The Kindly Ones

For the evening reception, Frank had not skimped. An honor guard, swords in hand, uniforms streaming with gold stripes, formed a diagonal line across the main courtyard of the Wawel; on the stairway, other soldiers presented arms at every third step; at the entrance to the ballroom, Frank himself, in an SA uniform and flanked by his wife, a stout woman with her white flesh bursting out of a monstrous green velvet concoction, was welcoming his guests. The Wawel gleamed with all its lights: from the town you could see it sparkling atop its cliff; garlands of electric lightbulbs decorated the tall columns surrounding the courtyard, and soldiers, posted behind the guard of honor, held torches; and if you left the ballroom to stroll in the loggias, the courtyard looked as if it were circled by flaming rings, a well of light at the bottom of which the parallel rows of torches gently roared; on the other side of the palace, from the immense balcony jutting out of its flank, the city, below the guests’ feet, stretched out dark and silent. On a stage at the back of the main hall, an orchestra was playing Viennese waltzes; the GG officials had brought their wives; some couples were dancing, others were drinking, laughing, digging into the hors d’oeuvres on the overloaded tables, or, like me, studying the crowd. Aside from some colleagues from the Reichsführer’s delegation, I didn’t recognize many people. I examined the coffered, multicolored ceiling made of precious wood, with a polychrome head in relief set into each square—bearded soldiers, hat-wearing burghers, feathered courtiers, coquettish ladies—all contemplating vertically, impassive, the strange invaders below them. Beyond the main staircase, Frank had had other rooms opened, each one with a buffet, armchairs, sofas, for those who wanted to rest or be quiet. Large, handsome ancient carpets broke the harmonious perspectives of the black-and-white tiled floor, muting the footsteps that resounded elsewhere on marble. Two helmeted guards, swords drawn and held in front of their noses like English Horse Guards, framed each door leading from one room to the other. Glass of wine in hand, I wandered through these rooms, admiring the friezes, the ceilings, the paintings; the Poles, alas, had at the beginning of the war taken away Sigismond Augustus’s famous Flemish tapestries: they were said to be in England, or even Canada, and Frank had often denounced what he regarded as the looting of the Polish cultural heritage. Bored, I finally joined a group of SS officers talking about the fall of Naples and Skorzeny’s exploits. I listened to them absentmindedly, for a curious noise had come to capture my attention, a kind of rhythmic scraping noise. It grew closer and I looked around; I felt a bump against my boot and lowered my eyes: a multicolored pedal car, driven by a handsome blond child, had just rammed into me. The child was looking at me severely without saying anything, his chubby little hands gripping the steering wheel; he must have been four or five, and wore a pretty little houndstooth suit. I smiled, but he still didn’t say anything. Then I understood and stepped aside with a little bow; still silent, he began again to pedal furiously, heading toward a neighboring room and disappearing between the caryatid guards. A few minutes later I heard him come back: he was charging straight ahead without paying attention to people, who had to step out of his way. Having reached a buffet, he paused and extricated himself from his vehicle to get a piece of cake; but his little arm was too short; even standing on tiptoe he couldn’t reach anything. I went over and asked: “Which do you want?” Still silent, he pointed to a Sacher torte. “Do you speak German?” I asked him. He looked indignant: “Of course I speak German!”—“So you should have learned to say bitte.” He shook his head: “I don’t need to say bitte!”—“And why is that?”—“Because my papa is the King of Poland, and everyone here has to obey him!” I nodded: “That’s very good. But you should learn to recognize uniforms. I don’t serve your father, I serve the Reichsführer-SS. So if you want some cake, you have to say bitte

to me.” The child, his lips pinched, hesitated; he must not have been used to such resistance. Finally he gave in: “Can I have the cake, bitte?” I took a piece of torte and handed it to him. As he ate, smearing his mouth with chocolate, he examined my uniform. Then he pointed at my Iron Cross: “Are you a hero?”—“In a way, yes.”—“Have you been to war?”—“Yes.”—“My papa commands, but he doesn’t go to war.”—“I know. Do you live here all the time?” He nodded. “And do you like living in a castle?” He shrugged: “It’s all right. But there aren’t any other children.”—“You have brothers and sisters, though?” He nodded: “Yes. But I don’t play with them.”—“Why not?”—“Dunno. That’s how it is.” I wanted to ask his name, but a big commotion was taking place at the entrance to the room: a crowd was headed toward us, Frank and the Reichsführer in the lead. “Ah, there you are!” Frank exclaimed to the little boy. “Come, come with us. You too, Sturmbannführer.” Frank took his son in his arms and pointed to the car: “Could you carry that?” I picked the car up and followed them. The crowd crossed all the rooms and massed in front of a door that Frank had opened. Then he stood aside to let Himmler pass: “After you, my dear Reichsführer. Come in, come in.” He put his son down and pushed him in front of him, hesitated, searched me out with his eyes, then whispered to me: “Just leave that in a corner. We’ll get it later.” I followed them into the room and went to put the car down. In the center of the room there was a large table with something on top of it beneath a black sheet. Frank, with the Reichsführer at his side, waited for the other guests and arranged them around the table, which was at least three-by-four meters. The little boy, again, stood against the table on tiptoe, but barely reached the top. Frank looked around, saw me standing a little apart, and called to me: “Excuse me, Sturmbannführer. You’re already friends, I see. Would you mind carrying him so he can see?” I bent down and took the child in my arms; Frank made room for me next to him, and while the last guests came in, he ran his pointed fingers through his hair and fiddled with one of his medals; he seemed scarcely able to contain his impatience. When everyone was there, Frank turned to Himmler and declared in a solemn voice: “My dear Reichsführer, what you are now about to see is an idea that has occupied my spare time for a while now. It’s a project that, I hope, will make the city of Cracow, capital of the Generalgouvernement of Poland, famous, and will be an attraction for all of Germany. When it is finished, I plan on dedicating it to the Führer for his birthday. But since you are giving us the pleasure of visiting us, I don’t want to keep it secret any longer.” His puffy face, with its weak, sensual features, gleamed with pleasure; the Reichsführer, his hands crossed behind his back, contemplated him through his pince-nez with a half-sarcastic, half-bored look. I hoped more than anything that he would hurry up: the child was beginning to get heavy. Frank gave a signal, and some soldiers pulled the sheet, revealing a large architectural model, a kind of park, with trees and curving paths, outlined between houses of different styles, surrounded by a wall. While Frank puffed himself up, Himmler scrutinized the model. “What is it?” he finally asked. “It looks like a zoo.”—“Almost, my dear Reichsführer,” Frank chuckled, his thumbs in the pockets of his tunic. “It is, in the words of the Viennese, a Menschengarten, an anthropological garden that I hope to establish here, in Cracow.” He made a wide gesture over the model. “You remember, my dear Reichsführer, in our youth, before the war, those Hagenbeck Völkerschauen

? With families of Samoans, Laplanders, Sudanese? One of them came to Munich, my father took me to see it; you must have seen it too. And there were some in Hamburg, Frankfurt, Basel, it was a huge success.” The Reichsführer rubbed his chin: “Yes, yes, I remember. They were traveling exhibitions, right?”—“Yes. But this one will be permanent, like a zoo. And it won’t be a public amusement, my dear Reichsführer, but a pedagogical, scientific tool. We will gather together specimens of all the peoples who have disappeared or are about to disappear in Europe, to preserve a living trace of them this way. German schoolchildren will come in buses to learn here! Look, look.” He pointed to one of the houses: it was half open, sectioned; inside, one could see little figurines sitting around a table, with a seven-branched candelabrum. “For the Jew, for example, I chose the Jew from Galicia as the best representative of the Ostjuden. The house is typical of their filthy habitat; of course, it will have to be disinfected regularly, and the specimens subjected to medical supervision, to avoid contaminating the visitors. For these Jews, I want pious ones, very pious, we’ll give them a Talmud, and the visitors can see them muttering their prayers, or watch the wife prepare kosher food. Over here are Polish peasants from Masuria; over there, Bolshevized Kolkhozniks; and there, Ruthenians, and over there, Ukrainians, see, with the embroidered shirts. This big building here will house an institute for anthropological research; I will endow it with a chair myself; scholars can come and study on-site these peoples who were once so numerous. It will be a unique opportunity for them.”—“Fascinating,” the Reichsführer murmured. “And ordinary visitors?”—“They can walk freely around the fences, watch the specimens working in their gardens, beating rugs, hanging out the wash. Then there will be guided tours of the houses, which will allow them to observe the habitat and customs.”—“And how would you maintain the institution in the long run? After all, your specimens will grow old, and some will die.”—“That is precisely, my dear Reichsführer, where I would need your support. They will marry among themselves and reproduce. One single family will be exhibited at a time; the others will serve to replace them if they fall ill, to procreate, to teach the children the customs, the prayers and the rest. I picture them being guarded nearby in a camp, under SS surveillance.”—“If the Führer authorized it, it would be possible. But we’ll have to discuss it. It’s not certain that it’s desirable to preserve certain races from extinction, even this way. It could be dangerous.”—“Of course, every precaution will be taken. In my opinion, such an institution will be found to be precious and irreplaceable for science. How do you think future generations will be able to understand the amplitude of our work, if they have no idea of the conditions that prevailed before?”—“You are certainly right, my dear Frank. It’s a fine idea. And how do you plan to finance this…Völkerschauplatz?”—“On a commercial basis. Only the research institute will receive government subsidies. For the park itself, we will create a public corporation to raise capital by subscription. Once the initial investment is amortized, the entry fees will cover the cost of upkeep. I looked into the Hagenbeck exhibitions: they made considerable profits. The Paris Jardin d’Acclimatation regularly lost money until its director organized ethnological exhibits of Nubians and Eskimos, in 1877. The first year, they drew a million paying visitors. That continued until the Great War.” The Reichsführer was nodding: “A fine idea.” He examined the model up close; Frank pointed out a detail to him from time to time. The little boy had begun to squirm, so I put him down: he got into his pedal car and fled out the door. The guests were also leaving. In one of the rooms, I found Bierkamp, as unctuous as always, with whom I talked a little. Then I went out to smoke under the colonnade, admiring the baroque splendor of the illuminations, of the martial, barbaric guard who seemed specially designed to bring out the gracious forms of the palace. “Good evening,” a voice next to me said. “It’s impressive, isn’t it?” I turned around and recognized Osnabrugge, the friendly civil engineer I had met in Kiev. “Hello! What a nice surprise.”—“Ah, there’s been a lot of water under the destroyed bridges of the Dnieper.” He was holding a glass of red wine and we toasted our meeting. “So,” he asked, “what brings you to the Frankreich

?”—“I’m with the Reichsführer. And you?” His nice oval face took on a look that was both mischievous and knowing: “State secret!” He creased his eyes and smiled: “But to you, I can say it: I’m on a mission for the OKH. I’m preparing demolition programs for the bridges in the districts of Lublin and Galicia.” I looked at him, stunned: “For what earthly reason?”—“In the event of a Soviet advance, you know.”—“But the Bolsheviks are on the Dnieper!” He rubbed his pug nose; his pate, I noticed, had grown much balder. “They crossed it today,” he finally said. “They also took Nevel.”—“But that’s still far away. We’ll stop them first. Don’t you think your preparations are a little defeatist?”—“Not at all: it’s foresight. A quality still prized by the military, I assure you. But in any case I’m just doing what I’m told. I did the same thing in Smolensk in the spring and in Byelorussia during the summer.”—“And what does a bridge demolition program consist of, can you explain it to me?” He looked mournful: “Oh, it’s not very complicated. Local engineers write up studies of each bridge to be demolished; I look them over, approve them, and afterward we calculate the necessary amount of explosives for the whole area, the number of detonators, et cetera, then we decide where and how to store them, on-site; finally we outline the different stages that will allow local commanders to know exactly when and where they should set the explosives, when they should set up the detonators, and under what conditions they should press the button. A plan, you know. So in case anything crops up, we wouldn’t have to leave the bridges for the enemy because we didn’t have anything on hand to blow them up.”—“And you still haven’t built any?”—“Unfortunately not! My mission in the Ukraine was my downfall: the chief engineer of the OKHG South liked my report on Soviet demolitions so much that he forwarded it to the OKH. I was recalled to Berlin and promoted to the Demolitions Department—just for bridges, there are other sections that take care of factories, railroads, roads; airfields are the Luftwaffe’s responsibility, but occasionally we hold conferences together. So since then, that’s all I’ve been doing. All the bridges on the Manych and the lower Don, that’s me. The Donets, the Desna, the Oka, that’s me too. I’ve already had hundreds blown up. It’s enough to make you cry. My wife is happy, because I’ve gone up in rank”—he tapped his epaulettes: in fact, he had been promoted several times since Kiev—“but it breaks my heart. Every time I feel as if I’m killing a child.”—“You shouldn’t take it that way, Herr Oberst. After all, they’re just Soviet bridges.”—“Yes, but if it keeps up, someday they’ll be German bridges.” I smiled: “That’s really defeatism.”—“I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m filled with discouragement. Even when I was little, I liked to build things, when all my classmates just wanted to break them.”—“There’s no justice. Come, let’s go in and fill our glasses.” In the main hall, the orchestra was playing Liszt and some couples were still dancing. Frank was sitting around a table with Himmler and his Staatsekretär Bühler, talking animatedly and drinking coffee and Cognac; even the Reichsführer, who was smoking a fat cigar, had, contrary to his custom, a full glass in front of him. Frank was leaning forward, his moist gaze already misted over by alcohol; Himmler was frowning stiffly: he must have disapproved of the music. I clinked glasses again with Osnabrugge while the piece came to an end. When the orchestra stopped, Frank, his glass of Cognac in hand, got up. Looking at Himmler, he declared in a voice that was strong but too shrill: “My dear Reichsführer, you must know the popular old quatrain: Clarum regnum Polonorum / Est coelum Nobiliorum / Paradisum Judeorum / Et infernum Rusticorum. The nobles disappeared a long time ago, and now, thanks to our efforts, the Jews too; the peasantry, in the future, will only grow richer and will bless us; and Poland will be the Heaven and Paradise of the German people, Coelum et Paradisum Germanorium.” His shaky Latin made a woman standing nearby titter; Frau Frank, sprawling not far from her husband like a Hindu idol, glared at her. Impassive, his eyes cold and inscrutable behind his little pince-nez, the Reichsführer raised his glass and wet his lips with it. Frank walked around the table, crossed the hall, and leaped nimbly onto the stage. The pianist jumped up and disappeared; Frank slid into his place and, with a deep breath, shook his long, chubby white hands over the keyboard, then began to play a Chopin Nocturne

. The Reichsführer sighed; he blinked rapidly and puffed vigorously on his cigar, which was threatening to go out. Osnabrugge leaned toward me: “In my opinion, the Generalgouverneur is teasing your Reichsführer on purpose. Don’t you think?”—“That would be a little childish, wouldn’t it?”—“He’s annoyed. They say he tried to resign last month, and that the Führer refused again.”—“If I understood right, he doesn’t control much here.”—“According to my Wehrmacht colleagues, nothing at all. Poland is a Frankreich ohne Reich. Or rather ohne Frank.”—“In short, a little prince rather than a king.” That said, aside from the choice of music—even if you have to play Chopin, there are surely better things than the Nocturnes—Frank played pretty well, but used too much pedal. I looked at his wife, whose shoulders and chest, fat and flushed, were gleaming with sweat in her low-cut dress: her little eyes, set deep into her face, shone with pride. The boy seemed to have disappeared, I hadn’t heard the obsessive rolling of his pedal car for some time. It was getting late, some guests were taking their leave; Brandt had gone over to the Reichsführer and, calmly contemplating the scene with his birdlike attentive face, was standing at the ready. I scribbled my telephone numbers into a notebook, tore out the sheet, and gave it to Osnabrugge. “Here. If you’re in Berlin, call me, we’ll go out for a drink.”—“Are you leaving?” I pointed to Himmler with my chin, and Osnabrugge raised his eyebrows: “Ah. Good night, then. It was a pleasure seeing you again.” Onstage, Frank was concluding his piece, nodding to the beat. I made a face: even for Chopin, it wouldn’t do, the Generalgouverneur was really overdoing the legato.