The meeting concluded on this note, and I suggested a division of tasks to prepare for the next meeting. Rizzi would try to study the validity of his idea; Jedermann would explain his budgetary constraints to us in detail; as for Isenbeck, I directed him, with Weinrowski’s consent (he himself obviously didn’t want to move around much), to conduct a quick inspection of four camps: the KLs Ravensbrück, Sachsenhausen, Gross-Rosen, and Auschwitz, with the aim of collecting all their ration lists, the menus that were actually prepared for the main categories of inmates in the past month, and especially samples of the rations that we would have analyzed: I wanted to be able to compare the theoretical menus with the food actually served.
At this last remark, Rizzi had thrown me a curious glance; after the meeting was adjourned, I brought him into my office. “Do you have reasons to believe that the Häftlinge don’t receive what they are supposed to?” he asked in his dry, abrupt manner. He seemed to me an intelligent man, and his query led me to imagine that our ideas and objectives should be able to intersect: I decided to make him my ally; in any case, I didn’t see any risk in opening up to him. “Yes, I do,” I said. “Corruption is a major problem in the camps. A large part of the food bought by the D-Four is diverted. It’s hard to estimate, but the Häftlinge at the end of the chain—I’m not talking about the kapos or the Prominenten—must be deprived of twenty to thirty percent of their ration. Since it’s inadequate to begin with, only the inmates who manage to obtain extra, legally or illegally, have any chance of staying alive more than a few months.”—“I see.” He thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “We should try to calculate life expectancy precisely and adjust it according to the degree of specialization.” He paused again and concluded: “Very well, I’ll see.”
I swiftly understood, alas, that my initial enthusiasm would be damped. The ensuing meetings got bogged down in a mass of technical details as voluminous as they were contradictory. Isenbeck had made a good analysis of the menus, but seemed incapable of demonstrating their relationship to the rations actually distributed; Rizzi seemed to be focused on the idea of emphasizing the division between skilled and nonskilled workers, and of concentrating our efforts on the former; Weinrowski couldn’t manage to come to an agreement with Isenbeck and Alicke on the question of vitamins. To try to stimulate the debate, I invited a representative from Speer’s ministry. Schmelter, who headed their department for the allocation of labor, told me it was high time for the SS to take this problem into account, and sent me as his representative an Oberregierungsrat with a long list of grievances. Speer’s ministry had just absorbed some of the responsibilities of the Ministry of Finance and had been rebaptized Ministry for Armaments and War Production, or RMfRuK according to the barbaric acronym, in order to reflect his expanded authority in this domain; and this reorganization seemed to be reflected in the unwavering self-confidence of Dr. Kühne, Schmelter’s envoy. “I don’t speak just for the ministry,” he began when I introduced him to my colleagues, “but also for the companies that use the labor the SS provides, whose repeated complaints reach us daily.” This Oberregierungsrat wore a brown suit with a bow tie, and had a Prussian toothbrush moustache; his few strands of stringy hair were carefully combed to the side, to cover the oblong dome of his skull. But the firmness of his speech contradicted his rather ludicrous appearance. As we surely knew, the inmates generally arrived in the factories in a feeble condition, and often, exhausted after only a few weeks, they had to be sent back to the camp. Their training required a minimum of several weeks; there was a shortage of instructors, and they didn’t have the means to train new groups every month. What’s more, for the slightest job requiring even a minimum level of qualification, at least six months had to go by before output reached a satisfactory level: and few inmates lasted that long. Reichsminister Speer was very disappointed by this state of things and thought that the contribution of the SS to the war effort, on this level, would benefit from being improved. He concluded by handing out a memo containing extracts of letters from various firms. After he left, as I looked through the memo, Rizzi shrugged his shoulders and licked his thin lips: “That’s what I’ve been saying since the beginning. Skilled workers.” I had also asked the office of Sauckel, the General Plenipotentiary for the Arbeitseinsatz or GBA, to send someone to express their views: one of Sauckel’s assistants had replied somewhat acidly that so long as the SP saw fit to find any pretext whatsoever to arrest foreign workers and send them off to increase the manpower of the camps, it was up to the SS to take care of their upkeep, and the GBA, for its part, no longer felt involved. Brandt had called me to remind me that the Reichsführer attached a lot of importance to the RSHA’s opinion, so I had also written to Kaltenbrunner, who referred me to Müller, who in turn told me to get in touch with Obersturmbannführer Eichmann. In vain I protested that the problem didn’t only concern Jews, Eichmann’s sole area of responsibility, Müller had insisted; so I placed a call to the Kurfürstenstrasse and asked Eichmann to send a colleague; he told me he preferred to come in person. “My deputy Günther is in Denmark,” he explained to me when he came over. “Anyway, I prefer to deal with questions of this importance myself.” At our roundtable, he launched into a pitiless indictment of the Jewish inmates, who, according to him, represented an ever greater threat; after Warsaw, revolts were increasing; an uprising in a special camp in the East (this was Treblinka, but Eichmann didn’t mention it by name) had caused many deaths among the SS, and hundreds of inmates had escaped; not all of them had been recaptured. The RSHA, as well as the Reichsführer himself, was afraid that such incidents would multiply. This, given the tense situation on the front, we could not allow. He also reminded us that the Jews conveyed to the camps in RSHA convoys were all under a death sentence: “We can’t change anything about that, even if we wanted to. At the most we have the right to extract from them, as it were, their work capacity, for the Reich, before they die.” In other words, even if certain political objectives were deferred for economic reasons, they remained no less in force; thus it wasn’t a question of distinguishing between skilled inmates and nonskilled ones—I had briefly summarized the state of our discussions for him—but between the different political-police categories. The Russian or Polish workers arrested for theft, for example, were sent to a camp, but their punishment didn’t extend further than that; so the WVHA could use them as it liked. As for those condemned for “defiling the race,” that was more delicate. But for the Jews and the asocials transferred by the Ministry of Justice, everyone had to be clear: they were, in a way, only on loan to the WVHA, since the RSHA preserved jurisdiction over them until their death; for these prisoners, the policy of Vernichtung durch Arbeit, annihilation through work, had to be strictly applied: so it was useless to waste food on them. These statements made a strong impression on my colleagues, and, once Eichmann had left, some began to propose that rations for Jewish inmates be differentiated from the others; I even went so far as to see Oberregierungsrat Kühne again to tell him about this suggestion; he answered me in writing that, in that case, the enterprises would certainly refuse the Jewish inmates, which went against the agreement between Reichsminister Speer and the Führer, as well as the decree of January 1943 on the mobilization of manpower. Nevertheless my colleagues did not entirely abandon the idea. Rizzi asked Weinrowski if it was technically possible to calculate rations that were liable to make a man die within a given period of time; one ration, for example, that would give three months to an unskilled Jew, another ration that would give nine months to an asocial specialized worker. Weinrowski had to explain to him that, no, it wasn’t possible; not even mentioning the other factors such as cold and disease, everything depended on the weight and resistance of the subject; with a given ration, one individual could die in three weeks, another might last indefinitely; all the more so since the clever inmate would always find something extra, whereas the one who was already weakened and apathetic would only let himself go more quickly. This
reasoning gave a brilliant idea to Hauptsturmführer Dr. Alicke: “What you are saying,” he said, as if thinking out loud, “is that the strongest inmates will always find a way to steal some of the rations of the weaker inmates, and so to survive. But in a way, isn’t it in our own interest for the weakest inmates not to get their complete ration? Once they’ve passed a certain level of weakness, automatically so to speak, their rations get stolen, so they eat even less and die faster, and so we save on their food. As to what is stolen from them, that strengthens the inmates who are already stronger, so that they work better. It’s simply the natural mechanism of survival of the fittest; in the same way, a sick animal succumbs quickly to predators.” That was going a little far, I thought, and I reacted sharply: “Hauptsturmführer, the Reichsführer did not set up the concentration camp system to conduct experiments on the theories of social Darwinism. Your reasoning does not seem very pertinent to me.” I turned to the others: “The real problem is what we want to prioritize: The political imperatives? Or the economic needs?”—“It’s certainly not at our level that a decision like that can be made,” Weinrowski said calmly.—“True,” Gorter interrupted, “but still, for the Arbeitseinsatz, the instructions are clear: Everything must be implemented to increase the productivity of the Häftlinge.”—“From the standpoint of our SS enterprises,” Rizzi confirmed, “that’s true too. But we still cannot ignore certain ideological imperatives.”—“In any case, meine Herren,” I concluded, “we don’t have to settle this question. The Reichsführer asked me to make recommendations that would satisfy the interests of your different departments. In the worst case we can prepare several options and leave the choice to him; whatever the case, the final decision is up to him.”
I began to see that these fruitless discussions could go on indefinitely, and this prospect alarmed me; so I decided to change tactics: prepare a concrete suggestion, and have it endorsed by the others, or else modify it a little, if necessary. For that, I decided to come to an agreement first with the specialists Weinrowski and Isenbeck. When I approached Weinrowski, he quickly understood my intentions and promised me his support; as for Isenbeck, he would do whatever he was told to do. But we still lacked concrete data. Weinrowski believed the IKL had already carried out research on this subject; I sent Isenbeck to Oranienburg with a mission order; triumphant, he brought back a pile of files: at the end of the 1930s, the medical department of the IKL had in fact carried out a set of experiments, at the KL Buchenwald, on minimal feeding for inmates subjected to forced labor; with punishment or the threat of punishment as the sole incentive, they had tested a large number of formulas, frequently changing the rations and weighing the subjects regularly; a whole array of statistics had been generated from this. While Isenbeck analyzed these reports, I talked with Weinrowski about what we called the “secondary factors,” such as hygiene, cold, illness, beatings. I had a copy of my Stalingrad report sent to me by the SD, which dealt with precisely these subjects; skimming through it, Weinrowski exclaimed: “Oh, but you quote Hohenegg!” At these words, the memory of that man, buried inside me like a glass bubble, detached from the depths and rose up, gathering speed by the second, before bursting at the surface: how curious that is, I said to myself, I hadn’t thought of him in a long time. “Do you know him?” I asked Weinrowski, overcome with intense emotion.—“Of course! He’s one of my colleagues from the faculty of medicine in Vienna.”—“So he’s still alive?”—“Yes, of course, why not?”
I immediately set out looking for him: he was well and truly alive, and I had no difficulty finding him; he too was working in Berlin, at the medical department of the Bendlerstrasse. Happy, I called him on the telephone without giving my name; his throaty, musical voice sounded a little annoyed when he answered: “Yes?”—“Professor Hohenegg?”—“Speaking. What’s this about?”—“I’m calling from the SS. It’s about an old debt.” His voice became a shade more irritated. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”—“I’m talking about a bottle of Cognac you promised me nine months ago.” Hohenegg let out a long burst of laughter: “Alas, alas, I have to confess something to you: I thought you were dead, and I drank it to your health.”—“Man of little faith.”—“So you are alive.”—“And promoted: Sturmbannführer.”—“Bravo! Well, I’ll just have to unearth another bottle.”—“I give you twenty-four hours: we’ll drink it tomorrow night. In exchange, dinner will be on me. At Borchardt’s, eight o’clock, does that suit you?” Hohenegg gave a long whistle: “They must have given you a raise too. But allow me to point out that it’s not quite oyster season yet.”—“That’s all right; we’ll eat wild boar pâté. Till tomorrow.”
Hohenegg, as soon as he saw me, wanted at all cost to feel my scars; I graciously permitted him, under the surprised eye of the maître d’hôtel, who had come to proffer the wine list. “Good work,” Hohenegg said, “good work. If you had had that before Kislovodsk, I would have cited you in my seminar. All in all, I did well to insist.”—“What do you mean?”—“The surgeon in Gumrak didn’t want to operate on you, which is understandable. He had pulled a sheet over your face and had told the nurses to put you out in the snow, as they did then, to get it over with. I happened to be walking by, I noticed this sheet moving at mouth level, and of course I thought that was curious, a dead man breathing like an ox under his shroud. I turned down the sheet: imagine my surprise. So I told myself that ordering someone else to take care of you was the least I could do. The surgeon didn’t want to; we had a few words, but I was his hierarchical superior, and he had to give in. He kept complaining that it was a waste of time. I was in something of a hurry, I let him get on with it; I imagine he made do with a hemostasis. But I’m happy it was of some use.” I remained motionless, riveted to his words; at the same time I felt immensely remote from all that, as if it concerned another man, whom I scarcely knew. The maître d’hôtel brought the wine. Hohenegg interrupted him before he could pour: “Just a minute, please. Could you bring us two Cognac glasses?”—“Of course, Herr Oberst.” With a smile, Hohenegg took a bottle of Hennessy out of his briefcase and placed it on the table: “There. A promise is a promise.” The maître d’hôtel returned with the glasses, uncorked the bottle, and poured us each a measure. Hohenegg took his glass and got up; I did the same. Suddenly he looked serious and I noticed that he had aged perceptibly from what I remembered of him: his yellow, soft skin drooped under his eyes and on his round cheeks; his whole body, still fat, seemed to have shrunk somehow on his frame. “I suggest,” he said, “that we drink to all our comrades in misfortune who didn’t have as much luck as we did. And especially to those who are still alive, somewhere.” We toasted, and sat back down. Hohenegg remained silent for a little bit, playing with his knife, then resumed his cheerful air. I told him how I had gotten out, or at least what Thomas had told me, and asked him for his story. “With me it’s simpler. I had finished my work, turned in my report to General Renoldi, who was already packing his bags for Siberia and couldn’t have cared less about anything else, and I realized they had forgotten me. Fortunately, I knew an obliging young man at the AOK; thanks to him, I was able to send a signal to the OKHG with a copy for my faculty, stating simply that I was ready to submit my report. Then they remembered me and the next day I received orders to leave the Kessel. And it was when I was waiting for a plane in Gumrak that I came across you. I wanted to take you with me, but in that state, you were unfit for travel, and I couldn’t wait for your operation, since flights were becoming rare. I think I actually got one of the last flights leaving Gumrak. The plane just before mine crashed right in front of my eyes; I was still a bit dazed by the noise of the explosion when I got to Novorossisk. We took off straight through the smoke and the flames rising up from the wreck, it was very impressive. Afterward I got leave, and instead of reassigning me to the new Sixth Army, they gave me a job at the OKW. And you, what’s become of you?” While we ate I described my work group’s problems to him. “Indeed,” he commented, “it sounds tricky.
I know Weinrowski well; he’s an honest man and a scholar of integrity, but he has no political sense and often makes blunders.” I remained pensive: “You couldn’t meet him with me? To help us get our bearings.”—“My dear Sturmbannführer, I would remind you that I am an officer of the Wehrmacht. I don’t think your superiors—or mine—would appreciate your mixing me up in this dark business.”—“Not officially, of course. A simple private discussion, with your old faculty friend?”—“I never said he was my friend.” Hohenegg ran his hand pensively over the dome of his bald skull; his wrinkled neck stuck out of his buttoned collar. “Of course, as a clinical pathologist, I am always delighted to be of help to the human species; after all, I never lack customers. If you like, the three of us can just finish off this bottle of Cognac together.”
Weinrowski invited us to his place. He lived with his wife in a three-room apartment in Kreuzberg. He showed us two photos on the piano of young men, one framed in black with a ribbon: his eldest son, Egon, killed in Demiansk; the younger one was serving in France and had been quiet till then, but his division had just been rushed to Italy to reinforce the new front. While Frau Weinrowski served us tea and cakes, we talked about the Italian situation: as pretty much everyone expected, Badoglio was just waiting for the occasion to switch sides, and as soon as the Anglo-Americans had set foot on Italian soil, he had seized it. “Fortunately, fortunately, the Führer was cleverer than he!” Weinrowski exclaimed.—“You say that,” Frau Weinrowski murmured sadly as she offered us sugar, “but it’s your Karl who is there, not the Führer.” She was a rather heavy woman, with puffy, tired features; but the outline of her mouth and especially the light in her eyes hinted at past beauty. “Oh, be quiet,” Weinrowski grumbled, “the Führer knows what he’s doing. Look at that Skorzeny! Tell me that wasn’t a master stroke.” The raid on the Gran Sasso, to liberate Mussolini, had made headlines for days in Goebbels’s press. Since then, our forces had occupied northern Italy, interned six hundred and fifty thousand Italian soldiers, and set up a Fascist republic in Salò; and all that was presented as a significant victory, a brilliant maneuver of the Führer’s. But the resumption of raids on Berlin was also a direct consequence; the new front was draining our divisions, and in August the Americans had managed to bomb Ploesti, our last source of oil. Germany was truly caught in the crossfire.
The Kindly Ones Page 76
