The words were more forceful than the voice; Zandor spoke with a sort of sepulchral enthusiasm and it didn’t ring true. He went on:
“It’s too soon for the world to forget these things. Those who cherish fascism are still in positions to acquire power in the West, where their ambitions frequently coincide with those of the evil corruptions of capitalism. The Nazis must not be pushed away down the gratings of history. We all have an obligation to keep the lesson of the war vividly before the minds of new generations.”
He turned to face me. My feeling was the one you get when you’re sitting up late watching an old movie you’ve seen before. Not precisely deja vu; more a sense that I had experienced this scene too often before-that the celluloid was brittle with age.
Zandor returned to his seat and stared-whimsically, I thought-at a point a yard above my head. “In the Soviet Union we were knocked to our knees by the Germans, Mr. Bristow. But we learned that an army could shoot very well from that position. Nevertheless it’s an experience none of us ought to have to repeat. When the Germans took Russian prisoners they held them in concentration camps by the hundreds of thousands. The SS slaughtered thousands of Russians with machine guns. The Master Race hadn’t the time to feed the rest of them so they starved them to death, about three million of them. The survivors turned to cannibalism and consumed the wasted corpses of their comrades. From Sebastopol alone, ten thousand Russian women were transported to the concentration camps in Germany. Most them went up the chimney at Auschwitz. Not Jews. Russians.”
It was tempting to riposte that conditions during the Stalinist pogroms and purges had been no different from what he was describing. But of course I didn’t. He was watching me for a reaction-smiling slightly, but eyes at odds with his lips-and I only said, “I know these things, Mr. Zandor.”
He picked up a pencil and held it upright, bouncing its point on the table. “We Russians are known for xenophobia. Granted. But I think when it comes to distrusting Germans you must concede we have a just point.”
“All Germans?”
“Nearly all.”
I said, “Even during the war there were Germans-high-ranking officers-who tried to do away with Hitler.”
“Mr. Bristow, we’re both aware that the plot to kill Hitler was carried out only after the plotters decided Germany was losing the war. The plot was hatched ten years too late, and it failed. It was hardly admirable. Since the war the Germans have done a remarkable job of convincing themselves that the treason of cowards cost Hitler the war-so that they have their excuse to exculpate the Nazis and restore Hitler’s memory to untarnished greatness, which they have done.”
“You’re talking about a minority of Germans today.”
Again the phlegmatic smile. “Perhaps. It’s true that my aunt and two of my brothers were among those who did not return from Auschwitz.” He spoke precisely, relishing the dry phrases. Yet it was complete sham: how cold he really was, how faithless-like a priest who only wore the collar because it gave him a sinecure-never any question of belief or real feeling. He was one of those clever ones whose existence is limned by the words with which they play-the ones who have not very much reality outside the words. His sophistication was amoral, the artifice of one who hadn’t ever experienced a real emotion. He spoke of tragic atrocities-he spoke for the victims-yet looking at him, his eyes mirroring arrogant contempt, you could see he had never known anything of pity.
Zandor tucked his chin in toward his tie, probably displeased with my lack of zealous agreement but determined to carry on with his argument. If he was aware of my silent antipathy he gave no indication of it; but it may merely have been his habitual remoteness.
He touched the pencil point to the stack of papers beside his blotter. “You’ve confined your investigations mainly to military operations with reference to the siege here?”
“That’s right, yes.” A sudden new line of questioning: and I was afraid again.
Zandor gave a gloomy sigh. “To be sure it’s desirable that the heroism of Russian soldiers be emphasized in your book-”
“I fully intend to do that.”
“-but isn’t it equally important that you emphasize the crimes of the invaders? And don’t you think-”
“I have no intention of whitewashing the Nazis.”
“-don’t you think history demands that you make clear the moral distinctions between German and Russian, if that is the correct-”
“Mr. Zandor,” I said in an effort to be reasonable, “I think you’re inferring too much from a glance at the kind of records I’ve asked to look at. The crimes of the Nazis have been documented ad nauseam and we have those facts available to us in the West, for the most part. What we don’t have there is the details of the Soviet military campaigns which”-I added this as a palliative-“led to the great Red victory over the Third Reich. But you’re mistaken if you’ve got the impression that I have any intention of ignoring the Nazi atrocities.”
Zandor leaned forward, intending me to listen to him; clearly I had provoked him and he retaliated with schoolmasterish pique. “I’ve tried to complete my statement three times, but you keep interrupting. Now please let me finish.”
I overturned a palm to indicate he had the floor. I caught a telltale twitch of his cheek muscle.
He said, “I have no doubt it’s taken you many years’ work to accrete your impression of the war here. If you hadn’t been thoroughly grounded in your field, our leaders wouldn’t have invited you to examine our archives. My government realizes you’re a very serious student of history-that your views are of public importance in your own country and perhaps elsewhere in the world as well.”
I was tempted to point out that he overestimated my importance. But I didn’t wish to interrupt him again.
The bodyguard entered the room with a belated tray of coffee and placed it on the table by Zandor, retreating then to his former stance in the distance where he remained a silent surly presence, indifferent but not inconspicuous. Zandor lifted the pot and the coffee smoked as it poured from the spout. “Cream?”
“Just black.”
“We’ve made unparalleled arrangements to give you access to an enormous volume of captured German records. Yet for the most part it appears you choose to ignore these. You’ve concentrated your efforts on patently insignificant Russian files-railway schedules, menus, interviews with veterans of the lowest rank. Now I’m aware of the phrase ‘human interest’ and its meaning, but if we have to conclude that you’re merely researching the basis for a breezy popular magazine account of the war, let me caution you there may be-difficulties for you.”
“The material you mentioned is a very small part of the whole. I’d think that was obvious.”
“Let me give you an example, Mr. Bristow. We have on file a massive collection of Abwehr documents captured from the Germans in nineteen forty-four. Surely from the viewpoint of any serious historian-and particularly from the viewpoint of a historian whose work includes so many detailed books on military intelligence-these Abwehr documents ought to be a tremendous find. Yet you’ve spent less than two hours with those files.”
“May I be allowed to explain that?”
“I wish you would.”
“The Abwehr documents in your files are one end of a correspondence. You’ve got two kinds of documents in those files-the originals of messages received here, and the carbons of messages sent to Berlin. The fact that I spent two hours on those collections indicates my thoroughness, not my laxity. I’ve seen every one of those documents before. The carbons and originals of the same messages were captured by the Americans in Germany in nineteen forty-five and we have them in Washington. Now in view of my limited time here, you have to agree I’d be wasting it if I devoted it to reviewing material I’d already seen.”