Lindwerder Restaurant, then south to the barracks in Schlachtensee. Three hundred meters north of the Schwanenwerder causeway, I saw an object lying in the water at the edge of the lake. It was the body of a male. I ran to a telephone half a kilometer along the lake path and informed the police. I returned to the body and waited for the arrival of the authorities. During all this time it was raining hard and I saw nobody.
I am making this statement of my own free will in the presence of Kripo investigator Xavier March.
SS-Schütze H. F. Jost.
0824 hours
4/14/64
March leaned back in his chair and studied the young man as he signed his statement. There were no hard lines to his face. It was as pink and soft as a baby's, with a clamor of acne around the mouth, a whisper of blond hair on the upper lip. March doubted if he shaved.
"Why do you run alone?"
Jost handed back his statement. "It gives me a chance to think. It is good to be alone once in the day. One is not often alone in a barracks."
"How long have you been a cadet?"
"Three months."
"Do you enjoy it?"
"Enjoy it!" Jost turned his face to the window. "I'd just begun studying at the university at Göttingen when my call-up came through. Let us say it was not the happiest day of my life."
"What were you studying?"
"Literature."
"German?"
"What other sort is there?" Jost gave one of his watery smiles. "I hope to go back to the university when I have served my three years. I want to be a teacher; a writer. Not a soldier."
March scanned his statement. "If you're so antimilitary, what are you doing in the SS?" He could guess the answer.
"My father. He was a founder member of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler , You know how it is: I'm his only son; it was his dearest wish."
"You must hate it."
Jost shrugged. "I survive. And I've been told—unofficially, naturally—that I will not have to go to the front. They need an assistant at the officers' school in Bad Tölz to teach a course on the degeneracy of American literature. That sounds more like my kind of thing: degeneracy." He risked another smile. "Perhaps I shall become an expert in the field."
March laughed and glanced again at the statement. Something was not right here, and now he saw it. "No doubt you will." He put the statement to one side and stood up. "I wish you luck with your teaching."
"Am I free to go?"
"Of course."
With a look of relief, Jost got to his feet. March grasped the door handle. "One thing." He turned and stared into the SS cadet's eyes. "Why are you lying to me?"
Jost jerked his head back. "What?"
"You say you left the barracks at five-thirty. You called the cops at five past six. Schwanenwerder is three kilometers from the barracks. You're fit: you run every day. You do not dawdle: it is raining hard. Unless you suddenly developed a limp, you must have arrived at the lake quite some time before six. So there are—what?—twenty minutes out of thirty-five unaccounted for in your statement. What were you doing, Jost?"
The young man looked stricken. "Maybe I left the barracks later. Or maybe I did a couple of circuits of the running track there first—"
" 'Maybe, maybe.'" March shook his head sadly. "These are facts that can be checked, and I warn you: it will go hard for you if I have to find out the truth and bring it to you, rather than the other way around. You are a homosexual, yes?"
"Herr Sturmbannführer! For God's sake—"
March put his hands on Jost's shoulders. "I don't care. Perhaps you run alone every morning so you can meet some fellow in the Grunewald for twenty minutes. That's your business. It's no crime in my book. All I'm interested in is the body. Did you see something? What did you really do?"
Jost shook his head. "Nothing. I swear." Tears were welling in his wide, pale eyes.
"Very well." March released him. "Wait downstairs. I'll arrange transport to take you back to Schlachtensee." He opened the door. "Remember what I said: better you tell me the truth
I am making this statement of my own free will in the presence of Kripo investigator Xavier March.
SS-Schütze H. F. Jost.
0824 hours
4/14/64
March leaned back in his chair and studied the young man as he signed his statement. There were no hard lines to his face. It was as pink and soft as a baby's, with a clamor of acne around the mouth, a whisper of blond hair on the upper lip. March doubted if he shaved.
"Why do you run alone?"
Jost handed back his statement. "It gives me a chance to think. It is good to be alone once in the day. One is not often alone in a barracks."
"How long have you been a cadet?"
"Three months."
"Do you enjoy it?"
"Enjoy it!" Jost turned his face to the window. "I'd just begun studying at the university at Göttingen when my call-up came through. Let us say it was not the happiest day of my life."
"What were you studying?"
"Literature."
"German?"
"What other sort is there?" Jost gave one of his watery smiles. "I hope to go back to the university when I have served my three years. I want to be a teacher; a writer. Not a soldier."
March scanned his statement. "If you're so antimilitary, what are you doing in the SS?" He could guess the answer.
"My father. He was a founder member of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler , You know how it is: I'm his only son; it was his dearest wish."
"You must hate it."
Jost shrugged. "I survive. And I've been told—unofficially, naturally—that I will not have to go to the front. They need an assistant at the officers' school in Bad Tölz to teach a course on the degeneracy of American literature. That sounds more like my kind of thing: degeneracy." He risked another smile. "Perhaps I shall become an expert in the field."
March laughed and glanced again at the statement. Something was not right here, and now he saw it. "No doubt you will." He put the statement to one side and stood up. "I wish you luck with your teaching."
"Am I free to go?"
"Of course."
With a look of relief, Jost got to his feet. March grasped the door handle. "One thing." He turned and stared into the SS cadet's eyes. "Why are you lying to me?"
Jost jerked his head back. "What?"
"You say you left the barracks at five-thirty. You called the cops at five past six. Schwanenwerder is three kilometers from the barracks. You're fit: you run every day. You do not dawdle: it is raining hard. Unless you suddenly developed a limp, you must have arrived at the lake quite some time before six. So there are—what?—twenty minutes out of thirty-five unaccounted for in your statement. What were you doing, Jost?"
The young man looked stricken. "Maybe I left the barracks later. Or maybe I did a couple of circuits of the running track there first—"
" 'Maybe, maybe.'" March shook his head sadly. "These are facts that can be checked, and I warn you: it will go hard for you if I have to find out the truth and bring it to you, rather than the other way around. You are a homosexual, yes?"
"Herr Sturmbannführer! For God's sake—"
March put his hands on Jost's shoulders. "I don't care. Perhaps you run alone every morning so you can meet some fellow in the Grunewald for twenty minutes. That's your business. It's no crime in my book. All I'm interested in is the body. Did you see something? What did you really do?"
Jost shook his head. "Nothing. I swear." Tears were welling in his wide, pale eyes.
"Very well." March released him. "Wait downstairs. I'll arrange transport to take you back to Schlachtensee." He opened the door. "Remember what I said: better you tell me the truth
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