No full confessions. Never that.
Justifications. Fragments. Orders received. Half-formed names. Places without coordinates. As if he wanted to leave testimony and at the same time hide it behind his own cowardice.
In June he tried to escape again. He dressed in civilian clothes, took some of the gold, and walked toward a makeshift train station twenty kilometers away. A child saw him there.
A boy of about twelve years old, barefoot, carrying a bucket of water.
He stopped in front of Richter and stared at him.
“You are a soldier,” he said.
-Not anymore.
-If it is.
