“However,” I said weightily, “the Soviet authorities are not known for the efficiency of their record keeping. I know—I was a prisoner myself. When our men are repatriated, it’s the German Red Cross and not the Russians who establish who is actually being released. For this reason, we’re in the process of compiling our own records of who is still missing. And while this may not seem like the best moment to be asking questions like this, I wonder if I might take a few details of the loved one still missing.” I smiled sadly at the pastor. “Your nephew, is it?”

“Yes,” he said, and repeated the missing man’s name, rank, and serial number, and the details of his war service.

I noted these down conscientiously. “I won’t take up too much of your time,” I said. “Do you have any personal documentation? A pay book, perhaps? Not every soldier kept his pay book on him like he was supposed to. A lot left them at home for safekeeping so that their wives could claim the money. I know I did. Or perhaps a military service record book. A party card. That kind of thing.”

Frau Kettenacher was already opening a brown leather bag that was the size and shape of a small coracle. “My Ricky was a good boy,” she said in a strong Saxonian accent. “He wouldn’t ever have disobeyed the rules about carrying his pay book.” She took out a manila envelope and handed it to me. “But you’ll find everything else in here. His National Socialist Party personal identity card. His SA identity card. His craftsmen’s guild certificate. His ID for commercial travelers—he trained to be a metalworker, see? And then became a traveling salesman selling the things he used to make. His German state travel passport. That was for the time he went to Italy on business. His bombing victim’s pass—Ricky’s apartment in Kassel was bombed, you know. And his wife was killed. A lovely girl, she was. And his military service passbook.”

I tried to contain my excitement. The old lady was giving me everything that could have identified the real Richard Kettenacher. Several of the documents contained not just photographs but personal signatures, blood types, details of medical examinations, his size of gas mask, helmet, cap and boots, a record of wounds and serious illnesses, and military decorations.

“The inspector here will issue you with a receipt for these documents,” I said. “And he’ll make sure that they’re returned safely to you.”

“I don’t care about them,” she said. “All I care about is having my Ricky returned safely to me.”

“God willing, yes,” I said, pocketing the missing man’s life history.

As soon as Moeller had written one out, we left the pastor and the old lady alone and walked back to the car.

“Well?” asked Vigée.