A figure in camouflage sat behind a desk in a leather chair, obscured by cigarette smoke. He scratched his neck with one hand and held the receiver of a white rotary phone to his ear with the other. His hands were covered in prison tattoos. Beside him lay a Stechkin pistol, an ashtray, and a cup of tea.

The smoke-shrouded figure, the lacquered furniture, the leather chair—it was like one of those black-and-white movies about the Russian Revolution.

“Hello. Yes, this is the commandant, and who am I talking to? OK, Nikolai Petrovich. Great. So we’ll see you tomorrow at eight at the administration building then. What? I don’t care if you’re crippled and half-blind, we need people. No. And be so kind as to turn up on time, would you?”

He hung up and flashed a golden grin.

“A woman called yesterday and said: ‘My husband is a tank driver, take him away, let him protect his homeland.’ I said to her: ‘Sure thing.’”

“She must have a lover,” the blond man chuckled.

“Hardly, she sounded old. Mind you . . .”

He scratched his hand, neck and chin. He cleared the desk of the phone and papers, leaving only the pistol before him.

“What’s going on down there?”

“It’s a dump. We’re clearing it out.”

“And who’s this?”

The blond man drew the passport he had taken from K.’s pocket and placed it on the desk. The commandant flicked through the pages. An envelope fell out. He took out a note, unfolded it and read it out: “Dear doctor, don’t blame yourself. They didn’t suffer.”

He turned his cloudy gaze on K. and rubbed his stomach.

“You’ve come to spy too have you?”

“What do you mean too?” said K., shaking his head. “No!”

“We found him at the city hospital asking nurses how many wounded were coming in.”

“Wait, Fox. Give him a sec,” the commandant muttered slowly. “Explain, what were you doing?”

“I wanted to help.”

“Oh, so you’re a helper? Admirable. But I think that it’s you that’s going to need first aid soon enough.”

“I don’t have any other answer for you. I came to help the wounded.”

The commandant scratched his knee under the table, stubbed out the butt, and sipped his tea.

“You don’t look like an idealist. Too polished. People with something to live for don’t go to war.”

He rubbed his nose with the pistol and then took aim at K.’s head. His round face registered indifference. There was nowhere to run. Fox stood a metre to his right with his rifle at the ready. It was a fitting nom de guerre. Why had that thought suddenly popped into his head?

K. inched forward.

“Dimedrol and Diazolin can help ease an itch.”

The commandant’s expression remained unchanged. His eye and the pistol in his hand twitched slightly.

K. carried on: “You’ve got an itch. The diacetylmorphine in the opiates is causing an allergic reaction.”

The commandant slowly leaned back, causing the chair to creak. He lowered the gun, picked up the phone and dialled a number with the muzzle.