“I see. Some of the laws, then. Not all. But you made arrests?”
“Of criminals, yes.”
“And they were sent where?” To prison.
“So late in the war? Most were sent to ‘labor camps,’ weren’t they?”
Gunther said nothing.
“Tell us, how did you decide which laws to enforce for the National Socialists?”
“Decide? It wasn’t for me to decide. I was a policeman. I had no choice.”
“I see. So only Fraulein Naumann had this choice.”
“I object,” the prosecutor said. “This is nonsense. The situations were not at all similar. What is the defense trying to suggest?”
“That this testimony is compromised from start to finish. This is a personal grievance, not Soviet justice. You hold this woman accountable for the crimes of the Nazis? She had no choice. Listen to your own witness. No one had a choice.”
The only possible defense left. Everyone was guilty; no one was guilty.
“She had a choice,” Gunther said, his voice thick.
The defense nodded, pleased with himself, finally where he wanted to be.
“Did you?”
“Don’t answer,” the prosecutor said quickly.
But Gunther raised his head, unflinching-a moment he’d expected, even if Bernie hadn’t, the other reckoning. Not to be put off, even by a bottle to blot himself out. He gazed straight ahead, eyes stone.
“Yes, I had a choice. And I worked for them too,” he said, his voice as firm and steady as the hand on the razor. “Her murderers. Even after that.”
The room, suddenly embarrassed, was silent. Not the answer any of them had wanted, a little death, pulled out of him like Liz’s gasp. One cut.
He turned to Renate. “We all did,” he said, his voice lower now. “But you-you could have looked away. Your friend. Just the once.”
At this she did look away, facing the stenographers, so that her words were almost lost.
“I needed one more,” she said, as if it answered everything. “One more.”
Another awkward silence in the room, broken finally by the judge.
“The witness is not on trial here,” he said. “Are you disputing what he saw?”
The defense shook his head, as eager as everyone else now to move on.
“Good. Then you’re finished,” the judge said to Gunther. “Step down.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “We will meet tomorrow.”
“But we have other witnesses,” the prosecutor said, anxious not to let his momentum stall.
“Then call them tomorrow. It’s enough for today. And next time stick to the facts.”
Which were what, Jake wondered. Another column of numbers.
When no one moved, the judge waved his hand at the room. “Adjourned, adjourned,” he said irritably, then rose, motioning for the other two to follow.
Jake heard the sound of chairs being moved, a low buzz, lawyers gathering papers. Gunther stayed in his chair, still looking straight ahead. The guards, surprised by the abrupt dismissal, nudged Renate away from her railing and began to lead her at gunpoint out of the room. Jake watched her pass in front of the bench, her eyes meeting his as she approached the prosecution table. She stopped.
“So it’s really you,” she said to him, her old voice. “You came back.”
The guards, not sure whether she was allowed to speak, looked around for instructions, but the judges had gone, the room emptying with them.
Jake nodded, not knowing what to say. It’s good to see you again? Collarbones sticking out.
“It wasn’t for myself,” she said to Jake, her eyes on him, waiting.
Jake looked down, unable to respond. Bernie was watching from the side, waiting too. But what could anyone say? A guard took her arm. In a minute she’d be gone. One word, something.
He fell back on the empty courtesy of a prison visit. “Can I get you anything?”
She looked at him for another moment, disappointed, then shook her head. More Russian, insistent now. The guards pushed her away from the table.
Jake stayed until the room was almost cleared, just a hum coming in from the hall. Gunther was still in his chair. When Bernie went over to get him, he looked up once, then brushed him aside, getting up stiffly, and walked toward Jake, one deliberate foot in front of the other.
“I’ll give you a lift,” Bernie said, but Gunther ignored him.
He stopped for a second at the table. “I’ll talk to Willi,” he said to Jake, then kept walking out of the room.
Bernie, disconcerted, went over and began putting files back in his briefcase.
“What about you?” he said.
Jake looked up. “I have the jeep.” He stood up to leave, then turned. “Still think all the stories end the same way?” he said.
Bernie shoved the last file in the case. “Marthe Behn’s did.” Contents — Previous Chapter / Next Chapter
