His eyes widened.

“Do you recognize it, Herr Huber? It’s Yiddish. You heard that phrase often in the camps, I’m sure. But in case you never knew the translation, it means, ‘Rot in hell.’ ”

She placed a pillow over his nose and mouth but did not cover his eyes, so he could see his doomed family as his last image during life. She pushed down with considerable strength. The old man could do nothing as his oxygen vanished. “This is a far easier way to die than you deserve,” she said as the pump of his lungs quickened, seeking air that wasn’t there.

After his chest lurched one final time, she removed the pillow and placed the picture of Huber in his uniform in the pocket of her robe, along with the small camera. They had not killed his family and had no intention of doing so. They did not murder innocent people. But they had wanted him to believe, with his final dying breath, that he had precipitated the destruction of his loved ones. They knew his death could never match the horror of the slaughter carried out on his orders, but this was the best they could do.

She crossed herself and whispered, “May God understand why I do this.”

Later, she passed the guard, a cocky young Argentine, on the way back to her room. He eyed her with obvious lust. She smiled back at him as she playfully twitched her hips, letting him glimpse some pale skin under her thin robe. “Let me know when it’s your birthday,” she teased.

“Tomorrow,” he said quickly, making a grab for her, but she darted out of the way.

That is very good, because I won’t be here.

She walked directly to the library and returned the photo to its frame. An hour later the lights flickered once more and then went out.