The Kindly Ones

I hesitated. I was hungry, but I couldn’t count on finding anything to eat. At home I had some food, but I didn’t know if my apartment still existed. I finally decided to go to the SS-Haus and report for duty. I set off down the Freidensallee at a run: in front of me, the Brandenburg Gate stood under its camouflage nets, intact. But behind it, almost all of Unter den Linden seemed to be in flames. The air was dense with smoke and dust, thick and hot, I was beginning to have trouble breathing. Clouds of sparks burst forth, crackling, from the buildings on fire. The wind was blowing ever more strongly. On the other side of the Pariser Platz, the Armaments Ministry was burning, partially crushed under the impacts. Secretaries wearing civil defense metal helmets were bustling about in the rubble, recovering files there too. A Mercedes with a fanion stood parked to the side; among the crowd of employees, I recognized Speer, bare-headed, his face black with soot. I went over to greet him and offered him my help; when he saw me, he shouted something to me that I didn’t understand. “You’re burning!” he repeated.—“What?” He came toward me, took me by the arm, turned me around, and beat my back with his open hand. Sparks must have set fire to my overcoat, but I hadn’t felt anything. Confused, I thanked him and asked him what I could do. “Nothing, really. I think we’ve gotten out what we could. My own office took a direct hit. There’s nothing left.” I looked around: the French embassy, the former British embassy, the Bristol Hotel, the offices of IG Farben—everything was heavily damaged or burning. The elegant façades of the Schinkel town houses, next to the Gate, stood out against a background of fire. “How awful,” I muttered.—“It’s terrible to say,” Speer said pensively, “but it’s better that they’re concentrating on the cities.”—“What do you mean, Herr Reichsminister?”—“During the summer, when they attacked the Ruhr, I was terrified. In August, they attacked Schweinfurt, where our entire production of ball bearings is concentrated. Then again in October. Our production fell by sixty-seven percent. You may not realize it, Sturmbannführer, but no ball bearings, no war. If they concentrate on Schweinfurt, we capitulate in two months, three at the most. Here”—he waved his hand at the fires—“they’re killing people, wasting all their resources on our cultural monuments.” He gave a dry, harsh laugh: “We were going to rebuild everything anyway. Ha!” I saluted him: “If you don’t need me, Herr Reichsminister, I’ll keep going. But I wanted to tell you that your request is being considered. I’ll contact you soon to tell you where things stand.” He shook my hand: “Fine, fine. Good night, Sturmbannführer.”