Yet there was something more here. Something deeper and more universal than merely a clue as to the psyche of the mass murderer. In Baudelaire’s interest in violence, in his nostalgia for the past and through his revelation of the world of death and corruption, I heard the echo of a Satanic litany that was altogether more contemporary, and saw the pale reflection of a different kind of criminal, one whose spleen had the force of law.

I don’t have much of a memory for words. I can barely remember the words of the national anthem. But some of these verses stayed in my head like the persistent smell of mingled musk and tar.

That evening I drove down to see Bruno’s widow Katia at their home in Berlin-Zehlendorf. This was my second visit since Bruno’s death, and I brought some of his things from the office, as well as a letter from my insurance company acknowledging receipt of the claim I had made on Katia’s behalf.

There was even less to say now than before, but nevertheless I stayed for a full hour, holding Katia’s hand and trying to swallow the lump in my throat with several glasses of schnapps.

‘How’s Heinrich taking it?’ I said uncomfortably, hearing the unmistakable sound of the boy singing in his bedroom.

‘He hasn’t talked about it yet,’ said Katia, her grief giving way a little to embarrassment. ‘I think he sings because he wants to escape from having to face up to it.’

‘Grief affects people very differently,’ I said, scraping around for some sort of excuse. But I didn’t think this was true at all. To my own father’s premature death, when I hadn’t been much older than Heinrich was now, had been appended as its brutal corollary the inescapable logic that I was myself not immortal. Ordinarily I would not have been insensitive to Heinrich’s situation, ‘But why must he sing that song?’

‘He’s got it into his head that the Jews had something to do with his father’s death.’

‘That’s absurd,’ I said.

Katia sighed and shook her head. ‘I’ve told him that, Bernie. But he won’t listen.’

On my way out I lingered at the boy’s doorway, listening to his strong young voice.

“‘Load up the empty guns, And polish up the knives, Let’s kill the Jewish bastards, Who poison all our lives.”’

For a moment I was tempted to open the door and belt the young thug on the jaw. But what was the point? What was the point of doing anything but leave him alone? There are so many ways of escaping from that which one fears, and not the least of these is hatred.

8

Monday, 12 September