Our own Russian sergeant was sweating and nervous-looking, and before he boarded the train behind me I noticed that he crossed himself. Which seemed a little curious, as even in the Soviet zone, rail travel was really not that hazardous. By contrast, the two German MVD officers appeared composed and relaxed. As we sat down and waited for the train to move, I asked the starshina if he spoke any German. He shook his head.

“The fellow’s Ukrainian, I think,” said Major Weltz. “He doesn’t speak a word of German.”

The Ivan lit a cigarette and stared out of the window, avoiding my eye.

“He’s an ugly sonofabitch, isn’t he?” I remarked. “I imagine his mother must have been a whore, like all Ukrainian women.”

The Ivan didn’t flinch at any of that.

“All right,” I said. “I really do think he doesn’t speak German. So. It’s probably safe to talk.”

Weltz frowned. “What on earth are you driving at?”

“Listen. Sir. All our lives could depend on us trusting each other now. We three Germans. Don’t look at him. But how much do you know about our smelly friend here?”

The major glanced at the lieutenant, who shook his head. “Nothing at all,” he said. “Why?”

“Nothing?”

“He was posted to the camp at Johannesgeorgenstadt just a few days ago,” said Rascher. “From Berlin. That’s really all I know about him.”

“And he’s going back already?”

“What’s all this about, Gunther?” said Weltz.

“There’s something about him that’s not quite right,” I said. “No. Don’t look at him. But he’s nervous when he shouldn’t be nervous. And I saw him crossing himself a minute ago—”

“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Gunther, but—”

“Shut up and listen. I was an intelligence officer. And before that I worked for the War Crimes Bureau in Berlin. One of the crimes we investigated was the murders of twenty-six thousand Polish officers, four thousand of them at a place I’m not going to mention in case it makes this dog prick up his ears. They were all of them murdered and buried in a forest clearing by NKVD.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” insisted the major. “Everyone knows that was the SS.”

“Look, it’s vital you believe that they weren’t killed by the SS. I know. I saw the bodies. Look, this man, this Blue sitting next to us, is wearing several medals on his chest, one of which is the Merited NKVD Worker medal. Like I said, I was an intelligence officer, and I happen to know that this medal was commissioned by the Council of the People’s Commissars of the USSR—in other words, Uncle Joe himself—in October 1940, as a special thank-you to all of those who did the killings in April of that same year.”