I left the old town by the shortest route and with difficulty made my way through the jubilant crowd. At the Gruppenstab things were very animated. The same officer welcomed me: “Oh, it’s you again.” Finally, Brigadeführer Dr. Rasch received me. He shook my hand cordially, but his massive face remained severe. “Have a seat. What happened with Standartenführer Blobel?” He wasn’t wearing a cap and his broad domed forehead shone under the lightbulb. I briefly described Blobel’s collapse: “According to the doctor, it was due to fever and exhaustion.” His thick lips sketched a pout. He leafed through the papers on his desk and took out a sheet. “The Ic from AOK Six wrote to me to complain about his remarks. Apparently he threatened some officers from the Wehrmacht?”—“That’s an exaggeration, Brigadeführer. It is true that he was delirious, he was making incoherent remarks. But he wasn’t after anyone in particular, it was just an effect of the illness.”—“Good.” He questioned me on a few other points, then signaled that the discussion was over. “Sturmbannführer von Radetzky is already back from Lutsk, he’ll take the Standartenführer’s place until he recovers. I’ll have the orders drawn up, together with some other papers. For tonight, go find Hartl over in Personnel, he’ll see to it that you’re put up somewhere.” I left and went in search of the office of the Leiter I; one of his subordinates issued me some ration coupons. Then I went downstairs to find Höfler and Popp. In the lobby, I ran into Thomas. “Max!” He slapped me on the shoulder and I was filled with a sudden flush of joy. “I’m happy to see you here. What are you doing?” I explained to him. “And you’re staying till tomorrow? That’s wonderful. I’m going to have dinner with some people from the Abwehr, in a little restaurant, a good one, apparently. You’ll come with us. Did they find you a bunk? It’s not the Ritz, but at least you’ll have clean sheets. It’s good you didn’t arrive yesterday: it was a real mess. The Reds trashed everything before they left, and the Ukrainians came through before we arrived. We had some Jews clean up but it took hours, we didn’t get to bed till morning.” I arranged to meet him in the garden behind the building and left him. Popp was snoring in the Opel, but Höfler was playing cards with some policemen; I explained the arrangements to him and went to smoke in the garden as I waited for Thomas.

Thomas was a good friend, I was really glad to see him again. We had been friends for several years; in Berlin, we often had dinner together; sometimes he took me with him to nightclubs, or to famous concert halls. He was a bon vivant who knew his way around. And it was mostly thanks to him that I had found myself in Russia; at least the suggestion had come from him. But actually the story goes back a little further than that. In the spring of 1939, I had just received my doctorate in law and joined the SD, and there was a lot of talk of war. After Bohemia and Moravia, the Führer was turning his attention to Danzig; the whole problem was to anticipate the reaction of France and Great Britain. Most people thought that they wouldn’t risk war for Danzig any more than they would for Prague; but they had guaranteed the western border of Poland, and were rearming as quickly as possible. I had a long discussion about it with Dr. Best, my superior and also somewhat my mentor at the SD. In theory, he said, we shouldn’t be afraid of war; war was the logical outcome of our Weltanschauung. Quoting from Hegel and Jünger, he argued that the State could reach its ideal point of unity only in and through war: “If the individual is the negation of the State, then war is the negation of that negation. War is the moment of absolute socialization of the collective existence of the people, the Volk.” But in high places they had more prosaic concerns. Ribbentrop’s ministry, the Abwehr, our own foreign affairs department, each evaluated the situation in his own way. One day, I was called in to see the Chief, Reinhard Heydrich. This was my first time and I felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety as I entered his office. Rigidly concentrated, he was working on a pile of reports, and I stood at attention for several minutes before he made a sign for me to sit down. I had time to observe him up close. I had of course seen him many times, during staff conferences or in the hallways of the Prinz-Albrecht-Palais; but whereas at a distance he presented the very embodiment of the Nordic Übermensch, up close he gave a curious impression, somewhat blurred. I finally decided that it must be a question of proportion: beneath an abnormally high, domed forehead, his mouth was too wide, his lips too thick for his narrow face; his hands seemed too long, like nervous algae attached to his arms. When he raised his little eyes, set too close together, toward me, they didn’t stay in place; and when he finally spoke to me, his voice seemed much too high for a man with such a powerful body. He gave me a disturbing feeling of femininity, which only made him more sinister. His sentences fell rapidly, short, tense; he almost never finished them; but the meaning always remained crisp and clear. “I have a mission for you, Doktor Aue.” The Reichsführer was dissatisfied with the reports he was receiving about the intentions of the Western powers. He wanted another evaluation, independent from that of the foreign department. Everyone knew that in those countries there was a strong pacifist trend, especially within nationalist or pro-fascist circles; but what was still hard to judge was their influence on the governments. “You know Paris well, I think. According to your file you were connected to circles close to the Action Française. Those people have acquired a certain amount of importance since then.” I tried to get in a word but Heydrich interrupted me: “That doesn’t matter.” He wanted me to go to Paris and strike up again with my old acquaintances, to study the actual political weight of the pacifist circles. I was to use the end-of-term vacation as a pretext. Naturally, I was to repeat National Socialist Germany’s pacifist intentions toward France to anyone who cared to listen. “Dr. Hauser will go with you. But you’ll submit separate reports. Standartenführer Taubert will provide you with the necessary currency and documents. Is everything clear?” In fact, I felt completely lost, but he had caught me by surprise. “Zu Befehl, Gruppenführer,” was all I could say. “Fine. Be back by the end of July. Dismissed.”

I went to see Thomas. I was pleased he was leaving with me: as a student, he had spent several years in France, and his French was excellent. “What a face!” he said when he saw me. “You should be happy. A mission—they’ve given you a mission, that’s all.” I suddenly realized that in fact it was a godsend. “You’ll see. If we succeed, that’ll open quite a few doors to us. Things will start moving, soon, and there will be room for people who know how to seize the moment.” He had gone to see Schellenberg, who was acting as Heydrich’s main advisor for foreign affairs; Schellenberg had explained to him what they were expecting of us. “All you have to do is read the papers to know who wants war and who doesn’t. What’s more delicate is to gauge the actual influence of the various groups. And especially the actual influence of the Jews. The Führer, apparently, is convinced that they want to lead Germany into another war; but will the French stand for it? That’s the question.” He laughed openly: “And also in Paris you eat well! And the girls are beautiful.” The mission went off without any obstacles. I found my old friends—Robert Brasillach, who was getting ready to tour Spain in a mobile home with his sister Suzanne and Bardèche, his brother-in-law, Blond, Rebatet, some others I didn’t know as well, all my old comrades from my preparatory classes and my years at the ELSP. At night, Rebatet, half drunk, dragged me through the Latin Quarter to comment knowledgeably about the freshly painted graffiti, MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN, on the walls of the Sorbonne; during the day, he sometimes took me to see Céline, who had become extraordinarily famous and who had just published a second vitriolic pamphlet; in the Metro, Poulain, a friend of Brasillach, declaimed whole passages of it to me: There is no fundamental, irremediable hatred between Frenchmen and Germans. What does exist is a permanent, implacable, Judeo-British machination to prevent at all costs Europe from reforming into a single unified Franco-German nation, as it was before 843. The whole Judeo-Britannic genius lies in leading us from one conflict to another, from one carnage to another, slaughters from which we regularly emerge, always, in an atrocious condition, Frenchmen and Germans, bled dry, completely at the mercy of the Jews of the City. As for Gaxotte and Robert himself, who L’Humanité claimed were in prison, they explained to anyone who would listen that all of French politics were guided by the astrology books of Trarieux d’Egmont, who had had the good fortune to predict with precision the date of Munich. The French government—a bad sign—had just expelled Abetz and the other German envoys. Everyone was interested in my opinion: “Ever since Versailles has gone to the scrap heap of history, there is no more French question, for us. No one in Germany has claims on Alsace or on Lorraine. But with Poland, things aren’t settled. We don’t understand what’s motivating France to get mixed up in it.” And it was a fact that the French government wanted to get mixed up in it. Those who didn’t credit the Jewish theory blamed England: “They want to protect their Empire. Ever since Napoleon, that’s been their policy: no single continental power.” Others thought that on the contrary England was still reluctant to intervene, that it was the French General Staff that, dreaming of a Russian alliance, wanted to attack Germany before it was too late. Despite their enthusiasm, my friends were pessimistic: “The French right is pissing in the wind,” Rebatet told me one night. “For honor’s sake.” Everyone seemed glumly to accept the fact that war would come, sooner or later. The right blamed the left and the Jews; the left and the Jews, of course, blamed Germany. I didn’t see Thomas much. Once, I took him to the bistro where I would meet up with the team from Je Suis Partout, introducing him as a university friend. “Is he your Pylades, then?” Brasillach acerbically snarled at me in Greek. “Exactly,” Thomas retorted in the same language, modulated by his soft Viennese accent. “And he is my Orestes. Beware the power of armed friendship.” He himself had developed contacts in the business world; while I was making do with wine and pasta in attic rooms crowded with excited young people, he was eating foie gras in the best brasseries in town. “Taubert will foot the bill,” he laughed. “Why should we stint?”