The Kindly Ones

I watched them walk away under the snow toward the Zimmerstrasse. Thomas, whom I had come to meet, had joined me. “Who’s that?” he said, motioning with his head at the two silhouettes.—“Pains in the ass. Lunatics. Couldn’t you have them put into a concentration camp, to calm them down?” He shrugged: “If you have a valid reason, it’s possible. Shall we go eat?” Thomas, in fact, took hardly any interest in my problems; but he was very interested in Speer’s. “Things are hopping over there,” he said to me at the restaurant. “At the OT too. It’s very hard to follow. But obviously some people see his hospitalization as an opportunity.”—“An opportunity?”—“To replace him. Speer has made himself a lot of enemies. Bormann is against him, Sauckel too, all the Gauleiters, except Kaufmann and maybe Hanke.”—“And the Reichsführer?”—“The Reichsführer more or less supported him up to now. But that could change.”—“I have to confess that I don’t really understand the sense of all these intrigues,” I said slowly. “You just have to look at the numbers: without Speer, we’d probably already have lost the war. Now the situation is clearly critical. All of Germany should be united to confront this peril.” Thomas smiled: “You really still are an idealist. That’s fine! But most of the Gauleiters don’t see further than their own personal interests, or those of their Gau.”—“Well, instead of opposing Speer’s efforts to increase production, they’d do better to remember that if we lose, they too will all end up at the end of a rope. I’d call that their personal interest, wouldn’t you?”—“Certainly. But you must see that there’s something else in all that. There’s also a question of political vision. Schellenberg’s diagnosis isn’t accepted by everyone, nor are the solutions he recommends.” Now we’ve reached the crucial point, I said to myself. I lit a cigarette. “And what is your friend Schellenberg’s diagnosis? And the solutions?” Thomas looked around him. For the first time I could remember, he looked vaguely worried. “Schellenberg thinks that if we continue on like this, the war is lost, whatever Speer’s industrial prowess may be. He thinks the only viable solution is a separate peace with the West.”—“And you? What do you think?” He thought: “He isn’t wrong. I’m beginning to get into trouble at the

Staatspolizei, among certain circles, because of this business. Schellenberg has the Reichsführer’s ear, but he hasn’t convinced him yet. And a lot of other people don’t agree, such as Müller and Kaltenbrunner. Kaltenbrunner is trying to move closer to Bormann. If he succeeds, he could pose problems for the Reichsführer. At that level, Speer is a secondary problem.”—“I’m not saying Schellenberg is right. But what sort of solution do the others envisage? Given the industrial potential of the Americans, no matter what Speer does, time is against us.”—“I don’t know,” Thomas said dreamily. “I imagine they believe in the miracle weapons. You saw them. What do you think of them?” I shrugged: “I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re worth.” The food arrived and conversation turned to other things. During dessert, though, Thomas reverted to Bormann, with a mischievous smile. “You know, Kaltenbrunner is putting together a file on Bormann. I’m handling part of it for him.”—“On Bormann? You just told me he wanted to move closer to him.”—“That’s not a reason. Bormann has files on everyone, on the Reichsführer, on Speer, on Kaltenbrunner, even on you possibly.” He had put a toothpick in his mouth and was rolling it around on his tongue. “So, what I wanted to tell you…It’s between us, all right? Seriously…so Kaltenbrunner, then, has intercepted quite a few letters between Bormann and his wife. And we found some real gems there. Worthy of an anthology.” He leaned forward, looking cheeky. “Bormann was after some little actress. You know how hot-blooded he is, the top secretary-stud of the Reich. Schellenberg calls him The Typist Fucker

. Well, he got her. But the great thing is that he wrote about it to his wife, who is Buch’s daughter, you know, the head of the Party Court? She’s already given him nine or ten kids, I’ve lost count. And she answers, basically: That’s fine, I’m not angry, I’m not jealous. And she suggests he bring the girl home. And then she writes: Given the terrible decline in child production caused by this war, we will work out a system of motherhood by shifts, so that you will always have a wife who is usable.” Thomas paused, smiling, while I burst out laughing: “No kidding! She really wrote that?”—“I swear it.

A wife who is usable. Can you believe it?” He was laughing too. “And Bormann, do you know what he answered?” I asked.—“Oh, he congratulated her, of course. Then he fed her some ideological platitudes. I think he called her a pure child of National Socialism

. But it’s obvious that he was saying that to make her happy. Bormann doesn’t believe in anything. Aside from the absolute elimination of anything that could come between him and the Führer.” I looked at him, mocking: “And you, what do you believe in?” I wasn’t disappointed by his answer. Straightening up on his banquette, he declared: “To quote a passage written by our illustrious Minister of Propaganda in his youth: The important thing is not so much what one believes; the important thing is to believe.” I smiled; Thomas sometimes impressed me. I said so to him: “Thomas, you impress me.”—“What do you expect? I’m not satisfied with stagnating in back offices. I’m a real National Socialist, I am. And Bormann too, in his own way. Your Speer, I’m not so sure. He has talent, but I don’t think he’s very devoted to the regime he’s serving.” I smiled again, thinking about Schellenberg. Thomas went on: “The more difficult things become, the more we’ll be able to count only on the real National Socialists. The rats are all going to start to jump ship. You’ll see.”