“I felt sorry for them,” Bianco said.

“Me too,” Abrams said softly. “They were just shaky men whose clothes didn’t fit . . .” He trailed off, and lit a cigarette. After a moment he said, “You opened Belzec, didn’t you?”

“It’s in the file, Doctor.”

Shouts came through the open window; they heard glass breaking somewhere.

Abrams said, “Speiser was commandant of Belzec, right?” No answer from Bianco. “That’s why you’re waiting for him, isn’t it, Major. For what he did at Belzec.” His voice got very gentle. “Look, Lou,” he said, “if we capture Speiser, we’ll hang him. If no one gets him, he spends the rest of his life rotting in a Brazilian jungle. What can you do to him that’ll be worse than that?”

“I don’t want to do anything to him. I want to ask him a question.”

“You waited seven months to ask a question?”

“I guess I did,” Bianco said.

“What question?”

Bianco didn’t answer. The office was quiet in the heat; the breeze stopped and the stone dust in the air settled, leaving another layer of powder over everything. Bianco lit a cigarette. The smoke didn’t move and he looked at Abrams through it.

“What question?” Abrams asked again.

“You’re a psychiatrist, right?”

Abrams nodded.

“So Pearce can’t order you to tell him what I say.”

“He can, but I don’t have to obey.”

“Will you?” Bianco asked.

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

Bianco sat back. “I don’t.”

Then he said, “Okay, I’ll tell you. I want to tell someone. But it’s not what you think. It’s not because of the lime pits and ovens. As bad as that was, we were used to it by the time we got to Belzec. No, not used . . . I’m still not used to it. But that’s not why I’m here. It’s something else. A feeling I got there . . .”

“I’m supposed to be able to deal with feelings,” Abrams said.

“Sure, sure.” Bianco paused, then said, “I don’t know how to start . . .”

Abrams leaned over and opened a metal cabinet next to his big carved-oak desk and took out a bottle of whisky and two paper cups.

“A little schnapps’ll make talking easier,” he said, and he poured two stiff shots and gave one to Bianco. Bianco sipped. It was good stuff and went down smoothly—the spoils of war, he thought. He took another sip, then drank it down at once and waited for it to settle the shaky feeling he had most of the time. The wind came up again, riffled papers on Abrams’s desk, then died, and everything was quiet.