The Arms Maker of Berlin by Dan Fesperman

hand, and as far as Kurt was concerned the matter was settled.
    He was less certain about some of the other people in attendance. A few were downright strident, even boastful in their dissent. The most abrasive was a fellow named Dieter Bussler, who loudly told a coarse joke about why the golden angel on the Victory Column had recently been moved to a higher pedestal—to keep Goebbels from getting up her skirts. Dieter struck him as all talk, just the sort of fellow who might get everybody in trouble and then be among the first to run.
    Others he liked immediately, such as the quiet-spoken Christoph Klemm. Christoph, too, told irreverent jokes, but his were more sophisticated, and cleverly refrained from mentioning their targets by name, as with the one that clearly referred to Gandhi and Hitler: “What’s the difference between Germany and India? In India, one man starves for millions. In Germany, millions starve for one man.”
    Kurt laughed louder than was warranted, partly out of nerves. It was a bit like being back in grammar school and having the boy at the next desk show you a naughty drawing of the teacher. It intrigued him to realize there must be more of this racy material out there, in parlors and living rooms far beyond the sedate comfort of his parents’ house. But he sensed that he had best enter this new realm carefully, and should closely guard its secrets.
    When his mother asked later how the evening had gone, he sanitized the description, making it as bland as possible. He didn’t dare mention Bonhoeffer’s name.
    “But you were there for hours. What did you do?”
    “Oh, you know, the usual sorts of things. Listened to music. Chatted with the girls. Nothing that exciting.”
    But it had been exciting, he realized, an exhilarating blend of sudden love and a fascination with the forbidden. The two ingredients now seemed inextricably bound, as if neither would be quite as exciting without the other.
    Liesl was putting on her skis when he arrived, and within seconds they were darting through the trees, scooting downhill on a trail that cut between the small woodland lakes of Krumme Lanke and Schlachtensee and then led straight into the densest part of the forest.
    The sky was a metallic gray, and the raw air burned his cheeks. In only minutes it felt like they were miles from civilization. Long brown furrows cut the snow where wild boars had rooted for acorns the night before. The only sound apart from their breathing and the hiss of their skis was the wind soughing in the pines. It kicked up a crystal mist of blown snow.
    Pausing for their first rest, Liesl bent forward awkwardly on her skis and nuzzled him with flushed cheeks. They kissed, and were so swept up that afterward they nearly tripped while disentangling their crossed skis, which of course made them laugh, a bright call of joy through the forest gloom. Kurt felt strong enough to ski all the way to the North Sea.
    “I used to wonder why these woods always made me so cheerful,” Liesl said, as they got back under way. “Then one day I realized it was partly because of the bark on the pines, the way it is colored. Do you see what I mean?”
    He did, now that she mentioned it. Most of the bark was a deep brown, but on every tree the southern exposure was a lighter shade, almost golden.
    “It makes it look like the sun is shining,” Kurt said.
    “Even on a day like this. The perfect illusion for the German winter.”
    For Kurt, Liesl had a similar brightening effect, except her radiance was no mere illusion. He pulled to a stop and leaned forward for another kiss.
    Their plan was to have lunch around noon, but the skiing was so good and the daylight so fleeting that they kept going, pausing only for an occasional nip of the hot, sweet cider. Then, just as the lowering sun finally peeped through the clouds, Liesl cried out in dismay.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “My left binding. It’s broken.”
    They stopped for a look. It wasn’t promising,