Reinhard mentioned Lola. He knew about her job at the Mahogany Room. ‘Pretty woman,’ he said. ‘Cute little apartment too.’ Threats did not need to be explicit. He kept the tone light, conversational. Reinhard always told his students that congeniality could break some men who were impervious to torture.
Reinhard Pabst had succumbed to the myth of his office. He was convinced of his mastery of all people and all things. His destruction of his opponents over and over again had convinced him of that. He took the black uniform and his high rank to be irrefutable proof. That he had every advantage and his opponents had none did nothing to dissuade him. His advantages sprang, he believed, from his innate superiority.
‘You see, Geismeier,’ he said, ‘like you, I am a student of human nature. I have read Shakespeare too, although, I confess, not as thoroughly as you. As a matter of fact, I saw through his little act quite quickly. You apparently haven’t. I assure you: he is essentially boring. Good maybe at the poetry end of things, but wanting when it comes to understanding what really drives humankind, what truly motivates us. The comedies are silly, the tragedies contrived. Have you read any of the great modern thinkers?’
Willi did not answer.
Reinhard named a few of his favorites.
Willi did not answer.
‘I thought not. It’s no wonder then that you are on the wrong side of things, the wrong side of history. It’s because you are an intellectual coward. You haven’t thought things through, because you are afraid of where that might take you. You are afraid of the truth.’
Willi did not answer.
‘Understand this, Geismeier. I am not here merely to abuse and humiliate you. I am, like you, an investigator. I am always interested in getting at the truth.’
Willi did not answer.
‘Of course, I have ways of getting at the truth that are not available to you.’ He plucked at a splintered fingernail, distracted for a moment. ‘I have ways that were never available to you really. Do you know why? Because you were, how shall I say?’ He steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘You were an insincere investigator. Do you understand what I mean by that?’
Willi did not answer.
‘I will explain it to you. When you were in pursuit of something or someone, you chose not to avail yourself of all the available investigative tools.’ Reinhard raised his right hand to stroke his chin in what he took to be a thoughtful gesture. The cuff of his coat slid away and revealed the still raw scar on his hand and around his wrist. Reinhard was surprised and pleased when Willi spoke.
‘What truth?’ said Willi. His voice came out as a hoarse whisper.
‘Would you like some water?’ said Reinhard. ‘Help yourself, Geismeier. There, on the table.’ There was a crystal pitcher with two glasses. It was as though they were having a colloquy in the university faculty club. ‘Go ahead, Geismeier.’
Willi did not move.
‘Suit yourself, then,’ said Reinhard. ‘It is there if you want it.’ Reinhard took a drink of water himself. ‘I’m interested in the truth that lies above the smaller truths,’ he said, ‘the truth that guides nature and all being.’
‘You mean the truth of chaos and power, force and violence,’ said Willi.
‘Bravo!’ said Reinhard, and clapped his hands in delight.
Willi said nothing.
‘Sit down, Geismeier,’ said Reinhard, and pushed a wooden chair in Willi’s direction with his boot. Willi recognized in Reinhard something he had seen in other criminals: a pathological absence of character, a hollowness. And he could see that Reinhard was only marginally aware of this absence. He was pretending to be human, looking for the part of himself that he understood to be missing. There was narcissism and sadism, to be sure, but they appeared to Willi to be masking a deep fear that Reinhard was only, again marginally, aware of. A fear of what? Of some troublesome moment at the core of his experience? Of being found out, perhaps?
Reinhard was a psychopath. And Willi was sure now that Reinhard was Friedrich Grosz, the particular psychopath he was looking for. Willi sat down and poured himself a glass of water. Reinhard watched him drink.
‘So, explain the virtues of violence and force,’ said Willi.
Reinhard was pleased. ‘Violence and force are the true currency of power,’ he said. He was giving Willi his favorite lecture. ‘Everything else – Christian love, charity, generosity, justice, dignity, democracy, humanity, these things are all nonsense. They are counterfeit. They have no purchasing power; they buy you nothing.’
‘Maybe they seemed counterfeit when you tried them out,’ said Willi. ‘You did try them out, didn’t you? Others have had a different experience from yours. Others have found redemption in love.’
Reinhard was a bit taken aback, but then he recovered and snorted. ‘Redemption! Hah!’
‘And the end of fear,’ said Willi.
‘That is utter nonsense, Geismeier, and you know it. Here you sit, pathetic, filthy, destroyed, virtually destroyed, buoyed perhaps by some vague irrational hope. But there is no hope for you, Geismeier. That is what you need to understand.’
‘And I suppose you’re going to explain it to me,’ said Willi.
Reinhard’s face darkened. He stood up and walked around the table to where Willi sat. ‘Are you being insolent, Geismeier, you pathetic worm?’
‘I wonder, Herr Obersturmbannführer, how you can think of yourself as being all powerful, and yet be so threatened by a pathetic worm’s insolence.’
Reinhard hit Willi hard enough to knock him off the chair and onto the floor. He took the pistol from his holster and pressed it into Willi’s face. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game,
