“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I said.

“It’s odd of me, I know. But somehow I feel safer that way.”

We walked the length of the building and found four large dormitories on the ground floor. One of these still had beds, and I counted two hundred fifty, which, if the upper floors were the same, meant that as many as five thousand people had once lived in the building.

“My poor parents,” said Anna. “I had no idea that it was like this.”

“It’s not so bad. Believe me, the German idea of resettlement was a lot worse than this.”

In the communal washrooms between the dormitories were sixteen square sinks as big as a car door. And beyond the farthest washroom was a locked door. The padlock, which was a new one, told me we were probably in the right place. Someone had felt obliged to secure what was on the other side of the door with a lock superior to the ones on the gate and on the front door. But new or not, this padlock yielded just as easily to my gaucho’s knife. I pushed the door open with the sole of my shoe and shone the light inside.

“I think we found what we’re looking for,” I said, although it was evident that the real work was only just beginning. There were dozens of filing cabinets-as many as a hundred-in five ranks, one in front of the other, like tightly dressed lines of soldiers, so that it was impossible to open one without moving the one in front of it.

“This is going to take hours,” said Anna.

“It looks as though we are going to spend the night together, after all.”

“Then you’d better make the most of it,” she said. She put the lamp down on the floor, faced the cabinet at the head of the first rank, and pointed at the cabinet heading the second. “Here, you look in that one and I’ll look in this one.”

I blew some dust off. A mistake. There was too much dust. It filled the air and made us cough. I pulled open the top drawer of the filing cabinet and started to riffle through names beginning with the letter Z. “Zhabotinsky, Zhukov, Zinoviev. These are all Z’s. You don’t suppose the one behind this one could be the Y cabinet, do you? Like Y for Yrigoyen, Youngblood, and Yagubsky?”

I slammed the drawer shut and we moved that cabinet out of the way of the one behind. Even before I had wrestled it completely clear, Anna had hauled the top drawer of the next cabinet open. There was more strength in her arm than she realized. Or possibly she was suddenly too excited to know her own strength. Either way, she managed to pull the entire drawer completely out of the cabinet and, narrowly missing her toes and mine, it thudded on the marble floor with the sound of a door closing in some deep pit of hell.

“Do you want to try that again?” I asked. “Only I don’t think they heard it in the Casa Rosada.”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Let’s hope not.”

Anna was already kneeling in front of the fallen drawer and, with the light from the little hand dynamo she was holding, examining the contents. “You were right,” she cried excitedly. “These are the Y’s.”

I picked the bicycle lamp off the floor and trained the beam on her hands.

Then she said, “I don’t believe it,” and removed one thin file from the pack. “Yagubsky.”

Even in the semidarkness I could see the tears in her eyes. Her voice was choked, too.

“It seems that you can work miracles after all, Saint Bernhard.”

Then she opened the file.

It was empty.

ANNA STARED at the empty file for a long moment. Then she flung it aside angrily and, sinking back on her haunches, let out an enormous sigh. “So much for your miracle,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t want to be a saint, anyway.”

After a while, I went to find the empty file. I picked it up and looked at it more closely. It was empty, all right. But the file wasn’t without information. There was a date on the plain manila cover.

“When did you say they disappeared?”

“January 1947.”

“This file is dated March 1947. And look. Underneath their names are written the words ‘Judio’ and ‘Judia.’ Jew and Jewess. And there’s the small matter of a rubber stamp in red ink.”

Anna looked at it. “D12,” she said. “What’s D12?”

“There’s another date and a signature inside the stamp. The signature is illegible. But the date is clear enough. April 1947.”

“Yes, but what is D12?”

“I have no idea.”

I went back to the cabinet and removed another file. This one belonged to a John Yorath. From Wales. And it was full of information. Details of entry visas, details of John Yorath’s medical history, a record of his stay at the Hotel de Inmigrantes, a copy of a cedula, everything. But not Jewish. And no “D12” stamp on the cover.

“They were here,” said Anna excitedly. “This proves that they were here.”

“I think it also proves that they’re not here any longer.”

“What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Clearly, however, they were arrested. And then deported, perhaps.”

“I told you. We’ve never heard from them. Not since January 1947.”

“Then perhaps they were imprisoned.” Warming to my theme, I said, “You’re a lawyer, Anna. Tell me about the prisons in this country.”

“Let’s see. There’s the prison at Parque Ameghino, here in the city. And the Villa Devoto, of course. Where Peron imprisons his political enemies. Then there’s San Miguel, where regular criminals are sent. Where else? Yes, a military jail on Martin Garcia Island, in the River Plate. That’s where Peron himself was imprisoned when he was originally deposed, in October 1945. Yes, yes, you might imprison a great many people on Martin Garcia.” She thought for a moment. “But wait a minute. There’s nowhere more remote than Neuquen prison in the Andean foothills. You hear stories about Neuquen. But almost nothing is known about it except that the people who are sent there never return. Do you really think it’s possible? That they could be in jail? All this time?”

“I don’t know, Anna.” I waved at the regiment of filing cabinets ranked in front of us. “But it’s just possible we’ll find the answers in one of these.”

“You really know how to show a girl a good time, Gunther.” She stood up and went over to the next cabinet and drew the drawer open.

AN HOUR OR SO before dawn, exhausted and grimy with dust, and having found nothing else of any interest, we decided to call it a night.

We stayed too long. I knew that because as we came back into the front hall, someone switched on the electric lights. Anna uttered a little stifled scream. I wasn’t exactly happy about this turn of events myself. Especially as the person who had switched on the lights was pointing a gun at us. Not that he was much of a person. It was easy to see why Marcello had talked about a skeleton staff. I’ve seen healthier-looking men in coffins. He was about five feet, six inches tall, with lank, greasy, gray hair, eyebrows that looked like two halves of a mustache that had been separated for its own good, and a rat’s narrow, recreant features. He wore a cheap suit, a vest that looked like a rag in a mechanic’s greasy hands, no socks, and no shoes. There was a bottle in his coat pocket that was probably his breakfast and, in the corner of his mouth, a length of drooping tobacco ash that had once been a cigarette. As he spoke, it fell onto the floor.

“What are you doing here?” he said in a voice made indistinct with phlegm and alcohol and a lack of teeth. In fact, there was just one tooth on his prominent upper jaw: a front tooth that looked like the last pin standing in a game of skittles.

“I’m a policeman,” I said. “I needed to look at an old file urgently. I’m afraid there was no time to go through proper procedures.”

“Is that right?” He nodded at Anna. “And what’s her story?”

“None of your goddamn business,” I said. “Look, take a look at my ID, will you? It’s just like I told you.”