They sat down in a little coffeehouse where some German refugees hung out, talking about visas and extensions and work permits. They got into a conversation with a man at the next table. The man was thin and blond, his head caved in at the temples. Lee could see the blue veins pulsing in the cold, high-mountain sunlight that covered the man’s weak, ravaged face and spilled over the scarred oak table onto the worn wooden floor. Lee asked the man if he liked Quito. The man said, “To be or not to be, that is the question. I have to like it.”
Nazi "refugees"?
