attacked Russia. Nobody thought that was a good idea. And yet Arthur did what he was told. He’d plot away and do what he was told even if that meant murdering Jews in Minsk and Smolensk. Doing what you were told was always the best kind of cover if you were simultaneously planning a coup d’état against the Nazis. I think that’s why he seems like such an ambiguous figure. I think that’s why, as you said, he was falling down on the job as commander of Task Group B. Because his heart was never in it. Above all, Nebe was a survivor.”
“Like you.”
“To some extent, yes, that’s true. Thanks to him.”
“Tell us about that.”
“I already did.”
“Not in any great detail.”
“What do you want me to do? Draw you a picture?”
“Really, we want as many details as possible,” said Earl.
“When someone is lying,” said Silverman, “it’s nearly always the case that they start to contradict themselves in matters of detail. You should know that from being a policeman yourself. When they start to contradict themselves on the small things, you can bet they’re lying about the big things, too.”
I nodded.
“So,” he said. “Let’s go back to Goloby, where you murdered the members of an NKVD squad.”
“The ones you claim had murdered all of the inmates at the NKVD prison in Lutsk,” said Earp. “According to the Soviets, that was just German propaganda, put out to help persuade your own men that the summary execution of all Jews and Bolsheviks was justified.”
“You’ll be telling me next that it was the German army who murdered all those Poles in the Katyn Forest.”
“Maybe it was.”
“Not according to your own congressional investigation.”
“You’re well-informed.”
I shrugged. “In Cuba, I got all the American newspapers. In an attempt to improve my English. Nineteen fifty-two, wasn’t it? The investigation. When the Malden Committee recommended that the Soviets should answer a case at the International Court of Justice in the Hague? Look, it’s a story I’ve been interested in for a long time. We both know the NKVD killed as many as we did. So why not admit it? The commies are the enemy now. Or is that just American propaganda?”
I fetched a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of my prison jacket and lit one slowly. I was tired of answering questions, but I knew I was going to have to open the door of my mind’s darkest cellar and wake up some very unpleasant memories. Even in a room with bars on the window, Operation Barbarossa felt like a very long way away. Outside it was a bright and sunny June day, and although it had been a very similarly warm June day when the Wehrmacht invaded the Soviet Union, that wasn’t the way I remembered it. When I recalled names like Goloby, Lutsk, Bialy-stock, and Minsk, I thought of infernal heat and the sights, sounds, and smells of a hell on earth; but most of all I remembered a clean-shaven young man aged about twenty standing in a cobbled town square with a crowbar in his hand, his thick boots an inch deep in the blood of about thirty other men who lay dead or dying at his feet. I remembered the shocked laughter of some of the German soldiers who were watching this bestial display; I remembered the sound of an accordion playing a spirited tune as another, older man with a long beard walked silently, almost calmly toward the fellow with the crowbar and was immediately struck on the head like some ghastly Hindu sacrifice; I remembered the noise the old man made as he fell to the ground and the way his legs jerked stiffly, like a puppet’s, until the crowbar hit him again.
I jerked my thumb at the window. “All right,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything. But do you mind if I put my face in the sun for a moment? It helps to remind me that I’m still alive.”
“Unlike millions of others,” Earp said pointedly. “Go ahead. We’re in no hurry.”
I went to the window and looked out. By the main gate a small crowd of
“Like you.”
“To some extent, yes, that’s true. Thanks to him.”
“Tell us about that.”
“I already did.”
“Not in any great detail.”
“What do you want me to do? Draw you a picture?”
“Really, we want as many details as possible,” said Earl.
“When someone is lying,” said Silverman, “it’s nearly always the case that they start to contradict themselves in matters of detail. You should know that from being a policeman yourself. When they start to contradict themselves on the small things, you can bet they’re lying about the big things, too.”
I nodded.
“So,” he said. “Let’s go back to Goloby, where you murdered the members of an NKVD squad.”
“The ones you claim had murdered all of the inmates at the NKVD prison in Lutsk,” said Earp. “According to the Soviets, that was just German propaganda, put out to help persuade your own men that the summary execution of all Jews and Bolsheviks was justified.”
“You’ll be telling me next that it was the German army who murdered all those Poles in the Katyn Forest.”
“Maybe it was.”
“Not according to your own congressional investigation.”
“You’re well-informed.”
I shrugged. “In Cuba, I got all the American newspapers. In an attempt to improve my English. Nineteen fifty-two, wasn’t it? The investigation. When the Malden Committee recommended that the Soviets should answer a case at the International Court of Justice in the Hague? Look, it’s a story I’ve been interested in for a long time. We both know the NKVD killed as many as we did. So why not admit it? The commies are the enemy now. Or is that just American propaganda?”
I fetched a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of my prison jacket and lit one slowly. I was tired of answering questions, but I knew I was going to have to open the door of my mind’s darkest cellar and wake up some very unpleasant memories. Even in a room with bars on the window, Operation Barbarossa felt like a very long way away. Outside it was a bright and sunny June day, and although it had been a very similarly warm June day when the Wehrmacht invaded the Soviet Union, that wasn’t the way I remembered it. When I recalled names like Goloby, Lutsk, Bialy-stock, and Minsk, I thought of infernal heat and the sights, sounds, and smells of a hell on earth; but most of all I remembered a clean-shaven young man aged about twenty standing in a cobbled town square with a crowbar in his hand, his thick boots an inch deep in the blood of about thirty other men who lay dead or dying at his feet. I remembered the shocked laughter of some of the German soldiers who were watching this bestial display; I remembered the sound of an accordion playing a spirited tune as another, older man with a long beard walked silently, almost calmly toward the fellow with the crowbar and was immediately struck on the head like some ghastly Hindu sacrifice; I remembered the noise the old man made as he fell to the ground and the way his legs jerked stiffly, like a puppet’s, until the crowbar hit him again.
I jerked my thumb at the window. “All right,” I said. “I’ll tell you everything. But do you mind if I put my face in the sun for a moment? It helps to remind me that I’m still alive.”
“Unlike millions of others,” Earp said pointedly. “Go ahead. We’re in no hurry.”
I went to the window and looked out. By the main gate a small crowd of
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