This morning Jurgen waited for Walter to arrive in his 1941 Ford sedan, a gray four-door with a high shine, always, anytime Jurgen saw the car. The Ford came through the trees along the drive that circled to the back of the two-story frame house that at one time, years ago, had been painted white. Walter came out of the car and Jurgen pounced on him.

“Walter, it’s of the utmost importance that you drive Otto into the city. He wants to see for himself the destruction made by the Luftwaffe. If you don’t, Otto tells me he’s going to run away and look for it himself.”

Walter frowned. He did it all the time, no matter what you said to him, he frowned.

“But there have been no air raids here.”

“In the prison camp,” Jurgen said, “Otto listened to the reports on shortwave radio from Berlin. They open the program with Der Blomberger Badenweiler-Marsch and then report on the latest bombing forays on American cities, war plants too, by the Luftwaffe.”

“It could be true?” Walter said.

“Not unless bombers can cross the Atlantic Ocean and return without stopping to refuel,” Jurgen said. “But Otto believes it. You know if he leaves the house by himself he’ll be picked up within a matter of hours. He’ll tell the police he’s SS and demand they treat him with military respect. You realize Otto’s not familiar with the independent ways that Americans have. He’ll become arrogant and tell them he escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp, bragging about it, saying it was easy, nothing to it. Saying he has German friends here. Walter, he’ll give you up the same way the Luftwaffe pilot gave up the man who helped him and was convicted of treason, Max Stephan. Otto could give you up without realizing what he’s doing.”