“Let’s not talk about it,” Juliana said. In the kitchen, she started cooking bacon; she turned on the small white plastic Emerson radio which Frank had given her on her birthday. “I’ll fix you something to eat.” She dialed, trying to find some light, pleasant music.

“Look at this,” Joe said. In the living room, he sat on the bed, his small suitcase beside him; he had opened it and brought out a ragged, bent book which showed signs of much handling. He grinned at Juliana. “Come here. You know what somebody says? This man—” He indicated the book. “This is very funny. Sit down.” He took hold of her arm, drew her down beside him. “I want to read to you. Suppose they had won. What would it be like? We don’t have to worry; this man has done all the thinking for us.” Opening the book, Joe began turning pages slowly. “The British Empire would control all Europe. All the Mediterranean. No Italy at all. No Germany, either. Bobbies and those funny little soldiers in tall fur hats, and the king as far as the Volga.”

In a low voice, Juliana said, “Would that be so bad?”

“You read the book?”

“No,” she admitted, peering to see the cover. She had heard about it, though; a lot of people were reading it. “But Frank and I—my former husband and I—often talked about how it would have been if the Allies had won the war.”

Joe did not seem to hear her; he was staring down at the copy of The Grasshopper Lies Heavy. “And in this,” he went on, “you know how it is that England wins? Beats the Axis?”

She shook her head, feeling the growing tension of the man beside her. His chin now had begun to quiver; he licked his lips again and again, dug at his scalp… when he spoke his voice was hoarse.

“He has Italy betray the Axis,” Joe said.

“Oh,” she said.

“Italy goes over to the Allies. Joins the Anglo-Saxons and opens up what he calls the “soft underbelly” of Europe. But that’s natural for him to think that. We all know the cowardly Italian Army that ran every time they saw the British. Drinking vino. Happy-go-lucky, not made for fighting. This fellow—” Joe closed the book, turned it around to study the back cover. “Abendsen. I don’t blame him. He writes this fantasy, imagines how the world would be if the Axis had lost. How else could they lose except by Italy being a traitor?” His voice grated. “The Duce—he was a clown; we all know that.”

“I have to turn the bacon.” She slid away from him and hurried back to the kitchen.

Following after her, still carrying the book, Joe went on, “And the U.S. comes in. After it licks the Japs. And after the war, the U.S. and Britain divide the world. Exactly like Germany and Japan did in reality.”

Juliana said, “Germany, Japan, and Italy.” He stared at her.

“You left out Italy.” She faced him calmly. Did you forget, too? she said to herself. Like everybody else? The little empire in the Middle East… the musical-comedy New Rome.

Presently she served him a platter of bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, coffee. He ate readily.

“What did they serve you in North Africa?” she asked as she, too, seated herself.

Joe said, “Dead donkey.”

“That’s hideous.”

With a twisted grin, Joe said, “Asino Morte. The bully beef cans had the initials AM stamped on them. The Germans called it Alter Mann. Old Man.” He resumed his rapid eating.

I would like to read this, Juliana thought as she reached to take the book from under Joe’s arm. Will he be here that long? The book had grease on it; pages were torn. Finger marks all over it. Read by truck drivers on the long haul, she thought. In the one-arm beaneries late at night… I’ll bet you’re a slow reader, she thought. I’ll bet you’ve been poring over this book for weeks, if not months.

Opening the book at random, she read:

“The only book I carry around,” Juliana said, “isn’t actually a book; it’s the oracle, the I Ching–Frank got me hooked on it and I use it all the time to decide. I never let it out of my sight. Ever.” She closed the copy of The Grasshopper. “Want to see it? Want to use it?”

“No,” Joe said.

Resting her chin on her folded arms on the table surface and gazing at him sideways, she said, “Have you moved in here permanently? And what are you up to?” Brooding over the insults, the slanders. You petrify me, she thought, with your hatred of life. But—you have something. You’re like a little animal, not important but smart. Studying his limited, clever dark face she thought, How could I ever have imagined you as younger than me? But even that’s true, your childishness; you are still the baby brother, worshiping your two older brothers and your Major Pardi and General Rommel, panting and sweating to break loose and get the Tommies. Did they actually garrote your brothers with loops of wire? We heard that, the atrocity stories and photos released after the war… She shuddered. But the British commandos were brought to trial and punished long ago.

The radio had ceased playing music; there seemed to be a news program, racket of shortwave from Europe. The voice faded and became garbled. A long pause, nothing at all. Just silence. Then the Denver announcer, very clear, close by. She reached to turn the dial, but Joe stopped her hand.

“… news of Chancellor Bormann’s death shocked a stunned Germany which had been assured as recently as yesterday…”

he and Joe jumped to their feet.

…all Reichs stations canceled scheduled programs and listeners, heard the solemn strains of the chorus of the SS Division Das Reich raised in the anthem of the Partei, the Horst Wessel Lied. Later, in Dresden, where the acting Partei Secretary and chiefs of the Sicherheitsdienst, the national security police which replaced the Gestapo following…”

Joe turned the volume up.

“… reorganization of the government at the instigation of the late Reichsfuhrer Himmler, Albert Speer and others, two weeks of official mourning were declared, and already many shops and businesses have closed, it was reported. As yet no word has come as to the expected convening of the Reichstag, the formal parliament of the Third Reich, whose approval is required…”

“It’ll be Heydrich,” Joe said.

“I wish it would be that big blond fellow, that Schirach,” she said. “Christ, so he finally died. Do you think Schirach has a chance?”

“No,” Joe said shortly.

“Maybe there’ll be a civil war now,” she said. “But those guys are so old now. Göring and Goebbels—all those old Party boys.”

The radio was saying, “…reached at his retreat in the Alps near Brenner…”

Joe said, “This’ll be Fat Hermann.”

“… said merely that he was grief-stricken by the loss not only of a soldier and patriot and faithful Partei Leader, but also, as he has said many times over, of a personal friend, whom, one will recall, he backed in the interregnum dispute shortly after the war when it appeared for a time that elements hostile to Herr Bormann’s ascension to supreme authority—”

Juliana shut the radio off.

“They’re just babbling,” she said. “Why do they use words like that? Those terrible murderers are talked about as if they were like the rest of us.”

“They are like us,” Joe said. He reseated himself and once more ate, “There isn’t anything they’ve done we wouldn’t have done if we’d been in their places. They saved the world from Communism. We’d be living under Red rule now, if it wasn’t for Germany. We’d be worse off.”

“You’re just talking,” Juliana said. “Like the radio. Babbling.”