“That’s probably wise,” said Korsch. “I can’t imagine a Jew wanting to help someone who was in the SS, can you?” He laughed at the very thought of it.

“No, I’ll stick to the Allies for now.”

“Are you absolutely sure Lvov is in Poland? I think you’ll find it used to be in Poland but now it’s part of the Ukraine. Just to make things a little more complicated for you.”

“What about the paper?” I asked. “You must have some sort of access to the Amis. Couldn’t you find out something?”

“I suppose I could,” said Korsch. “Sure, I’ll take a look.”

I wrote Friedrich Warzok’s name on a piece of paper and, underneath it, the name of the labor camp at Lemberg-Janowska. Korsch folded it and slipped it into his pocket.

“Whatever happened to Emil Becker?” he asked. “Remember him?”

“The Amis hanged him in Vienna about two years ago.”

“War crimes?”

“No. But as it happens, if they’d looked they’d have certainly found evidence of some war crimes.”

Korsch shook his head. “We’ve all got some kind of dirty mark on our faces, if you look closely enough.”

I shrugged. I hadn’t asked what Korsch had done during the war. I only knew that he’d come out of the war as a Kriminalinspektor in the RSHA, which meant he’d had something to do with the Gestapo. There seemed no point in spoiling a perfectly affable lunch by asking him about all that now. Nor did he exhibit any curiosity about what I had done.

“So what was it?” he asked. “What did they hang him for?”

“For murdering an American officer,” I said. “I heard he was heavily involved in the black market.”

“That much I can believe,” he said. “That he was into the black market.” Korsch raised a glass of wine. “Here’s to him, anyway.”

“Yes,” I said, picking up my glass. “Here’s to Emil. The poor bastard.” I drained the glass. “As a matter of curiosity, how is it that a bull like you turns into a journalist, anyway?”

“I got out of Berlin just before the blockade,” he said. “Had a tip from an Ivan who owed me a favor. So I came down here. And got offered a job as a crime correspondent. The hours are much the same, but the pay is a lot better. I’ve learned English. Got myself a wife and son. Nice house in Nymphenburg.” He shook his head. “Berlin is finished. It’s only a matter of time before the Ivans take it over. The war seems like a thousand years ago, quite frankly. And if you don’t mind my saying so, all this war crimes stuff, soon it won’t matter a damn. Any of it. Not when the amnesty kicks in. That’s what everyone wants now, isn’t it?”