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looked more closely and saw two other men, both young and both dressed in identical fedoras and belted leather coats. An SS trooper in uniform stood beside a gleaming Daimler. A second uniformed trooper sat behind the wheel. Paul had seen this tableau before in the streets of Berlin, and he knew what it signified—a secret police operation.
    Suddenly his mother dismounted, ducked under the rail, and walked toward the Daimler. No one touched her or spoke to her. There was no sign that she was being arrested. She seemed to be acting of her own free will. The SS trooper opened the rear door of the Daimler. A man in uniform sat inside on the leather upholstery. Paul could not see his face, just his lean long legs in riding boots, crossed at the ankles. His mother got into the car. The man inside lifted her hand, rolled back the top of her riding glove, and kissed the inside of her wrist.
    The SS trooper closed the door and the big car with its curtained windows moved away. The policemen stopped traffic for it. The fellow who had been holding the bridle of Lori’s Lipizzaner mounted the animal and rode off toward the stables. He brought the animal to a trot, its best pace. He rode competently, back straight, head erect, eyes straight ahead. He must have been a cavalryman at some point in his life, before Germany changed.
     8 
    Next day, on his way to the ice cream shop, Paul was accosted by brownshirts—big jovial political street-fighters with bony fists and wily eyes who made jokes about his battered face. Had he run into a door, a husband? Ah, he could smile, he was a good loser! They were collecting for yet another National Socialist Party charity. There were many such charities and new ones were being invented all the time. The contributions were in reality a political tax levied by the party. Everyone understood this, and knew that refusal was unwise. The brownshirts specified the contribution they wanted from Paul, one mark. Paulhanded it over and they gave him a tin swastika pin to show that he had contributed.
    The day was sunny and warm, ice cream weather, and the shop was crowded. The usual notice, No Jews, was posted in the window. Rima was already seated at a tiny table for two. When Paul joined her she ordered chocolate ice cream with chopped nuts and whipped cream. Paul asked for the same. They ate in silence. This was no place for private conversation, not that there was any such place in Berlin.
    Rima had dressed for the weather. Instead of her usual blue wool she wore a light green dress that showed her knees when she walked, or so Paul imagined. He also pictured her chiffon scarf floating as she moved. Her long ebony plait was wound round her head. She wore pumps with high heels and white socks, as was the fashion all over Europe that summer. She wore bracelets on both wrists, and on her left hand a modest ring with a red stone that might have been a ruby. She looked more like a woman than a girl. They finished their ice cream.
    “What now?” Rima asked.
    “A walk in the zoo?” Paul suggested.
    “No thank you. I hate the cages. I hate the smell. Imagine what it would be like if you had a lion’s sense of smell and all you could smell was captivity.”
    “And never fresh blood.”
    “Not funny.”
    The tables were very close together here. It was impossible to talk without being overheard. Their English attracted the attention of two women at the next table. One of them leaned closer and listened. Outside the shop window the brownshirts lingered.
    “How much did you give them?” Rima asked.
    “What they asked for, one mark.”
    “Not enough, in my opinion,” Rima said. “Good German boys out in all kinds of weather, helping the poor and the unfortunate and the families of our men in uniform. Give them another coin for me on the way out.”
    The eavesdropper looked suspicious, but went back to her conversation with her friend.
    On the way out, Paul dropped a coin in the brownshirts’ collection