From the hotel, I sent a telegram to Werner Best in Denmark, telling him I was ready to accept a position in his administration. Then I waited. My sister didn’t call back, and I didn’t try to contact her, either. Three days later they brought me a letter from the Auswärtiges Amt; it was Best’s reply: the situation in Denmark had changed, and he had nothing to offer me for the moment. I crumpled the letter up and threw it out. Bitterness and fear were welling up; I had to do something to avoid collapsing. I called back Mandelbrod’s office and left a message.
MENUET (EN RONDEAUX)
It was Thomas, as you might have guessed, who brought me the letter. I had gone down to listen to the news at the hotel bar, along with some officers from the Wehrmacht. It must have been around the middle of May: in Tunis, our troops had carried out a voluntary contraction of the front in accordance with the preestablished plan; in Warsaw, the liquidation of the terrorist bands was proceeding without obstacles. The officers around me listened glumly, in silence; only a one-armed Hauptmann laughed loudly at the terms freiwillige Frontverkürzung and planmässig, but stopped when he met my anguished gaze; like him and the others too, I knew enough to interpret these euphemisms: the Jews who had revolted in the ghetto had been resisting our best troops for several weeks now, and Tunisia was lost. I looked around for the waiter to order another Cognac. Thomas came in. He crossed the room with a martial stride, ceremoniously gave me a German salute while clicking his heels, then took me by the arm and drew me toward a booth; there, he slipped into the banquette, negligently throwing his cap on the table, and brandished an envelope that he held delicately between two gloved fingers. “Do you know what’s inside?” he asked, frowning. I made a sign that I didn’t. The envelope, I saw, bore the header of the Persönlicher Stab des Reichsführer-SS. “I know what’s inside,” he went on in the same tone. His face cleared up: “Congratulations, dear friend. You play your cards close to your chest. I always knew you were smarter than you let on.” He was still holding the letter. “Take it, take it.” I took it, broke it open, and pulled out a sheet of paper, an order to present myself at the earliest opportunity to Obersturmbannführer Dr. Rudolf Brandt, personal adjutant to the Reichsführer-SS. “It’s a summons,” I said somewhat stupidly.—“Yes, it’s a summons.”—“And what does it mean?”—“It means that your friend Mandelbrod has a very long arm. You’ve been assigned to the Reichsführer’s personal staff, my friend. Shall we celebrate?”
I didn’t feel much like celebrating, but I let myself be carried along. Thomas spent the night buying me American whiskies and excitedly holding forth on the stubbornness of the Jews in Warsaw. “Can you imagine? Jews!” As to my new assignment, he seemed to think I had brought off a masterstroke; I had no idea what it was all about. The next morning, I presented myself at the SS-Haus, located on Prinz-Albrechtstrasse right next to the Staatspolizei, in a former grand hotel converted into offices. Obersturmbannführer Brandt, a stooped little man with a wan, timid look, his face hidden behind large, round, black horn-rimmed glasses, received me right away: it seemed to me I had seen him already, in Hohenlychen, when the Reichsführer had decorated me on my hospital bed. In a few terse, precise sentences, he filled me in about what was expected of me. “The transition of concentration camps from a purely corrective finality to a function as a reservoir of labor force, which was begun more than a year ago now, has not been accomplished without conflicts.” The problem involved both relations between the SS and outside participants, and internal relations within the SS itself. The Reichsführer wanted to get a better understanding of the source of the tensions in order to reduce them and also to maximize the productive capacity of this considerable human labor pool. He had consequently decided to appoint an already experienced officer as his personal representative for the Arbeitseinsatz (“labor operation” or “labor organization”). “After examination of the files and receipt of a number of recommendations, you were selected. The Reichsführer has complete confidence in your ability to carry out this task successfully—it will require a strong capacity for analysis, a sense of diplomacy, and an SS spirit of initiative, the kind you’ve already demonstrated in Russia.” The SS offices concerned would receive an order to cooperate with me; but it would be up to me to ensure that this cooperation would be effective. “All your questions, as well as your reports,” Brandt finished, “should be addressed to me. The Reichsführer will see you only when he deems it necessary. He will receive you today to explain what he expects of you.” I had listened without batting an eye; I didn’t understand what he was talking about, but thought it more politic to keep my questions to myself for the moment. Brandt asked me to wait in a lounge on the ground floor; I found some magazines there, along with tea and cakes. I soon tired of leafing through old issues of Schwarzes Korps in the subdued lighting of this room; unfortunately, there was no smoking allowed in the building—the Reichsführer had forbidden it because of the smell—and you couldn’t go out to the street to smoke, either, in case you were summoned. They came looking for me around the end of the afternoon. In the antechamber, Brandt gave me his final recommendations: “Don’t make any comments, don’t ask any questions, only talk if you’re asked to.” Then he led me in. Heinrich Himmler was sitting behind his desk; I came forward with a military stride, followed by Brandt who introduced me; I saluted, and Brandt, after handing the Reichsführer a file, withdrew. Himmler motioned to me to sit down and consulted the file. His face seemed strangely vague, colorless; his little moustache and his pince-nez only emphasized the elusive quality of his features. He looked at me with a small, friendly smile; when he raised his head, the light, reflected in the glass of his pince-nez, made them opaque, hiding his eyes behind two round mirrors: “You look in better form than the last time I saw you, Sturmbannführer.” I was quite surprised that he remembered me; perhaps there was a note in the file. He went on: “You have fully recovered from your wound? That’s good.” He leafed through a few pages. “Your mother is French, I see?” That seemed to be a question and I attempted an answer: “Born in Germany, my Reichsführer. In Alsace.”—“Yes, but French all the same.” He raised his head and this time the pince-nez did not reflect the light, revealing little eyes too close together, with a surprisingly gentle look. “You know, in principle I never accept men with foreign blood into my staff. It’s like Russian roulette: too dangerous. You never know what will manifest, even in very good officers. But Dr. Mandelbrod convinced me to make an exception. He is a very wise man, whose judgment I respect.” He paused. “I had considered another candidate for the position. Sturmbannführer Gerlach. Unfortunately he was killed a month ago. In Hamburg, during an English air raid. He didn’t take shelter in time and a flowerpot fell on his skull. Begonias, I think. Or maybe tulips. He died on the spot. These English are monsters. Bombing civilians like that, without discrimination. After the victory we should organize war crimes trials. The people responsible for these atrocities have to answer for them.” He fell silent and plunged into my file again. “You’ll be thirty soon and you’re not married,” he said, raising his head. “Why?” His tone was severe, professorial. I blushed: “I haven’t had an opportunity yet, my Reichsführer. I finished my studies just before the war.”—“You should seriously consider it, Sturmbannführer. Your blood is valuable. If you are killed during this war, it shouldn’t be lost for Germany.” My words came to my lips of their own accord: “My Reichsführer, please excuse me, but my spiritual approach to my National Socialist commitment and to my service in the SS does not allow me to consider marriage so long as my Volk has not mastered the dangers threatening it. Affection for a woman can only weaken a man. I have to give myself wholly and I couldn’t share my devotion before the ultimate victory.” Himmler listened, scrutinizing my face; his eyes had opened slightly. “Sturmbannführer, despite your foreign blood, your Germanic and National Socialist qualities are impressive. I don’t know if I can accept your reasoning: I continue to think that the duty of every SS-Mann is to c
ontinue the race. But I will reflect on your words.”—“Thank you, my Reichsführer.”—“Did Obersturmbannführer Brandt explain your work to you?”—“In broad terms, my Reichsführer.”—“I don’t have much to add. Above all, use delicacy. I don’t want to provoke useless conflicts.”—“Yes, my Reichsführer.”—“Your reports are very good. You have an excellent ability to seize the overall picture based on a proven Weltanschauung. That’s what made up my mind to choose you. But watch out! I want practical solutions, not whining.”—“Yes, my Reichsführer.”—“Dr. Mandelbrod will no doubt ask you to send him copies of your reports. I don’t object. Good luck, Sturmbannführer. You may go.” I got up, saluted, and prepared to leave. Suddenly Himmler called out to me in his dry little voice: “Sturmbannführer!”—“Yes, my Reichsführer?” He hesitated: “No false sentimentality, yes?” I remained rigid, at attention: “Of course not, my Reichsführer.” I saluted again and left. Brandt, in the antechamber, gave me an inquisitive look: “Did it go well?”—“I think so, Obersturmbannführer.”—“The Reichsführer read your report on the nutritional problems of our soldiers in Stalingrad with great interest.”—“I’m surprised that report reached him.”—“The Reichsführer is interested in a lot of things. Gruppenführer Ohlendorf and the other Amtschefs often send him interesting reports.” Brandt gave me a book from the Reichsführer entitled Jewish Ritual Murders, by Helmut Schramm. “The Reichsführer had copies printed for all SS officers with at least the rank of Standartenführer. But he also asked that it be distributed to subaltern officers concerned with the Jewish question. You’ll see, it’s very interesting.” I thanked him: one more book to read, when I hardly read anymore. Brandt advised me to take a few days to get organized: “You won’t achieve anything worthwhile if your personal affairs aren’t in order. Then come see me.”
It quickly became apparent to me that the most delicate question would be that of lodging: I couldn’t stay indefinitely at the hotel. The Obersturmbannführer from the SS-Personal Hauptamt proposed two options: SS housing for single officers, very inexpensive, with meals included; or a room with a lodge, for which I would have to pay rent. Thomas stayed in a three-room apartment, spacious and very comfortable, with high ceilings and valuable old furniture. Given the grave housing crisis in Berlin—people who had a room empty were in principle forced to take on a tenant—it was a luxurious apartment, especially for a single Obersturmbannführer; a married Gruppenführer with children wouldn’t have turned it down. He laughingly told me how he had gotten it: “It’s not at all complicated. If you like, I can help you find one, maybe not as large, but with two rooms at least.” Thanks to an acquaintance working at the Berlin Generalbauinspektion, he had had a Jewish apartment, liberated in view of the reconstruction of the city, assigned to him by special dispensation. “The only problem is that it was only granted to me provided I pay for the renovation, about five hundred reichsmarks. I didn’t have the money, but I managed to get it allocated to me by Berger as a one-time aid.” Leaning back on the sofa, he ran a satisfied eye around him: “Not bad, don’t you agree?”—“And the car?” I asked, laughing. Thomas also had a little convertible, which he loved to go out in and in which he sometimes came to pick me up in the evening. “That, my friend, is another story that I’ll tell you someday. I did tell you, in Stalingrad, that if we got out of it, life would be good. There’s no reason to deprive ourselves.” I thought about his offer, but finally decided on a furnished room with a family. I wasn’t keen on living in a building for the SS, I wanted to be able to choose whom I met with outside of work; and the idea of staying alone, of living in my own company, made me a little afraid, to tell the truth. Lodgers would at least be a human presence, I would have my meals prepared, there would be noise in the hallways. So I filed my request, specifying that I would like two rooms and that there had to be a woman for cooking and housekeeping. They offered me something in Mitte, with a widow, six stations on a direct U-Bahn line from Prinz-Albrechtstrasse, at a reasonable price; I accepted without even visiting it and they gave me a letter. Frau Gutknecht, a fat, ruddy-cheeked woman past sixty, with voluminous breasts and dyed hair, examined me with a long, wily look when she opened the door to me: “So you’re the officer?” she said with a thick Berlin accent. I stepped across the threshold and shook her hand: she stank of cheap perfume. She retreated into the long hallway and showed me the doors: “This is my place; that’s yours. Here’s the key. I have one too, of course.” She opened the door and showed me around: mass-market furniture laden with curios, yellowing, wrinkled wallpaper, a musty smell. After the living room was the bedroom, isolated from the rest of the apartment. “The kitchen and toilets are in the back. Hot water is rationed, so no baths.” Two black-framed portraits hung on the wall: a man about thirty, with a little civil servant’s moustache, and a young, solid, blond boy in a Wehrmacht uniform. “Is that your husband?” I asked respectfully. A grimace deformed her face: “Yes. And my son, Franz, my little Franzi. He fell the first day of the French campaign. His Feldwebel wrote me that he died a hero, to save a comrade, but he didn’t get a medal. He wanted to avenge his dad, my Bubi, there, who died gassed in Verdun.”—“My condolences.”—“Oh, for Bubi, I’m used to it, you know. But I still miss my little Franzi.” She cast me a calculating look. “Too bad I don’t have a daughter. You could have married her. I would have liked that, an officer son-in-law. My Bubi was Unterfeldwebel and my Franzi was still a Gefreiter.”—“Yes,” I replied politely, “it’s too bad.” I pointed to the curios: “Could I ask you to take all those away? I’ll need some room for my things.” She looked indignant: “And where do you suggest I put them? In my place there’s even less room. Plus they’re pretty. You just have to push them over a little. But watch out! If you break it you pay for it.” She pointed to the portraits: “If you like, I can take those away. I wouldn’t want to inflict my mourning on you.”—“That’s not important,” I said.—“Fine, then I’ll leave them. This was Bubi’s favorite room.” We came to an agreement on the meals, and I gave her a section of my ration book.
I settled in as well as I could; in any case I didn’t have a lot of things. By piling up the curios and the cheap prewar novels, I managed to free up a few shelves where I put my own books, delivered from the basement where I had stored them before I left for Russia. It made me happy to unpack them and leaf through them, even though many of them had been damaged by humidity. Next to them I put the edition of Nietzsche that Thomas had given me and that I had never opened, the three Burroughs books brought back from France, and the Blanchot, which I had given up reading; the Stendhal books I had taken to Russia had remained there, just like Stendhal’s own 1812 diaries and somewhat in the same way, really. I regretted not having thought to replace them during my Paris trip, but there would always be another opportunity, if I were still alive. The booklet on ritual murder puzzled me a little: whereas I could easily arrange the Festgabe next to my economics and political science books, it was a little harder to find a place for this book. I finally slipped it in with the history books, between von Treitschke and Gustav Kossinna. These books and my clothes were all that I owned, aside from a gramophone and a few records; the kinzhal from Nalchik, alas, had also stayed in Stalingrad. After I had put everything away, I put on some Mozart arias, dropped into an armchair and lit a cigarette. Frau Gutknecht came in without knocking and was immediately upset: “You’re not going to smoke here! It’ll make the curtains stink.” I got up and pulled down the tails of my tunic: “Frau Gutknecht. Please be so kind as to knock, and to wait for my reply before you come in.” She turned crimson: “Excuse me, Herr Offizier! But I’m in my own home, aren’t I? And also, with all due respect, I could be your mother. What does it matter to you, if I come in? You don’t intend to have girls up here, do you? This is a respectable house, the house of a good family.” I decided it was urgent to make things clear: “Frau Gutknecht, I am renting your two rooms; so it’s no longer your home but my home. I have no intention of h
aving girls up, as you say, but I am attached to my private life. If this arrangement doesn’t suit you, I’ll take my things and my rent back and leave. Do you understand?” She calmed down: “Don’t take it like that, Herr Offizier…I’m not used to it, that’s all. You can even smoke if you like. Only you might open the windows…” She looked at my books: “I see you’re cultivated…” I interrupted her: “Frau Gutknecht. If you have nothing else to ask me, I would be grateful if you left me alone.”—“Oh yes, sorry, yes.” She went out and closed the door behind her, leaving the key in the lock.
The Kindly Ones Page 63
