I still had to see Oswald Pohl, the big boss of the WVHA. He received me, in his offices on Unter den Eichen, with expansive cordiality and chatted with me about Kiel, where he had spent many years in the Kriegsmarine. It was there, in the Kasino, that the Reichsführer had noticed and recruited him, in the summer of 1933. Pohl had begun by centralizing the administration and finances of the SS, then little by little had built up his network of companies. “Like any multinational, we’re very diversified. We’re in construction materials, wood, ceramics, furniture, publishing, even mineral water.”—“Mineral water?”—“Oh! That’s very important. It allows us to provide our Waffen-SS with drinkable water throughout all the territories in the East.” He said he was particularly proud of one of his recent creations: Osti, the East Industries, a corporation set up in the district of Lublin in order to put the remaining Jews to work for the SS. But despite his geniality, he quickly grew vague as soon as I wanted to talk to him about the Arbeitseinsatz in general; according to him, most of the effective measures were in place, it was simply a matter of giving them time to take effect. I questioned him about the criteria of selection, but he referred me to the functionaries in Oranienburg: “They know the details better. But I can guarantee you that ever since the selection has been medicalized, it’s going very well.” He assured me that the Reichsführer was fully informed of all these problems. “I don’t doubt it, Obergruppenführer,” I replied. “But the Reichsführer has put me in charge of seeing what the points of blockage are and what possible improvements there might be. The fact of having been integrated into the WVHA, under your orders, has entailed considerable modifications in our system of National Socialist camps, and the measures that you ordered or encouraged, as well as your choice of subordinates, have had a massively positive impact. The Reichsführer, I think, simply wants now to obtain an overall picture. Your suggestions for the future will count enormously, I don’t doubt that for an instant.” Did Pohl feel threatened by my mission? After this soothing little speech, he changed the subject; but a little later, he became animated again and even went out with me to introduce me to some of his co-workers. He invited me to come back and see him when I returned from my inspection (I was to leave for Poland soon, and also to visit some camps in the Reich); he followed me into the hallway, putting his hand on my shoulder in a familiar way; outside, I turned around, he was still waving his hand, smiling: “Bon voyage!”

Eichmann had kept his word: when I returned from Lichtenfelde at the end of the afternoon, I found on my desk a large sealed envelope marked GEHEIME REICHSSACHE! It contained a bundle of documents accompanied by a typed letter; there was also a handwritten note from Eichmann inviting me to his place the next evening. Driven by Piontek, I went to buy some flowers first—an uneven number, as I had learned to do in Russia—and some chocolate. Then I had him drop me off at the Kurfürstenstrasse. Eichmann had his apartment in a wing of his office building, intended too for single officers passing through. He opened the door himself, dressed in civilian clothes: “Ach! Sturmbannführer Aue. I should have told you not to come in uniform. It’s a very simple soirée. But that’s fine. Come in, come in.” He introduced me to his wife, Vera, a small Austrian with a discreet personality, but who blushed with pleasure and gave a charming smile when I handed her the flowers with a low bow. Eichmann had two of his children line up, Dieter, who must have been six, and Klaus. “Little Horst is already asleep,” Frau Eichmann said.—“He’s our latest one,” her husband added. “He’s not yet a year old. Come, I’ll introduce you.” He led me into the living room where there were already several men and women, standing or sitting on sofas. There were, if I remember correctly, Hauptsturmführer Novak, an Austrian of Croatian origin with firm, angular features, quite handsome but curiously arrogant; Boll, the violinist; and some others whose names I have unfortunately forgotten, all colleagues of Eichmann’s, with their wives. “Günther will come by too, but just for a cup of tea. He rarely joins us.”—“I see you cultivate the spirit of camaraderie in your section.”—“Yes, yes. I like having friendly relations with my subordinates. What would you like to drink? A little schnapps? Krieg ist Krieg…” I laughed and he joined in with me: “You have a good memory, Obersturmbannführer.” I took the glass and raised it: “This time, I drink to the health of your charming family.” He clicked his heels and bowed his head: “Thank you.” We conversed a little, then Eichmann led me to the sideboard to show me a photograph framed in black, showing a man, still young, in uniform. “Your brother?” I asked.—“Yes.” He looked at me with his curious birdlike air, particularly accentuated in this light by his hooked nose and protruding ears. “I don’t suppose you ran into him, over there?” He mentioned a division and I shook my head: “No. I arrived rather late, after the encirclement. And I didn’t meet many people.”—“Oh, I see. Helmut fell during one of the fall offensives. We don’t know the exact circumstances, but we received an official notification.”—“All that was a hard sacrifice,” I said. He rubbed his lips: “Yes. Let’s hope it wasn’t in vain. But I believe in the Führer’s genius.”

Frau Eichmann served cakes and tea; Günther arrived, took a cup, and stationed himself in a corner to drink it, without talking with anyone. I secretly observed him while the others were talking. He was obviously a very proud man, jealous of his impenetrable, closed bearing, which he exhibited to his more talkative colleagues as a silent reproach. He was said to be the son of Hans F. K. Günther, the doyen of German racial anthropology, whose work had an immense influence at that time; if this was true, the elder Günther could be proud of his offspring, who had gone from theory to practice. He slipped away, saying goodbye distantly after a scant half hour. We proceeded to the music: “Always before dinner,” Eichmann said to me. “Afterward, we’re too busy digesting to play well.” Vera Eichmann picked up the viola and another officer brought out a cello. They played two of the three Brahms string quartets, pleasant, but of little interest, in my opinion; the execution was adequate, without any great surprises: only the cellist had any special talent. Eichmann played calmly, methodically, his eyes riveted to the score; he didn’t make any mistakes, but didn’t seem to understand that that wasn’t enough. I remembered then his comment two days before: “Boll plays better than I, and Heydrich played even better.” Maybe after all he understood this, and accepted his limits, taking pleasure in the little he could manage.

I applauded vigorously; Frau Eichmann seemed especially flattered. “I’ll go put the children to bed,” she said. “Then we’ll have dinner.” We had another drink while we waited: the women spoke about rationing or rumors, the men about the latest news, which wasn’t very interesting, since the front remained stable and nothing had happened since the fall of Tunis. The atmosphere was informal, gemütlich in the Austrian style, an exaggerated offhandedness. Then Eichmann had us pass into the dining room. He himself assigned the seats, placing me at his right, at the head of the table. He uncorked some bottles of Rhine wine, and Vera Eichmann brought in a roast with a bay leaf sauce and some green beans. This was a change for me from Frau Gutknecht’s inedible cooking and even from the usual canteen at the SS-Haus. “Delicious,” I complimented Frau Eichmann. “You are an outstanding cook.”—“Oh, I am lucky. Dolfi often manages to find scarce foods. The stores are almost empty.” Inspired, I gave vent to a character sketch of my landlady, beginning with her cooking and then going on to other peculiarities. “Stalingrad?” I said, imitating her dialect and voice. “But what on earth were you messing around there for? Aren’t we fine as we are, here? And also where is it, exactly?” Eichmann laughed and choked on his wine. I went on: “One day, in the morning, I went out at the same time as she did. We see someone wearing the star, probably a privileged Mischling. She exclaims: Oh! Look, Herr Offizier, a Jew! You haven’t gassed that one yet?” Everyone laughed; Eichmann was laughing so hard he cried, and hid his face in his napkin. Only Frau Eichmann kept a straight face: when I noticed, I interrupted myself. She seemed to want to ask a question, but held back. To regain my composure, I poured Eichmann some wine: “Go on, drink.” He laughed again. The conversation shifted again, and I ate; one of the guests told a joke about Göring. Eichmann looked serious and turned to me: “Sturmbannführer Aue, you’re a cultivated man. I would like to ask you a question, a serious question.” I gestured with my fork for him to continue. “You have read Kant, I imagine? Right now,” he went on, rubbing his lips, “I’m reading his Critique of Practical Reason. Of course, a man like me, without any university education I mean, can’t understand everything. But still one can understand some things. And I’ve thought a lot about the question of the Kantian Categorical Imperative, especially. You agree with me, I’m sure, in saying that every honest man must live according to this imperative.” I drank a mouthful of wine and agreed. Eichmann continued: “The Imperative, as I understand it, says: The principle of my individual will must always be such that it can become the principle of moral law. By acting, man legislates.” I wiped my mouth: “I think I see where you’re heading. You’re wondering if our work is in agreement with the Kantian Imperative.”—“That’s not quite it. But one of my friends, who is also interested in these kinds of questions, maintains that in wartime, by virtue if you like of the state of exception caused by danger, the Kantian Imperative is suspended, since of course what one wants to do to the enemy, one doesn’t want the enemy to do to us, and so what one does cannot become the basis for a general law. That’s his opinion, you see. I sense that he’s wrong, though, and that in fact it is by our fidelity to duty, in a way, by our obedience to superior orders…that precisely we have to bend our will on following orders better. To live them in a positive way. But I haven’t yet found the irrefutable argument to prove that he’s wrong.”—“But it’s quite simple, I think. We all agree that in a National Socialist State the ultimate foundation of positive law is the will of the Führer. That’s the well-known principle Führerworte haben Gesetzeskraft. Of course, we realize that in practice the Führer cannot take care of every single thing, and so others must also act and legislate in his name. In principle, this idea should be extended to the entire Volk. Thus Dr. Frank, in his treatise on constitutional law, extended the definition of the Führerprinzip in the following way: Act in such a way that the Führer, if he knew of your action, would approve of it. There is no contradiction between that principle and Kant’s Imperative.”—“I see, I see. Frei sein ist Knecht sein, To be free is to be a vassal, as the old German proverb says.”—“Precisely. This principle is applicable to every member of the Volksgemeinschaft. You have to live out your National Socialism by living your own will as if it were the Führer’s, and so, to use Kant’s terms, as a foundation of the Volksrecht. Whoever only obeys orders like an automaton, without examining them critically to penetrate their inner necessity, does not work closer to the Führer; most of the time, he distances himself from him. Of course, the very foundation of völkisch constitutional law is the Volk: it cannot be applied outside of the Volk. Your friend’s mistake is to appeal to an entirely mythical supranational law, an aberrant invention of the French Revolution. All law must rest on a foundation. Historically, this has always been a fiction or an abstraction—God, the King, or the People. Our great advance has been to base the legal concept of the Nation on something concrete and inalienable: the Volk, whose collective will is expressed by the Führer who represents it. When you say Frei sein ist Knecht sein, you have to understand that the foremost vassal of all is precisely the Führer, since he is nothing but pure service. We are not serving the Führer as such, but as the representative of the Volk, we serve the Volk and must serve it as the Führer serves it, with total abnegation. That’s why, confronted with painful tasks, we have to bow down, master our feelings, and carry them out with firmness.” Eichmann listened attentively, his neck stretched out, his eyes staring behind his large glasses. “Yes, yes,” he said warmly, “I completely understand you. Our duty, our accomplishment of duty, is the highest expression of our human freedom.”—“Absolutely. If our will is to serve our Führer and our Volk, then, by definition, we are also bearers of the principle of the law of the Volk, as it is expressed by the Führer or derived from his will.”—“Excuse me,” one of the guests interrupted, “but wasn’t Kant anti-Semitic, in any case?”—“Indeed,” I replied. “But his anti-Semitism remained purely religious, dependent on his belief in a life to come. Those are concepts that we have for the most part moved beyond.” Frau Eichmann, helped by one of the guests, cleared the table. Eichmann served schnapps and lit a cigarette. For some minutes ordinary talk resumed. I drank my schnapps and smoked too. Frau Eichmann served coffee. Eichmann signed to me: “Come with me. I want to show you something.” I followed him into his bedroom. He turned on the light, pointed me to a chair, pulled a key out of his pocket, and, as I sat down, he opened a drawer of his desk and took out a rather thick album bound in black pebble-grained leather. Eyes shining, he handed it to me and sat down on the bed. I leafed through it: it was a series of reports, some of them on Bristol board, others on ordinary paper, and photographs, all bound into an album like the one I had put together in Kiev after the Grosse Aktion. The title page, written in calligraphic Fraktur, announced: WARSAW’S JEWISH QUARTER NO LONGER EXISTS! “What is this?” I asked.—“Those are Brigadeführer Stroop’s reports on the suppression of the Jewish uprising. He offered this album to the Reichsführer, who gave it to me so I could study it.” He was radiant with pride. “Look, look, it’s astonishing.” I examined the photos, some were impressive: fortified bunkers, burned buildings, Jews jumping from rooftops to escape the flames; and the ruins of the neighborhood after the battle. The Waffen-SS and the auxiliary forces had had to reduce the pockets of resistance with artillery, at point-blank range. “It lasted almost a month,” Eichmann whispered, biting a cuticle. “A month! With more than six battalions. Look at the beginning, at the list of losses.” The first page listed sixteen dead, including a Polish policeman. A long list of wounded followed. “What kind of weapons did they have?” I asked.—“Not much, fortunately. A few machine guns, some grenades and pistols, some Molotov cocktails.”—“How did they get them?”—“Probably from the Polish partisans. They fought like wolves, did you see? Jews who had been starving for three years. The Waffen-SS was shocked.” This was almost the same as Thomas’s reaction, but Eichmann seemed more frightened than admiring. “Brigadeführer Stroop says even the women hid grenades under their skirts to blow themselves up with a German when they surrendered.”—“That’s understandable,” I said. “They knew what was waiting for them. Was the district completely emptied?”—“Yes. All the Jews who were taken alive were sent to Treblinka. That’s one of the centers led by Gruppenführer Globocnik.”—“Without any selection.”—“Of course! Much too dangerous. You know, once again, Obergruppenführer Heydrich was right. He compared it to a disease: it’s always the final residue that’s the most difficult to destroy. The weak, the old, die right away; in the end, only the young, the strong, the clever, remain. It’s very worrisome, because it’s the result of natural selection, the strongest biological pool: if they survive, in fifty years everything will start all over again. I’ve already explained to you that this uprising worried us a lot. If it happens again, it could be a catastrophe. No opportunity must be left. Imagine a similar revolt in a concentration camp! Unthinkable.”—“But we need workers, as you know very well.”—“Of course, I’m not the one who decides. I just wanted to stress the risks to you. The question of labor, I’ve already told you, isn’t at all my field, and everyone has his own ideas. But still: as the Amtschef often says, you can’t plane a board without chips flying. That’s all I mean.” I returned the album. “Thank you for showing me this, it was very interesting.” We rejoined the others; the first guests were already taking their leave. Eichmann held me back for one last drink, then I excused myself, thanking Frau Eichmann and kissing her hand. In the front hallway, Eichmann gave me a friendly slap on the back: “Allow me, Sturmbannführer, you’re a regular guy. Not one of those kid-gloved boys over at the SD. No, you’re on the level.” He must have had a little too much to drink, and it was making him sentimental. I thanked him and shook his hand, leaving him on his doorstep, hands in his pockets, smiling from one side of his mouth.