Hahn turned his head, as if dismissing him. “This is your revenge, I suppose.”
“No.” Matthew kept his voice even. “This is my job. But justice will come, Oberleutnant. It is only a matter of time.” Hahn did not reply. “There are fifty thousand German soldiers in cages on the beaches of Normandy.” That was the estimate that had been given, at any rate. “And many more are surrendering every day. Your time has come and gone.”
Hahn turned to stare at Matthew with cold blue eyes. “Das ist mir Wurscht,” he said, his lips twisting cynically.
Matthew let out a huff of humorless laughter as he acknowledged the other man’s deliberate barb. That is sausage to me—an idiom to express his complete and utter disinterest in what Matthew had said. Hahn had said it as one German to another, and yet Matthew knew this man thought him less than human, less than the mud caking his fine leather boots.
“That may be,” he answered. “But your defiance will not change the outcome of this war, of that we can both be very sure.”
Hahn gave a regal nod, unmoved. “Then let it be so.”
Matthew stared at Hahn, with his air of cool, indifferent acceptance, in frustration and a growing fury, directed as much at himself as the man before him. He had not found out one damned thing from this man. He’d failed as an interrogator in order to pursue his own emotion-driven agenda. How could he have been so childish?
“Where is the rest of your regiment?” he asked abruptly.
Hahn just smiled coldly and shook his head.
“How many tanks are left on the Cotentin peninsula?”
Another shake, along with a small, knowing smile.
“Where is your commanding officer?”
This time a shrug.
Matthew clenched his fists. This was going badly. Very badly.
“Do you realize you will be tried for war crimes?” he demanded.
For the first time the man looked the tiniest bit uncertain. Shaken. But it was only for a second, like a shadow in his eyes, and then his expression hardened all the more.
“Let it be so,” he said quietly, and Matthew knew he’d lost him for good.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A private, guarding the door with a rifle and a cigarette, stood to attention.
“Return him to his quarters,” Matthew snapped, and kept walking.
Back in his quarters, an abandoned house he shared with Guy West, his fury had abated, leaving only a scathing self-loathing that coated him like a slick oil.
Only his second interrogation and he’d lost it. What was wrong with him? He was good at his job. At least, he could be good at his job. Matthew knew he could. Back at Camp Ritchie in Maryland, he’d been applauded for his cool head, his clear thinking. His instructing officers had appreciated his careful reserve, the way he kept his own counsel, gave nothing away, not even to friends. Yet in the space of a few minutes he’d shed all that like some deadened skin, and emerged raw and red and vulnerable, clothed only in naked emotion. He could not let that happen again. He would not, for the sake of this war. For the sake of his family.
The door to the house opened and Guy came i
n, his dark hair pushed back from a high forehead, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Matthew standing in the middle of the dusty room; the only furniture was a mattress of straw ticking and a broken chair.
Sometimes Matthew wondered what the French people thought, being taken over a second time, the battles raging all around their villages, homes, and farms. Then he saw some remnant of the Nazi occupation—a tattered flag, a blood-spattered wall—and he knew they had to be grateful. They certainly seemed grateful, when he caught sight of their haggard faces split into smiles of both relief and joy. The end was in sight.
“What happened?” Guy asked in German. “The man was useless?”
Matthew shrugged. “I was useless.”
Guy lit a cigarette and passed one over that Matthew took silently. They smoked without speaking for several minutes. “It happens,” Guy said at last.
“It shouldn’t.”
Matthew had met Guy on the boat over; they’d trained separately at Camp Ritchie, and although they saw in each other shared pain and a kindred spirit, neither of them had spoken much of their families or former lives in Germany. The only thing Matthew knew about Guy was that his father was a tailor and he was from Berlin. They’d all emigrated to America in 1936. They were all safe.
Guy shrugged. “There is much that shouldn’t happen in this war.”