“Where did you find him?” I asked.

“Göttingen,” said Vigée. “Why?” He lit a cigarette and flicked his match onto the heads of the men below, as if he wished to express his contempt for them. “Do you think he’s not up to this?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Maybe he’s not the detective you were, Gunther.” Vigée blew out his cheeks and sighed. “All he has to do is arrest the man you identify. There’s not much to being that kind of a cop, n’est-ce pas?” he sneered. “Perhaps you should give him some tips. Tell him your forensic secrets.”

“They’re quite simple, too,” I said. “I used to get up in the morning and go to bed at night. And in between I’d try to keep myself busy and out of mischief.”

“Really? Is that all you have to offer? After how many years of being a detective?”

“Any fool can solve a crime, Frenchman. It’s proving it that wears you out.”

Moeller started back through the crowd to the station door but found himself making little or no progress. He looked up and, seeing Vigée and then me, threw his hands up and grinned helplessly.

I grinned back and nodded affably, as if recognizing his difficulty. But all the time I was looking at him I was trying to gauge what kind of policeman I was going to be dealing with when, the following morning, Walter Bingel identified me as a collaborator and traitor.

34

GERMANY, 1954

We remained behind until all of the POWs had marched off to the camp and most of the local people had left the station. Vigée was, I think, impressed that I had insisted on being there until the last; and, of course, he was quite without a clue that the real reason had much more to do with my trying to keep out of sight. Before we climbed into the Citroën that would take us back to our pension in Göttingen, Moeller handed me a twenty-page list of names and ranks and serial numbers.

“All of the men who were in that train,” he said redundantly.

I tucked the list into my coat pocket and glanced around the station ticket hall and beyond, onto the platform where those whose dashed hopes of seeing some long-lost loved one remained to the bitter end. A few of these people were in tears. Others just sat alone in quiet and stoic grief. I heard someone say, “Next time, Frau Kettenacher. I expect he’ll come the next time. They say it might be another year before they’re all home. And that the SS will be the last.”

Gently, the owner of the voice—some local pastor, it looked like to me—helped an old woman to her feet, collected her missing-person sign off the ground, and guided her toward the platform exit.

We followed at a respectful distance.