For a moment his face wrinkled with disgust as he recalled it. “It was a forced labor camp constructed around three factories in Lvov. The camp was named after the factory address: 133 Janowska Street. I went there in May 1942, to take command of the factories. Someone else was in charge of the residential camp where the Jews lived. And things were pretty bad there, I believe. But my responsibility was the factory only. This meant that there was a certain amount of friction between myself and the other commander, as to who was really in charge. Strictly speaking, it ought to have been me. At the time, I was a first lieutenant and the other fellow was a second lieutenant. However, it so happened his uncle was SS Major General Friedrich Katzmann, the police chief of Galicia and a very powerful man. He was part of the reason why I left Janowska. Wilhaus—that was the other commander’s name—he hated me. Jealous, I suppose. Wanted control of everything. And he’d have done anything to get rid of me. It was only a matter of time before he made his move. Framed me for something I hadn’t done. So I decided to get out while I could. And, after all, there was nothing worth staying for. That was the other reason. The place was ghastly. Really ghastly. And I didn’t think I could stay there and serve with any honor to myself. So I applied to join the Waffen-SS, and the rest you know.” He helped himself to another one of my cigarettes.

“There was another officer at the camp,” I said. “Friedrich Warzok. Do you remember him?”

“I remember Warzok,” he said. “He was Wilhaus’s man.”

“I’m a private detective,” I explained. “I’ve been asked by his wife to see if I can find out if he’s alive or dead. She wants to remarry.”

“Sensible woman. Warzok was a pig. They all were.” He shook his head. “She must be a pig, too, if she was ever married to that bastard.”

“So you never met her.”

“You mean she’s not a pig?” He smiled. “Well, well. No, I never met her. I knew he was married. Matter of fact, he was always telling us how good-looking his wife was. But he never brought her to live there. At least not while I was there. Unlike Wilhaus. He had his wife and little daughter living there. Can you believe it? I wouldn’t have had a wife and child of mine within ten miles of that place. Almost everything unpleasant you’ve heard about Warzok is likely to be true.” He laid his cigarette in the ashtray, put his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair. “How can I help?”

“In March 1946, Warzok was living in Austria. His wife thinks he might have used an old comrades’ network to get away. Since then, she’s heard nothing.”