The Ami sucked at the stem, blew out some sweet smoke, and said, “I watched an old newsreel the other day. Of Hitler making a speech at Tempelhof Field in Berlin. There were one million people that day. Apparently, it took twelve hours just to get everyone in there, and another twelve to get them all out again. I guess you were the only Berliner who stayed home that night.”

“Berlin nightlife was much better before the Nazis,” I said.

“That’s what I hear. People say it was quite something. Degenerate but lively. All those clubs. Striptease dancers. Naked ladies. Open homosexuality. What were you people thinking? I mean, no wonder the Nazis got an in.” He shook his head. “On the other hand. Munich’s kind of dull, I think.”

“It has some advantages,” I said. “There are no Ivans in Munich.”

“Is that why you lived there after you were in that POW camp? Instead of Berlin?”

“One reason, I suppose.”

“You were in and out of that camp relatively quickly.” He had finished cleaning his glasses and put them back on his head. They were still too small for him, and I wondered if American heads were like American stomachs and kept on growing faster than those in Europe. “In comparison with a lot of other guys. I mean, some of your old comrades are only just coming home now.”

“I was lucky,” I said. “I escaped.”

“How?”

“Mielke was involved.”

“Then we’ll pick it up there tomorrow, shall we? In here. Ten o’clock.”

“You’d better clear that with my secretary,” I said. “Tomorrow’s the day when I start writing my book.”

“What did I tell you? You know, this is a great room for a writer. Maybe the spirit of Adolf Hitler will come and help you out with a few pages.”

“Seriously, though,” said the other Ami. “If you need pen and paper to make a few notes about Mielke, just ask the guard. Might help to jog your memory if you wrote a few things down.”

“Why now? Why not before?”

“Because things are starting to become more important. Mielke starts to become more important. So the more details you can remember, the better.”

“I know one spirit that might help a lot,” I said. “And it isn’t Hitler’s.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a little bit like Goethe,” I said. “When I’m writing a book, I find that a bottle of good German brandy usually helps.”

“Is there such a thing as a good German brandy?”

“I’ll settle for some cheap vodka, only a man needs a hobby when he’s got his feet in the cement. Something to take his mind off the present and put it somewhere in the past. About seven years ago, to be more accurate.”

“All right,” said the man with the glasses. “We’ll get you a bottle of something.”