Flowers, fruit, candies, cigarettes, schnapps, hot coffee, hugs and kisses—every sign of affection was showered on these men. I hadn’t seen so much joy on the faces of so many Germans since June 1940. And two things were clear to me: that only the Federal Republic could claim to be the legitimate representative of the German nation; and that no one regarded any of these men—whatever crimes and atrocities they might have committed in Russia and the Ukraine—as anything other than heroes.

But equally clear was the reality of the problem now facing me. For among the lined, grinning faces of the men underneath my gaze was one I recognized from Johannesgeorgenstadt. A Berliner named Walter Bingel whom I had befriended on the train from the MVD prison near Stalingrad. The same Bingel who had seen me leaving the camp in a ZIM saloon, accompanied by two German communists from K-5, and who assumed that I’d made a deal with them to save my skin. And if Bingel was on the train, then quite probably there were others from Johannesgeorgenstadt who, thanks to him, would have the same memory of me. It was beginning to look as if Inspector Moeller might be obliged to arrest me, too.

Vigée’s keen eyes saw mine lingering nervously on Bingel’s face. “Recognize anyone?” he asked.

“Not so far,” I lied. “But to be honest, these men seem older than their years. I’m not sure I’d recognize my own brother down there. If I had a brother.”

“Well, that’s good for us, isn’t it?” said the Frenchman. “A man who has spent the last six or seven years working for the MVD ought to stick out from the rest of these uncles. After all, de Boudel is merely posing as a POW. He hasn’t been in a labor camp, like them.”

I nodded. The Frenchman had a point.

“Can we get a copy of that list of names made by the Red Cross?” I asked.

Vigée nodded at Moeller, who went away to fetch one. “All the same,” he said, “I don’t think he’ll be using his real name, do you?”

“No, of course not. But one has to start somewhere. Most police work starts with a list of something or other, even if it’s a list of what you don’t know. Sometimes that’s as important as what you do know. Really, detective work is simple, it’s just not very easy.”

“Don’t sweat it,” said Vigée. “We always knew that finding de Boudel at the station would be a long shot. Reveille at the refugee camp tomorrow morning. That’s where I’m pinning my hopes.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” I said.

We watched Moeller struggling through the crowd of men to one of the Red Cross officials. He said something, and the official nodded back.