“A little.”
“You worked on the preparations for the Nuremberg trials, I hear.”
“Yes.”
“As a Yugoslav you must have found that very satisfactory.”
“You think so, Mr. Carey?”
“You didn’t approve of the trials?”
She looked down at her cigarette. “The Germans took my father as a hostage and shot him,” she said crisply. “They sent my mother and me to work in a factory in Leipzig. My mother died there of blood-poisoning from an infected wound which they refused to treat. I do not know exactly what happened to my brothers, except that eventually they were tortured to death in an S.S. barracks at Zagreb. Oh yes, I approved of the trials. If they made the United Nations feel strong and righteous, certainly I approved. But do not ask me to applaud.”
“Yes, I can see you must have wished for a more personal revenge.”
She had leaned forward to stub her cigarette out. Now she turned her head slowly and her eyes met his.
“I’m afraid that I have not your belief in justice, Mr. Carey,” she said.