The Human Pool by Chris Petit Page B

which perhaps explained his distance.
    For most of the evening Strasse acted as though I wasn’t there. Siegfried’s name did nothing to further conversation. He talked to Hoover in old friends’ shorthand; their German too fast for me. In among all the compounds, I made out that they had a working relationship which went back to Egypt in the 1950s and Budapest in 1944 and 1956. They had also been together in Syria at some point. Strasse switched to English to complain that flying disagreed with his medication. Hoover said his own body clock was fucked from his flight. His daughter’s recommendation against jet lag had been to line his shoes with brown paper. He rolled his eyes. ‘Karl-Heinz, what am I doing here?’
    â€˜We’ll talk later,’ said Strasse. ‘First let’s eat and drink and enjoy ourselves. Welcome back to Germany.’
    Strasse’s enjoyment consisted of pouring large quantities of alcohol down his throat to little apparent effect.
    I couldn’t work them out. Strasse was an old Nazi. Hoover was American, though he said he was originally from Belgium. I knew Belgium was occupied by the Nazis, and decided Hoover had been some kind of collaborator. Hoover said he had been working for the Red Cross in Budapest in 1944. ‘Among others,’ said Strasse. They toasted a whole list of names which meant nothing to me.
    Hoover asked if Strasse remembered anyone named Jaretski, which he did, after some memory fumbles. ‘He was DSK’.
    The DSK, it was explained grudgingly, had been an SS currency division. A couple of drinks later, Hoover remembered coming across Jaretski in Brussels in 1942. ‘He pulled me in and questioned me. But why would anyone send me his obituary?’ Strasse was unaware that Jaretski was dead. He hadn’t heard him mentioned in years. Hoover asked if Strasse had sent him a book in America. Strasse answered, ‘Why should I send you a book?’
    Hoover shrugged. Strasse held up his schnapps. ‘Let me give you a name. To Willi Schmidt.’
    Hoover appeared jolted. ‘I saw a man who looked like Willi on television the other week.’
    Strasse had seen the same item. Small world, I said. ‘Not really’, said Hoover, eager to contradict. ‘When you get to our age, there’s little to do except watch television.’
    An argument followed over whether the man on TV had been Schmidt or not. Hoover was adamant. ‘I tell you, Karl-Heinz, Willi’s dead as doornails.’
    â€˜Did you ever see his body?’ Strasse was starting to look choleric.
    â€˜I saw the river he fell into. Betty Monroe saw the body.’
    â€˜I know’, said Karl-Heinz. ‘I fixed the death certificate, but that doesn’t mean there was a body.’
    Hoover: ‘Willi’s dead. Let’s drink to the living, or the half-living. I’m seeing Betty tomorrow.’
    We were all drunk by then. Strasse and Hoover turned to riffing about the war. They compared the British love of smut and secrecy to the Americans’ combination of guile and gullibility.
    â€˜What about the Germans?’ I asked.
    Strasse turned to me with a hawkish gaze. Hoover said, ‘Big meat eaters, porkers to the last, drawn to the flame of genocide.’ Strasse opened his hand in acknowledgement and knocked over his wine, which brought a waitress running. Hoover said, ‘They should have strung you up years ago,’ and Strasse did a big ‘Who me?’ shrug, like he was the funny one in a double act, and that set them laughing.
    â€˜What exactly did you two do?’ I asked. Hoover appeared droll. Strasse gave a shrug and took a big swallow of schnapps. He had his elbows on the table, being past the stage of trying to sit upright. Hoover said, without irony, ‘We made it possible for the likes of you to sleep safely in your bed.’
    â€˜Witnesses to human behaviour at its worst,’ said