Then he was nine, and it felt as if his world had collapsed. Now he was thirty-four and his sense of self felt almost as badly assaulted. All his years of hard work had been indelibly tainted. And why? Because he’d opened his mouth. At first he’d wanted to run to Dr. Weiss, protest his maltreatment, and reveal all about Freksa’s shameful conspiracy. But Weiss had already made himself understood on the matter of intervening on Willi’s behalf. Besides, this time Willi’d disobeyed his superior. There was no crying for help. What he needed to have done, he thought, painfully chastising himself in the days that followed, was opted for stealth in the first place. Planted stories in the media the way he’d considered and carefully camouflaged the source. The risk may have seemed too high, complete destruction of his career if discovered. But what had a reckless frontal assault accomplished? Freksa was proceeding anyway, more determined than ever to invent enough evidence to convict the Gypsies.
