Fritz took off his overcoat. Unbuttoned his shirt. Pulled it off over his head. Raised his arms to put on the sweater. For a second his left arm was bared — the soft inner side, where the arm meets the armpit. On the pale, untanned skin — a tattoo. Small, black, neat. Blood group. Two letters and a number. A mark. Which cannot be taken off like a uniform. Cannot be burned, the way things are burned in a furnace
