Manfred turns to me. He pats my cheek. Come with me, he whispers.
_ _ _
We are in the alley outside. Manfred slaps me on the shoulder and can keep quiet no longer:
‘Heinrich, for Christ’s sake. You didn’t really think I’d killed them and cut out their gullets?’
‘Actually, I did.’
‘Jesus. I know you think we SS are thick, but not even we are that stupid. What does that tell me about you, I wonder?’
‘About me?’
‘That you’re easily fooled. I give you a bag of pig’s throats for your little girl, and straight away you’ve got me down as wiping out her entire family!’
‘It seemed like the most likely scenario.’
‘Exactly. And now you want me to believe we’re looking for some perverse Jewish zek with a cockerel on his shoulder. Is that another likely scenario?’
‘It may be.’
We go through the alley, its low walls backed by gardens, with vines crawling up the gable ends. Manfred pulls a packet of Efkas out of his breast pocket and offers me one. He cups his hands around the flame and he gives me a light.
‘At Belize you said Steiner’s escort was small,’ he says. ‘What did you mean, exactly?’
‘Just what I said, a company, hardly more. And that parade vehicle. What was it for? Who were they trying to impress?’
‘It got me wondering.’
‘About what?’
He says nothing, but steps into a garden and returns a few moments later with a handful of peas.
‘It got me wondering if it was all some kind of set-up.’
I shake my head as he offers me one.
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Steiner,’ he says after a brief pause, ‘Steiner taught me everything. I don’t mean …’
He throws up his hand. At once his expression changes, becomes gentler:
‘Not this … butchery … No, the spiritual side.’
‘Spiritual? In Einsatzgruppe B?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It’s hardly a secret, what you did out there, Manfred.’
‘You wouldn’t understand, Heinrich.’
‘What wouldn’t I understand?’
‘You wouldn’t understand what it means to be consistent. Every truth is consistent … without mercy.’
He draws his weapon, holding it in the flat of his palm, curling his fingers around it. Then he raises his arm, and points the gun at me.
‘Heinrich.’
‘What?’
‘You’re not being fooled, are you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You have looked into who organised that escort, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who was it?’
‘It was you, Manfred.’
The pistol is still pointed at me. He weighs it in his hand, index finger on the trigger.
‘Have you proposed?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘To my sister. Have you?’
‘No …’
‘Why not?’
‘Put the gun away.’
‘Have you?’
‘Put it away. Now.’
‘Don’t you think I know?’
‘Know what, Manfred?’
‘It’s so easy to get swallowed up by all this … shit. To lose one’s grip. Are you losing your grip?’
‘No.’
He sticks the semi-automatic back in its black holster and buttons down the flap.
‘Then you must know you can’t keep the girl.’
‘What’s the girl got to do with it?’
‘Everything, Heinrich. Everything.’
He smiles.
He has tiny teeth. They look like baby teeth, white as chalk and almost transparent.
_ _ _
My office, Lida, police headquarters, the following afternoon.
Wäspli pours me a cup of scalding hot tea.
‘They say Minsk. Minsk is the most likely place if you’re looking for a zek, a Gulag prisoner. They’ve got most of the NKVD archive there, managed to save it. I’ve already made an appointment with them.’
‘Good. Thank you, Wäspli.’
He turns to leave; he is fat around the hips, giving him a feminine curve under his grey uniform trousers and green jacket, making the black belt around his waist look anything but manly.
‘There was something else,’ I say.
‘Oberleutnant?’
‘The girl.’
‘The girl?’
‘Yes, our witness from Belize. Etke. What are we to do about her?’
Wäspli blushes, smiles stiffly and looks down at the desk.
‘Or would you like to take care of her, Alfred?’
‘What? Me?’
‘No, perhaps not.’
When later he comes back I am unable to make eye contact with him, his soft hands fumble.
‘Just sign here.’
I don’t know how he found out her full name.
SURNAME(S): Steiger
FIRST NAME(S): Sophie NICKNAME (WHERE APPLIC.): Etke
DESTINATION:
We glance up at each other as we consider the empty field.
‘It has to be filled in by SS-Dienststelle Lida,’ he says. ‘They say they can come and collect her in two days.’
‘All right, Wäspli. Thank you,’ I say, and sign my name.
_ _ _
‘Wäspli, come in here a minute.’
He enters with his briefcase, coat over his arm, ready to go.
He is still looking at the floor, blushing.
‘Come here and have a drink with me.’
I pull open the drawer and take out another glass, twist off the cork and indicate the chair opposite.
‘Sit down, it’s good stuff, from Hungary …’
He sits down, perches on the edge with the glass in one hand.
‘Prost, Wäspli …’
‘Prost, Herr Oberleutnant.’
‘Good, don’t you think?’
‘Very good indeed. French?’
‘Hungarian …’
‘Hungarian, yes, you said …’
What is it with him? He seems tense. He must be at least fifteen years older than me, and yet I have to draw everything out of him as though he were a schoolboy. He fingers the lip of the glass with his thumb. Are the older generation now afraid of us?
‘Wäspli, what did you do exactly, in civilian life?’ I ask, and we chink glasses. ‘I’m assuming you weren’t a policeman?’
‘I was a clarinettist.’
‘A clarinettist, indeed! Where?’
‘Leipzig … the symphony orchestra.’
‘Clarinettist! I’d never have guessed!’
‘No, I suppose not …’
He continues to gaze into his drink, swirling the liquid around the glass with a slight movement of his hand.
‘Are you married?’
‘No, never got
