The Kindly Ones Read online

  The next morning, I went to Minvody with the other officers to supervise the Aktion. I watched the arrival and unloading of the train: the Jews seemed surprised at getting out so soon, since they thought they were being transferred to the Ukraine, but they stayed calm. To avoid any agitation, the known Communists were kept under separate guard. In the cluttered, dusty main hall of the glass factory, the Jews had to hand over their clothes, luggage, personal effects, and the keys to their apartments. That provoked a commotion, especially since the factory floor was strewn with broken glass, and the people, in their bare socks, were cutting their feet. I pointed this out to Dr. Bolte, but he shrugged his shoulders. The Orpos were hitting people left and right; the Jews, terrified, would run and sit down in their underwear, the women trying to calm the children. Outside blew a cool breeze; but the sun was beating down on the glass roof, and the heat inside was stifling, as in a greenhouse. A man of a certain age, in distinguished clothes with glasses and a little moustache, approached me. He was holding a very young boy in his arms. He took off his hat and addressed me in perfect German: “Herr Offizier, can I have a few words with you?”—“You speak German very well,” I replied.—“I studied in Germany,” he said with a slightly stiff dignity. “It was once a great country.” He must have been one of the professors from Leningrad. “What do you wish to say to me?” I asked curtly. The little boy, who was holding the man by the neck, was gazing at me with large blue eyes. He was about two. “I know what you are doing here,” the man said coolly. “It is an abomination. I simply want to wish that you’ll survive this war and wake up for twenty years, every night, screaming. I hope you’ll be incapable of looking at your children without seeing ours, the ones you murdered.” He turned his back on me and went away before I could reply. The boy kept staring at me over his shoulder. Bolte came up to me: “What insolence! How dare he? You should have reacted.” I shrugged my shoulders. What did it matter? Bolte knew perfectly well what we were going to do to that man and his child. It was natural that he should want to insult us. I walked away and headed for the exit. Some Orpos were organizing a group of people in their underwear and herding them toward the antitank trench, half a mile away. I watched them move off. The ditch was too far away for the gunfire to be heard; but these people must have suspected what fate was awaiting them. Bolte hailed me: “Are you coming?” Our car passed the group that I had seen leaving; they were shivering from the cold, the women were clutching their children by the hand. Then in front of us was the ditch. Some soldiers and Orpos were standing at ease, jeering; I heard a commotion and shouts. I passed through the group of soldiers and saw Turek, holding a shovel, striking an almost naked man lying on the ground. Other bloody bodies were lying in front of him; farther on, some terrorized Jews were standing under guard. “Vermin!” Turek bellowed, his eyes bulging. “Grovel, Jew!” He hit the man’s head with the sharp edge of the shovel; the man’s skull cracked, spraying Turek’s boots with blood and brains; I clearly saw an eye, knocked out by the blow, fly a few meters away. The men were laughing. I reached Turek in two strides and seized him roughly by the arm: “You’re insane! Stop that at once!” I was trembling. Turek turned on me in a rage and made as if to raise his shovel; then he lowered it and shrugged his arm free. He was trembling too. “Mind your own business,” he spat. His face was purple; he was sweating and rolling his eyes. He threw down the shovel and strode away. Bolte had joined me; with a few curt words, he ordered Pfeiffer, who was standing there breathing heavily, to have the bodies picked up and to continue the execution. “It wasn’t your place to intervene,” he reproached me.—“But that sort of thing is unacceptable!”—“Maybe, but Sturmbannführer Müller is in charge of this Kommando. You’re here only as an observer.”—“Well, where is Sturmbannführer Müller, then?” I was still trembling. I returned to the car and ordered the driver to take me back to Pyatigorsk. I wanted to light a cigarette; but my hands were still shaking, I couldn’t control them and had trouble with my lighter. Finally I managed it and took a few drags before throwing the cigarette out the window. We were passing, from the other direction, the column that was advancing at a walk; from the corner of my eye I saw a teenager break rank and run to pick up my cigarette butt before going back to his place.

  In Pyatigorsk, I couldn’t find Müller. The soldier on guard thought he must have gone to the AOK, but he wasn’t sure; I thought about waiting for him, then decided to leave: might as well report the incident directly to Bierkamp. I went to the sanatorium to get my things and sent my driver to scare up some gasoline at the AOK. It wasn’t very polite to leave without saying goodbye; but I had no desire to say goodbye to these people. In Mineralnye Vody, the road passed close to the factory, which lay behind the railroad, at the foot of the mountain; I didn’t stop. Back in Vorshilovsk, I wrote my report, confining myself mostly to the technical and organizational aspects of the action. But I also inserted a sentence about “certain deplorable excesses on the part of officers supposed to set an example.” I knew that would be enough. The next day, in fact, Thielecke came to my office to let me know that Bierkamp wanted to see me. Prill, after reading my report, had already asked some questions: I had refused to answer him, telling him it concerned no one but the Kommandant. Bierkamp received me politely, had me sit down, and asked what had happened; Thielecke was also present at the discussion. I related the incident to them as neutrally as possible. “And what do you think should be done?” Thielecke asked when I had finished.—“I think, Sturmbannführer, that it’s a case for the SS-Gericht, a court of the SS and the police,” I replied. “Or at the very least for a psychiatrist.”—“You exaggerate,” Bierkamp said. “Hauptsturmführer Turek is an excellent officer, very capable. His indignation and legitimate anger at the Jews, bearers of the Stalin system, are understandable. And also you yourself acknowledge that you didn’t get there till the end of the incident. No doubt there was provocation.”—“Even if those Jews were insolent or tried to run away, his reaction was unworthy of an SS officer. Especially in front of the men.”—“On that point you’re probably right.” He looked at Thielecke for an instant, then turned to me: “I’m planning on going to Pyatigorsk in a few days. I’ll discuss the incident myself with Hauptsturmführer Turek. Thank you for letting me know about these facts.”

  Sturmbannführer Dr. Leetsch, Dr. Seibert’s replacement, was arriving that same day, accompanied by an Obersturmbannführer, Paul Schultz, who was supposed to take over for Dr. Braune in Maikop; but before I could even meet him, Prill asked me to leave again for Mozdok, to inspect Sk 10b, which had just arrived there. “That way you’ll have seen all the Kommandos,” he said. “You can report to the Sturmbannführer when you return.” The road to Mozdok took about six hours, going through Minvody and then Prokhladny; so I decided to leave the next morning, but didn’t see Leetsch. My driver woke me up a little before dawn. We had already left the Voroshilovsk plateau when the sun rose, softly illuminating the fields and orchards and outlining the first volcanoes of the KMV in the distance. After Mineralnye Vody, the road, lined with linden trees, followed the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains, still barely visible; only the Elbruz, its rounded humped peak covered with snow, showed in the gray of the sky. North of the road began the fields, with here and there a poor little Muslim village. We drove behind long convoys of trucks from the Rollbahn, difficult to pass. Mozdok was crawling with men and vehicles, long columns clogging the dusty streets; I parked my Opel and left on foot to look for the HQ of the Fifty-second Corps. I was met by an officer from the Abwehr, very excited: “You haven’t heard? Generalfeldmarschall List was dismissed this morning.”—“But why?” I exclaimed. List, a newcomer on the Eastern Front, had barely lasted two months. The AO shrugged his shoulders: “We were forced to go on the defensive after the failure of our breakthrough on the right bank of the Terek. That must not have been appreciated in high places.”—“Why couldn’t you advance?” He raised his arms: “We lack the forces, that’s all! Dividing A
rmy Group South in half was a fatal error. Now we don’t have enough forces for either objective. In Stalingrad they’re still mired down on the outskirts.”—“And who was appointed in place of the Feldmarschall?” He guffawed bitterly: “You’re not going to believe me: the Führer took the command himself!” That was, in fact, unheard-of: “The Führer personally took command of Army Group A?”—“Exactly. I don’t know how he plans on doing it; the OKHG is staying in Voroshilovsk, and the Führer is in Vinnitsa. But since he’s a genius, he must have a solution.” His tone was becoming more and more acerbic. “He’s already commanding the Reich, the Wehrmacht, and the land forces. Now Army Group A. Do you think he’ll go on this way? He could take command of an army, then a corps, then a division. In the end, who knows, he might end up as a corporal at the front, just like at the beginning.”—“I find you extremely insolent,” I said coldly.—“And you, old man,” he replied, “can fuck off. You’re in a sector of the front, here; the SS has no jurisdiction.” An orderly came in. “There’s your guide,” the officer pointed. “Have a nice day.” I went out without saying anything. I was shocked, but worried too: if our offensive in the Caucasus, on which we had staked everything, was getting bogged down, it was a bad sign. Time wasn’t working on our side. Winter was approaching, and the Endsieg kept drawing farther back, like the magic peaks of the Caucasus. At least, I reassured myself, Stalingrad will soon fall; that will free up forces to resume the advance here.

  The Sonderkommando was set up in a partially ruined wing of a Russian base; some rooms were still usable, others had been sealed off with boards. I was received by the head of the Kommando, a slender Austrian with a well-trimmed moustache just like the Führer’s, Sturmbannführer Alois Persterer. He was a man from the SD who had been a Leiter in Hamburg back when Bierkamp was heading the Kripo there; but the two didn’t seem any closer for it. He gave me a concise outline of the situation: in Prokhladny, a Teilkommando had shot some Kabards and Balkars associated with the Bolshevik authorities, along with a number of Jews and partisans; in Mozdok, aside from a few suspicious cases handed over by the Fifty-second Corps, they hadn’t really begun. Someone had mentioned a Jewish kolkhoz in the region; he would look into it and take care of it. In any case there weren’t too many partisans, and in the frontline areas the natives seemed hostile to the Reds. I asked him what his relations were with the Wehrmacht. “I can’t even say they’re mediocre,” he finally replied. “They seem just to be ignoring us.”—“Yes, the failure of the offensive is worrying them.” I spent the night in Mozdok, on a camp bed set up in one of the offices, and left the next morning; Persterer had suggested I attend an execution in Prokhladny, with their gas truck, but I had politely declined. In Voroshilovsk, I introduced myself to Dr. Leetsch, an older officer, with a narrow, rectangular face, graying hair, and glum lips. After reading my report, he wanted to discuss it. I told him my impressions about the morale of the Wehrmacht. “Yes,” he said finally, “you’re completely right. That’s why I think it’s important to reestablish good ties with them. I’ll take care of relations with the OKHG myself, but I want to appoint a good liaison officer in Pyatigorsk, with the Ic of the AOK. I wanted to ask you to take this position.” I hesitated for an instant; I wondered if the idea really came from him, or had been suggested to him by Prill during my absence. Finally I replied: “To tell the truth, my relations with Einsatzkommando 12 are not the best. I had an altercation with one of their officers, and I’m afraid it might create complications.”—“Don’t worry about that. You won’t have much to do with them. You’ll have your quarters at the AOK and you’ll report directly to me.”

  So I returned to Pyatigorsk and they gave me a place to stay some ways from the center, in a sanatorium at the foot of the Mashuk (the highest part of the town). I had a French window and a little balcony that looked out on the long bare ridge of the Goriatchaya Gora, with its Chinese pavilion and a few trees, and then the plain and the volcanoes behind it, ranged in tiers in the haze. If I turned around and leaned backward, I could see a wedge of the Mashuk over the roof, crossed by a cloud that seemed to be moving almost at my level. It had rained during the night and the air smelled good and fresh. After going to the AOK to introduce myself to the Ic, Oberst von Gilsa, and his colleagues, I went out for a walk. A long paved lane rises from the center and follows the side of the mountain; behind the monument to Lenin, you have to climb some wide steep steps, then, past some basins, between lines of young oak and fragrant pine trees, the slope grows gentler. I passed the Lermontov Sanatorium, where von Kleist and his staff were staying; my quarters were set a little farther back, in a separate wing, right up against the mountain, now almost completely hidden by clouds. Farther up, the lane widened into a road that skirts round the Mashuk to connect a string of sanatoriums; there I veered off toward the little pavilion called the Aeolian Harp, from which one has a broad view of the plain to the south, scattered with otherworldly mounds, one volcano and then another and then another, extinct, peaceful. To the right, the sun drew gleams from the metal roofs of the houses, scattered in thick greenery; and farther on, in the distance, clouds were forming, masking the peaks of the Caucasus. A cheerful voice rose up behind me: “Aue! Have you been here a long time?” I turned around: Voss was approaching, smiling, beneath the trees. I shook his hand warmly. “I’ve just arrived. I’ve been appointed liaison officer to the AOK.”—“Oh, excellent! I’m at the AOK too. Have you eaten yet?”—“Not yet.”—“Come with me, then. There’s a good café just down below.” He set off on a narrow stone path cut into the rock and I followed him. Below, framing the tip of the long ravine that separates the Mashuk from the Goriatchaya Gora, lay a long columned gallery made of pink granite, decorated in an Italian style both ponderous and frivolous. “That’s the Academic Gallery,” Voss said.—“Oh!” I exclaimed, very excited, “but that’s the old Elisabeth Gallery! This is where Pechorin saw Princess Mary for the first time.” Voss burst out laughing: “So you know Lermontov? Everyone here is reading him.”—“Of course! A Hero of Our Time was my favorite book, at one time.” The path had brought us to the level of the gallery, built to shelter a sulfur spring. Some crippled soldiers, pale and slow, were strolling or sitting on benches, facing the long hollow that opens up toward the city; a Russian gardener was weeding the tulip and red carnation beds along the grand staircase that descends toward Kirov Street, at the bottom of the depression. The copper roofs of the spas nestled against the Goriatchaya Gora, rising above the trees, glittered in the sunlight. Beyond the ridge you could only make out one of the volcanoes. “Are you coming?” said Voss.—“Just a minute.” I entered the gallery to look at the spring, but I was disappointed: the room was bare and empty, and the water was pouring from an ordinary faucet. “The café is in the back,” said Voss. He passed under the arch that separates the left wing of the gallery from the central building; behind, the wall joined the rock to form a wide alcove, where they had placed a few tables and some stools. We sat down and a pretty young girl appeared through a door. Voss exchanged a few words with her in Russian. “There isn’t any shashlik today. But they have Kiev cutlets.”—“That’s perfect.”—“Do you want some water from the spring or a beer?”—“I think I’d rather have a beer. Is it cold?”—“Cold enough. But I warn you, it’s not German beer.” I lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall of the gallery. It was pleasantly cool; water streamed down the rock, two little brightly colored birds were pecking at the ground. “So you like Pyatigorsk, then?” Voss asked me. I smiled, I was happy to see him here. “I haven’t seen much yet,” I said.—“If you like Lermontov, the city is a veritable pilgrimage. The Soviets created a nice little museum in his house. When you have an afternoon free, we’ll go see it.”—“Gladly. Do you know where the location of the duel is?”—“Pechorin’s or Lermontov’s?”—“Lermontov’s.”—“Behind Mashuk. There’s a hideous monument, of course. And just imagine: we’ve even found one of his descendants.” I laughed: “Not possible.”�
�“Yes, yes. A Frau Evgenia Akimovna Shan-Girei. She is very old. The general had a pension allocated to her, larger than the one she had under the Soviets.”—“Did she know him?”—“You’ve got to be kidding. The Russians were just preparing to celebrate the centenary of his death the day of our invasion. Frau Shan-Girei was born ten or fifteen years later, in the fifties, I think.” The waitress returned with two dishes and some silverware. The “cutlets” were in fact chicken rolls, stuffed with melted butter and breaded, and accompanied by a fricassee of wild mushrooms with garlic. “This is delicious. And even the beer isn’t too bad.”—“I told you, didn’t I? I come here whenever I can. It’s never crowded.” I ate without talking, deeply content. “You have a lot of work?” I finally asked him.—“Let’s say that I have some free time for my research. Last month I looted the Pushkin library in Krasnodar and found some very interesting things. They had a lot of books about the Cossacks, but I also unearthed some Caucasian grammar books and some pretty rare monographs by Troubetskoy. I still have to go to Cherkessk, I’m sure they’ll have some books on the Circassians and the Karachai. My dream, though, is to find an Ubykh who still knows his language. But for now, not a chance. Otherwise, I write leaflets for the AOK.”—“What kind of leaflets?”—“Propaganda leaflets. They scatter them over the mountains by plane. I did one in Karachai, Kabardian, and Balkar, consulting the locals, of course, that was very funny: Mountain people—Before, you had everything, but Soviet power took it away from you! Welcome your German brothers who have flown like eagles over the mountains to free you! Et cetera.” I chuckled along with him. “I’ve also made some passes that we’re sending to the partisans to encourage them to switch sides. I wrote that we’d welcome them as soyuzniki in the general fight against Judeo-Bolshevism. The Jews among them must be having a good laugh. These propuska are valid until the end of the war.” The girl cleared the dishes and brought us some Turkish coffee. “They have everything here!” I exclaimed.—“Oh, yes. The markets are open, there’s even food for sale in the stores.”—“It’s not like in the Ukraine.”—“No. And with a little luck, it won’t be.”—“What do you mean?”—“Oh, some things might be changing.” We paid the bill and went back through the arch. The wounded soldiers were still strolling in front of the gallery, drinking their water in little sips. “Does that really help?” I asked Voss, pointing at a glass.—“The region has a reputation. You know that people came to take the waters here long before the Russians. Have you ever heard of Ibn Battuta?”—“The Arab traveler? I know the name.”—“He came through here, around 1375. He was in the Crimea, with the Tatars, where he had gotten married on the way. The Tatars were still living in large nomadic camps, cities on wheels made of tents on enormous wagons, with mosques and shops. Every year in the summer, when it began to get too warm in the Crimea, the Nogai Khan, with his entire city on the march, crossed the isthmus of Perekop and came as far as here. Ibn Battuta describes the place quite precisely, and praises the medicinal virtues of the sulfur water. He calls the site Bish or Besh Dagh, which, like Pyatigorsk in Russian, means ‘the five mountains.’” I laughed with surprise: “And what became of Ibn Battuta?”—“Afterward? He continued on, through Daghestan and Afghanistan, and ended up in India. He was a qadi in Delhi for a long time, and served Mohammed Tughluq, the paranoid sultan, for seven years before falling into disgrace. Then he was a qadi in the Maldives, and he even went as far as Ceylon, Indonesia, and China. And then he went home, to Morocco, to write his book before he died.”