“Mr. Lasner?”

Lasner turned, peering at him.

“Sorry. You probably don’t remember. We met last month overseas, on the Army trip. Ben Collier.” He held out his hand. “I was one of the liaison officers. Translator.”

Lasner took his hand, looking closely, still trying to place him. “The guy with the rooms, right? The one got Eddie Mannix the Ritz in Paris.”

Ben smiled. “And Zanuck. And Balaban. Colonel Mitchell arranged it. He figured they’d want the Ritz. Kind of people used to it.”

“I got news for you,” Lasner said, pointing with the cigar. “You think Harry Cohn’s used to the Ritz? Some hot-sheet place down on Flower-that’s what he’s used to.” He shook his head. “I still don’t know what that trip was. A stunt. Army puts a bunch of us in uniform, takes us around. What did they get out of it?”

What did they? Harry Cohn played poker in his suite, ignoring Paris. Everywhere the jockeying for the best hotel rooms, the special transports. Ben remembered the winding road up to Berchtesgaden, lined with jeeps, a new tourist attraction, GIs hunting for souvenirs while the executives stood at Hitler’s vast picture window, little tyrants finally humbled. A ride on Hitler’s yacht. Hamburg, where people had melted into the pavement during the firebombing. The camps, even worse. A few survivors still there, too emaciated and stunned to be moved. In town, packs of children, foraging. How much had they seen from their requisitioned rooms?

“It was Ike’s idea. Thinks people should see it. What happened. So the State Department sends groups over. That was the studio tour. There was another for the newsreel editors. See what it’s like.”

“At the Ritz.”

“And Dachau.”

For a moment there was no sound but the click of wheels beneath them.

“I was there,” Ben said quietly. Watching Lasner stagger against a building, his face in his hands, sobbing. “I know it made an impression on you.”