“You can’t blame them for that,” I said generously. “And for letting off a bit of steam now and again. Especially when you consider what the fascists did to Russia.”

“Right now I’m more concerned about what they’ve done to this train.” He glanced at Lieutenant Rascher’s identity document and then at me.

I met his gaze with steady-eyed innocence.

“You’ve lost a bit of weight since that picture was taken.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I hardly recognize myself. Typhus does that to a man. I’m on leave back to Berlin after six weeks in hospital.”

The sergeant inched back a little.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m over the worst of it now. I picked it up in the POW camp at Johannesgeorgenstadt. Full of fleas and lice, it was.” I started to scratch for added effect.

He handed me back the documents and nodded a quick good-bye. I expect he washed his hands quite soon afterward. I know I would have.

I dropped down on the seat and opened the major’s bag again. There was a bottle of Asbach brandy I’d been looking forward to all morning. I opened it, took a swig, and searched through the rest of his stuff. There were some clothes, some smokes, a few papers, and an early edition of poems by Georg Trakl. I’d always rather admired his work, and one particular poem, “In the Eastern Front,” now seemed to match the time and, more especially, the place. I can still remember it by heart.

The ominous anger of the People

Is like the furious organ of the winter storm,

The purple wave of battle,

Like the leafless stars.

With broken brows and silver arms,

The night winks to dying soldiers.

In the shade of an autumn ash tree

The ghosts of the dead are sighing

A desert crown of thorns surrounds the city.

From the bleeding stairs

The moon chases the shocked women

Wild wolves break through the door.*

26

GERMANY, 1954

And you think that Erich Mielke wanted you dead because he owed his life to you?”

My American friend tapped his pipe and let the burned tobacco fall onto the floor of my cell. I wanted to scold him for it, to remind him that these were my quarters and to show a little respect. But what was the point? It was an American world I was living in now, and I was just a pawn in a never-ending game of intercontinental chess with the Russians.

“Not just that,” I said. “Because I could connect him with the murders of those two Berlin policemen. You see, Heydrich always suspected that Mielke felt a certain amount of embarrassment that he’d committed a crime as serious as the murders of policemen. That it was somehow unworthy of him. He thought it was almost certainly Mielke who fingered the two Germans who put him up to it—Kippenberger and Neumann—during Stalin’s Great Purge of 1937. They both died in the labor camps. Their wives, too. Even Kippenberger’s daughter was sent to a labor camp. Mielke really tried to clean house there.