The first time he’d gone out for one of these perilous strolls was during a particularly low point in his life. He’d been plagued by feelings of isolation, of loneliness, and his financial situation was dire. During that inaugural Blitz-time saunter, Josef would have welcomed annihilation, and was in all likelihood courting it. But in the fourteen months since that fiery night when Josef returned to his room breathless, basted in sweat, and almost drunk from the dangers he’d faced, he’d made several positive changes in his life. Some fortuitous hands of poker had enabled Josef to pay off a fair sum of his debt (he retired from gambling before his luck could sour again), and although he was still a bachelor, he was now content to remain so. Thus, his wartime walks were now more rooted in what Josef called “Communicating with the Fates” than in suicidal tendencies. So, on the night of October 7, Josef giddily flung back his bedcovers the instant he felt the familiar rumble rock his home.
