“No, but I know your manners,” I said. “The quiet way you expect to be obeyed. That absolute sense of chosen race superiority. I suppose that’s not so very surprising given the caliber of men you have working for you. But that was always the way with the SS general staff, wasn’t it?” I looked with distaste at the men who had brought me there. “Find some feeble-minded sadists to carry out the dirty work, or better still, someone from a different race altogether. A Latvian, a Ukrainian, a Romanian, even a Frenchman.”

“We’re all Germans here, Herr Gunther,” said the little general. “All of us. All old comrades. Even you. Which makes your recent behavior all the more inexcusable.”

“What did I do? Forget to polish my knuckle-duster?”

“You should know better than to go around asking questions about the Web and the Comradeship. Not all of us have so little to hide as you, Herr Gunther. There are some of us who could be facing death sentences.”

“In the present company, I find that all too easy to believe.”

“Your impertinence does you and our organization no credit,” he said, almost sadly. “‘My honor is my loyalty.’ Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“As far as I’m concerned, General, those were just some words on a belt buckle. Another Nazi lie, like ‘Strength Through Joy.’” Another reason I said what I said to the little general, of course, was that I never had the brains to make general myself. Maybe they weren’t going to kill me. But perhaps I ought to have borne in mind the fact that they could still hurt me. Perhaps. Part of me always knew they were going to hurt me. I think I knew that was always what was on the cards. And under those circumstances I think I figured I had nothing to lose by speaking my mind. “Or the best lie of all. My own favorite. The one the SS dreamed up to make people feel better about their situation. ‘Work makes you free.’”

“I can see we will have to reeducate you, Herr Gunther,” he said. “For your own good, of course. So as to avoid any more unpleasantness in the future.”

“You can dress it up how you like, General. But you people always did prefer hitting people to—”

I didn’t finish my sentence. The general nodded to one of his men—the one with the blackjack—and it was like letting a dog off his lead. Immediately, without a second’s hesitation, the man took a step forward and let me have it hard on both arms, and then on both shoulders. I felt my whole body arch in an involuntary spasm as, still handcuffed, I tried to lower my head between my shoulder blades.