“Why did the American have your number?” Peter asked.

“His book, his moronic book. He’s the sort who lurks in graveyards and thinks he has a career. He kept pestering me, but I refused to be interviewed by him. I suspect he gave my name to Benz.”

“The bank was not involved?” Arkady asked.

Schiller allowed himself the thinnest suggestion of a smile. “Bayern-Franconia would no more invest in the Soviet Union than in the far side of the moon. Benz approached me personally.”

Peter said, “Benz is a pimp. He runs a string of prostitutes on the autobahn. What would he approach you about?”

“Real estate.”

“It was business?” Arkady asked.

Schiller sipped his tea. The cup was porcelain with a gilded rim. “Before the war, we had our own bank in Berlin. We’re not Bavarian.” He cast a concerned eye on his grandson. “That’s Peter’s problem; he’s not bred to be a drunken lout. Anyway, the family lived in Potsdam, outside the city. We also had a summer home on the coast. I’ve described them to Peter many times. Beautiful places. We lost them all. Bank and houses, everything ended up in the Soviet sector and then in the Democratic Republic of Germany. We lost them first to the Russians and then to the East Germans.”

Arkady said, “With reunification I thought private property was being returned.”

“Oh, yes. The former East Germany is haunted now by Jewish ghosts. But we weren’t helped because the new law excluded properties confiscated from ’45 to ’49, which was when we lost ours. Or so I thought until Benz appeared at my door.”

“What did he say?” Arkady asked.

“He represented himself as some sort of real estate agent. He informed me that there was some question about exactly when the Potsdam house had been seized. When the Russians were in charge, many estates simply stood empty for years. Records had been lost or burned. Benz said he might be able to provide me with the proper documentation to help my claim.” Schiller turned stiffly in his chair. “It was for you, too, Peter. He said he might be able to help us with the summer house, too. They could all be ours again.”

“For how much?” Peter asked.

“No money. Information.”

“Bank information?”

Schiller was offended. “Personal history.” The banker shook off his slippers. His feet were mottled blue, with yellowed nails. Two toes were missing. “Frostbite. I should live in Spain. Peter, you know where the brandy is. I feel a chill.”

Arkady asked, “What did you do on the Eastern Front?”

Schiller cleared his throat. “I was with a special detachment.”

“How special?”