Fatherland

and 1939 to 1946."
    She sneezed again. The passengers dutifully craned their necks to peer at the Roll of the Fallen. They were a mixed party. A group of Japanese, draped with cameras; an American couple with a little girl Pili's age; some German settlers, from Ostland or the Ukraine, in Berlin for the Führertag . March looked away as they passed the Roll of the Fallen. Somewhere on it were the names of his father and both his grandfathers. He kept his eyes on the guide. When she thought no one was looking, she turned away and quickly wiped her nose on her sleeve. The coach reemerged into the drizzle.
    "Leaving the arch, we enter the central section of the Avenue of Victory. The avenue was designed by Reichsminister Albert Speer and was completed in 1957. It is one hundred and twenty-three meters wide and five- point-six kilometers in length. It is both wider, and two and a half times longer, than the Champs Elysées in Paris."
    Higher, longer, bigger, wider, more expensive... even in victory, thought March, Germany has a parvenu's inferiority complex. Nothing stands on its own, Everything has to be compared with what the foreigners have . . .
    "The view from this point northward along the Avenue of Victory is considered one of the wonders of the world."
    "One of the wonders of the world," repeated Pili in a whisper.
    And it was, even on a day like this. Dense with traffic, the avenue stretched before them, flanked on either side by the glass-and-granite walls of Speer's new buildings: ministries, offices, big stores, cinemas, apartment blocks. At the far end of this river of light, rising as gray as a battleship through the spray, was the Great Hall of the Reich, its dome half hidden in the low clouds.
    There were appreciative murmurs from the settlers. "It's like a mountain," said the woman sitting behind March. She was with her husband and four boys. They had probably been planning this trip all winter. A Tourist Ministry brochure and a dream of April in Berlin: comforts to warm them in the snowbound, moonless nights of Minsk or Kiev, a thousand kilometers from home. How had they gotten here? A package tour organized by Strength-Through-Joy, perhaps: two hours in a Junkers jet with a stopoff in Warsaw. Or a three-day drive in the family Volkswagen on the Berlin-Moscow autobahn.
    Pili wriggled out of his father's grasp and walked unsteadily to the front of the coach. March pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, a nervous habit he had picked up—when?—in the U-boat service, he supposed, when the screws of the British warships sounded so close the hull shook and you never knew if their next depth charge would be your last. He had been invalided out of the navy in 1948 with suspected TB and spent a year convalescing. Then, for want of anything better to do, he had joined the Marineküstenpolizei , the Coastal Police, in Wilhelmshaven as a lieutenant. That year he had married Klara Eckart, a nurse he had met at the TB clinic. In 1952, he had joined the Hamburg Kripo. In 1954, with Klara pregnant and the marriage already failing, he had been promoted to Berlin. Paul—Pili—had been born exactly ten years and one month ago.
    What had gone wrong? He did not blame Klara. She had not changed. She had always been a strong woman who wanted certain simple things from life: home, family, friends, acceptance. But March: he had changed. After ten years in the navy and twelve months in virtual isolation, he had stepped ashore into a world he barely recognized. As he went to work, watched television, ate with friends, even—God help him—slept beside his wife, he sometimes imagined himself aboard a U-boat still: cruising beneath the surface of everyday life; solitary, watchful.
    He had picked Pili up at noon from Klara's place—a bungalow on a dreary postwar housing estate in Lichtenrade, in the southern suburbs. Park in the street, sound the horn twice, watch for the twitch in the parlor curtain. This was the routine that had evolved, unspoken, since their divorce five years ago—a means of avoiding embarrassing encounters; a ritual to be endured one Sunday in four, work permitting, under the strict provisions of the Reich Marriages Act. It was rare for him to see his son on a Tuesday, but this was a school vacation: since 1959, children had been given a week off for the Führer's birthday, rather than for Easter.
    The door had opened and Pili had appeared, like a shy child actor being pushed out