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won’t I, Mrs Doll, on Sunday week? The Commandant was kind enough to ask me to attend.’
    She folded her arms and said, ‘Then I suppose I will be seeing you. So long.’
    ‘So long.’
     

     
    With impatiently quaking fingers Paul Doll upended the decanter over his brandy balloon. He drank, as if for thirst, and poured again. He said over his shoulder,
    ‘D’you want some of this?’
    ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Major,’ I said. ‘Ah. Many thanks.’
    ‘So they’ve decided. Yea or nay? Let me guess. Yea.’
    ‘Why’re you so sure?’
    He went and threw himself down on the leather chair, and roughly unbuttoned his tunic.
    ‘Because it’ll cause me more difficulties. That seems to be the guiding principle. Let’s cause Paul Doll more difficulties.’
    ‘You’re right, as usual, sir. I opposed it but it is to come about. Kat Zet III,’ I began.
     

     
    On the chimney piece in Doll’s office there stood a framed photograph of perhaps half a metre square with a professional burnish to it (the cameraman was not the Commandant: this was pre-Doll). The background was sharply bisected, a hazy radiance on one side, and a felt-thick darkness on the other. A very young Hannah stood in the light, centre stage (and it was a stage – a ball? a masquerade? amateur theatricals?), in a sashed evening gown, cradling a bunch of flowers in arms gloved to the elbow; she was beaming with embarrassment at the extent of her own delight. The sheer gown was cinched at the waist, and there it all lay before you . . .
    This was thirteen or fourteen years ago – and she was far better now.
    They say that it is one of the most terrifying manifestations in nature: a bull elephant in a state of must . Twin streams of vile-smelling liquid flow from the ducts of the temples and into the corners of the jaws. At these times the great beast will gore giraffes and hippos, will break the backs of cringeing rhinoceri. This was male-elephantine heat .
    Must : it derived via Urdu from the Persian mast or maest – ‘intoxicated’. But I had settled for the modal verb. I must, I must, I just must .
     

     
    The next morning (it was a Saturday) I slipped out of the Buna-Werke with a heavy valise and went back to Dzilka Street, where I began to go through the weekly construction report. This of course would include a mass of estimates for the new amenity at Monowitz.
    At two I had a caller; and for forty-five minutes I entertained a young woman called Loremarie Ballach. This meeting was also a parting. She was the wife of Peter Ballach, a colleague of mine (a friendly and capable metallurgist). Loremarie didn’t love it here, and neither did her husband. The cartel had finally authorised his transfer back to HQ.
    ‘Don’t write,’ she said as she dressed. ‘Not until it’s all over.’
    I worked on. This much cement, this much timber, this much barbed wire. At odd moments I registered my relief, as well as my regret, that Loremarie was no more (and would have to be replaced). Adulterous philanderers had a motto: Seduce the wife, traduce the husband ; and when I was in bed with Loremarie, I always felt a sedimentary unease about Peter – his plump lips, his spluttering laugh, his misbuttoned waistcoat.
    That wouldn’t apply in the case of Hannah Doll. The fact that Hannah had married the Commandant: this was not a good reason to be in love with her – but it was a good reason to be in bed with her. I worked on, adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, and yearning for the sound of Boris’s motorbike (with its inviting sidecar).
     
    Around half past eight I got up from my desk, intending to fetch a bottle of Sancerre from the roped fridge.
    Max – Maksik – sat erect and still on the bare white slats. In his custody, restrained by a negligent paw, was a small and dusty grey mouse. Still trembling with life, it was looking up at him, and seemed to be smiling – seemed to be smiling an apologetic smile; then the life fluttered