“He’s heard you’re a very special boy and he’d like to get to know you better.” David resisted, kicking up a great fuss over the psychiatrist’s name. “Hitler? Hitler? I don’t want to talk to Hitler!” It was the fall of 1942 and the childish pun was an inevitable one, but he clung to it with irritating stubbornness. “Dr. Hitler wants to see me. Dr. Hitler wants to get to know me.” And his mother said, “No, Duvid, it’s Hittner, Hittner, with an n.” He went anyway. He strutted into the psychiatrist’s office, and when Dr. Hittner smiled benignly and said, “Hello, there, David,” David shot forth a stiff arm and snapped: “Heil!”

Dr. Hittner chuckled. “You’ve got the wrong man,” he said. “I’m Hittner, with an n.” Perhaps he had heard such jokes before. He was a huge man with a long homey face, a wide fleshy mouth, a high curving forehead. Watery blue eyes twinkled behind rimless glasses. His skin was soft and pink and he had a good tangy smell, and he was trying hard to seem friendly and amused and big-brotherly, but David couldn’t help picking up the impression that Dr. Hittner’s brotherliness was just an act. It was something he felt with most adults: they smiled a lot, but inside themselves they were thinking things like, What a scary brat, what a creepy little kid. Even his mother and father sometimes thought things like that. He didn’t understand why adults said one thing with their faces and another with their minds, but he was accustomed to it. It was something he had come to expect and accept.

“Let’s play some games, shall we?” Dr. Hittner said.

Out of the vest pocket of his tweed suit he produced a little plastic globe on a metal chain. He showed it to David; then he pulled on the chain and the globe came apart into eight or nine pieces of different colors. “Watch closely, now, while I put it back together,” said Dr. Hittner. His thick fingers expertly reassembled the globe. Then he pulled it apart again and shoved it across the desk toward David. “Your turn. Can you put it back together too?”