“How deep is it there?” I asked, leafing through the pictures taken at the scene and in the morgue.

“About nine meters.”

I was looking at the body of a man in his late fifties. Big, blond, and typically Aryan, except for the fact that there was a photograph of his penis, which had been circumcised. Among German men that was a little unusual.

“As you can see, he might have been a Jew,” said Bömer. “Although from the rest of him, you wouldn’t say he looks like a Jew at all.”

“The strangest people are, these days.”

“I mean to say, he looks more typically Aryan, don’t you think?”

“Sure. Like a poster boy for the SA.”

“Well, let’s hope so.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this: If it should turn out he’s German, then obviously we’d like to find out as much as we can. But if it should turn out that he’s Jewish, then my orders are that we don’t bother to investigate. That it’s understandable these things should happen in Berlin and not to waste any police time investigating it.”

I marveled at the calm way he said this. As if it were the most natural distinction in the world. I didn’t speak. I didn’t have to. I was looking at the pictures of a dead man. But I was still thinking about my own neck.

“Broken nose, cauliflower ear, big hands.” I flicked my cigarette away and tried to concentrate on what I was looking at, if only to get my mind off the death of August Krichbaum. “This fellow was no choirboy. Maybe he was a Jew, after all. Interesting.”

“What is?”

“That triangular mark on his chest. What is it? A bruise? The pathologist doesn’t say. Which is sloppy. Wouldn’t have happened in my day. I could probably tell a lot more from the actual body. Where is it now?”

“At the Charité Hospital.”

Suddenly, I figured that looking at Bömer’s Landwehr Top was the best way of taking my mind off August Krichbaum.

“Have you got a car?”

“Yes.”

“Come on. Let’s go and take a look. If anyone in there asks what we’re doing, you’re helping me to look for my missing brother.”

WE DROVE NORTHWEST in an open-top Butz. There was a two-wheel trailer attached to the back, almost as if Bömer were planning to go camping after he was through with me. This wasn’t so far from the truth.

“I lead a Hitler Youth troop of boys aged ten to fourteen,” he explained. “We were camping last weekend, which is why I still have the trailer attached to the car.”

“I sincerely hope they’re all still in there.”

“Go ahead and laugh. Everyone else at the Alex laughs. But I happen to believe in Germany’s future.”

“So do I, which is why I also hope you locked them in. The members of your youth troop, I mean. Nasty little brutes. I saw some the other day playing piggy in the middle with some old Jew’s hat. Still, I guess we should forget about it. I mean, it’s understandable that these things happen in Berlin.”