Gavrilo Dražeta arrived back at his farmhouse with bread, fruit, fresh sausage, and a bottle of Sekt for him and his wife to share, as their wedding anniversary would fall over the coming days. Some of their neighbors might even join them in a toast – István und Willa, Zum Wohl! – although István technically did not exist, and his marriage, however happy, was therefore a lie. But the fiction had now become the reality, for he thought of himself more as István Adami than Gavrilo Dražeta, and the latter’s crimes – if crimes they ever really were, which he disputed – now sometimes seemed like the actions of another man, or the dreams of an alternative reality. Had István Adami been rigged up to a lie detector and confronted with a litany of his alter ego’s offenses, he might well have evinced a confusion that was compelling even to himself, and passed the test without difficulty.

Anyway, few in Kassel wished to speak of conflicts, whether recent or more distant. Allied bombers had destroyed most of the city by 1943; whatever was spared was renovated in the aftermath, while the rest was later reconstructed from the rubble. As a consequence, the people of Kassel had an ambivalent attitude toward the trials of war. And who deserved to be judged for their failings only in the eyes of others? If that were the entire measure of the law, no one would be declared innocent. A man was more than the sum of his imperfections. This is what Gavrilo Dražeta might have told the UN investigators had they succeeded in dragging him before one of their tribunals, but Gavrilo Dražeta was no more. Now there was only István Adami, a man who loved his wife, cared for his cattle, extended a helping hand to his neighbors, and volunteered with local groups that supported the elderly and the poor. István Adami lived a blameless life, even if he cast the shadow of another man.

But since the visit of the Vuksans, this specter of Gavrilo Dražeta had assumed renewed substance. He could not have turned his back on his old comrades in their time of need, but he dearly wished they had not darkened his door. Every contact left a trail, and a trail could be followed. Following the Vuksans’ departure, he had begun carrying his little Walther pistol in his pocket, because one never knew who might come calling.

Now he entered the house through the kitchen, his arms heavy with shopping, and called his wife’s name. He placed the bags on the table and stretched his shoulders. He had already been up for many hours, and his day was only half-done, but he had a mind to take a nap before he tended to the cows again.

The first blow to the back of his head sent him to his knees.

The second sent him to oblivion.

Chapter L