The Listeners

“Her gaze had found a mark nearly hidden by his collar, one most people didn’t notice and, if they did, didn’t identify: a coal tattoo. Children who played in houses powdered with coal and miners who survived tunnel collapses got them when coal dust permanently settled into their wounds.”

As FBI Agent Tucker Minnick prepares to address June, she notices a detail that contradicts his federal persona. The coal tattoo serves as a symbol of an indelible, working-class regional identity that Minnick otherwise keeps hidden. This physical mark’s description grounds the narrative in the specific history of West Virginia and establishes an unspoken connection between him and the “holler-bred” June.

“‘How will I do it, Hoss?’ […] ‘Fourteen hundred forty eggs,’ June said. ‘Twelve hundred dinner rolls, 800 pounds of meat, 600 pounds of potatoes, 120 pounds of vegetables, 92 pounds of fish, 80 loaves of bread, 72 pounds of butter, 50 pounds of coffee, 40 pies and cakes, 24 cases of fruit, and 16 gallons of ice cream. Then you’ll go to sleep, and the next day, you’ll do that again.’”

When Chef Fortescue despairs at having to cook for Nazi diplomats, June responds not with sympathy but with a logistical inventory. Her list-like response illustrates a management style that compartmentalizes overwhelming moral and emotional burdens into concrete, manageable tasks. This stark juxtaposition highlights the theme of The Inevitability of Moral Compromise in Wartime, showing how service requires the suppression of personal feeling in favor of professional function.

“The water would give you good if you gave it good, and it would give you ill if you gave it ill. The water took a liking to some people and a hating to some others, but mostly kept to itself. If the water turned, a place would be ruined for years.”

During her inspection of the bathhouses, June reflects on the local folklore surrounding the sweetwater. This passage establishes the rules of the novel’s magical realism, defining the sweetwater as a sentient, moral force that acts as a symbolic barometer for the hotel’s spiritual and ethical state. The direct, almost proverbial phrasing gives the water an ancient, mythic quality that contrasts with the modern political crisis unfolding within the hotel.

“This place is full of bad choices, Agent. […] My job’s keeping this hotel moving smoothly, not being everyone’s mama. You worried they’ll make bad choices about your Agent Goodbody? The only question is: Will it ruin the work? If not, it ain’t my place. Meddling and moralizing ain’t my job. I’m running a business, not a church.”

June explains her pragmatic approach to management to Agent Minnick during a conflict over staff placement. Her distinction between running a “business, not a church” underscores a key aspect of her character: a focus on function over judgment. This philosophy reveals the moral flexibility required to manage the human ecosystem of the hotel and foreshadows the larger compromises she will have to make to ensure the Avallon’s survival.

“What June believed and what needed to be done were not always the same thing. What she wanted and what the hotel needed were not always the same thing. Who she was and who she had to be were not always the same thing.”

At a tense town hall meeting, June’s thoughts reveal the conflict between her personal feelings and professional duties. The use of anaphora—the repetition of a word or phrase in successive clauses—creates a rhythmic, catechism-like summary of her central struggle. This passage directly articulates the theme of Social Mobility and Compromised Identity by highlighting the performance required to reconcile her self with her public role as “Hoss.”

“We’re going to ruin them with the best, do you hear? We’re going to make them miss us. Make ‘em talk for the rest of their life about the best hotel in the world, an American hotel they’ll never see again. Who is the best? People will ask them. America. Chew on that.”

June reframes the task of hosting Axis diplomats as an act of patriotic dominance for the hostile townspeople. Her speech uses rhetoric to transform the hotel’s luxurious service into a psychological weapon. This act of performative patriotism encapsulates the theme of The Human Cost of Luxury by showing how June repackages a difficult reality into a more palatable and empowering narrative.

“Do you see that? Mr. Francis’s voice asked June. These are the subtle social transactions that keep those men firmly in their class. […] The men who didn’t smile have no control, so they will always have to serve those who do.”

June observes the newly arrived diplomats through the lens of her late mentor’s teachings. The internal voice articulates a key aspect of The Human Cost of Luxury, defining power not by wealth but by the mastery of subtle social cues. This passage establishes the hotel as a microcosm of rigid class structures, where even an unreturned smile is a transaction that reinforces a social hierarchy.

“The Avallon simply couldn’t run without this division between identity and soul. The world cared about the guests’ identities. The Avallon could only care about everything else. The hotel wasn’t for those who deserved it. It was for those who came.”

As June considers how to handle a controversial diplomat’s wife, her thoughts reveal the hotel’s core philosophy. A critical distinction is established between a person’s public “identity” and their private “soul,” suggesting that luxury requires a space where the former can be set aside. This principle creates the narrative’s moral ambiguity, framing the Avallon as a neutral ground where service is divorced from judgment—a necessity for its function but a source of internal conflict for its staff.

“But Bureau-minded meant more than excellence. It meant you did what your special agent in charge ordered, even if you didn’t fully understand why you were doing it. […] You wanted nothing more than to be a useful cog in that glorious and intentional machine, fighting corruption until your last breath.”

This passage details Tucker’s internal definition of his professional identity, establishing the conflict between his loyalty to the Bureau and his moral instincts. The metaphor of a “useful cog in that glorious and intentional machine” illustrates the dehumanizing aspect of the institutional loyalty Tucker has embraced. This mindset of unquestioning obedience establishes the internal stakes for his character arc, as his experiences at the Avallon force him to question the Bureau’s rigid code.

“He’d been drowning in the Avallon IV. She’d opened the door to the scent of sulfur and the sight of a single hand emerging from the square of black water. […] They hadn’t ever asked Sandy why he was out there. But June knew. That day changed both of their lives, didn’t it?”

Upon seeing an injured Sandy Gilfoyle, June flashes back to the moment she first saved his life. This memory provides crucial backstory, forging a link between June, Sandy, and the mystical sweetwater of the Avallon IV bathhouse. Sensory details, like the “scent of sulfur” and the stark image of a “single hand,” underscore the scene’s traumatic power and foreshadow the water’s role in their intertwined fates.

“‘Tucker Rye Minnick. Bottled drinks only. Do not serve water. Sleeps on right side of bed. […] No wedding ring.’ It was a thorough demonstration of authority.”

June confronts Tucker by reciting personal details her staff has gathered, turning his surveillance methods back on him. This act shifts their power dynamic and illustrates the motif of listening and unspoken words, revealing that the staff’s observation network is as effective as the FBI’s. The staccato, factual list demonstrates that June’s power is rooted in intimate knowledge, establishing her as Tucker’s equal.

“‘It’s hostage mathematics, I’m afraid,’ he replied. ‘For every American citizen we want back from Germany, we must give them a German citizen. […] Angela Bickenbach put a real hitch in my stride. Her staying here means an American has to stay in Germany.’”

State Department representative Benjamin Pennybacker explains the diplomatic exchange process to June. The term “hostage mathematics” is a metaphor that encapsulates the theme of The Inevitability of Moral Compromise in Wartime, reducing human lives to a transactional equation. Pennybacker’s explanation reveals the impersonal and morally fraught logic of wartime diplomacy, where one person’s freedom is traded for another’s captivity.

“They’d be right offended if I did that, and anyhow, where would I go?”

After Tucker suggests she sell an impractical limousine given to her as a bonus, June delivers this rhetorical question. The line reveals how her identity has become inextricably bound to her role at the Avallon, highlighting the theme of Social Mobility and Compromised Identity. The gift of the chauffeur-driven car, which she cannot afford to operate, symbolizes her liminal status: She is given the trappings of luxury but remains a servant, trapped by the expectations of the Gilfoyles and her own sense of belonging.

“In Germany, schizophrenics are being euthanized. It is a program for those who are cognitively compromised. Its reach is…comprehensive.”

During a game, Sabine Wolfe explains the danger facing her non-verbal daughter, Hannelore, if they are repatriated. The dispassionate, clinical language—“cognitively compromised,” “comprehensive”—conveys the bureaucratic nature of the Nazi eugenics program. This dialogue elevates the personal stakes of the diplomatic internment, positioning the Avallon within the landscape of The Inevitability of Moral Compromise in Wartime.

“She cast one look back up the hill at the Avallon, which looked gloomy and menacing in the downpour, like a giant peering over the edge of the world. An illusion, of course, a trick of the weather; everything ailing the hotel was invisible.”

As she enters the Avallon IV bathhouse to perform a ritual, June observes her workplace from a distance. The use of personification and simile casts the hotel as a “menacing” “giant,” externalizing its oppressive weight and the internal turmoil it contains. The final clause underscores the theme of The Human Cost of Luxury by contrasting the hotel’s imposing appearance with the invisible moral sickness plaguing its inhabitants.

“He remembered every single compromise he’d ever made, and doubted them every time he did, from the largest to the smallest. Compromises were so much harder to carry than black-and-white justice.”

This passage of internal monologue occurs as Tucker weighs whether to arrest a waiter for helping enemy journalists. It reveals a critical shift in his character, from a rigid, “Bureau-minded” agent to someone grappling with ethical nuance. The diction of “compromises” being “harder to carry” presents morality as a physical burden, articulating the novel’s exploration of The Inevitability of Moral Compromise in Wartime.

“‘I don’t need Hoss,’ Tucker interrupted. ‘Just June.’”

During a drive, Tucker stops June from performing an anecdote about her past. This line of dialogue directly addresses the conflict between June’s professional persona, “Hoss,” and her authentic self, “June.” His interjection creates a space of intimacy where she does not have to perform, articulating the theme of Social Mobility and Compromised Identity.

“They feel she’s a good candidate for sterilization and, possibly, some mild conditioning. You don’t have to worry.”

Hannelore overhears a Gestapo agent casually discussing her fate with her father. The quote’s effect is generated by juxtaposing concepts like “sterilization” and “conditioning” with placating language like “mild” and “You don’t have to worry.” This moment, filtered through a child’s perspective, makes the abstract political threat of the war immediate and personal, illustrating the inhumanity at the core of the diplomatic conflict.

“For a moment, June thought she hated it. Everything about this job, this hotel. She remembered that sweet, free water beneath the church at Casto Springs, and for a moment, she felt a howling miserable envy, so violently strong that she wondered at how long it must have been inside her, unspoken, unacknowledged.”

In the aftermath of a diplomat’s suicide attempt, June experiences an internal crisis. The “sweet, free water” of her past becomes a symbol contrasting with the controlled, burdened sweetwater of the Avallon. This passage marks a turning point in her character arc, revealing the psychological cost of her service and the previously “unspoken” desire for a life beyond the hotel.

“The mine collapse has started to turn the sweetwater, and now it whispers an idea to him, one he can’t seem to put down. […] It is a dreadful idea, it is an immortal idea. It feels wrong, but everything already feels wrong.”

In this passage from his confession, Tucker Minnick reveals the origin of his secret identity. The sweetwater is personified not as an inherently evil force but as an amplifier of human emotion, reflecting Tucker’s grief and injustice back at him. The antithetical pairing of “dreadful” and “immortal” captures the destructive idealism of his youthful act, establishing the moral ambiguity that defines his past and present.

“Diplomatic reciprocity is a sham, whether through a lack of principle or a lack of supply. […] If any of it falls apart now, who is to say how long it will take for this confluence of events to happen once more? I am, and have been, trying to save as many lives as possible.”

State Department official Benjamin Pennybacker explains why he cannot save Hannelore from repatriation. His speech articulates the theme of The Inevitability of Moral Compromise in Wartime, framing human lives as components in a large-scale mechanism. Pennybacker’s rationale highlights the tension between individual morality and geopolitical necessity, where saving the many may require sacrificing the few in a “confluence of events.”

“The moment he said it, he could feel how miserably and wonderfully true it was. He knew he was a hair away from winning his way back into the Bureau, but it didn’t matter. No matter what he accomplished between now and when the train arrived for the diplomats, he was quitting.”

This quote marks a turning point in Tucker’s internal conflict and character arc. The oxymoron “miserably and wonderfully true” captures the simultaneous loss and liberation he feels in abandoning his career. His decision signifies a rejection of the Bureau’s rigid code in favor of a more personal, morally complex path, showing how the Avallon has forced him to reconcile his past and present identities.

“Understanding had crystallized in June’s mind: she was not the help, but she also wasn’t a Gilfoyle. She was too good to throw away, but not good enough for Mr. Francis to consider the relationship with the family heir anything other than a dalliance.”

This flashback reveals a formative moment before June rejects Edgar Gilfoyle’s marriage proposal. The phrase “crystallized in June’s mind” marks her realization of the strict social boundaries that define her existence at the Avallon. This memory underscores the theme of Social Mobility and Compromised Identity, defining her as an outsider valued for her utility but denied belonging within the family she serves.