“And guess what happened to that leader!” Bruce challenges me. “He was just transferred to another group! And what do you suppose they did to Gert’s father? They locked him up, because he complained, they stuck him in one of those concentration camps!”
“The papers said it was an accident: ‘Our dear son met with an accident in the service of our fatherland.’ ” He puts the rusted knife on the table. We all look at it, at the white strip of cloth on the handle, with its red swastika.
“D’you keep that because it’s Hitler’s junk?” Till asks, with his sideward look.
“Because it’s my friend’s; and I’m going to keep it forever.” Till is satisfied with that; he puts the last marshmallow slowly into his mouth.
The skyscrapers stand against a tall, pale sky. I want them to think of something else, and I propose the movies. Snow White is around the corner. “It’s a German story,” I tell René, trying to answer his reproach about German books, “and you can see how American it is now.” But Bruce has seen it already; and Till is occupied, twirling the globe, tracing frontiers with his finger. “France, Switzerland, Germany, Austria,” he spells out.
“Austria,” repeats René. “You’ll have to buy a new one.”
“United States of America,” Till reads.
“Want to be Americans?” asks Bruce. Till travels around Mexico with his finger.
“Well, yes, I’d like to,” René answers, “but I can’t quite imagine it. After all, I’m still German — I suppose.”
Till pushes across the South Seas. “Sure I’m going to be an American!” Bruce welcomes him with a charming little bow and a smile of extraordinary nobility, as if he had the power to give citizenship. “We’ll be glad to have you!” he says.