Michael runs his thumb over Wolfgang’s pinky and then squeezes back, angling himself toward them again. He knows he’s hanging them out to dry, it makes him feel like shit—but he can’t talk about this, he can’t chat about fucking Germany. He’s desperate to leave, to slip back to the shop and lie down with them, forget any of this happened, try to relax enough that his building headache goes away. It would only take a second to get there. Morris couldn’t stop him.
He can’t do that, though. Not yet.
Meanwhile, Morris does look impressed by Wolfgang now. “You went to the Neue Synagogue? That is a wonderful thing, my dear, what a blessed place. I am happy to hear there are Jews going back to the old country, seeing where we come from. It is good you go there. Michael, this is a smart girl you have.”
“You have no idea,” Michael says, slightly grumpy with the idea of Morris only thinking Wolfgang is smart because they went to Berlin. “She’s a genius, she should be a rocket scientist or something. She reads about stuff like quantum physics for fun.”