The guards were all French gendarmes, each of whom carried a thick leather riding whip, although none of them seemed to own a horse. There were three “islets”: A, B, and C. The islet C adjutant was a Gabin type with an effeminate mouth and narrow, expressionless eyes. He knew exactly where the German communists were held and, without offering any resistance to our requests, he took us to a dilapidated barrack containing fifty men who, paraded before us outside, exhibited signs of emaciation or illness or, more often, both. It was clear that they had been expecting us, or something like us, and, refusing to submit to a roll call, they started to sing “The Internationale.” Meanwhile, the French adjutant glanced over Bömelburg’s list and helpfully picked out some of our wanted men. Erich Mielke wasn’t one of these.

While this selection was proceeding, I could hear Eva Kemmerich. She was standing in our bucket, which was parked on “the street,” and shouting abuse at some of the prisoners who were still held in the camp. These and a few of the gendarmes on the women’s side of the wire responded by laughing at her and making obscene remarks and gestures. For me, the sense of being involved in some nameless insanity was compounded when the inmates of another hut—the adjutant said they were French anarchists—began to sing “La Marseillaise” in competition with those who were singing “The Internationale.”

We marched seven men out of the camp and into the buckets. All of them raised clenched fists in the communist salute and shouted slogans in German or Spanish to their fellow prisoners.

Kestner caught my eye. “Did you ever see anything like this place?”

“Only Dachau.”

“Well, I never saw anything like it. To treat people this way, even if they are communists, seems disgusting.”

“Don’t tell me.” I pointed at Chief Inspector Oltramare, who was marching a handcuffed prisoner toward the buckets at gun-point. “Tell him.”

“Looks like he got his man anyway.”

“I wonder if I’ll get mine,” I said. “Mielke.”

“Not here?”

I shook my head. “I mean, this fellow I’m after almost ruined my career, the Bolshie bastard. As far as I’m concerned, he’s really got it coming.”

“I’m sure he has. They all have. Communist swine.”

“But you were a communist, weren’t you, Paul? Before you joined the Nazi Party?”

“Me? No. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Only, I seem to recall you campaigning for Ernst Thalmann in—when was that? Nineteen twenty-five?”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Bernie. Is this a joke?” He glanced nervously in Bömelburg’s direction. “I think that phosgene gas has addled your brains. Really. Have you gone mad?”

“No. And actually, it’s my impression that I’m probably the only sane one here.”