The Kindly Ones

I found my driver next to his vehicle, looking very upset: it no longer had any windows, and the whole side had been crushed in by the car next to it, propelled by the blast of an explosion. Of the baby carriages, only scattered debris remained on the square. The zoo was burning again, you could hear atrocious sounds, the bellowing, trumpeting, lowing of dying animals. “The poor beasts,” Helene murmured, “they don’t know what’s happening to them.” The driver was only thinking about his car. I went to find some Schupos so they could help us free it. The passenger door was jammed; I had Helene get in the back, then slipped in over the driver’s seat. The ride turned out to be a little complicated, we had to take a detour through the Tiergarten, because of the blocked streets, but I was happy to see, passing by Flensburgerstrasse, that my building had survived. Alt Moabit, aside from a few stray bombs, had been more or less spared, and I dropped Helene off in front of her small building. “Now,” I said as I left her, “I know where you live. If you don’t mind, I’ll come visit when things have calmed down a little.”—“I’d be delighted,” she replied with again that very beautiful, calm smile she had. Then I went back to the Eden Hotel, where I found nothing but a gaping shell in flames. Three bombs had gone through the roof and nothing was left. Fortunately the bar had held up, the hotel residents had escaped with their lives and had been evacuated. My Georgian neighbor was drinking Cognac straight from the bottle with some other now-homeless people; as soon as he saw me, he made me take a swig. “I’ve lost everything! Everything! What I miss most are the shoes. Four new pairs!”—“Do you have a place to go?” He shrugged: “I’ve got some friends not too far away. On Rauchstrasse.”—“Come on, I’ll drive you there.” The house that the Georgian pointed out had no more windows but seemed still inhabited. I waited for a few minutes while he went in to see what he could find out. He returned looking cheerful: “Perfect! They’re going to Marienbad, I’ll leave with them. Will you come in and have a drink?” I refused politely, but he insisted: “Come on! For the pososhok

.” I felt drained, exhausted. I wished him good luck and left without further ado. At the

Staatspolizei

, an Untersturmführer told me that Thomas had found refuge at Schellenberg’s place. I had a bite to eat, had a bed set up for me in the improvised dormitory, and fell asleep.