Hans was sent first, quite ironically, to Stuttgart, and later, to Essen. He was given one of the most undesirable positions on the home front. The LSE.

A NECESSARY EXPLANATION

Neither Hans Hubermann nor Alex Steiner was sent to fight. Alex was sent to Austria, to an army hospital outside Vienna. Given his expertise in tailoring, he was given a job that at least resembled his profession. Cartloads of uniforms and socks and shirts would come in every week and he would mend what needed mending, even if they could only be used as underclothes for the suffering soldiers in Russia.

LSE

Luftwaffe Sondereinheit -- Air Raid Special Unit

The job of the LSE was to remain aboveground during air raids and put out fires, prop up the walls of buildings, and rescue anyone who had been trapped during the raid. As Hans soon discovered, there was also an alternative definition for the acronym. The men in the unit would explain to him on his first day that it really stood for Leichensammler Einheit -- Dead Body Collectors.

Hans was about to ask the obvious question when a voice arrived from behind. Attached to it was the slender face of a young man with a smile like a sneer. Reinhold Zucker. "With us," he said, "the enemy isn't over the hill or in any specific direction. It's all around." He returned his focus to the letter he was writing. "You'll see."

As the war flew into Germany with more intensity, Hans would learn that every one of his shifts started in the same fashion. The men would gather at the truck to be briefed on what had been hit during their break, what was most likely to be hit next, and who was working with whom.

When he arrived, Hans could only guess what those men had done to deserve such a task, and in turn, they wondered the same of him. Their leader, Sergeant Boris Schipper, asked him straight out. When Hans explained the bread, the Jews, and the whip, the round-faced sergeant gave out a short spurt of laughter. "You're lucky to be alive." His eyes were also round and he was constantly wiping them. They were either tired or itchy or full of smoke and dust. "Just remember that the enemy here is not in front of you."

In the messy space of a few months, Reinhold Zucker would be dead. He would be killed by Hans Hubermann's seat.

From the beginning, it was clear that they all owned a seat.

Even when no raids were in operation, there would still be a great deal of work to be done. They would drive through broken towns, cleaning up. In the truck, there were twelve slouched men, all rising and falling with the various inconsistencies in the road.

Reinhold Zucker's was in the middle of the left row.

A COMPLETE LETTER HOME

I hope you are both well.

Everything is fine here.

Hans Hubermann's was at the very back, where the daylight stretched itself out. He learned quickly to be on the lookout for any rubbish that might be thrown from anywhere in the truck's interior. Hans reserved a special respect for cigarette butts, still burning as they whistled by.

With love, Papa

To my dear Rosa and Liesel,

In late November, he had his first smoky taste of an actual raid. The truck was mobbed by rubble and there was much running and shouting. Fires were burning and the ruined cases of buildings were piled up in mounds. Framework leaned. The smoke bombs stood like matchsticks in the ground, filling the city's lungs.

Behind him, a building groaned and tripped.

It fell face-first, stopping a few meters from his heels. The concrete smelled brand-new, and the wall of powder rushed at them.

Hans Hubermann was in a group of four. They formed a line. Sergeant Boris Schipper was at the front, his arms disappearing into the smoke. Behind him was Kessler, then Brunnenweg, then Hubermann. As the sergeant hosed the fire, the other two men hosed the sergeant, and just to make sure, Hubermann hosed all three of them.

"Gottverdammt, Hubermann!" The voice struggled out of the flames. It was followed immediately by three men. Their throats were filled with particles of ash. Even when they made it around the corner, away from the center of the wreckage, the haze of the collapsed building attempted to follow. It was white and warm, and it crept behind them.

Slumped in temporary safety, there was much coughing and swearing. The sergeant repeated his earlier sentiments. "Goddamn it, Hubermann." He scraped at his lips to loosen them. "What the hell was that?"

"That much I know already. The question is, how big was it? It must have been ten stories high."

"It just collapsed, right behind us."

"No, sir, just two, I think."

"Jesus." A coughing fit. "Mary and Joseph." Now he yanked at the paste of sweat and powder in his eye sockets. "Not much you could do about that."

They could all taste it, putting out the fires in their throats and softening the smoke. It was a nice dream, and an impossible one. They were all aware that any beer that flowed in these streets would not be beer at all, but a kind of milk shake or porridge.

One of the other men wiped his face and said, "Just once I want to be there when they hit a pub, for Christ's sake. I'm dying for a beer." Each man leaned back.

All four men were plastered with the gray-and-white conglomeration of dust. When they stood up fully, to resume work, only small cracks of their uniform could be seen.

The sergeant walked to Brunnenweg. He brushed heavily at his chest. Several smacks. "That's better. You had some dust on there, my friend." As Brunnenweg laughed, the sergeant turned to his newest recruit. "You first this time, Hubermann."

"Hansi!"

"Have you seen my Wolfgang?"

His hands were packed tightly with splinters, and his teeth were caked with residue from the fallout. Both lips were set with moist dust that had hardened, and there wasn't a pocket, a thread, or a hidden crease in his uniform that wasn't covered in a film left by the loaded air.

As the density subsided, the roll call of names limped through the ruptured streets, sometimes ending with an ash-filled embrace or a knelt-down howl of grief. They accumulated, hour by hour, like sweet and sour dreams, waiting to happen.

Once in a while there was a person roaming doggedly through the fog, mostly single-worded. They always shouted a name.

Their handprints would remain on his jacket.

Sometimes it was Wolfgang.

The worst part of the job was the people.

"Stephanie!"

"Gustel! Gustel Stoboi!"

They put the fires out for several hours, and they found anything they could to convince a building to remain standing. In some cases, where the sides were damaged, the remaining edges poked out like elbows. This was Hans Hubermann's strong point. He almost came to enjoy finding a smoldering rafter or disheveled slab of concrete to prop those elbows up, to give them something to rest on.

"How are you, Hubermann?" the sergeant asked at one point. Fire was at his shoulder.

Hans nodded, uneasily, at the pair of them.

Midway through the shift, there was an old man who staggered defenselessly through the streets. As Hans finished stabilizing a building, he turned to find him at his back, waiting calmly for his turn. A bloodstain was signed across his face. It trailed off down his throat and neck. He was wearing a white shirt with a dark red collar and he held his leg as if it was next to him. "Could you prop me up now, young man?"

The dangers merged into one. Powder and smoke and the gusty flames. The damaged people. Like the rest of the men in the unit, Hans would need to perfect the art of forgetting.

A SMALL, SAD NOTE

It wasn't until he placed him down on a patch of concrete-coated grass that Hans noticed.

Hans picked him up and carried him out of the haze.

"What is it?" one of the other men asked.

I visited that small city street with the man still in Hans Hubermann's arms.

The sky was white-horse gray.

For the rest of the shift, he threw himself into duty. He tried to ignore the distant echoes of calling people.

It lay in a blanket of powder and dust, and it was holding its ears.

Perhaps eleven or twelve years old.

After perhaps two hours, he rushed from a building with the sergeant and two other men. He didn't watch the ground and tripped. Only when he returned to his haunches and saw the others looking in distress at the obstacle did he realize.

The corpse was facedown.

It was a boy.

They all thought it, but the sergeant could not bring himself to tell her or point the way.

Not far away, as they progressed along the street, they found a woman calling the name Rudolf. She was drawn to the four men and met them in the mist. Her body was frail and bent with worry.

Oh, Christ. Oh, crucified Christ.

"How old is he?" the sergeant asked.

Hans could only point.

"Have you seen my boy?"

"Twelve."

As the woman tried to push past, Boris Schipper held her back. "We've just come from that street," he assured her. "You won't find him down there."

"Oh." A hand pulled him away. "Get used to it, Hubermann."

Hans Hubermann thought of another Rudy then. The Himmel Street variety. Please, he asked into a sky he couldn't see, let Rudy be safe. His thoughts naturally progressed to Liesel and Rosa and the Steiners, and Max.

The bent woman still clung to hope. She called over her shoulder as she half walked, half ran. "Rudy!"

"How was it down there?" someone asked.

Papa's lungs were full of sky.

It took many minutes to write those six words down.

When they made it to the rest of the men, he dropped down and lay on his back.

To my dear Rosa and Liesel, he began.

A few hours later, when he'd washed and eaten and thrown up, he attempted to write a detailed letter home. His hands were uncontrollable, forcing him to make it short. If he could bring himself, the remainder would be told verbally, when and if he made it home.