The conversation was remarkably unremarkable. If you didn’t know better, it was just two old men talking on an alpine street. You could almost believe Priebke’s claims of innocence in that moment, or at least the inapplicability of the judgment of history. His life had sent him through multiple, incompatible realities. During the reality of his youth, a sickness had been rampant in the land, but thankfully the sickness had broken and the world had moved on. Ever after, he’d discharged his duties to family and community like any other decent citizen. How could he be judged for the actions of another lifetime now? They were the crimes of a different man. But Donaldson, to his credit, refused to forget.

Through the whole interview, I wondered what was happening inside Priebke’s head. What moral flaw had brought him to this place? And that moral flaw: Was it a flaw of fate or a flaw of his mind? Was it his own flaw or simply the circumstances of his time and place? What was the difference, ultimately, between him and me?

The answers were inaccessible, but in the small details you could catch a glimpse. In the little details, the soundlessness of truth came through, so limited but so real. Priebke’s hat. The car keys in his hand. The way he rolled his head to turn away and then turned back again in the same motion to face the camera. Those were the kinds of details I wanted from Cave. We might never know what went on in his soul, but we could know the coffee he drank, the style of ring he wore. From those facts we could build some kind of understanding.

— Denial by Jon Raymond (37%)