The Kindly Ones Read online

  A few hours went by, I must have dozed, the dawn light was beginning to turn the windows in the entryway pale, a man came in. He was tastefully dressed, in an elegantly cut pinstripe suit with a starched collar and a pearl-gray knitted tie; on the lapel he wore a Party insignia, and under his arm he was holding a black leather briefcase; his jet black hair, thick, shining with brilliantine, was combed straight back, and although his face remained closed, his eyes seemed to be laughing as they looked me over. He murmured a few words to the Schupos on guard; one of them led him down the corridor and they disappeared. A few minutes later the Schupo returned and waved his stubby finger at me: “You there. This way.” I rose, stretched, and followed him, struggling to hold back my urge. The Schupo brought me back to the room where I had been interrogated. The Kripo inspector had vanished; sitting in his place was the well-dressed young man, one arm with its starched sleeve resting on the table, the other casually hooked over the back of his chair. The black briefcase lay on the table near his elbow. “Come in,” he said politely but firmly. He pointed toward an empty chair: “Please, sit down.” The Schupo closed the door and I came and sat. I could hear the man’s hobnailed boots clicking in the hallway as he left. The elegant, polished young man had a voice that was soft but barely hid its sharpness. “My colleague from the criminal police, Halbey, takes you for a Paragraph One-seventy-five. Are you a Paragraph One-seventy-five?” That seemed a genuine question to me and I answered frankly: “No.”—“That’s what I think too,” he said. He looked at me and held out his hand over the desk: “My name is Thomas Hauser. A pleasure.” I leaned over to shake it. His grip was firm, his skin dry and smooth, he had perfectly cut fingernails. “Aue. Maximilien Aue.”—“Yes, I know. You’re lucky, Herr Aue. Kriminalkommissar Halbey has already sent a preliminary report on this unfortunate incident to the Staatspolizei, mentioning your presumed involvement. It was addressed in duplicate to Kriminalrat Meisinger. Do you know who Kriminalrat Meisinger is?”—“No, I don’t.”—“Kriminalrat Meisinger directs the Reich’s Main Office for the Struggle Against Homosexuality and Abortion. So he’s in charge of the One-seventy-fives. He is not a nice man. A Bavarian.” He paused. “Fortunately for you, Kriminalkommissar Halbey’s report came across my desk first. I was on duty tonight. I was able for now to block the copy addressed to Kriminalrat Meisinger.”—“That’s very kind of you.”—“Yes, it is. See, our friend Kriminalkommissar Halbey has formed suspicions about you. But Kriminalrat Meisinger doesn’t care about suspicions, he cares about facts. And he has methods to obtain those facts that do not meet with complete approval at the Staatspolizei, but that generally turn out to be effective.” I shook my head: “Listen…I don’t really understand what you’re talking about. There must be a misunderstanding.” Thomas clicked his tongue: “For now, you’re right. There seems to be a misunderstanding. Or perhaps rather an unfortunate coincidence, if you like, hastily interpreted by the zealous Kriminalkommissar Halbey.” I bent forward, spreading my hands: “Look, this is all idiotic. I am a student, a member of the Party, of the SS…” He cut me off: “I know you are a member of the Party and the SS. I know Professor Höhn very well. I know perfectly who you are.” Then I understood: “Oh. You’re from the SD.” Thomas smiled amiably: “That’s more or less it, yes. Normally I work with Dr. Six, the replacement for your professor, Dr. Höhn. But for the time being I have been seconded to the Staatspolizei as assistant to Dr. Best, who is helping the Chief to draw up the legal framework for the SP.” Even then I noted the marked emphasis with which he uttered the words the Chief. “So you’re all doctors, at the Sicherheitsdienst?” I blurted out. He smiled again, a wide, frank smile: “Almost.”—“And you’re a doctor too?” He inclined his head: “In law.”—“I see.”—“The Chief, on the other hand, is not a doctor. But he is much more intelligent than we are. He uses our talents to reach his ends.”—“And what are these ends?” Thomas knitted his eyebrows: “What are you studying, with Höhn? The protection of the State, of course.” He stopped. I kept silent; we looked at each other. He seemed to be waiting for something. He bent forward and leaned his chin on one hand, tapping the manicured nails of the other on the table. Finally he asked in an annoyed tone: “The protection of the State doesn’t interest you, Herr Aue?” I hesitated: “Well, I am not a doctor…”—“But you will be soon.” A few more seconds of silence passed. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” I finally said.—“I’m not getting at anything at all, I’m trying to help you avoid useless difficulties. You know, the reports you wrote for the SD, at one time, were quickly noticed. Very well written, to the point, nourished by a Weltanschauung whose rigor was unquestionable. It’s too bad you didn’t continue, but that’s your business. Still, when I saw Kriminalkommissar Halbey’s report, I said to myself that this would be a loss for National Socialism. I phoned Dr. Best—I woke him up, too—he agreed with me and authorized me to come here, to suggest to Kriminalkommissar Halbey that he curb his annoying initiatives. You understand, they’re going to open a criminal investigation, as is necessary when a man dies. What’s more, a policeman was wounded. At the very least you should in principle be called to appear as a witness. Given the location of the crime, a notorious homosexual meeting place, the case, even if I can convince Kriminalkommissar Halbey to moderate his zeal, will automatically be forwarded, sooner or later, to the services of Kriminalrat Meisinger. Then Kriminalrat Meisinger will take an interest in you. He’ll start digging, like the coarse animal he is. Whatever the results are, it will leave indelible traces in your personal file. Now it just so happens that the Reichsführer-SS has a particular obsession about homosexuality. Homosexuals frighten him, he hates them. He thinks a hereditary homosexual can contaminate dozens of young men with his disease, and that all those young men will then be lost to the race. He also believes that inverts are congenital liars, who believe in their own lies—hence a mental irresponsibility that renders them incapable of loyalty, causes them to blab, and can lead to treason. Thus, this potential threat that the homosexual represents signifies that the question, for the Reichsführer, is not a medical question that can be remedied by therapy, but a political question, to be treated by the methods of the SP. He even recently expressed enthusiasm for the suggestion of one of our best legal historians, Professor and SS-Untersturmführer Eckhardt, whom you must know, to return to the old Germanic custom of drowning effeminate men in peat bogs. This, I would be the first to acknowledge, is a somewhat extreme point of view, and although its logic is undeniable, not everyone sees the matter in such an unequivocal way. The Führer himself, it seems, remains somewhat indifferent to this question. But his lack of interest on this subject leaves the field free for the Reichsführer, with his excessive ideas, to define the current policies. So if Kriminalrat Meisinger came to form an unfavorable opinion of you, even if he didn’t manage to obtain a condemnation under Paragraphs One-seventy-five or One-seventy-five-A of the Penal Code, you could have all sorts of problems. It’s even possible, if Kriminalrat Meisinger insisted, that an order for preventive custody be issued against you. I would be sorry about that, and Dr. Best too.” I was only half listening because my need was overtaking me again, more violently than ever, but finally I reacted: “I don’t understand where you’re heading. Are you making me an offer?”—“An offer?” Thomas raised his eyebrows. “But who do you take us for? Do you really think that the SD needs to resort to blackmail for its recruitment? Come on. No,” he continued with a broad, friendly smile, “I simply came to help you in a spirit of camaraderie, as one National Socialist toward another. Of course,” he added with an ironic look, “we suspect that Professor Höhn is warning his students against the SD, that he must have discouraged you a little, and that’s too bad. Did you know he’s the one who recruited me? He has become ungrateful. If you ever changed your mind about us, all the better. I think if our work began to appear to you in a more favorable light, Dr. Best would be happy to discuss it with you. I invite you to think ab
out it. But that has nothing to do with my actions tonight.” I must say that this frank, direct attitude pleased me. I was very impressed by the uprightness, the energy, the calm conviction radiating from Thomas. It didn’t at all correspond to the idea I had formed of the SD. But he was already getting up. “You’ll go out with me. There won’t be any objections. I’ll inform Kriminalkommissar Halbey that you were in that area in the line of duty, and the matter will rest there. When the time comes you’ll testify to that effect. That way, everything will be perfectly civilized.” I couldn’t stop thinking about the toilets; when the conversation ended, Thomas waited in the hallway while I finally relieved myself. I had time then to reflect a little: when I came out, I must already have made my decision. Outside it was day. Thomas left me on the Kurfürstenstrasse, shaking my hand vigorously. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon. Tchüss!” And that is how, my ass still full of sperm, I resolved to enter the Sicherheitsdienst.

  The day after the dinner with Oberländer, as soon as I woke up, I went to see Hennicke, the Group’s Chief of Staff. “Ah, Obersturmführer Aue. The dispatches for Lutsk are almost ready. Go see the Brigadeführer. He’s at the Brygidki Prison. Untersturmführer Beck will take you there.” This Beck was still very young; he was handsome, but seemed to be brooding about something, harboring a secret anger. After saluting me he hardly said a word. In the streets, the people seemed even more agitated than the day before; armed groups of nationalists were patrolling, and traffic was difficult. There were also many more German soldiers evident. “I have to stop by the train station to pick up a package,” Beck said. “Is that all right with you?” His driver already knew the way well; to avoid the crowd, he cut off onto a side street, which, farther on, wound along the side of a little hill lined with middle-class houses, quiet and comfortable. “It’s a beautiful city,” I remarked.—“That’s normal. It is a German city, basically,” Beck responded. I was silent. At the station, he left me in the car and disappeared into the crowd. Streetcars were discharging their passengers, taking on others, setting off again. In a little park over to the left, indifferent to the commotion, several families of Gypsies were lounging about under the trees, dirty, weather-beaten, dressed in colorful rags. Others were standing near the train station, but they weren’t begging; the children weren’t even playing. Beck returned with a little package. He followed my gaze and noticed the Gypsies. “Instead of wasting our time with the Jews, we’d do better taking care of those people,” he spat out viciously. “They’re much more dangerous. They work for the Reds, did you know that? But we’ll deal with them.” In the long street that led up from the station, he spoke again: “The synagogue is here, right next door. I’d like to see it. After that we’ll go to the prison.” The synagogue was set back in a little side street, on the left side of the avenue leading to the center of town. Two German soldiers were standing guard in front of the gate. The dilapidated façade wasn’t much to look at; only a Star of David on the pediment revealed the nature of the place; there wasn’t a Jew in sight. I followed Beck through the little door. The main room rose up two floors, surrounded by an elevated gallery, for the women no doubt; vivid paintings in bright colors decorated the walls, in a naïve but vigorous style, representing a great Lion of Judah surrounded by Jewish stars, parrots, and swallows, and riddled in places with bullet holes. In place of benches there were little chairs with school desks attached. Beck contemplated the paintings for a long while, then went out. The street in front of the prison was swarming with people, a monstrous, cacophonic crush. The people were shouting themselves hoarse; women, hysterical, were tearing their clothes and rolling on the ground; Jews, on their knees, guarded by Feldgendarmen, were scrubbing the sidewalk; now and then a passerby kicked one, a rubicund Feldwebel barked, “Juden, kaputt!” Ukrainians frantically applauded. At the gate to the prison, I had to make way for a column of Jews, in shirtsleeves or stripped to the waist, most of them bleeding, who, flanked by German soldiers, were carrying putrified corpses and loading them onto wagons. Old women in black threw themselves on the bodies, ululating, then rushed at the Jews, scratching at them until a soldier tried to push them away. I had lost sight of Beck; I went into the prison courtyard, and there it was the same spectacle again, terrified Jews sorting through corpses, others scrubbing the pavement while soldiers hooted; from time to time one of them lunged forward, striking at the Jews with his bare hands or his rifle butt, the Jews screamed, collapsed, struggled to rise up and get back to work, other soldiers were photographing the scene, still others, laughing, shouted insults or encouragements, sometimes too a Jew didn’t get up, and then several men would go at him with their boots, until one or two Jews would come to drag the body by the feet over to the side, while others had to scrub the pavement again. Finally I found an SS man: “Do you know where Brigadeführer Rasch is?”—“I think he’s in the prison offices, over there, I just saw him go up.” In the long hallway, soldiers were coming and going, it was calmer, but the green walls, shiny and filthy, were splattered with bloodstains, more or less fresh, and speckled with scraps of brain mixed with hair and bone fragments; there were also long trails where they had dragged the corpses, my boots stuck to the floor at each step. At the other end, Rasch was coming down the stairs in the company of a tall Oberführer with a chubby face and several other officers from the Group. I saluted them. “Oh, it’s you. Good. I received a report from Radetzky; ask him to come here as soon as he can. And you’ll report in person to Obergruppenführer Jeckeln about the Aktion here. Insist on the fact that it’s the nationalists and the people who took the initiative. In Lemberg the NKVD and the Jews assassinated three thousand people. So the people are taking their revenge, that’s normal. We asked the AOK to leave them a few days.”—“Zu Befehl, Brigadeführer.” I followed them out. Rasch and the Oberführer were having an animated discussion. In the courtyard, distinct from the stink of the corpses, rose the heavy, nauseating smell of fresh blood. Going out, I passed two Jews who were coming back in from the street under escort; one of them, a very young man, was sobbing violently, but in silence. I found Beck again next to the car and we returned to the Gruppenstab. I ordered Höfler to get the Opel ready and find Popp, then went to get the dispatches and the mail from the Leiter III. I also asked where Thomas was, since I wanted to say goodbye to him before leaving: “You’ll find him down by the boulevard,” I was told. “Go look in the Metropole Café, on Sykstuska.” In the courtyard, Popp and Höfler were ready. “Shall we go, Herr Obersturmführer?”—“Yes, but we’ll make a stop on the way. Go by the boulevard.” I found the Metropole easily. Inside, clusters of men were noisily talking; some, already drunk, were bellowing; near the bar, officers from the Rollbahn were drinking beer and commenting on the situation. I found Thomas in the back next to a blond young man in civilian clothes with a bloated, sullen face. They were drinking coffee. “Hi, Max! This is Oleg. A very well informed, intelligent man.” Oleg got up and shook my hand eagerly; he actually looked like a complete idiot. “Listen, I’m leaving now.” Thomas replied in French: “That’s very good. In any case we’ll see each other soon: according to the plan, your Kommandostab will be stationed in Zhitomir, with us.”—“Excellent.” He continued in German: “Good luck! Keep up your spirits.” I nodded to Oleg and went out. Our troops were still a long way away from Zhitomir, but Thomas seemed confident, he must have had good information. On the road, I lost myself with pleasure in the softness of the Galician countryside; we advanced slowly, in the dust of columns of trucks and equipment heading toward the front; from time to time the sun pierced through the long rows of white clouds that scrolled across the sky, a vast roof of shadows, cheerful and calm.

  I arrived in Lutsk in the afternoon. Blobel, according to von Radetzky, wouldn’t be returning right away; Häfner told us confidentially that in the end they had left him in an insane asylum run by the Wehrmacht. The reprisal Aktion had been carried out successfully, but no one seemed too eager to talk about it: “You
can count yourself lucky not to have been there,” Zorn whispered to me. On July 6, the Sonderkommando, still sticking to the advance of the Sixth Army, moved to Rovno, then quickly on to Tsviahel or Swjagel, which the Soviets call Novograd-Volynskiy. At each stage, Teilkommandos were detached to identify, arrest, and execute potential opponents. Most of them, it should be said, were Jews. But we also shot Commissars or cadres of the Bolshevik Party, when we found them, thieves, looters, farmers who were hiding their grain, Gypsies too, Beck would have been happy. Von Radetzky had explained to us that we had to reason in terms of objective threat: since unmasking each and every guilty individual was impossible, we had to identify the sociopolitical categories most liable to cause us harm, and act accordingly. In Lemberg, the new Ortskommandant, General Rentz, had little by little succeeded in reestablishing order and quieting things down; nonetheless, Einsatzkommando 6, and then Einsatzkommando 5, which had come to replace it, had continued executing hundreds of people outside the city. We were also beginning to have problems with the Ukrainians. On July 9, the brief independence experiment came to an abrupt end: the SP arrested Bandera and Stetsko and sent them under escort to Cracow, and their men were disarmed. But elsewhere, the OUN-B started a revolt; in Drohobycz, they opened fire on our troops, and several Germans were killed. From that time on we began to treat Bandera’s supporters too as an objective threat; the Melnykists, delighted, helped us identify them, and took control of the local administrations. On July 11, the Gruppenstab to which we were subordinated traded designations with the one attached to Army Group Center: from then on, our Einsatzgruppe was called “C”; the same day, our three Opel Admirals entered Zhitomir behind the tanks of the Sixth Army. A few days later, I was sent to reinforce this Vorkommando, while we waited for the rest of headquarters to catch up with us.