The Kindly Ones

It had begun to snow, a warm snow that didn’t stick. Then finally it lasted for a night or two, and gave a brief, strange beauty to the ruins of the city, before it melted and thickened the muck disfiguring the broken streets. With my tall riding boots, I walked through it without paying any attention—an orderly would clean them for me the next day—but Helene wore simple shoes, and when we reached a gray stretch thick with melted snow, I would look for a board I could throw over it, then hold her delicate hand so she could cross; and if even that was impossible, I carried her, light in my arms. On Christmas Eve, Thomas organized a small party in his new house in Dahlem, a luxurious little villa: as usual, he knew how to get by. Schellenberg was there with his wife, along with several other officers; I had invited Hohenegg, but hadn’t been able to locate Osnabrugge, who must have been in Poland still. Thomas seemed to have had his way with Liselotte, Helene’s friend: when she arrived, she kissed him passionately. Helene had put on a new dress, God knows where she had found the cloth, the restrictions were becoming more and more severe, she smiled charmingly and seemed happy. All the men, for once, were in civilian clothes. We had scarcely arrived when the sirens began wailing. Thomas reassured us by explaining that the planes coming from Italy almost never dropped their first bombs before Schöneberg and Tempelhof, and the ones from England passed north of Dahlem. Still, we dimmed the lights; thick black curtains masked the windows. The flak began to boom, Thomas put on a record, furious American jazz, and led Liselotte in a dance. Helene drank white wine and watched them dance; afterward, Thomas put on some slow music and she asked me to dance with her. Above we could hear the squadrons roaring; the flak barked without stopping, the windows trembled, we could scarcely hear the record; but Helene danced as if we were alone in a ballroom, leaning lightly on me, her hand firm in mine. Then she danced with Thomas while I exchanged a toast with Hohenegg. Thomas was right: to the north, we could sense more than hear an immense muffled vibration, but around us nothing fell. I looked at Schellenberg; he had gained weight, his successes didn’t encourage moderation. He was talking pleasantly with his specialists on our setbacks in Italy. Schellenberg, I had finally gathered from the few remarks Thomas sometimes let escape, thought he held the key to Germany’s future; he was convinced that if people listened to him, to him and his indisputable analyses, there would still be time to salvage something from the situation. The mere fact that he talked about salvaging something

was enough to make my hackles rise: but apparently he had the Reichsführer’s ear, and I wondered where he might have gotten with his schemes. Once the alert was over, Thomas tried to call the RSHA, but the lines were cut off. “Those bastards did it on purpose to ruin our Christmas,” he said to me. “But we won’t let them.” I looked at Helene: she was sitting next to Liselotte and talking animatedly. “She’s very nice, that girl,” declared Thomas, who had followed my gaze. “Why don’t you marry her?” I smiled: “Thomas, mind your own business.” He shrugged: “At least spread the rumor that you’re engaged. That way Brandt will get off your back.” I had told him about Brandt’s comments. “And you?” I retorted. “You’re a year older than I am. Don’t they bother you?” He laughed: “Me? It’s not the same thing. First of all, my congenital inability to stay more than a month with the same girl is well known. But above all”—he lowered his voice—“keep it to yourself, but I’ve already sent two of them to the

Lebensborn

. I hear the Reichsführer was delighted.” He went to put another jazz record on; I figured he must help himself from the Gestapo’s stocks of confiscated records. I followed him and asked Helene to dance again. At midnight, Thomas put out all the lights. I heard a girl’s joyful shout, a muffled laugh. Helene was next to me: for a brief instant, I felt her sweet, warm breath on my face, and her lips grazed mine. My heart was pounding. When the light returned, she said to me in a composed, calm way: “I have to go home. I didn’t tell my parents, with the alert they must be worried.” I had taken Piontek’s car. We drove up toward the center of town by the Kurfürstendamm; on our right, fires lit by the bombing were roaring. It had started to snow. Some bombs had fallen on the Tiergarten and on Moabit, but the damage seemed minor compared to the big raids of the previous month. In front of her building, she took my hand and briefly kissed my cheek: “Merry Christmas! See you soon.” I went back to get drunk in Dahlem, and ended the night on the carpet, having ceded the sofa to a secretary upset at having been ousted from the host’s bedroom by Liselotte.