The man nodded. His folded arms pushed his stomach forward; an outee bellybutton poked at his t-shirt like a fetus that wanted out. And like a man who knows his fire insurance policies, he said “well, I guess it’s all for the best.”

It was the year before it all changed. We stayed late at the cafe during the long days of summer. Inside, there were bright lights and laughter, especially when a beer was spilled, and a conversational hum interrupted by the sharp demands of short-tempered waiters. Outside, police horses clipped over cobblestones corralling rioters, as roving gangs, sober or drunk, chased Jews or Germans into dark spaces.