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"
Dane
is
n't
like
anyone
else
in
the
world
.
"
"
You
mean
because
he
's
so
not
of
this
world
?
"
"
I
suppose
so
.
"
He
leaned
forward
,
out
of
the
shadows
into
the
weak
light
of
the
little
candle
in
its
Chianti
bottle
.
"
I
am
a
Catholic
,
and
my
religion
has
been
the
one
thing
in
my
life
which
has
never
failed
me
,
though
I
have
failed
it
many
times
.
I
dislike
speaking
of
Dane
,
because
my
heart
tells
me
some
things
are
better
left
undiscussed
.
Certainly
you
are
n't
like
him
in
your
attitude
to
life
,
or
God
.
Let
's
leave
it
,
all
right
?
"
She
looked
at
him
curiously
.
"
All
right
,
Rainer
,
if
you
want
.
I
'll
make
a
pact
with
you
--
no
matter
what
we
discuss
,
it
wo
n't
be
the
nature
of
Dane
,
or
religion
.
"
*
*
*
Much
had
happened
to
Rainer
Moerling
Hartheim
since
that
meeting
with
Ralph
de
Bricassart
in
July
1943
.
A
week
afterward
his
regiment
had
been
dispatched
to
the
Eastern
Front
,
where
he
spent
the
remainder
of
the
war
.
Torn
and
rudderless
,
too
young
to
have
been
indoctrinated
into
the
Hitler
Youth
in
its
leisurely
prewar
days
,
he
had
faced
the
consequences
of
Hitler
in
feet
of
snow
,
without
ammunition
,
the
front
line
stretched
so
thin
there
was
only
one
soldier
for
every
hundred
yards
of
it
.
And
out
of
the
war
he
carried
two
memories
:
that
bitter
campaign
in
bitter
cold
,
and
the
face
of
Ralph
de
Bricassart
.
Horror
and
beauty
,
the
Devil
and
God
.
Half
crazed
,
half
frozen
,
waiting
defenseless
for
Khrushchev
's
guerrillas
to
drop
from
low-flying
planes
parachuteless
into
the
snowdrifts
,
he
beat
his
breast
and
muttered
prayers
.
But
he
did
n't
know
what
he
prayed
for
:
bullets
for
his
gun
,
escape
from
the
Russians
,
his
immortal
soul
,
the
man
in
the
basilica
,
Germany
,
a
lessening
of
grief
.
In
the
spring
of
1945
he
had
retreated
back
across
Poland
before
the
Russians
,
like
his
fellow
soldiers
with
only
one
objective
--
to
make
it
into
Britishdor
American-occupied
Germany
.
For
if
the
Russians
caught
him
,
he
would
be
shot
.
He
tore
his
papers
into
shreds
and
burned
them
,
buried
his
two
Iron
Crosses
,
stole
some
clothes
and
presented
himself
to
the
British
authorities
on
the
Danish
border
.
They
shipped
him
to
a
camp
for
displaced
persons
in
Belgium
.
There
for
a
year
he
lived
on
the
bread
and
gruel
which
was
all
the
exhausted
British
could
afford
to
feed
the
thousands
upon
thousands
of
people
in
their
charge
,
waiting
until
the
British
realized
their
only
course
was
release
.
Twice
officials
of
the
camp
had
summoned
him
to
present
him
with
an
ultimatum
.
There
was
a
boat
waiting
in
Ostend
harbor
loading
immigrants
for
Australia
.
He
would
be
given
new
papers
and
shipped
to
his
new
land
free
of
charge
,
in
return
for
which
he
would
work
for
the
Australian
government
for
two
years
in
whatever
capacity
they
chose
,
after
which
his
life
would
become
entirely
his
own
.
Not
slave
labor
;
he
would
be
paid
the
standard
wage
,
of
course
.
But
on
both
occasions
he
managed
to
talk
himself
out
of
summary
emigration
.
He
had
hated
Hitler
,
not
Germany
,
and
he
was
not
ashamed
of
being
a
German
.
Home
meant
Germany
;
it
had
occupied
his
dreams
for
over
three
years
.
The
very
thought
of
yet
again
being
stranded
in
a
country
where
no
one
spoke
his
language
nor
he
theirs
was
anathema
.
So
at
the
beginning
of
1947
he
found
himself
penniless
on
the
streets
of
Aachen
,
ready
to
pick
up
the
pieces
of
an
existence
he
knew
he
wanted
very
badly
.
