The Kindly Ones

I immediately made an appointment with Judge Baumann. He received me in his office at court: a jurist in a Standartenführer’s uniform, getting on in years, with a square face and a crooked nose, and a fighter’s look. I had put on my best uniform and all my medals. After I had saluted him, he asked me to sit down. “Thank you for receiving me, Herr Richter,” I said, using the customary address instead of his SS rank. “Not at all, Obersturmbannführer. It’s the least I could do.” He opened a folder on his desk. “I asked for your personal file. I hope you don’t mind.”—“Not at all, Herr Richter. Allow me to tell you what I plan on telling the Reichsführer: I regard these accusations, which touch me in such a personal question, hateful. I am ready to cooperate with you in every way possible so they can be completely refuted.” Baumann gave a discreet cough: “You understand that I haven’t yet ordered an investigation. I can’t do so without the Reichsführer’s agreement. The case file I have is very meager. I made the request based on an appeal from the Kripo, which states they have convincing information that their investigators would like to look into.”—“Herr Richter, I spoke twice with those investigators. All they gave me by way of information was groundless insinuations without proof, some—excuse me—delirious fabrication of their own fantasy.”—“That is possible,” he said pleasantly. “I see here that you attended the best universities. If you had gone on with law, we might have ended up colleagues. I know Dr. Jessen very well, your old professor. A very good jurist.” He went on leafing through the file. “Excuse me, but did your father fight with the Freikorps Rossbach, in Courland? I remember an officer named Aue.” He said the Christian name. My heart began beating violently. “That is my father’s name, Herr Richter. But I don’t know anything about what you ask. My father disappeared in 1921, and I haven’t heard anything about him since. It’s possible it’s the same man. Do you know what became of him?”—“Unfortunately not. I lost sight of him during the retreat, in December of ’nineteen. He was still alive, at the time. I also heard that he had taken part in the Kapp putsch. Many Baltikumer

were there.” He thought. “You could do some research. There are still Freikorps veterans’ associations.”—“Yes, Herr Richter. That’s an excellent idea.” He coughed again and settled into his armchair. “Good. Let’s return, if you don’t mind, to your affair. What can you tell me about it?” I gave him the same narrative I had given Brandt. “It’s a horrible business,” he said at the end. “You must have been extremely upset.”—“Of course, Herr Richter. And I was even more so by the accusations of those two defenders of the public order who have never, I am sure, spent a day at the front and who allow themselves to slander the name of an SS officer.” Baumann scratched his chin: “I can understand how wounding that is for you, Obersturmbannführer. But perhaps the best solution would be to shed the full light of day on the affair.”—“I have nothing to fear, Herr Richter. I will accept the decision of the Reichsführer.”—“You are right.” He got up and accompanied me to the door. “I still have some old photographs from Courland. If you like, I can take a look and see if there’s one of that Aue.”—“Herr Richter, I’d be delighted.” In the hallway he shook my hand. “Don’t worry about all this, Obersturmbannführer. Heil Hitler!” My interview with the Reichsführer took place the next day and was brief and conclusive. “What is this ridiculous story, Obersturmbannführer?”—“They’re accusing me of being a murderer, my Reichsführer. It would be comical if it weren’t so tragic.” I briefly explained the circumstances to him. Himmler quickly made up his mind: “Obersturmbannführer, I’m beginning to know you. You have your faults: you are, excuse me for saying so, stubborn and sometimes pedantic. But I don’t see the slightest trace of a moral defect in you. Racially, you are a perfect Nordic specimen, with perhaps just a touch of alpine blood. Only the racially degenerate nations, Poles, Gypsies, can commit matricide. Or else a hot-blooded Italian, during a quarrel, not in cold blood. No, it’s ridiculous. The Kripo is completely lacking in discernment. I’ll have to give instructions to Gruppenführer Nebe to have his men trained in racial analysis, they’ll waste much less time that way. Of course I won’t authorize the investigation. That’s all we need.”