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conversation. “I always look like this,” Judit said. “You sound like my mother.”
    The agent allowed himself a small, wry smile. “I’m flattered.”
    â€œShe’d love a visit from you,” Judit said. “It would impress the neighbors.”
    He laughed. “I’m sure the neighbors are already impressed with Mrs. Ginsberg. Returning to the point at hand, if you’re running into trouble in the archive, we could help. I’ve said all along, we have access to resources that would make your job far easier.” The agent did say that. All the time. The fact that his laughter was rueful and disarming did not make Judit like him any better.
    She said, “I work best independently.”
    â€œYou’ve made that clear,” the agent said. “But you should understand that your mother and I are alike in putting your welfare first.” Now he did something so quickly that she didn’t have time to stop him. He took her hand, turned it over, and checked her pulse. “When is the last time you saw a doctor?”
    â€œSurely you have access to that information,” Judit said.
    â€œWe’ve told you many times that we don’t interfere, or pursue trivial questions. Yet there is a question that isn’t trivial. In fact, it’s a very interesting question.”
    He gave Judit a look, half-tender, half-diagnostic, and he hadn’t yet released her hand. His fingers pressed in gently. Then, without warning, his gaze hardened and focused in a way that cut through to the bone. Judit had been under that particular microscope before, and the degree of intensity never ceased to startle her. She said, “What question?”
    â€œThe question of why you won’t let us help you. Is there any other question, Mrs. Klemmer? Is there something else you want to tell me?” And this whole time, the note was on her. Why hadn’t she destroyed it? He could smell it. There was nothing about her that this agent didn’t know. He didn’t pursue it, though. He was no fool. That was the trouble.
    He released her wrist and handed her his card. It was the same card that he gave her every month. She had a stack of them in her room. Somehow, they never made it to the wastebasket. There were times when she wondered if, by keeping those cards, she compromised herself. The fact was, she was used to those visits, and if she was going to be honest, had grown to depend on them. Leaving aside that ghost, the agent had become the only man in her life.
    â€œGet some sleep,” he said. “And don’t hesitate to contact me. For any reason. We can help you get a new room. You know, this dormitory is slated for demolition next year.”

 
    7
    THE Ministry of State Security knew everything. Judit had grown up hearing stories of heroic Stasi agents who neutralized Nazi bandits in the ’50s through a network of informers and helped secure the borders in the years before the Protective Rampart. When Leonora learned the Stasi would look in on Judit, she’d been so relieved, she cried. Still, if the Stasi were so all-knowing and all-powerful, Hans would still be alive.
    Judit’s dormitory room had a narrow bed and a pressed-wood desk and chair, and she sat at that desk for a while with the note spread out in front of her. The print was faint and growing fainter by the hour. She switched on the desk lamp, but the glare made things worse.
    Maybe she wasn’t at the trial, but she couldn’t help hearing about the spectacle. Arno Durmersheimer was arrested with half a dozen others—all men in their sixties. They were members of some ridiculous Saxon folk-dancing club. Durmersheimer played the accordion. With his overalls and close-cropped red hair, he was the kind of Saxon you see everywhere and never see at all.
    Durmersheimer had been one of those Rathen snipers who’d terrorized Judenstaat until he’d been deported to the