I was one of the lucky ones, in that I wasn’t ordered down the pit immediately. Instead, I was put on the sorting detail. Wagonloads of rock were brought up from the mine and emptied onto a large conveyor belt that was running between two lines of plenis. Someone showed me how to inspect the pieces of brownish-black rock for veins of the all-important pitchblende. Rocks without veins were thrown away, the others graded by eye and tossed into bins for further selection by a Blue holding a metal tube with a mica window at one end: The better the quality of the ore, the more electric current that was reproduced as white noise by the tube. These higher-quality rocks were taken away for processing in Russia, but the quantities considered useful were small. It seemed that tons of rock would be needed to produce just a small quantity of ore, and none of the men working at the Johannesgeorgenstadt mine were of the opinion that the Ivans would be building an atom bomb anytime soon.

I’d been there almost a month when I was told to report to the mine office. This was housed in a gray stone building next to the pithead winding gear. I went up to the first floor and waited. Through the open door of the office I could see a couple of MVD officers. I could also hear what they said, and I realized that these were two of the Germans General Klause had warned us about.

Seeing me standing there, they waved me inside and closed the door. I glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was eleven a.m. There was a microphone on the table and, I imagined, somewhere a large tape machine ready to record my every word. Next to the microphone was a spotlight, but it wasn’t switched on. Not yet. There was an undrawn black curtain beside the window. They invited me to sit down on a chair in front of the desk.

“The last time I did this, I got twenty-five years hard labor,” I said. “So, if you’ll forgive me, I really don’t have anything to say.”

“If you wish,” said one of the officers, “you may appeal the verdict. Did the court tell you that?”

“No. What the court did tell me was that the Soviets are every bit as stupid and brutal as the Nazis.”

“It’s interesting you say that.”

I didn’t reply.

“It seems to support an impression we have of you, Captain Gunther. That you’re not a Nazi.”

Meanwhile, the other officer had picked up a telephone and was saying something in Russian that I could not hear.

“I’m Major Weltz,” said the first officer. He looked at the man now replacing the telephone receiver. “And this is Lieutenant Rascher.”

I grunted.