Over the years, Henry had had to replace his knife two times.  Not that he used it all that much—he just sharpened it a lot.  The first blade got to be so thin that when Henry finally did find a use for it, the blade broke in two.  He gave the second knife to Jacob at the newsstand.  Henry had shown it to the news agent and his nephew.  Jacob became so enamoured of the knife that Henry asked Jimmy’s permission to give the knife to his nephew.  Jimmy agreed, but only on the condition that Jacob never open the knife.  Jacob readily agreed, and although he never did open the knife, Jacob occasionally had either Jimmy or Henry do so for him.  Jacob never touched the blade—he was afraid.  Someday, Jacob said, he wanted to get a big Swiss army knife.  His father had owned one once.  Jacob remembered it.

            Now, Henry sat in his bedroom stropping his third small, Swiss army knife.  There was something about the predictable rhythm of knife against leather that acted as a catharsis.  It wasn’t that the activity cleared Henry’s thinking.  It simply allowed him to concentrate almost exclusively on just the slow twisting action of his wrist as he sharpened first one side of the blade, then the other.  As Henry watched himself sharpen the blade, he thought that it was a manly thing to do—manly and soul-satisfying.  Henry decided that somewhere in man’s prehistoric past, sharp tools and leather strops must have taken the place of a lot of angry confrontations.

            Auschwitz was beginning to take its toll on Henry—both mentally and physically.  Although he had not lost as much weight as other prisoners, Henry suffered the effects of malnutrition.  The bulk of his diet consisted of what he could steal from the warehouse stores.  Some days he managed bread and cheese.  Other days he managed odd combinations such as an orange and a raspberry cookie.  The food provided by the prison camp itself was usually some kind of tepid soup the color of which reminded Henry of the dishpan water after the dishes were done and the soap bubbles gone.  There was usually a bit of stale bread to go along with the watery soup.  The block seniors frequently reminded the prisoners to eat sparingly.  They couldn’t promise when the next meal would arrive, nor could they promise of what it would consist.  Henry felt sorry for the other prisoners, but his main objective was to stay alive.  He didn’t share what little he could steal, nor did he turn down any summons from von Linder.  Those visits always lead to a meal.  Henry didn’t feel he could afford to be magnanimous.

            Henry found the never-ending task of sorting to be depressing as well as boring.  One day, while sorting shirts, Henry came across a small, folding pocket knife.  He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then he slipped the knife into his pants’ pocket.  Henry was as excited as if he’d just received a birthday present.  He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the knife.  To get caught with it would mean certain punishment—maybe even a reprimand serious enough that von Linder couldn’t intervene.  Henry hid the knife along with his copy of Evangeline.

            The next morning when the rows of five were lined up in groups of one hundred waiting to be marched to their assigned jobs, one of the men in Henry’s group broke ranks and ran toward the block senior mumbling unintelligibly and pointing at Henry.  The prisoner claimed to have seen Henry steal the knife.  Henry was called out of line.  Had he stolen a knife from the sorting building?  Most certainly not Henry assured the block senior.  Henry knew the punishment for stealing.  Why, stealing, even from the piles of clothing was the same as stealing from the Füehrer.  Henry would never steal from the Füehrer.  He would do nothing to undermine the war effort.  The block senior grinned maliciously.  Then Henry wouldn’t mind a search of the room he and Kapo Kowslawski shared?  Of course not.  Henry smiled back even though he was so afraid he felt like vomiting.

            Just then, Colonel von Linder stepped up to the block senior and asked what the problem was.  Once it was explained, von Linder said that he, himself, would search the room.  He was gone for a considerable time, but when he returned, he smiled and said he had found nothing out of order.  Very slowly, von Linder drew his automatic pistol from its holster.  He stepped up to the prisoner who had made the original complaint.  Von Linder cocked the hammer of the pistol and held it at arm’s length, pointed right at the prisoner’s forehead—about three inches away.  The prisoner started to cry.  The block senior gave one short bark of laughter.  Von Linder quickly re-aimed his pistol at the block senior and squeezed the trigger.  The block senior died instantly.  Von Linder swung his gun back to the original prisoner and squeezed the trigger again.  The prisoner fell in a crumpled heap.

            “Now,” said von Linder, returning his pistol to its holster and pointing a finger at one of the prisoners in the first row of five, “you are the new block senior.  Clean up this mess, get your people to where they belong, then inform the registrar of your change in status.”  He turned to Henry.  “Get back in line.  I knew you wouldn’t do anything so foolhardy as to steal.”  He looked at the entire group of prisoners.  “Any other complaints?”  Von Linder appeared the soul of patience as he waited a long moment for one of the prisoners to respond.  “No?  No complaints.”  The Nazi turned and strode away.  Henry didn’t know whether to laugh because he had escaped detection or cry because his stupidity had cost two men their lives.  In the end, Henry decided that the whole incident was beyond his ability to control.  He was just happy that von Linder had come along when he did.

            That afternoon, the Nazi officer sent for Henry.  Together they prepared their evening meal.  Henry was given the small pocket knife to use for peeling potatoes.  Neither he nor von Linder mentioned the fact that the German officer had confiscated the knife from Henry’s room.  When Henry left at the end of his visit, the knife remained in full view on von Linder’s coffee table.

            Von Linder’s coffee table reminded Henry of the one in Greenwich Village, or was it the other way around?  For an instant Henry wasn’t sure—until he realized he was in New York.  Frieda was entertaining friends—“The Full Moon Poetry Club” to be exact.  They met once a month at seven in the evening—on the night of the full moon.

            Although Henry tried to act as if he were not interested, he always helped Frieda move furniture when it was her turn to entertain the club.  Henry moved the coffee table into his bedroom—how much more spacious the living room was without it, he thought.  Then he set up two card tables with four chairs each.  On each table he put a red and white checkered table cloth.  Henry made sure each table cloth hung over an exact amount on each side of its table.  No wrinkles.  Next, he placed a wine bottle, complete with melted candle stuck in it on each table.  A small bowl of pretzels and wine glasses completed each table setup.  One of the captain’s chairs from the dining room was set near the fireplace and the floor lamp was moved so that the person whose turn it was to read poetry could sit in the chair and have the full benefit of the lamp’s brightness—sort of like center stage and in the limelight, thought Henry.  When he was done, Henry didn’t think there was a nightspot in the village that looked any better than his own living room.  Henry particularly liked club meetings during the colder weather.  Then he could light the fireplace.

            Although Henry didn’t actively participate in the poetry readings, he always sat in his favorite chair and listened to the proceedings with active interest.  Once, Henry had convinced Frieda to read part of Evangeline.  He had even lent her his special copy.  Frieda read for fifteen minutes.  Henry sat back with his eyes closed and whispered every word she said right along with her.  He knew a great deal of the poem by heart.  When Frieda finished reading, Henry actually stood up and cheered, complimenting her on her excellent delivery.  Frieda blushed with pride.

            On this particular evening, Henry lit the fireplace before retiring to his corner.  Ode On A Grecian Urn by John Keats was the primary read of the evening.  The poetry made Henry melancholy.  He felt that, as he pictured the figures in the poem, much of his own life had been lived in bas-relief with him in a constant state of expectation that was never fulfilled.  Henry was glad when the meeting moved on to poems written by two of the club’s members.  When a discussion began as to how one of the poems might be improved, Henry felt as if he’d been released from Keats’s urn and could now carry on with his own life.

            As the meeting broke up, one couple stood talking to Frieda.  The man had his arm draped casually over his wife’s shoulder.  Henry remembered seeing just such a possessive pose once before in his life.

            Henry’s presence had been requested by Colonel von Linder.  It was later in the afternoon than von Linder’s summons usually arrived so Henry thought there might be some sort of trouble.  He knew that he’d done nothing to anger the Nazi officer.  As Henry hurried to the administration building, he could only imagine that von Linder was being transferred out of Auschwitz.  Or maybe Henry was.

            Henry stepped into von Linder’s apartment and was so shocked that his mouth dropped open.  He couldn’t utter a sound.

            “Can’t you even welcome your sister after all this time?” asked von Linder.  The Nazi stood near Frieda, his arm draped casually over her shoulder, fingers almost touching her breast—not quite, but almost.  Frieda’s look was a mixture of fear and happiness.  Henry chose to believe that the fear was caused by von Linder, the happiness because brother and sister were reunited—if only temporarily.

            Frieda looked to be in better health than Henry.  She hadn’t lost as much weight and her dark hair had a healthy sheen whereas Henry’s already had a few strands of white and he had yet to reach his twenty-first birthday.

            Henry would have liked to knock the supercilious grin from von Linder’s face.  He wanted to hug Frieda because she was still alive and he missed her greatly.  He wanted to turn and run.  Henry did none of these things.  He smiled shyly at Frieda and asked how she’d been.  Quite well, all things considered, Frieda had answered.  Henry could think of nothing else to say.  Nor, apparently, could Frieda.  Von Linder looked from brother to sister then back again.

            “Well, Henry,” said the German officer, “you can see that I’ve made sure your sister has been properly treated.”  He bent toward Frieda as if to whisper to her, but spoke in a normal tone of voice.  “Henry and I are specials friends.  You understand, don’t you, Frieda?”  Henry never forgot the look that came over Frieda’s face.  He was sure it was the same as the look on his own.  Henry couldn’t decide if Frieda had been saved because she was his sister, or if he had been singled out because he was her brother.  Henry wondered if von Linder has used her as cruelly as the Nazi had used him.

            “Nothing else to say?  I really thought there would be a happier meeting between brother and sister.  After all, you two are the only ones left in your immediate family.  I’d rather hoped to share in your joy.”  Von Linder shrugged.  “It seems that if you two have nothing else to say, I must end this loving reunion.  Henry, I must return Frieda to her own side of the fence.  You understand, don’t you, if I cut your visit short?”

            Frieda held her hands out to Henry, tears running down her cheeks.  Henry