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Back The One from the Other
Chapters (50)
  1. Praise
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EIGHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. SIXTEEN
  22. SEVENTEEN
  23. EIGHTEEN
  24. NINETEEN
  25. TWENTY
  26. TWENTY-ONE
  27. TWENTY-TWO
  28. TWENTY-THREE
  29. TWENTY-FOUR
  30. TWENTY-FIVE
  31. TWENTY-SIX
  32. TWENTY-SEVEN
  33. TWENTY-EIGHT
  34. TWENTY-NINE
  35. THIRTY
  36. THIRTY-ONE
  37. THIRTY-TWO
  38. THIRTY-THREE
  39. THIRTY-FOUR
  40. THIRTY-FIVE
  41. THIRTY-SIX
  42. THIRTY-SEVEN
  43. THIRTY-EIGHT
  44. THIRTY-NINE
  45. FORTY
  46. FORTY-ONE
  47. FORTY-TWO
  48. EPILOGUE
  49. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  50. Teaser chapter

“We know each other from before the war,” he said. “We met at medical school, in Frankfurt. In 1928. I would have studied in Vienna, where I was born, but for the fact that I had to leave in rather a hurry. There was a girl I left in a bit of a clamp. You know the kind of thing. Rather an inglorious moment, I’m afraid. Still, these things happen, eh? After med school I got a job at a hospital in West Africa for a while. Then Bremen. When the war started neither Heinrich nor I was much interested in saving lives, I’m afraid. So we joined the Waffen-SS. Heinrich was interested in tanks—the way he’s interested in nearly everything with an engine. I went along for the ride, so to speak. My parents were not very pleased with my choice of military service. They didn’t like Hitler or the Nazis. My father is dead now, but my mother hasn’t spoken to me since the war. Anyway, things went all right for us until the last weeks of the war. Then I got hit. That’s it. That’s my story. No medals. No glory. And definitely no pity, if you don’t mind. Frankly, I had it coming. I did something wrong, once. And I don’t mean that poor girl I left bumped up. I mean in the SS. The way we went through France and Holland just killing people whenever the idea took us.”

“We all did things we’re not proud of,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Sometimes I find it very hard to believe that any of it happened at all.”

“It’s the difference between war and peace, that’s all,” I told him. “War makes killing seem feasible and matter-of-fact. In peacetime, it isn’t. Not in the same way. In peacetime everyone just worries that if you kill someone it will leave a dreadful mess on the carpet. Worrying about the mess on the carpet and whether it matters is the only real difference between war and peace.” I took a hit on my cigarette. “It’s not Tolstoy, but I’m working on it.”

“No, I like it,” he said. “For one thing it’s a lot shorter than Tolstoy. These days I fall asleep when I read anything longer than a bus ticket. I like you, Bernie. Enough to give you some good advice about Engelbertina.”

“I like you, too, Eric. But there’s no need to tell me to lay off her because you think of her like a sister. Believe it or not, I’m not the kind to take advantage.”