—thetwins,HannahandSusanne Gerlitz, Claudia Förster, and fifteen-year-old Jutta Pfennig—are transported from Essen toBerlintoworkinamachinepartsfactory.

Fortenhoursaday,sixdaysaweek,theydisassemblemassiveforgingpressesandstacktheusablemetalincratestobeloadedontotraincars.Unscrewing,sawing,hauling.MostdaysFrauElenaworkscloseby,wearingatornskijacketshehasfound,mumblingtoherselfinFrenchorsingingsongsfromchildhood.

They liveaboveaprintingcompanyabandonedamonthbefore.Hundredsofcratesofmisprinteddictionariesarestackedinthehalls,andthegirlsburnthempagebypageinthepotbellystove.

YesterdayDankeswort,Dankesworte,Dankgebet,Dankopfer.TodayFrauenverband,Frauenverein,Frauenvorsteher,Frauenwahlrecht.Formeals theyhavecabbageandbarley in the factorycanteenatnoon,endless ration lines in the

evening.Butter iscut into tinyportions: three timesaweek, theyeachgetasquarehalf thesizeofasugarcube.Watercomesfromaspigottwoblocksaway.Motherswithinfantshavenobabyclothes,nobuggies,andverylittlecow’smilk.Sometearapartbedsheetsfordiapers;afewfindnewspapersandfoldthoseintotrianglesandpinthembetweentheirbabies’legs.

Atleasthalfofthegirlsworkinginthefactorycannotreadorwrite,soJuttareadsthemthelettersthatcomefromboyfriendsorbrothersorfathersatthefront.Sometimesshewritesresponsesforthem:Anddoyourememberwhenweatepistachios,whenweatethoselemonicesshapedlikeflowers?Whenyousaid...

All spring thebombers come, every singlenight, their onlygoal seemingly toburn the city to itsroots.Mostnightsthegirlshurrytotheendoftheblockandclimbintoacrampedshelterandarekeptawakebythecrashingofstonework.

Onceinawhile,onthewalktothefactory,theyseebodies,mummiesturnedtoash,peoplescorchedbeyondrecognition.Othertimes,thecorpsesbearnoapparentinjuries,anditisthesethatfillJuttawithdread:peoplewholookliketheyareamomentawayfromrisingupandsloggingbacktoworkwiththerestofthem.

Buttheydonotwake.Oncesheseesarowofthreechildrenfacedown,backpacksontheirbacks.Herfirstthoughtis:Wake

up.Gotoschool.Thenshethinks:Therecouldbefoodinthosepacks.ClaudiaFörsterstopstalking.Wholedayspassandshedoesnotsayaword.Thefactoryrunsoutof

materials.Therearerumorsthatnooneisinchargeanymore,thatthecopperandzincandstainlesssteelthey’vebeenslavingtocollectisbeingloadedontotraincarsandleftonsidingsfornoone.

Mailstops.InlateMarch,themachinepartsfactoryispadlocked,andFrauElenaandthegirlsaresent toworkforacivilianfirmcleaningthestreetsafterbombings.Theyliftbrokenmasonryblocks,shoveldustandshatteredglass throughstrainers.Juttahearsaboutboys,sixteen-andseventeen-year-olds,terrified,homesick,withtremblingeyes,whoshowuponthedoorstepsoftheirmothersonlytobehauledhowlingoutofatticstwodayslaterandshotinthestreetasdeserters.Imagesfromherchildhood—ridinginawagonbehindherbrother,pickingthroughtrash—returntoher.Lookingtosalvageoneshiningthingfromthemire.

“Werner,”shewhispersaloud.

Inthefall,atZollverein,shereceivedtwolettersannouncinghisdeath.Eachmentionedadifferentplace of burial. La Fresnais, Cherbourg—she had to look them up. Towns in France. Sometimes, indreams,shestandswithhimoveratablestrewnwithgearsandbeltsandmotors.I’mmakingsomething,hesays.I’mworkingonit.Buthedoesn’tgoon.

ByApril,thewomenspeakonlyoftheRussiansandthethingstheywilldo,thevengeancetheywillseek.Barbarians,theysay.Tatars,Russkis,savages,swine.ThepigsareinStrasbourg.Theogresareinthesuburbs.

Hannah,Susanne,Claudia,andJuttasleeponthefloorinatangle.Doesanygoodnesslingerinthislastderelictstronghold?Alittle.Juttacomeshomeoneafternoon,pastedwithdust,todiscoverthatbigClaudia Förster has chanced upon a paper bakery box sealed with gold tape. Blots of grease showthroughthecardboard.Togetherthegirlsstareatit.Likesomethingfromtheunfallenworld.

Insidewaitfifteenpastries,separatedbysquaresofwaxpaperandstuffedwithstrawberrypreserves.The four girls andFrauElena sit in their dripping apartment, a spring rain over the city, all the ashrunningofftheruins,alltheratspeeringoutofcavesmadefromfallenbricks,andtheyeatthreestalepastries each, none of them saving anything for later, the powdered sugar on their noses, the jellybetweentheirteeth,agiddinessrisingandsparklingintheirblood.

That cowlike, petrified Claudia could achieve such amiracle, that shewould be good enough toshareit.

What young women are left dress themselves in rags, cower in basements. Jutta hears thatgrandmothersarerubbinggranddaughterswithfeces,sawingofftheirhairwithbreadknives,anythingtomakethemlessappealingtotheRussians.

Shehearsmothersaredrowningdaughters.Shehearsyoucansmellthebloodonthemfromamileaway.“Notmuchlongernow,”saysFrauElena,herpalmsoutinfrontofthestoveasthewaterrefusesto

boil.TheRussianscomeforthemonacloudlessdayinMay.Thereareonlythreeofthem,andtheycome

onlythatonetime.Theybreakintotheprintingcompanybelow,huntingliquor,butfindnoneandaresoonbashingholesinthewalls.Acrackandashudder,abulletzingingoffanolddismantledpress,andin theupstairsapartmentFrauElena sits inher striped skiparka, anabridgedNewTestamentzippedintothepocket,holdingthehandsofthegirlsandmovingherlipsinsoundlessprayer.

Juttaallowsherselftobelievethattheywon’tcomeupthestaircase.Forseveralminutestheydon’t.Untiltheydo,andtheirbootsthumpallthewayup.

“Staycalm,”FrauElenatellsthegirls.HannahandSusanneandClaudiaandJutta—noneofthemisolder thansixteen.FrauElena’svoice is lowanddeflated,but itdoesnot seemafraid.Disappointed,maybe.“Staycalmandtheywon’tshoot.I’llmakesuretogofirst.Afterthatthey’llbegentler.”

Juttalacesherhandsbehindherheadtokeepthemfromshaking.Claudiaseemsmute,deaf.“Andcloseyoureyes,”saysFrauElena.Hannahsobs.Juttasays,“Iwanttoseethem.”“Keepthemopen,then.”The footsteps stop at the top of the stairwell. TheRussians go into the closet, and they hear the

handlesofmopsbeingkickeddrunkenlyandacrateofdictionariesgo thuddingdown thestairs,andthensomeonerattlestheknob.Onesayssomethingtoanotherandthejambsplintersandthedoorbangsopen.

Oneisanofficer.Twocannotbeadayolderthanseventeen.Allarefilthybeyondcomprehension,butsomewhereintheprevioushours,theyhavetakenthelibertyofsplashingthemselveswithwomen’sperfume.Thetwoboys,inparticular,smelltoxicallyofit.Theyseempartlylikesheepishschoolboysandpartlylikelunaticswithanhourlefttolive.Thefirsthasonlyaropeforabeltandissothin,hedoesnothavetounknotittoslideoffhistrousers.Thesecondlaughs:astrange,puzzledlaugh,asifhedoesnotquitebelieve theGermanswouldcome tohiscountryand leaveacity like thisbehind.Theofficersitsbythedoorwithhislegsstraightoutinfrontofhimandpeersoutintothestreet.Hannahscreamsforahalfsecondbutquicklymufflesitwithherownhand.

FrauElenaleadstheboysintotheotherroom.Shemakesasinglenoise:acough,asthoughshehassomethingstuckinherthroat.

Claudiagoesnext.Sheoffersuponlymoans.Juttadoesnotallowherselftomakeasinglesound.Everythingisstrangelyorderly.Theofficergoes

last,tryingeachoftheminturn,andhespeakssinglewordswhileheisontopofJutta,hiseyesopenbutnotseeing.Itisnotclearfromhiscompressed,painedfaceifthewordsareendearmentsorinsults.Beneaththecologne,hesmellslikeahorse.

Years later, Jutta will hear the words he spoke repeated in her memory—Kirill, Pavel, Afanasy,Valentin—andshewilldecidetheywerethenamesofdeadsoldiers.Butshecouldbewrong.

Before theRussians leave, the youngest fires hisweapon into the ceiling twice, and plaster rainsgentlydownontoJutta,andintheloudreverberatingecho,shecanhearSusanneonthefloorbesideher,notsobbingbutmerelybreathingveryquietlyasshelistenstotheofficerbucklehimselfbackup.ThenthethreemenspillintothestreetandFrauElenazipsherselfintoherskiparka,barefoot,rubbingherleftarmwithherrighthand,asiftryingtowarmthatonesmallsegmentofherself.

Paris

Etienne rents the same flat on the rue des Patriarches where Marie-Laure grew up. He buys thenewspapers every day to scan the lists of released prisoners, and listens incessantly to one of threeradios.DeGaullethis,NorthAfricathat.Hitler,Roosevelt,Danzig,Bratislava,allthesenames,noneofthemherfather’s.

EverymorningtheywalktotheGared’Austerlitztowait.Abigstationclockrattlesoffarelentlessadvanceofseconds,andMarie-Lauresitsbesidehergreat-uncleandlistenstothewastedandwretchedshambleoffthetrains.

Etienne sees soldiers with hollows in their cheeks like inverted cups. Thirty-year-olds who lookeighty.Meninthreadbaresuitsputtinghandstothetopsoftheirheadstotakeoffhatsthatarenolongerthere.Marie-Laurededuceswhatshecanfromthesoundsoftheirshoes:thosearesmall,thoseweighaton,thosehardlyexistatall.

In the evenings she readswhile Etiennemakes phone calls, petitions repatriation authorities, andwritesletters.Shefindsshecansleeponlytwoorthreehoursatatime.Phantomshellswakeher.

“Itismerelytheautobus,”saysEtienne,whotakestosleepingonthefloorbesideher.Or:“It’sjustthebirds.”Or:“It’snothing,Marie.”Mostdays,thecreakyoldmalacologistDr.GeffardwaitswiththemattheGared’Austerlitz,sitting

uprightwithhisbeardandbowtie, smellingof rosemary,ofmint,ofwine.HecallsherLaurette;hetalksabouthowhemissedher,howhethoughtofhereveryday,howtoseeheristobelieveoncemorethatgoodness,morethananythingelse,iswhatlasts.

ShesitswithhershoulderpressedagainstEtienne’sorDr.Geffard’s.Papamightbeanywhere.Hemightbe thatvoice justnowdrawingnearer.Those footfalls toher right.Hemightbe inacell, inaditch,athousandmilesaway.Hemightbelongdead.

ShegoesintothemuseumonEtienne’sarmtotalkwithvariousofficials,manyofwhomrememberher.Thedirectorhimselfexplainsthattheyaresearchingashardastheycanforherfather,thattheywillcontinuetohelpwithherhousing,hereducation.ThereisnomentionoftheSeaofFlames.

Spring unfurls; communiqués flood the airwaves. Berlin surrenders; Göring surrenders; the greatmysteriousvaultofNazismfallsopen.Paradesmaterializespontaneously.Theotherswhowaitat theGared’Austerlitzwhisperthatoneoutofeveryhundredwillcomeback.Thatyoucanloopyourthumbandforefingeraroundtheirnecks.Thatwhentheytakeofftheirshirts,youcanseetheirlungsmovinginsidetheirchests.

Everybiteoffoodshetakesisabetrayal.Even thosewhohave returned, she can tell, have returneddifferent, older than they shouldbe, as

thoughtheyhavebeenonanotherplanetwhereyearspassmorequickly.“There is a chance,” Etienne says, “that we will never find out what happened. We have to be

preparedforthat.”Marie-LaurehearsMadameManec:Youmustneverstopbelieving.Allthroughthesummertheywait,Etiennealwaysononeside,Dr.Geffardoftenontheother.And

then,onenooninAugust,Marie-Laureleadshergreat-uncleandDr.Geffardupthelongstairsandoutintothesunlightandasksifitissafetocross.Theysayitis,sosheleadsthemalongthequay,throughthegatesoftheJardindesPlantes.

Along thegravelpathsboysshout.Someonenot farawayplaysasaxophone.Shestopsbesideanarboralivewiththesoundofbees.Theskyseemshighandfaraway.Somewhere,someoneisfiguringout how to push back the hood of grief, butMarie-Laure cannot.Not yet. The truth is that she is adisabledgirlwithnohomeandnoparents.

“Whatnow?”asksEtienne.“Lunch?”“School,”shesays.“Iwouldliketogotoschool.”

Twelve

1974

Volkheimer

Frank Volkheimer’s third-floor walk-up in the suburbs of Pforzheim, Germany, possesses threewindows.A single billboard,mounted on the cornice of the building across the alley, dominates theview;itssurfacegleamsthreeyardsbeyondtheglass.Printedonitareprocessedmeats,coldcutsastallasheis,redsandpinks,grayattheedges,garnishedwithparsleysprigsthesizeofshrubs.Atnightthebillboard’sfourcheerlesselectricspotlightsbathehisapartmentinastrangereflectedglare.

Heisfifty-oneyearsold.Aprilrainfallsslantwisethroughthebillboard’sspotlightsandVolkheimer’stelevisionflickersblue

andheduckshabituallyashepassesthroughthedoorwaybetweenhiskitchenandthemainroom.Nochildren,nopets,nohouseplants,fewbooksontheshelves.Justacardtable,amattress,andasinglearmchairinfrontofthetelevisionwherehenowsits,atinofbuttercookiesinhislap.Heeatsthemoneafteranother,allthefloraldiscs,thentheonesshapedlikepretzels,andfinallytheclovers.

Onthetelevision,ablackhorsehelpsfreeamantrappedbeneathafallentree.Volkheimer installs and repairs rooftop TV antennas.He puts on a blue jumpsuit everymorning,

fadedwhere itstrainsoverhishugeshoulders, tooshortaroundtheankles,andwalks towork inbigblackboots.Becausehe is strongenough tomove thebigextension laddersbyhimself, andperhapsalsobecausehe rarely speaks,Volkheimer responds tomost calls alone.People telephone thebranchofficetorequestaninstallation,ortocomplainaboutghostsignals,interference,starlingsonthewires,andoutgoesVolkheimer.He splicesabroken line,orpokesabird’snestoff aboom,orelevatesanantennaonstruts.

Onlyonthewindiest,coldestdaysdoesPforzheimfeellikehome.Volkheimerlikesfeelingtheairslip under the collar of his jumpsuit, likes seeing the light blowncleanby thewind, the far-off hillspowderedwithsnow,thetown’strees(allplantedintheyearsafterthewar,allthesameage)glitteringwithice.Onwinterafternoonshemovesamongtheantennaslikeasailorthroughrigging.Inthelatebluelight,hecanwatchthepeopleinthestreetsbelow,hurryinghome,andsometimesgullssoarpast,whiteagainstthedark.Thesmall,secureweightoftoolsalonghisbelt, thesmellofintermittentrain,and the crystalline brilliance of the clouds at dusk: these are the only timeswhenVolkheimer feelsmarginallywhole.

Butonmostdays,especiallythewarmones,lifeexhaustshim;theworseningtrafficandgraffitiandcompanypolitics,everyonegrousingaboutbonuses,benefits,overtime.Sometimes,intheslowheatofsummer, longbeforedawn,Volkheimerpaces in theharshdazzleof thebillboard lightsandfeelshislonelinessonhim likeadisease.Hesees tall ranksof firs swaying ina storm,hears theirheartwoodgroan.Hesees theearthen floorofhischildhoodhome,and the spiderwebbed lightofdawncomingthroughconifers.Othertimestheeyesofmenwhoareabouttodiehaunthim,andhekillsthemalloveragain.DeadmaninLodz.DeadmaninLublin.DeadmaninRadom.DeadmaninCracow.

Rainonthewindows,rainontheroof.Beforehegoestobed,Volkheimerdescendsthreeflightsofstairstotheatriumtocheckhismail.Hehasnotcheckedhismailinoveraweek,andamongtwoflyersandapaycheckandasingleutilitybillisasmallpackagefromaveterans’serviceorganizationlocatedinWestBerlin.Hecarriesthemailupstairsandopensthepackage.

Three different objects have been photographed against the same white background, carefullynumberednotecardstapedbesideeach.14-6962.Acanvassoldier’sbag,mousegray,withtwopaddedstraps.

14-6963.Alittlemodelhouse,madefromwood,partiallycrushed.14-6964.Asoft-coveredrectangularnotebookwithasinglewordacrossthefront:Fragen.The house he does not recognize, and the bag could have been any soldier’s, but he knows the

notebookinstantly.W.P.inkedonthebottomcorner.Volkheimersetstwofingersonthephotographasthoughhecouldpluckoutthenotebookandsiftthroughitspages.

Hewasajustaboy.Theyallwere.Eventhelargestofthem.The letter explains that the organization is trying to deliver items to next of kin of dead soldiers

whosenameshavebeen lost. Itsays theybelieve thathe,StaffSergeantFrankVolkheimer,servedasrankingofficerofaunitthatincludedtheownerofthisbag,abagthatwascollectedbyaUnitedStatesArmyprisoner-of-warprocessingcampinBernay,France,intheyear1944.

Doesheknowtowhomtheseitemsbelonged?Hesets thephotographsonthe tableandstandswithhisbighandsathissides.Hehears jouncing

axles, grumbling tailpipes, rainon canvas.Cloudsof gnats buzzing.Themarchof jackboots and thefull-throatedshoutsofboys.

Static,thentheguns.Butwasitdecenttoleavehimouttherelikethat?Evenafterhewasdead?Whatyoucouldbe.Hewas small.He hadwhite hair and ears that stuck out.He buttoned the collar of his jacket up

aroundhisthroatwhenhewascoldanddrewhishandsupinsidethesleeves.Volkheimerknowswhomthoseitemsbelongedto.

Jutta

JuttaWetteteachessixth-formalgebrainEssen: integers,probability,parabolas.Everydayshewearsthe same outfit: black slacks with a nylon blouse—alternately beige, charcoal, or pale blue.Occasionallythecanary-yellowone,ifshe’sfeelingunrestrained.Herskinismilkyandherhairremainswhiteaspaper.

Jutta’s husband, Albert, is a kind, slow-moving, and balding accountant whose great passion isrunningmodel trains in thebasement.Fora long timeJuttabelievedshecouldnotgetpregnant,andthen,oneday,whenshewasthirty-sevenyearsold,shedid.Theirson,Max,issix,fondofmud,dogs,andquestionsnoonecananswer.Morethananythinglately,Maxlikestofoldcomplicateddesignsofpaper airplanes. He comes home from school, kneels on the kitchen floor, and forms airplane afterairplane with unswerving, almost frightening devotion, evaluating different wingtips, tails, noses,mostlyseemingtolovethepraxisofit,thetransformationofsomethingflatintosomethingthatcanfly.

It’s a Thursday afternoon in early June, the school year nearly over, and they are at the publicswimmingpool.Slate-coloredcloudsveil thesky,andchildrenshout in theshallowend,andparentstalk or readmagazines or doze in their chairs, and everything is normal.Albert stands at the snackcounter in his swim trunks, with his little towel draped over his wide back, and contemplates hisselectionoficecream.

Maxswimsawkwardly,windmillingonearmforwardandthentheother,periodicallylookinguptomakesurehismother iswatching.Whenhe’sdone,hewrapshimself ina towelandclimbs into thechairbesideher.Maxiscompactandsmallandhisearsstickout.Waterdropletsshineinhiseyelashes.Duskseepsdownthroughtheovercastandaslightchilldropsintotheairandonebyonefamiliesleavetowalkorbikeorridethebushome.Maxpluckscrackersoutofacardboardboxandcrunchesthemloudly.“IloveLeibnizZoocrackers,Mutti,”hesays.

“Iknow,Max.”AlbertdrivesthemhomeintheirlittleNSUPrinz4,theclutchrattling,andJuttatakesastackofend-

of-term exams from her school bag and grades them at the kitchen table. Albert puts on water fornoodlesandfriesonions.Maxtakesacleansheetofpaperfromthedrawingtableandstartstofold.

Onthefrontdoorcomeknocks,three.ForreasonsJuttadoesnotfullyunderstand,herheartbeatbeginstothudinherears.Thepointofher

pencil hovers over the page. It’s only someone at the door—aneighbor or a friend or the little girl,Anna,fromdownthestreet,whositsupstairswithMaxsometimesandgiveshimdirectionsforhowtobestconstructelaboratetownsoutofplasticblocks.ButtheknockdoesnotsoundanythinglikeAnna’s.

Maxboundstothedoor,airplaneinhand.“Whoisit,dear?”Maxdoesnotreply,whichmeansitissomeonehedoesnotknow.Shecrossesintothehall,andthere

inherdoorframestandsagiant.Maxcrosseshisarms,intriguedandimpressed.Hisairplaneonthegroundathisfeet.Thegianttakes

offhiscap.Hismassiveheadshines.“FrauWette?”Hewearsatent-sizedsilversweatsuitwithmaroonsplashesalong thesides,zipperpulled to thebaseofhis throat.Gingerly,hepresentsa fadedcanvasduffelbag.

Thebulliesinthesquare.HansandHerribert.Hisverysizeinvokesthemall.Thismanhascome,shethinks,tootherdoorsandnotbotheredtoknock.

“Yes?”“YourmaidennamewasPfennig?”Evenbeforeshenods,beforehesays,“Ihavesomethingforyou,”beforesheinviteshimthroughthe

screendoor,sheknowsthiswillbeaboutWerner.Thegiant’snylonpantsswishashefollowsherdownthehall.WhenAlbertlooksupfromthestove,

hestartlesbutonlysays,“Hello,”and“Watchyourhead,”andwaveshiscookingspoonas thegiantdodgesthelightfixture.

Whenheoffersdinner,thegiantsaysyes.Albertpullsthetableawayfromthewallandsetsafourthplace.Inhiswoodenchair,VolkheimerremindsJuttaofanimagefromoneofMax’spicturebooks:anelephantsqueezedintoanairplaneseat.Theduffelbaghehasbroughtwaitsonthehalltable.

Theconversationbeginsslowly.Hehascomeseveralhoursonthetrain.Hewalkedherefromthestation.Hedoesnotneedsherry,thankyou.Maxeatsfast,Albertslowly.Juttatucksherhandsbeneathherthighstohidetheirshaking.“Oncetheyhadtheaddress,”Volkheimersays,“IaskedifImightdeliveritmyself.Theyincludeda

letter,see?”Hetakesafoldedsheetofpaperfromhispocket.Outside,carspass,wrenstrill.ApartofJuttadoesnotwanttotaketheletter.Doesnotwanttohearwhatthishugemanhastraveled

alongwaytosay.WeeksgobywhenJuttadoesnotallowherselftothinkofthewar,ofFrauElena,oftheawfullastmonthsinBerlin.Nowshecanbuyporksevendaysaweek.Now,ifthehousefeelscoldshe twistsadial in thekitchen,andvoilà.Shedoesnotwant tobeoneof thosemiddle-agedwomenwho thinks of nothing but her own painful history. Sometimes she looks at the eyes of her oldercolleaguesandwonderswhattheydidwhentheelectricitywasout,whentherewerenocandles,whentheraincamethroughtheceiling.Whattheysaw.Onlyrarelydoessheloosenthesealsenoughtoallowherself to think ofWerner. Inmanyways, hermemories of her brother have become things to lockaway.Amath teacheratHelmoltz-Gymnasiumin1974doesnotbringupabrotherwhoattended theNationalPoliticalInstituteofEducationatSchulpforta.

Albertsays,“Intheeast,then?”Volkheimersays,“Iwaswithhimatschool,thenoutinthefield.WewereinRussia.AlsoPoland,

Ukraine,Austria.ThenFrance.”Maxcrunchesaslicedapple.Hesays,“Howtallareyou?”“Max,”saysJutta.Volkheimersmiles.Albertsays,“Hewasverybright,wasn’the?Jutta’sbrother?”Volkheimersays,“Very.”Albert offers a second helping, offers salt, offers sherry again. Albert is younger than Jutta, and

duringthewar,heranasacourierinHamburgbetweenbombshelters.Nineyearsoldin1945,stillachild.

“ThelastplaceIsawhim,”saysVolkheimer,“wasinatownonthenortherncoastofFrancecalledSaint-Malo.”

FromtheloamofJutta’smemoryrisesasentence:WhatIwanttowriteabouttodayisthesea.“Wespentamonththere.Ithinkhemighthavefalleninlove.”Juttasitsstraighterinherchair.It’sembarrassinglyplainhowinadequatelanguageis.Atownonthe

northerncoastofFrance?Love?Nothingwillbehealedinthiskitchen.Somegriefscanneverbeput

right.Volkheimerpushesbackfromthetable.“Itwasnotmyintentiontoupsetyou.”Hehovers,dwarfing

them.“It’sallright,”saysAlbert.“Max,canyoupleasetakeourguesttothepatio?I’llputoutsomecake.”MaxslidesopentheglassdoorforVolkheimer,andheducksthrough.Juttasetstheplatesinthesink.

Sheissuddenlyverytired.Sheonlywantsthebigmantoleaveandtotakethebagwithhim.Sheonlywantsatideofnormalitytowashinandcovereverythingagain.

Alberttouchesherelbow.“Areyouallright?”Juttadoesnotnodorshakeherhead,butslowlydragsahandoverbotheyebrows.“Iloveyou,Jutta.”Whenshelooksoutthewindow,VolkheimeriskneelingonthecementbesideMax.Maxlaysdown

twosheetsofpaper,andalthoughshecannothearthem,shecanseethehugemantalkingMaxthroughasetofsteps.Maxwatchesintently,turningoverthesheetwhenVolkheimerturnsitover,matchinghisfolds,wettingonefinger,andrunningitalongacrease.

Soonenough,theyeachhaveawide-wingedplanewithalongforkedtail.Volkheimer’ssailsneatlyoutacrosstheyard,flyingstraightandtrue,andsmacksintothefencenose-first.Maxclaps.

Max kneels on the patio in the dusk, going over his airplane, checking the angle of its wings.Volkheimerkneelsbesidehim,nodding,patient.

Juttasays,“Iloveyoutoo.”

Duffel

Volkheimerisgone.Theduffelwaitsonthehalltable.Shecanhardlylookatit.JuttahelpsMaxintohispajamasandkisseshimgoodnight.Shebrushesherteeth,avoidingherself

inthemirror,andgoesbackdownstairsandstandslookingoutthroughthewindowintheirfrontdoor.In the basement, Albert is running his trains through his meticulously painted world, beneath theunderpass, over his electric drawbridge; it’s a small sound up here, but relentless, a sound thatpenetratesthetimbersofthehouse.

Juttabringstheduffeluptothedeskinherbedroomandsetsitdownonthefloorandgradesanotherofherstudents’exams.Thenanother.Shecanhearthetrainsstop,thenresumetheirmonotonousdrone.

Shetriestogradeathirdexambutcannotconcentrate;thenumbersdriftacrossthepagesandcollectatthebottominunintelligiblepiles.Shesetsthebaginherlap.

When theywere first married andAlbert went away on trips for work, Jutta would wake in thepredawnhoursandrememberthosefirstnightsafterWernerleftforSchulpfortaandfeelalloveragainthesearingpainofhisabsence.

For something so old, the zipper on the duffel opens smoothly. Inside is a thick envelope and apackage covered in newspaper.When she unwraps the newspaper, she finds amodel house, tall andnarrow,nobiggerthanherfist.

The envelope contains the notebook she sent him forty years before.His book of questions.Thatcrimped,tinycursive,eachletterslopingslightlyfartheruphill.Drawings,schematics,pagesoflists.

Somethingthatlookslikeablenderpoweredbybicyclepedals.Amotorforamodelairplane.Whydosomefishhavewhiskers?Isittruethatallcatsaregraywhenthecandlesareout?Whenlightningstrikesthesea,whydon’tallthefishdie?After threepages, shehas toclose thenotebook.Memoriescartwheeloutofherheadand tumble

acrossthefloor.Werner’scotintheattic,thewallaboveitpaperedoverwithherdrawingsofimaginarycities. The first-aid box and the radio and the wire threaded out the window and through the eave.Downstairs, the trains run through Albert’s three-level layout, and in the next room her son wagesbattlesinhissleep,lipsmurmuring,eyelidsflexing,andJuttawillsthenumberstoclimbbackupandfindtheirplacesonherstudents’exams.

Shereopensthenotebook.Whydoesaknothold?If five cats catch five rats in fiveminutes, howmany catswill it require to catch100 rats in 100

minutes?Whydoesaflagflutterinthewindratherthanstandstraightout?Tuckedbetweenthelasttwopages,shefindsanoldsealedenvelope.HehaswrittenForFrederick

acrossthefront.Frederick:thebunkmateWernerusedtowriteabout,theboywholovedbirds.Heseeswhatotherpeopledon’t.Whatthewardidtodreamers.WhenAlbertfinallycomesup,shekeepsherheaddownandpretendstobegradingexams.Hepeels

himselfoutofhisclothesandgroans lightlyashegets intobed,andswitchesoffhis lamp,andsaysgoodnight,andstillshesits.

Saint-Malo

Jutta’sgradesarein,andMaxisoffschool,andbesides,he’djustgotothepooleveryday,pesterhisfatherwithriddles,foldthreehundredofthoseairplanesthegianttaughthim,andwouldn’titbegoodforhimtovisitanothercountry,learnsomeFrench,seetheocean?SheposesthesequestionstoAlbert,butbothofthemknowthatsheistheonewhomustgrantpermission.Togoherself,totaketheirson.

Onthetwenty-sixthofJune,anhourbeforedawn,Albertmakessixhamsandwichesandwrapstheminfoil.ThenhedrivesJuttaandMax to thestation in thePrinz4andkissesheron the lips,andsheboardsthetrainwithWerner’snotebookandthemodelhouseinherpurse.

The journey takesallday.ByRennes, thesunhasdropped lowover thehorizon,and thesmellofwarmmanure comes through the openwindows, and lines of pollarded trees whisk past. Gulls andcrowsinequalnumbersfollowatractorthroughitswakeofdust.Maxeatsasecondhamsandwichandrereadsacomicbook,andsheetsofyellowflowersglowinthefields,andJuttawondersifanyofthemgrowoverthebonesofherbrother.

Beforedark,awell-dressedmanwithaprostheticlegboardsthetrain.Hesitsbesideherandlightsacigarette.Juttaclutchesherbagbetweenherknees;sheiscertainthathewaswoundedinthewar,thathe will try to start a conversation, that her deficient French will betray her. Or that Max will saysomething.Orthatthemancanalreadytell.MaybeshesmellsGerman.

He’llsay,Youdidthistome.Please.Notinfrontofmyson.Butthetrainjoltsintomotion,andthemanfinisheshiscigaretteandgivesherapreoccupiedsmile

andpromptlyfallsasleep.Sheturnsthelittlehouseoverinherfingers.TheycomeintoSaint-Maloaroundmidnight,andthe

cabdriver leaves them at a hotel on the Place Chateaubriand. The clerk accepts the money Albertexchangedforher,andMaxleansagainstherhip,half-asleep,andsheissoafraidtotryherFrenchthatshegoestobedhungry.

InthemorningMaxpullsherthroughagapintheoldwallsandoutontoabeach.Herunsacrossthesandatfulltilt,thenstopsandstaresupattherampartsrearingabovehimasthoughimaginingpennantsandcannonsandmedievalarchersrangedalongtheparapets.

Juttacannottearhereyesawayfromtheocean.It isemeraldgreenandincomprehensiblylarge.Asinglewhitesailveersoutoftheharbor.Apairoftrawlersonthehorizonappearanddisappearbetweenwaves.Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain

everythinganyonecouldeverfeel.They pay a coin to climb the tower of the château. “Come on,” Max says, and charges up the

windingnarrowstairs,andJuttahuffsalongbehind,eachquarterturnpresentinganarrowwindowofbluesky,Maxpracticallyhaulingherupthesteps.

Fromthetop, theywatchthesmallfiguresof touristsstrollpastshopwindows.Shehasreadaboutthesiege;shehasstudiedphotosoftheoldtownbeforethewar.Butnow,lookingacrossat thehugedignified houses, the hundreds of rooftops, she can see no traces of bombings or craters or crushedbuildings.Thetownappearstohavebeenentirelyreplaced.

Theyordergalettesforlunch.Sheexpectsstares,butnoonetakesanynotice.ThewaiterseemstoneitherknownorcarethatsheisGerman.Intheafternoon,sheleadsMaxoutthroughahigharchon

thefarsideofthecitycalledthePortedeDinan.Theycrossthequayandclimbtoamatchingheadlandacross themouthofa river fromtheoldcity. Inside theparkwait theruinsofa fortovergrownwithweeds.Maxpausesatallthesteepedgesalongthetrailandthrowspebblesdownintothesea.

Everyhundredpacesalongthepath,theycomeacrossabigsteelcapbeneathwhichasoldierwoulddirectcannonfireatwhomeverwas trying to take thehill.Someof thesepillboxesaresoscarredbyassaultthatshecanhardlyimaginethefireandspeedandterroroftheprojectilesshoweringontothem.Afootofsteellooksasifithasbeentransformedintowarmbutterandgougedbythefingersofachild.

Whatitmusthavesoundedlike,tostandinthere.Nowtheyarefilledwithcrispsbags,cigarettefilters,paperwrappers.AmericanandFrenchflagsfly

fromahilltopat thecenterof thepark.Here,signssay,Germansholedupinundergroundtunnels tofighttothelastman.

ThreeteenagerspasslaughingandMaxwatchesthemwithgreatintensity.Onapockedandlichen-splotchedcementwallisboltedasmallstoneplaque.IciaététuéBuyGastonMarcelagéde18ans,mortpourlaFrancele11août1944.Juttasitsontheground.Theseaisheavyandslate-gray.TherearenoplaquesfortheGermanswhodiedhere.

Whyhasshecome?Whatanswersdidshehopetofind?Ontheirsecondmorning,theysitinthePlaceChateaubriand across from the historicalmuseum,where sturdy benches face flower beds ringed byshin-highmetalhalfloops.Beneathawnings,touristsbrowseoverblue-and-white-stripedsweatersandframedwatercolorsofcorsairships;afathersingsasheputshisarmaroundadaughter.

Maxlooksupfromhisbookandsays,“Mutti,whatgoesaroundtheworldbutstaysinacorner?”“Idon’tknow,Max.”“Apostagestamp.”Hesmilesather.Shesays,“I’llberightback.”Themanbehindthemuseumcounterisbearded,maybefifty.Oldenoughtoremember.Sheopens

herpurseandunwrapsthepartiallycrushedwoodenhouseandsaysinherbestFrench,“Mybrotherhadthis.Ibelievehefoundithere.Duringthewar.”

Themanshakeshishead,andshereturns thehousetoherpurse.Thenheasks tosee itagain.Heholdsthemodelunderthelampandturnsitsothatitsrecessedfrontdoorfaceshim.

“Oui,”he says finally.Hegestures for her towait outside, and amoment later, he locks thedoorbehindhimandleadsherandMaxdownstreetsnarrowandsloping.Afteradozenrightsandlefts,theystandinfrontofthehouse.Areal-lifecounterparttothelittleonethatMaxisrightnowrotatinginhishands.

“NumberfourrueVauborel,”saystheman.“TheLeBlanchouse.Beensubdividedintoholidayflatsforyears.”

Lichens splotch the stone; leached minerals have left filigrees of stains. Flower boxes adorn thewindows,foamingoverwithgeraniums.CouldWernerhavemadethemodel?Boughtit?

Shesays,“Andwasthereagirl?Doyouknowaboutagirl?”“Yes,therewasablindgirlwholivedinthishouseduringthewar.Mymothertoldstoriesabouther.

Assoonasthewarended,shemovedaway.”GreendotsstrobeacrossJutta’svision;shefeelsasifshehasbeenstaringatthesun.Maxpullsherwrist.“Mutti,Mutti.”

“Why,”shesays,lurchingthroughtheFrench,“wouldmybrotherhaveaminiaturereproductionofthishouse?”

“Maybethegirlwholivedherewouldknow?Icanfindheraddressforyou.”“Mutti,Mutti,look,”Maxsays,andyanksherhardenoughtowinherattention.Sheglancesdown.

“Ithinkthislittlehouseopens.Ithinkthere’sawaytoopenit.”

Laboratory

Marie-LaureLeBlancmanagesasmalllaboratoryattheMuseumofNaturalHistoryinParisandhascontributedinsignificantwaystothestudyandliteratureofmollusks:amonographontheevolutionaryrationale for the folds inWest African cancellate nutmeg shells; an often-cited paper on the sexualdimorphismofCaribbeanvolutes.Shehasnamedtwonewsubspeciesofchitons.Asadoctoralstudent,shetraveledtoBoraBoraandBimini;shewadedontoreefsinasunhatwithacollectingbucketandharvestedsnailsonthreecontinents.

Marie-LaureisnotacollectorinthewaythatDr.Geffardwas,anamasser,alwayslookingtoscurrydown the scales of order, family, genus, species, and subspecies. She loves to be among the livingcreatures,whetheronthereefsorinheraquaria.Tofindthesnailscrawlingalongtherocks,thesetinywetbeingsstrainingcalciumfromthewaterandspinningitintopolisheddreamsontheirbacks—itisenough.Morethanenough.

SheandEtiennetraveledwhilehecould.TheywenttoSardiniaandScotlandandrodeontheupperdeckofaLondonairportbusasitskimmedbelowtrees.Heboughthimselftwonicetransistorradios,diedgentlyinthebathtubatageeighty-two,andleftherplentyofmoney.

Despitehiringan investigator,spending thousandsoffrancs,andporing throughreamsofGermandocumentation,Marie-LaureandEtiennewereneverable todeterminewhatexactlyhappened toherfather.TheyconfirmedhehadbeenaprisoneratalaborcampcalledBreitenauin1942.Andtherewasa recordmadebyacampdoctoratasubcamp inKassel,Germany, thataDanielLeBlanccontractedinfluenzainthefirstpartof1943.That’salltheyhave.

Marie-Laure still lives in the flatwhere shegrewup, stillwalks to themuseum.Shehashad twolovers.Thefirstwasavisitingscientistwhoneverreturned,andthesecondwasaCanadiannamedJohnwho scattered things—ties, coins, socks, breath mints—around any room he entered. They met ingraduateschool;heflittedfromlabtolabwithaprodigiouscuriositybutlittleperseverance.Helovedocean currents and architecture and Charles Dickens, and his variousness made her feel limited,overspecialized.WhenMarie-Lauregotpregnant,theyseparatedpeaceably,withnoflamboyance.

Hélène,theirdaughter,isnineteennow.Short-haired,petite,anaspiringviolinist.Self-possessed,thewaychildrenofablindparenttendtobe.Hélèneliveswithhermother,butthethreeofthem—John,Marie-Laure,andHélène—eatlunchtogethereveryFriday.

Itwashardtolivethroughtheearly1940sinFranceandnothavethewarbethecenterfromwhichtherestofyour lifespiraled.Marie-Laurestillcannotwearshoesthatare toolarge,orsmellaboiledturnip,without experiencing revulsion.Neither can she listen to lists of names. Soccer team rosters,citationsattheendofjournals,introductionsatfacultymeetings—alwaystheyseemtohersomevestigeoftheprisonliststhatnevercontainedherfather’sname.

Shestillcountsstormdrains:thirty-eightonthewalkhomefromherlaboratory.Flowersgrowonhertinywrought-ironbalcony,andinsummershecanestimatewhattimeofdayitisbyfeelinghowwidethepetalsoftheeveningprimroseshaveopened.WhenHélèneisoutwithherfriendsandtheapartmentseemstooquiet,Marie-Laurewalkstothesamebrasserie:LeVillageMonge,justoutsidetheJardindesPlantes,andordersroastedduckinhonorofDr.Geffard.

Is she happy? For portions of every day, she is happy.When she’s standing beneath a tree, forinstance,listeningtotheleavesvibratinginthewind,orwhensheopensapackagefromacollectorand

thatoldoceanodorofshellscomeswashingout.WhensheremembersreadingJulesVernetoHélène,andHélènefallingasleepbesideher,thehot,hardweightofthegirl’sheadagainstherribs.

Therearehours,though,whenHélèneislate,andanxietyridesupthroughMarie-Laure’sspine,andshe leans over a lab table andbecomes aware of all the other rooms in themuseumaroundher, theclosetsfullofpreservedfrogsandeelsandworms,thecabinetsfullofpinnedbugsandpressedferns,the cellars full of bones, and she feels all of a sudden that she works in a mausoleum, that thedepartmentsaresystematicgraveyards,thatallthesepeople—thescientistsandwardersandguardsandvisitors—occupygalleriesofthedead.

But such moments are few and far between. In her laboratory, six saltwater aquariums gurglereassuringly;onthebackwallstandthreecabinetswithfourhundreddrawersineach,salvagedyearsagofromtheofficeofDr.Geffard.Everyfall,sheteachesaclasstoundergraduates,andherstudentscomeandgo,smellingofsaltedbeef,orcologne,orthegasolineoftheirmotorscooters,andshelovesto ask themabout their lives, towonderwhat adventures they’vehad,what lusts,what secret folliestheycarryintheirhearts.

OneWednesday evening in July, her assistant knocks quietly on the open door to the laboratory.Tanksbubbleandfiltershumandaquariumheatersclickonoroff.Hesaysthereisawomantoseeher.Marie-LaurekeepsbothhandsonthekeysofherBrailletypewriter.“Acollector?”

“Idon’tthinkso,Doctor.ShesaysthatshegotyouraddressfromamuseuminBrittany.”Firstnotesofvertigo.“Shehasaboywithher.They’rewaitingattheendofthehall.ShallItellhertotrytomorrow?”“Whatdoesshelooklike?”“Whitehair.”Heleanscloser.“Badlydressed.Skinlikepoultry.Shesaysshewouldliketoseeyou

aboutamodelhouse?”SomewherebehindherMarie-Laurehearsthetinklingsoundoftenthousandkeysquiveringonten

thousandhooks.“Dr.LeBlanc?”Theroomhastilted.Inamomentshewillslideofftheedge.

Visitor

“YoulearnedFrenchasachild,”Marie-Lauresays,thoughhowshemanagestospeak,sheisnotsure.“Yes.Thisismyson,Max.”“GutenTag,”murmursMax.Hishandiswarmandsmall.“HehasnotlearnedFrenchasachild,”saysMarie-Laure,andbothwomenlaughamomentbefore

fallingquiet.The woman says, “I brought something—” Even through its newspaper wrapping, Marie-Laure

knowsitisthemodelhouse;itfeelsasifthiswomanhasdroppedamoltenkernelofmemoryintoherhands.

Shecanbarely stand.“Francis,” shesays toherassistant, “couldyoushowMaxsomething in themuseumforamoment?Perhapsthebeetles?”

“Ofcourse,Madame.”ThewomansayssomethingtohersoninGerman.Francissays,“ShallIclosethedoor?”“Please.”The latch clicks.Marie-Laure can hear the aquaria bubble and the woman inhale and the rubber

stoppersonthestoollegsbeneathhersqueakassheshifts.Withherfinger,shefindsthenicksonthehouse’ssides,theslopeofitsroof.Howoftensheheldit.

“Myfathermadethis,”shesays.“Doyouknowhowmybrothergotit?”Everythingwhirling through space, taking a lap around the room, then climbingback intoMarie-

Laure’smind.Theboy.Themodel.Hasitneverbeenopened?Shesetsthehousedownsuddenly,asifitisveryhot.

Thewoman,Jutta,mustbewatchingherveryclosely.Shesays,asthoughapologizing,“Didhetakeitfromyou?”

Overtime,thinksMarie-Laure,eventsthatseemjumbledeitherbecomemoreconfusingorgraduallysettleintoplace.Theboysavedherlifethreetimesover.OncebynotexposingEtiennewhenheshouldhave.Twicebytakingthatsergeantmajoroutoftheway.Threetimesbyhelpingheroutofthecity.

“No,”shesays.“Itwasnot,”saysJutta,reachingthelimitsofherFrench,“veryeasytobegoodthen.”“Ispentadaywithhim.Lessthanaday.”Juttasays,“Howoldwereyou?”“Sixteenduringthesiege.Andyou?”“Fifteen.Attheend.”“Weallgrewupbeforeweweregrownup.Didhe—?”Juttasays,“Hedied.”Ofcourse.Inthestoriesafterthewar,alltheresistanceheroesweredashing,sinewytypeswhocould

construct machine guns from paper clips. And the Germans either raised their godlike blond headsthrough open tank hatches to watch broken cities scroll past, or else were psychopathic, sex-crazedtorturersofbeautifulJewesses.Wheredidtheboyfit?Hemadesuchafaintpresence.Itwaslikebeingintheroomwithafeather.Buthissoulglowedwithsomefundamentalkindness,didn’tit?WeusedtopickberriesbytheRuhr.Mysisterandme.

Shesays,“Hishandsweresmallerthanmine.”Thewomanclearsher throat.“Hewas little forhisage,always.Buthe lookedout forme. Itwas

hardforhimnottodowhatwasexpectedofhim.HaveIsaidthiscorrectly?”“Perfectly.”Theaquariabubble.Thesnailseat.Whatagonies thiswomanendured,Marie-Laurecannotguess.

Andthemodelhouse?DidWernerlethimselfbackintothegrottotoretrieveit?Didheleavethestoneinside?Shesays,“Hesaidthatyouandheusedtolistentomygreat-uncle’sbroadcasts.ThatyoucouldhearthemallthewayinGermany.”

“Yourgreat-uncle—?”NowMarie-Laurewonderswhatmemoriescrawloverthewomanacrossfromher.Sheisaboutto

saymorewhenfootfallsinthehallstopoutsidethelaboratorydoor.MaxstumblesthroughsomethingunintelligibleinFrench.Francislaughsandsays,“No,no,behindasinthebackofus,notbehindasinderrière.”

Juttasays,“I’msorry.”Marie-Laurelaughs.“Itistheobliviousnessofourchildrenthatsavesus.”ThedooropensandFrancissays,“Youareallright,madame?”“Yes,Francis.Youmaygo.”“We’llgotoo,”saysJutta,andshepushesherstoolbackbeneaththelabtable.“Iwantedyoutohave

thelittlehouse.Betterwithyouthanwithme.”Marie-Laurekeepsherhandsflatonthelabtable.Sheimaginesmotherandsonastheymovetoward

thedoor,smallhandfoldedinbighand,andherthroatwells.“Wait,”shesays.“Whenmygreat-unclesold the house, after the war, he traveled back to Saint-Malo, and he salvaged the one remainingrecordingofmygrandfather.Itwasaboutthemoon.”

“Iremember.Andlight?Ontheotherside?”Thecreakingfloor,theroilingtanks.Snailsslidingalongglass.Littlehouseonthetablebetweenher

hands.“LeaveyouraddresswithFrancis.Therecordisveryold,butI’llmailittoyou.Maxmightlikeit.”

PaperAirplane

“AndFrancissaidthereareforty-twothousanddrawersofdriedplants,andheshowedmethebeakofagiantsquidandaplesiosaur...”ThegravelcrunchesbeneaththeirshoesandJuttahastoleanagainstatree.

“Mutti?”Lightsveertowardher,thenaway.“I’mtired,Max.That’sall.”Sheunfoldsthetouristmapandtriestounderstandthewaybacktotheirhotel.Fewcarsareout,and

mosteverywindowtheypassislitbluefromatelevision.It’stheabsenceofallthebodies,shethinks,thatallowsustoforget.It’sthatthesodsealsthemover.

Intheelevator,Maxpushes6anduptheygo.Thecarpetedrunnertotheirroomisariverofmarooncrossedwith gold trapezoids. She handsMax the key, and he fumbleswith the lock, then opens thedoor.

“Didyoushowtheladyhowthehouseopened,Mutti?”“Ithinkshealreadyknew.”Jutta turns on the television and takes off her shoes.Max opens the balcony doors and folds an

airplanewithhotelstationery.ThehalfblockofParisthatshecanseeremindsherofthecitiesshedrewasagirl:ahundredhouses,athousandwindows,awheelingflockofbirds.Onthetelevision,playersinbluerushalongafieldtwothousandmilesaway.Thescoreisthreetotwo.Butagoalkeeperhasfallen,andawinghastoedtheballjustenoughthatitrollsslowlytowardthegoalline.Nooneistheretokickitaway.JuttapicksupthephonebesidethebedanddialsninenumbersandMaxlaunchesanairplaneoverthestreet.Itsailsafewdozenfeetandhangsforaninstant,andthenthevoiceofherhusbandsayshello.

TheKey

ShesitsinherlabtouchingtheDosiniashellsoneafteranotherintheirtray.Memoriesstrobepast:thefeel of her father’s trouser leg as she’d cling to it. Sand fleas skittering around her knees. CaptainNemo’ssubmarinevibratingwithhiswoefuldirgeasitfloatedthroughtheblack.

Sheshakesthelittlehouse,thoughsheknowsitwillnotgiveitselfaway.Hewentbackforit.Carrieditout.Diedwithit.Whatsortofaboywashe?Sheremembershowhe

satandpagedthroughthatbookofEtienne’s.Birds,hesaid.Birdafterbirdafterbird.She sees herselfwalk out of the smoking city, trailing awhite pillowcase.Once she is out of his

sight, he turns and lets himself back through Harold Bazin’s gate. The rampart a huge crumblingbulwarkabovehim.Theseasettlingonthefarsideofthegrate.Sheseeshimsolvethepuzzleofthelittlehouse.Maybehedropsthediamondintothepoolamongthethousandsofsnails.Thenheclosesthepuzzleboxandlocksthegateandtrotsaway.

Orheputsthestonebackintothehouse.Orslipsitintohispocket.Fromhermemory,Dr.Geffardwhispers:Thatsomethingsosmallcouldbesobeautiful.Worthso

much.Onlythestrongestpeoplecanturnawayfromfeelingslikethat.Shetwists thechimneyninetydegrees. It turnsassmoothlyas ifher father justbuilt it.Whenshe

triestoslideoffthefirstofthethreewoodenroofpanels,shefindsitstuck.Butwiththeendofapen,shemanagestoleveroffthepanelsonetwothree.

Somethingdropsintoherpalm.Anironkey.

Seaof Flames

Fromthemoltenbasementsoftheworld,twohundredmilesdown,itcomes.Onecrystalinaseamofothers. Pure carbon, each atom linked to four equidistant neighbors, perfectly knit, octahedral,unsurpassedinhardness.Alreadyit isold:unfathomablyso.Incalculableeonstumblepast.Theearthshifts, shrugs, stretches. One year, one day, one hour, a great upflow of magma gathers a seam ofcrystals and drives it toward the surface, mile after burning mile; it cools inside a huge, smokingxenolithofkimberlite,andthereitwaits.Centuryaftercentury.Rain,wind,cubicmilesofice.Bedrockbecomesboulders, bouldersbecome stones; the ice retreats, a lake forms, andgalaxiesof freshwaterclamsflaptheirmillionshellsatthesunandcloseanddieandthelakeseepsaway.Standsofprehistorictrees riseand falland riseagain insuccession.Untilanotheryear,anotherday,anotherhour,whenastormclawsoneparticularstoneoutofacanyonandsendsitintoaclatteringflowofalluvium,whereeventuallyitfinds,oneevening,theattentionofaprincewhoknowswhatheislookingfor.

Itiscut,polished;forabreath,itpassesbetweenthehandsofmen.Anotherhour, another day, another year.Lumpof carbonno larger than a chestnut.Mantledwith

algae,bedeckedwithbarnacles.Crawledoverbysnails.Itstirsamongthepebbles.

Frederick

He liveswithhismother outsidewestBerlin.Their apartment is amiddle unit in a triplex. Its onlywindows offer a view of sweet-gum trees, a vast and barely used supermarket parking lot, and anexpresswaybeyond.

Fredericksitsonthebackpatiomostdaysandwatchesthewinddrivediscardedplasticbagsacrossthe lot. Sometimes they spin high into the air and fly unpredictable loops before catching on thebranches or disappearing from view. He makes pencil drawings of spirals, messy, heavy-leadedcorkscrews.He’llcoverasheetofpaperwithtwoorthree,thenflipitoverandfilltheotherside.Theapartmentisjammedwiththem:thousandsonthecounters, indrawers,onthetoilettank.HismotherusedtothrowthesheetsawaywhenFrederickwasn’tlooking,butlatelyshehasgivenup.

“Likeafactory,thatboy,”sheusedtosaytofriends,andsmiledadesperatesmilemeanttomakeherappearbrave.

Fewfriendscomeovernow.Fewareleft.One Wednesday—but what are Wednesdays to Frederick?—his mother comes in with the mail.

“There’saletter,”shesays,“foryou.”Herinstinctinthedecadessincethewarhasbeentohide.Hideherself,hidewhathappenedtoher

boy.Shewasnot theonlywidowmadetofeelas ifshehadbeencomplicit inanunspeakablecrime.Insidethelargeenvelopeisaletterandasmallerenvelope.ThelettercomesfromawomaninEssenwhotracesthecourseofthesmallerenvelopefromherbrothertoanAmericanprisoner-of-warcampinFrance,toamilitarystoragefacilityinNewJersey,toaveterans’serviceorganizationinWestBerlin.Thentoaformersergeant,thentothewomanwritingtheletter.

Werner.Shecanstillpicturetheboy:whitehair,shyhands,ameltingsmile.Frederick’sonefriend.Aloudshesays,“Hewasverysmall.”

Frederick’smother shows him the unopened envelope—it iswrinkled, sepia-colored, and old, hisnamewritten in smallcursive letters—buthe showsno interest.She leaves iton thecounterasduskfalls,andmeasuresoutacupofriceandsetsittoboil,andswitchesoneverylampandoverheadfixtureas she always does, not to see, but because she is alone, because the apartments on either side arevacant,andbecausethelightsmakeherfeelasifsheisexpectingsomeone.

Shepureeshisvegetables.SheputsthespooninFrederick’smouthandhehumsasheswallows:heishappy.Shewipeshischinandsetsasheetofpaperinfrontofhimandhetakeshispencilandbeginstodraw.

Shefillsthesinkwithsoapywater.Thensheopenstheenvelope.Insideisafoldedprintoftwobirdsinfullcolor.AquaticWoodWagtail.Male1.Female2.Twobirds

onastalkofIndianturnip.Shepeersbackintotheenvelopeforanote,anexplanation,butfindsnone.The day she bought that book for Fredde: the bookseller took so long to wrap it. She did not

understanditsattractionbutknewthathersonwouldloveit.ThedoctorsclaimFrederickretainsnomemories,thathisbrainmaintainsonlybasicfunctions,but

therearemomentswhenshewonders.Sheflattensoutthecreasesaswellasshecananddragsthefloorlampcloserandplacestheprintbeforeherson.Hetiltshisheadandshetriestoconvinceherselfheisstudying it.But his eyes are gray and chambered and shallow, and after amoment he returns to hisspirals.

Whenshehasfinishedthedishes,sheleadsFrederickoutontotheelevatedpatio,asistheirroutine,wherehesitswithhisbibstillaroundhisneck,staringintooblivion.She’ll tryhimagainonthebirdprinttomorrow.

It’sfall,andstarlingsflyingreatpulsingswarmsabovethecity.Sometimesshethinksheperksupwhenheseesthem,hearsallthosewingsrushingandrushingandrushing.

As she sits, looking out through the line of trees into the great empty parking lot, a dark shapesweepsthroughthenimbusofastreetlamp.Itdisappearsandthenreemerges,andsuddenlyandsilentlyitlandsonthedeckrailingnotsixfeetaway.

It’sanowl.Asbigasachild.Itswivelsitsneckandblinksitsyelloweyesandinherheadroarsasinglethought:You’vecomeforme.

Fredericksitsupstraight.The owl hears something. It holds there, listening as hard as she has ever seen anything listen.

Frederickstaresandstares.Thenitgoes:threeaudiblewingbeatsandthedarknessswallowsit.“Yousawit?”shewhispers.“Didyouseeit,Fredde?”He keeps his gaze turned toward the shadows. But there are only the plastic bags rustling in the

branchesabovethemandthedozensofspheresofartificiallightglowingintheparkinglotbeyond.“Mutti?”saysFrederick.“Mutti?”“I’mhere,Fredde.”She puts her hand on his knee. His fingers lock around the arms of the chair. His whole body

becomesrigid.Veinsstandoutinhisneck.“Frederick?Whatisit?”Helooksather.Hiseyesdonotblink.“Whatarewedoing,Mutti?”“Oh,Fredde.We’rejustsitting.We’rejustsittingandlookingoutatthenight.”

Thirteen

2014

Shelivestoseethecenturyturn.Shelivesstill.It’saSaturdaymorninginearlyMarch,andhergrandsonMichelcollectsherfromherflatandwalks

herthroughtheJardindesPlantes.Frostglimmersintheair,andMarie-LaureshufflesalongwiththeballofhercaneoutinfrontandherthinhairblowntoonesideandtheleaflesscanopiesofthetreesdriftingoverheadassheimaginesschoolsofPortuguesemen-of-wardrift, trailingtheir longtentaclesbehindthem.

Skimicehasformedatoppuddlesinthegravelpaths.Whenevershefindssomewithhercane,shestopsandbendsandtriestoliftthethinplatewithoutbreakingit.Asthoughraisingalenstohereye.Thenshesetsitcarefullybackdown.

Theboyispatient,takingherelbowonlywhensheseemstoneedit.Theymakeforthehedgemazeinthenorthwestcornerofthegardens.Thepaththey’reonbeginsto

ascend,twistingsteadilytotheleft.Climb,pause,catchyourbreath.Climbagain.Whentheyreachtheoldsteelgazeboattheverytop,heleadshertoitsnarrowbenchandtheysit.

Nooneelsehere:toocoldortooearlyorboth.Shelistenstothewindsiftthroughthefiligreeofthecrownofthegazebo,andthewallsofthemazeholdsteadyaroundthem,Parismurmuringbelow,thedrowsypurrofaSaturdaymorning.

“You’llbetwelvenextSaturday,won’tyou,Michel?”“Finally.”“Youareinahurrytobetwelve?”“MothersaysIcandrivethemopedwhenIamtwelve.”“Ah.”Marie-Laurelaughs.“Themoped.”Beneath her fingernails, the frostmakes billions of tiny diadems and coronas on the slats of the

bench,alatticeofdumbfoundingcomplexity.Michel presses against her side andbecomesvery quiet.Onlyhis hands aremoving.Little clicks

rising,buttonsbeingpressed.“Whatareyouplaying?”“Warlords.”“Youplayagainstyourcomputer?”“AgainstJacques.”“WhereisJacques?”The boy’s attention stays on the game. It does notmatterwhere Jacques is: Jacques is inside the

game. She sits and her cane flexes against the gravel and the boy clicks his buttons in spasmodicflurries.Afterawhileheexclaims,“Ah!”andthegamemakesseveralresolvingchirps.

“You’reallright?”“Hehaskilledme.”AwarenessreturnstoMichel’svoice;heislookingupagain.“Jacques,Imean.I

amdead.”“Inthegame?”“Yes.ButIcanalwaysbeginagain.”Below them thewindwashes frost from the trees. She concentrates on feeling the sun touch the

backsofherhands.Onthewarmthofhergrandsonbesideher.“Mamie?Wastheresomethingyouwantedforyourtwelfthbirthday?”“Therewas.AbookbyJulesVerne.”“ThesameoneMamanreadtome?Didyougetit?”“Idid.Inaway.”

“Therewerelotsofcomplicatedfishnamesinthatbook.”Shelaughs.“Andcoralsandmollusks,too.”“Especiallymollusks.It’sabeautifulmorning,Mamie,isn’tit?”“Verybeautiful.”Peoplewalkthepathsofthegardensbelow,andthewindsingsanthemsinthehedges,andthebig

oldcedarsattheentrancetothemazecreak.Marie-LaureimaginestheelectromagneticwavestravelingintoandoutofMichel’smachine,bendingaroundthem,justasEtienneusedtodescribe,exceptnowathousand timesmorecrisscross theair thanwhenhe lived—maybeamillion timesmore.Torrentsoftextconversations,tidesofcellconversations,oftelevisionprograms,ofe-mail,vastnetworksoffiberandwireinterlacedaboveandbeneaththecity,passingthroughbuildings,arcingbetweentransmittersinMetrotunnels,betweenantennasatopbuildings,fromlamppostswithcellular transmittersinthem,commercialsforCarrefourandEvianandprebakedtoasterpastriesflashingintospaceandbacktoearthagain,I’mgoingtobelateandMaybeweshouldgetreservations?andPickupavocadosandWhatdidhesay?andtenthousandImissyous,fiftythousandIloveyous,hatemailandappointmentremindersandmarket updates, jewelry ads, coffee ads, furniture ads flying invisibly over thewarrens ofParis,over thebattlefieldsandtombs,over theArdennes,over theRhine,overBelgiumandDenmark,overthescarredandever-shifting landscapeswecallnations.Andis itsohard tobelieve thatsoulsmightalso travel thosepaths?Thather fatherandEtienneandMadameManecand theGermanboynamedWernerPfennigmightharrytheskyinflocks,likeegrets,liketerns,likestarlings?Thatgreatshuttlesofsoulsmightflyabout,fadedbutaudibleifyoulistencloselyenough?Theyflowabovethechimneys,ridethesidewalks,slipthroughyourjacketandshirtandbreastboneandlungs,andpassoutthroughtheother side, the air a library and the record of every life lived, every sentence spoken, every wordtransmittedstillreverberatingwithinit.

Everyhour,shethinks,someoneforwhomthewarwasmemoryfallsoutoftheworld.Weriseagaininthegrass.Intheflowers.Insongs.Micheltakesherarmandtheywindbackdownthepath,throughthegateontotherueCuvier.She

passesonestormdrain twostormdrains three four five,andwhen they reachherbuilding, shesays,“Youmayleavemehere,Michel.Youcanfindyourway?”

“Ofcourse.”“Untilnextweek,then.”Hekissesheronceoneachcheek.“Untilnextweek,Mamie.”She listens until his footsteps fade.Until all she can hear are the sighs of cars and the rumble of

trainsandthesoundsofeveryonehurryingthroughthecold.

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to theAmericanAcademy inRome, to the IdahoCommissionon theArts, and to theJohn SimonGuggenheimMemorial Foundation. Thank you to Francis Geffard, who brought me toSaint-Malo for the first time.Thank you toBinkyUrban andClareReihill for their enthusiasm andconfidence.AndthanksespeciallytoNanGraham,whowaitedadecade,thengavethisbookherheart,herpencil,andsomanyofherhours.

AdditionaldebtsareowedtoJacquesLusseyran’sAndThereWasLight,CurzioMalaparte’sKaputt,andMichelTournier’sTheOgre;toCortConley,whokeptasteadystreamofcuratedmaterialflowinginto my mailbox; to early readers Hal and Jacque Eastman, Matt Crosby, Jessica Sachse, MeganTweedy, JonSilverman,SteveSmith,StefaniNellen,ChrisDoerr,DickDoerr,MichèleMourembles,KaraWatson,ChestonKnapp,MegStorey,andEmilyForland;andespeciallytomymother,MarilynDoerr,whowasmyDr.Geffard,myJulesVerne.

The largest thanks go to Owen and Henry, who have lived with this book all their lives, and toShauna,withoutwhomthiscouldnotexist,anduponwhomallthisdepends.

©ISABELLESELBY

ANTHONYDOERRistheauthorofthestorycollectionsMemoryWallandTheShellCollector,thenovelAboutGrace,andthememoirFourSeasons inRome.Hehaswonnumerousprizesboth in theUnitedStatesandoverseas,includingfourO.HenryPrizes,threePushcartPrizes,theRomePrize,theNewYorkPublicLibrary’sYoungLions FictionAward, theNationalMagazineAward for fiction, aGuggenheimFellowship,andtheStoryPrize.RaisedinCleveland,DoerrlivesinBoise,Idaho,withhiswifeandtwosons.

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Contents

Epigraph

PartZero:7August1944Chapter1:LeafletsChapter2:BombersChapter3:TheGirlChapter4:TheBoyChapter5:Saint-MaloChapter6:Number4rueVauborelChapter7:CellarChapter8:BombsAway

PartOne:1934Chapter9:MuséumNationald’HistoireNaturelleChapter10:ZollvereinChapter11:KeyPoundChapter12:RadioChapter13:TakeUsHomeChapter14:SomethingRisingChapter15:LightChapter16:OurFlagFluttersBeforeUsChapter17:AroundtheWorldinEightyDaysChapter18:TheProfessorChapter19:SeaofFlamesChapter20:OpenYourEyesChapter21:FadeChapter22:ThePrinciplesofMechanicsChapter23:RumorsChapter24:BiggerFasterBrighterChapter25:MarkoftheBeastChapter26:GoodEvening.OrHeilHitlerif YouPrefer.Chapter27:Bye-bye,BlindGirlChapter28:MakingSocksChapter29:FlightChapter30:HerrSiedlerChapter31:Exodus

PartTwo:8August1944Chapter32:Saint-MaloChapter33:Number4rueVauborelChapter34:Hotelof BeesChapter35:DownSixFlights

Chapter36:Trapped

PartThree:June1940Chapter37:ChâteauChapter38:EntranceExamChapter39:BrittanyChapter40:MadameManecChapter41:YouHaveBeenCalledChapter42:OccuperChapter43:Don’tTellLiesChapter44:EtienneChapter45:JungmännerChapter46:ViennaChapter47:TheBochesChapter48:HauptmannChapter49:FlyingCouchChapter50:TheSumofAnglesChapter51:TheProfessorChapter52:PerfumerChapter53:TimeoftheOstrichesChapter54:WeakestChapter55:MandatorySurrenderChapter56:MuseumChapter57:TheWardrobeChapter58:BlackbirdsChapter59:BathChapter60:Weakest(#2)Chapter61:TheArrestoftheLocksmith

PartFour:8August1944Chapter62:TheFortof LaCitéChapter63:AtelierdeRéparationChapter64:TwoCansChapter65:Number4rueVauborelChapter66:WhatTheyHaveChapter67:TripWire

PartFive:January1941Chapter68:JanuaryRecessChapter69:HeIsNotComingBackChapter70:PrisonerChapter71:PlageduMôleChapter72:LapidaryChapter73:EntropyChapter74:TheRounds

Chapter75:NadelimHeuhaufenChapter76:ProposalChapter77:YouHaveOtherFriendsChapter78:OldLadies’ResistanceClubChapter79:DiagnosisChapter80:Weakest(#3)Chapter81:GrottoChapter82:IntoxicatedChapter83:TheBladeandtheWhelkChapter84:AliveBeforeYouDieChapter85:NoOutChapter86:TheDisappearanceof HaroldBazinChapter87:EverythingPoisonedChapter88:VisitorsChapter89:TheFrogCooksChapter90:OrdersChapter91:PneumoniaChapter92:TreatmentsChapter93:HeavenChapter94:FrederickChapter95:Relapse

PartSix:8August1944Chapter96:SomeoneintheHouseChapter97:TheDeathof WalterBerndChapter98:Sixth-floorBedroomChapter99:MakingtheRadioChapter100:IntheAttic

PartSeven:August1942Chapter101:PrisonersChapter102:TheWardrobeChapter103:EastChapter104:OneOrdinaryLoafChapter105:VolkheimerChapter106:FallChapter107:SunflowersChapter108:StonesChapter109:GrottoChapter110:HuntingChapter111:TheMessagesChapter112:LoudenvielleChapter113:GrayChapter114:FeverChapter115:TheThirdStone

Chapter116:TheBridgeChapter117:RuedesPatriarchesChapter118:WhiteCityChapter119:TwentyThousandLeaguesUndertheSeaChapter120:Telegram

PartEight:9August1944Chapter121:FortNationalChapter122:IntheAtticChapter123:TheHeadsChapter124:DeliriumChapter125:WaterChapter126:TheBeamsChapter127:TheTransmitterChapter128:Voice

PartNine:May1944Chapter129:EdgeoftheWorldChapter130:NumbersChapter131:MayChapter132:Hunting(Again)Chapter133:“ClairdeLune”Chapter134:AntennaChapter135:BigClaudeChapter136:BoulangerieChapter137:GrottoChapter138:AgoraphobiaChapter139:NothingChapter140:FortyMinutesChapter141:TheGirlChapter142:LittleHouseChapter143:NumbersChapter144:Seaof FlamesChapter145:TheArrestof EtienneLeBlancChapter146:7August1944Chapter147:Leaflets

PartTen:12August1944Chapter148:EntombedChapter149:FortNationalChapter150:CaptainNemo’sLastWordsChapter151:VisitorChapter152:FinalSentenceChapter153:Music#1Chapter154:Music#2

Chapter155:Music#3Chapter156:OutChapter157:WardrobeChapter158:ComradesChapter159:TheSimultaneityof InstantsChapter160:AreYouThere?Chapter161:SecondCanChapter162:BirdsofAmericaChapter163:Cease-fireChapter164:ChocolateChapter165:Light

PartEleven:1945Chapter166:BerlinChapter167:Paris

PartTwelve:1974Chapter168:VolkheimerChapter169:JuttaChapter170:DuffelChapter171:Saint-MaloChapter172:LaboratoryChapter173:VisitorChapter174:PaperAirplaneChapter175:TheKeyChapter176:Seaof FlamesChapter177:Frederick

PartThirteen:2014Chapter178

AcknowledgmentsAboutAnthonyDoerr