HHhH

by Laurent Binet

  Simple indeed, but also quite cautious—curiously so. Why specify that Jews occupying positions in the Party or the State should be executed when all such functionaries were to be executed anyway, Jewish or otherwise? Heydrich didn’t know then how ordinary soldiers would react to the demands of his Einsatzgruppen. It’s true that the famous directive signed by Keitel on June 6, 1941, and thus approved by the Wehrmacht, authorizes the massacres, but officially this is limited to political enemies. In other words, Soviet Jews are targeted only because of their politics. The redundant meaning in this note is like a trace of one final scruple. Naturally, if the local people want to organize pogroms, that will be discreetly encouraged. But at the beginning of July, there is still no question of openly pursuing the extermination of Jews simply because they are Jews.

  Two weeks later, swept along by the euphoria of their victories, this embarrassment will have disappeared. While the Wehrmacht routs the Red Army on all fronts, while the invasion progresses even more easily than the most optimistic forecasts, and while 300,000 Soviet soldiers are taken prisoner, Heydrich rewrites his directive. The main points are reprised, the list lengthened, and a few details added (former Red Army commissars are now included, for instance). And finally Heydrich replaces “Jews occupying positions in the Party or the State” with “all the Jews.”

  105

  Hauptmann Heydrich is on board a Messerschmitt 109 whose cabin is embossed with the initials RH in runic lettering: this is his private plane and it is flying over Soviet territory at the head of a formation of Luftwaffe fighters. Whenever the German pilots spot columns of slowly retreating Russian soldiers below, they swoop on them like tigers and, lining up the columns of men in their sights, massacre them with machine guns.

  Today, however, what Heydrich sees below him is not a column of foot soldiers but a Yak. The Soviet plane’s plump silhouette is easily recognized. In spite of the enormous number of enemy planes destroyed on the ground by German bombers at the beginning of the offensive, the Soviet air force has not been completely eliminated, and there are still pockets of resistance: this Yak is proof of that. But the German planes are obviously superior, both in quality and quantity. No Soviet fighter in the current situation can hope to hold its own against the Me109. Imperious and vain, Heydrich orders his squadron to remain in formation. He wants to give his men a demonstration by shooting down the Russian plane on his own. He descends to the Yak’s height and glides along in its vapor trail. The Yak’s pilot hasn’t seen him. The object of the maneuver is to get closer to the target so that he can open fire at a distance of about five hundred feet. The German plane is much faster. The gap closes. When he can clearly make out the Russian’s tail in his sights, Heydrich shoots. The Yak beats its wings like a terror-stricken bird. But the first salvo hasn’t touched it, and in truth the pilot is not terror-stricken. He sends the plane into a dive. Heydrich tries to follow, but his turn is hopelessly wide in comparison. That idiot Göring claimed Soviet aviation was obsolete, but in that, as in almost all the Nazis’ assumptions about the Soviet Union, he was wrong. Admittedly, the Yak doesn’t measure up to the German fighters in terms of speed, but its relative slowness is balanced by an astonishing maneuverability. The little Russian plane keeps descending while continuing to twist and turn ever more tightly. Heydrich follows but can’t fix the enemy in his sights. It’s like a hare being pursued by a greyhound. Heydrich wants to claim a victory and paint a little plane on the fuselage of his aircraft, so he persists. What he doesn’t realiae is that the Yak, while constantly changing direction to evade his pursuer’s salvos, is not flying randomly but heading toward a precise location. Only when the explosions echo all around him does Heydrich understand: the Russian pilot has led him over a Soviet antiaircraft battery and he—the imbecile—has thrown himself into the trap.

  A violent impact shakes the cabin. Black smoke pours from the tail. Heydrich’s plane crashes.

  106

  Himmler looks like someone’s just smacked him in the face. The blood rises to his cheeks and he feels his brain swell inside his skull. He’s just heard the news: during an air battle over the Berezina, Heydrich’s Messerschmitt 109 has been shot down. If Heydrich is dead, it is of course a terrible loss for the SS: brilliant man, dedicated colleague, et cetera. But the real worry is if he’s still alive: that could spell catastrophe. Because the plane crashed behind Soviet lines. Himmler imagines having to inform the Führer that his security chief has fallen into enemy hands. That would not be a pleasant meeting. He makes a mental inventory of all the information Heydrich possesses that is likely to interest Stalin. The answer makes him dizzy. And then there are things Heydrich knows of which the Reichsführer is unaware. Politically, strategically, if Heydrich talks, the consequences could be incalculable. Himmler can’t even begin to measure the potential magnitude of the disaster. Behind his little round glasses and his little mustache, he is sweating.

  To tell the truth, that isn’t even the most urgent problem. If Heydrich is dead or a prisoner of the Russians, the absolute priority is to get hold of his dossiers. God only knows what they might contain, and about whom. All his files must be seized, in his office and at his home. To deal with Prinz Albert Strasse, he must warn Müller, who looks after the RSHA, along with Schellenberg. For Heydrich’s home, deal politely with Lina, but everything must be searched. Meanwhile, as Heydrich is reported missing, the only thing to do is wait. Go see Lina, to prepare the ground, and send orders to the front that he must be found, dead or alive.

  One might reasonably ask what the hell the head of the Nazi secret services was doing in a German fighter plane above a Soviet combat zone. The answer is that, along with his SS duties, Heydrich was a reserve officer in the Luftwaffe. In readiness for the war, he had taken flying lessons, and when the invasion of Poland began, he absolutely wanted to answer the call of duty. As prestigious as his post as head of the SD was, he regarded it as a bureaucrat’s job—and since the country was at war, he had to behave like a true Teutonic Knight: he had to fight. Thus he found himself, first of all, as a machine gunner in a bomber. But unsurprisingly he wasn’t keen on this secondary role, so he took command of a Messerschmitt 110 on reconaissance flights over Great Britain, and then of a Messerschmitt 109 (the German equivalent of the Spitfire) in which he broke an arm taking off during the Norwegian campaign. I got hold of a slightly hagiographic book that describes admiringly how he flew planes with his arm in a sling. Afterward, he fought in battles against the RAF.

  While this was happening, Himmler was already worrying about him like a father. I have before me a letter dated May 15, 1940, written from his private train (the Sonderzug Heinrich) and addressed to his “very dear Heydrich,” which shows just how solicitous Himmler was toward his right-hand man: “Give me your news every day if you can.” Knowing all he knew, Heydrich was a very valuable man.

  Only two days later, Heydrich was picked up by a German “patrol”—his own men from Einsatzgruppen D—who had just liquidated forty-five Jews and thirty hostages. He’d been shot down by Soviet antiaircraft fire, crash-landed, spent two days and two nights in hiding, and finally crossed the German lines on foot. Returning home filthy and unshaven, he was also, according to his wife, quite unnerved by his misadventure, although it did give him what he’d wanted: the Iron Cross, first class—a highly respected medal in the German military. Following this glorious feat, however, he was never allowed to take part in any more aerial battles. Hitler himself, horrified in hindsight by the story of the Berezina, appears to have officially forbidden this. So, in spite of his efforts and his undeniable impetuosity, Heydrich never scored a single kill. His career as a pilot ended on this disappointing note.

  107

  Natacha reads the chapter I’ve just written. When she reaches the second sentence, she exclaims: “What do you mean, ‘The blood rises to his cheeks and he feels his brain swell inside his skull’? You’re making it up!”

  I have been boring her for years with
my theories about the puerile, ridiculous nature of novelistic invention, and she’s right, I suppose, not to let me get away with this skull thing. I thought I’d decided to avoid this kind of stuff, which has, a priori, no virtue other than giving a bit of color to the story, and which is rather ugly. And even if there are clues to Himmler’s panicked reaction, I can’t really be sure of the symptoms of this panic: perhaps he went red (that’s how I imagine it), but then again, perhaps he turned white. This is quite a serious problem.

  I defend myself halfheartedly: it’s more than likely that Himmler had some kind of headache, and anyway, this thing about the swelling brain is just a cheap metaphor with which to express his fear. But even I’m not convinced by this. The next day, I delete the sentence. Unfortunately, that creates an emptiness that I don’t like. I’m not sure why, but I’m not at all keen on the segue from “smacked him in the face” to “He’s just heard the news.” Too abrupt: I miss the link provided by my skull metaphor. So I feel obliged to replace the deleted sentence with another, more prudent one. I write something like: “I imagine that his face, like a bespectacled little rat’s, must have turned red.” It’s true that Himmler’s fat cheeks and mustache made him rather rodentlike, but obviously this phrase lacks gravitas. I decide to remove “bespectacled.” The effect of “little rat’s,” even without the spectacles, still bothers me. You can see the advantage of this option, however, with its cautious qualifications: “I imagine…,” “must have…” With a hypothesis openly presented as such, I avoid the clash with reality. I don’t know why I feel the need to add: “His face is flushed.”

  I had this vision of Himmler red-faced and with a blocked nose (perhaps because I’ve had a nasty cold myself for the past four days) and my tyrannic imagination wouldn’t budge from this idea: I wanted a detail of this kind for the Reichsführer’s face. But clearly I wasn’t happy with the result: I got rid of it once again. I contemplated this nothingness between the first and third sentence for a long time. And, slowly, I began to type: “The blood rises to his cheeks and he feels his brain swell inside his skull.”

  As usual, I think of Oscar Wilde. It’s the same old story: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.”

  108

  Heydrich, who I imagine settled comfortably in the back of his black Mercedes, presses his briefcase tightly to his knees. It contains probably the most important document of his career, and of the Third Reich’s history.

  The car zooms through the suburbs of Berlin. Outside, it’s a pleasant summer evening, and it’s difficult to imagine that the sky will soon be filled with black shapes dropping bombs. But a few damaged buildings, a few destroyed houses, a few hurrying passersby, is all it takes to bring to mind the extraordinary relentlessness of the Royal Air Force.

  It’s already more than four months since Heydrich asked Eichmann to write the first draft of this document in order to get Göring’s approval. But they also needed the agreement of Rosenberg, the minister in charge of the eastern territories. And this nonentity is the one who made things difficult! Since then, Eichmann has worked hard on revising the text and all the problems seem to have been ironed out.

  We are in the heart of the forest, north of Berlin. The Mercedes stops at the gates of a villa guarded by heavily armed SS men. This is Karinhall, the little baroque palace that Göring had built to console himself after the death of his first wife. The guards salute, the gates open, and the car sweeps up the driveway. Göring stands waiting on the steps, his expression jolly, his body squeezed into one of those eccentric uniforms that have earned him the nickname “Perfumed Nero.” He greets Heydrich effusively, happy to meet the fearsome head of the SD in person. Heydrich is well aware that everyone considers him the most dangerous man in the Reich, and it’s a source of vanity for him, but he also knows that if all the Nazi dignitaries court him so insistently, it is above all to try to weaken Himmler, his boss. Heydrich is an instrument for these men, not yet a rival. It’s true that in the devilish duo he forms with Himmler, he is thought to be the brains (“HHhH,” they say in the SS: Himmlers Hirn heisst Heydrich—Himmler’s brain is called Heydrich), but he is still only the right-hand man, the subordinate, the number two. Heydrich is so ambitious that he will not be satisfied with this situation forever. But when he studies how the balance of power within the Party has evolved, he congratulates himself for having stayed faithful to Himmler, whose power continues to grow while Göring mopes in his mansion, half in disgrace since the Luftwaffe’s failure in England.

  Yet Göring is still officially in charge of the Jewish question, and that’s why Heydrich is here tonight.

  Before they get to the matter in hand, Heydrich must first suffer his host’s childish enthusiasms. Fat Hermann wants to show him his electric train set, a gift from the Prussian National Theater. He is very proud of it and plays with it every evening. Heydrich bears this patiently. After going into raptures over the private cinema, the Turkish baths, a room with a pharaonic ceiling, and even a lion called Caesar, he finally manages to sit down with Göring in a wood-paneled office. Now he can take out his precious paper, which he gives to the Reichsmarschall to read:

  The Marshal of the Reich of Greater Germany

  Delegate of the four-year plan

  President of the council of ministers for the defense of the Reich

  For the attention of:

  Head of the Gestapo and the SD

  SS-Gruppenführer Heydrich

  Berlin

  Supplementary to the task that has been entrusted to you by the edict of January 24, 1939, to solve the Jewish problem by means of migration or evacuation in the best possible way according to present conditions, I hereby assign you the task of making all the necessary organizational, practical, and financial preparations in order to facilitate a total solution of the Jewish question in all the territories of Europe under German occupation.

  As far as these matters fall within the domain of other central organizations, those organizations should be involved.

  Göring stops and smiles. Eichmann added this paragraph to satisfy Rosenberg. Heydrich smiles, too, though unable to hide his contempt for these bureaucratic ministers. Göring begins to read again:

  Furthermore, I charge you to submit to me as soon as possible an overall plan of the preliminary organizational, practical, and financial measures necessary for the execution of the final solution of the Jewish question such as it is envisaged.

  In silence, Göring dates and signs what will become for history the Ermächtigung: the authorization. Heydrich can’t suppress a contented grin. He tidies away the precious paper in his briefcase. It’s July 31, 1941, and we are present at the birth of the Final Solution. Heydrich will be its principal architect.

  109

  In the first draft, I’d written: “squeezed into a blue uniform.” I don’t know why, I just imagined it being blue. It’s true that in photos Göring often sports a pale blue uniform, but I don’t know what he was wearing on that particular day. He might just as easily have been in white, for example.

  I’m not sure if this kind of scruple still makes much sense at this stage.

  110

  Bad Kreuznach, August ’41. The second German fencing championships have just taken place. The twelve best fencers of the Reichsonderklasse [literally “elite class of the Reich”] have been chosen and will receive a gold or silver medal from the NSRL (National Socialist Society for Gymnastics). In fifth place comes an Obergruppenführer [did the magazine editors make a mistake, or are they toadying up to Heydrich by giving him an anticipated promotion?] of the SS and general of police: it’s Reinhard Heydrich, the head of the Gestapo and the SD. He joyfully received the congratulations of the public, but his whole attitude breathed the modesty of a true victor. Those who know him know that rest is, for him, an alien concept. No rest and no relaxation: that is his first principle, whether with regard to sport or to service.<
br />
  (ARTICLE APPEARING IN THE SPECIALIST MAGAZINE GYMNASTICS AND PHYSICAL EDUCATION)

  Those who know him know that, above all, it’s better not to skimp on praise for this tremendous thirty-six-year-old athlete, nor to dwell on how stressed the judges might have been feeling when they had to decide whether to validate a strike against the head of the Gestapo. Nor is it a good idea to mention Commodus or Caligula, both of whom fought in the arena against gladiators who knew perfectly well that it was not in their interests to win against the emperor.

  During the tournament, though, Obergruppenführer Heydrich seems to have behaved quite well. One day, when he cursed a judge’s decision, the tournament director put him curtly in his place by telling him, in front of everyone: “In fencing, the only laws are those of sport, and nothing else!” Stunned by the man’s courage, Heydrich didn’t even protest.

  He kept his fits of hubris for other circumstances. For it was at the time of this tournament in Bad Kreuznach that he would tell two friends (since when did Heydrich have friends?), in vivid terms, that he would not hesitate to neutralize Hitler himself “if the old man gives me any shit.”

  What exactly did he mean by that? I would like to know.

  111

  This summer, at the zoo in Kiev, a man entered the lion’s enclosure. When another visitor tried to stop him, he said, stepping over the barrier, “God will save me.” And he was eaten alive. If I’d been there, I’d have said to him: “Don’t believe everything you’re told.”

  God was no help at all to the people who died at Babi Yar.