For a moment Mielke looked grim, as if he was remembering. “Fucking French,” he said. “They were as bad as the Nazis in my book. It still sticks in my throat they get to be one of the four victorious powers in Berlin. What did they do to defeat the fascists? Nothing.”

“We can agree on something, anyway.”

“Le Vernet was the second time you pulled my bread out of the oven. Why’d you do it?”

I shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“No, that won’t do,” he said firmly. “Tell me. I want to know. You were dressed like a Gestapo officer. But you didn’t act like one. I didn’t get it then and I don’t get it now.”

“Between you and me and these four walls, Erich, I’m afraid the Gestapo were rather a bad lot.” I told him about the murders committed by Major Bömelburg and the SS storm troopers on the road to Lourdes. “You see, it’s one thing taking a man back to stand trial. It’s something completely different just to shoot him in a ditch at the side of the road. It was just your good fortune that we went to the camp at Gurs first, otherwise it might have been you who was shot while trying to escape. But given what I’ve seen since of your friends in the MVD, it’s probably what you deserved. Rats are still rats whether they’re gray, black, or brown. I just wasn’t cut out to be much of a rat myself.”

“Maybe a white rat, eh?”

“Maybe.”

Mielke chucked a packet of Belomorkanal across the table at me. “Here. I don’t smoke myself, but I brought these for you.” He tossed some matches after the cigarettes. “It’s my opinion that smoking is bad for your health.”

“My health has got more important things to worry about.” I lit one and puffed it happily. “But maybe you didn’t know. Russian nails are better for your health than American ones.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because there’s so little tobacco in them. Four good puffs and they’re gone.”