For some minutes, Globocnik had been calling the guests to sit down to lunch. I found myself opposite Kurt Claasen, a colleague of Höfle’s, and next to a very talkative SS secretary. She immediately wanted to tell me about her tribulations, but fortunately Globocnik began a speech in honor of General Moser, which forced her to wait. He ended quickly and everyone there got up to drink to Moser’s health; then the General said a few words of thanks. The food was brought over: the roasted animals had been expertly carved, the pieces piled on wooden trays spread out on the tables, everyone could serve himself as he pleased. There were also salads and fresh vegetables, it was delicious. The girl nibbled on a carrot and straight away wanted to go on with her story: I listened to her with half an ear while I ate. She talked about her fiancé, a Hauptscharführer stationed in Galicia, in Drohobycz. It was a tragic story: she had broken off her engagement to a Viennese soldier for him, and as for him, he was married, but to a woman who didn’t love him. “He wanted to get a divorce, but I did a stupid thing, I saw that soldier I broke up with again, he’s the one who asked to see me but I said yes, and Lexi”—the fiancé—“knew it, and it discouraged him because he wasn’t sure about my love anymore and he went back to Galicia. But fortunately he still loves me.”—“And what is he doing, in Drohobycz?”—“He’s in the SP, he’s playing general with the Jews on the Durchgangstrasse.”—“I see. And you see each other often?”—“When we have leave. He wants me to come live with him, but I don’t know. Apparently it’s very dirty there. But he says I won’t have to see his Jews, he can find a good house. But if we’re not married, I don’t know, he’d have to get a divorce. What do you think?” My mouth was full of venison and I merely shrugged. Then I talked a little with Claasen. Around the end of the meal an orchestra appeared, set up on the steps that led to the garden, and began a waltz. Several couples got up to dance on the lawn. The young secretary, disappointed no doubt by my lack of interest in her sentimental misfortunes, went to dance with Claasen. At another table I noticed Horn, who had arrived late, and got up to exchange a few words with him. One day, noticing my leatherette satchel, he had offered, as a way of showing me the quality of his Jews’ work, to have one made for me in leather; I had just received it, a beautiful morocco portfolio with a brass zipper. I thanked him warmly, but insisted also on paying for the leather and the labor, in order to avoid any misunderstanding. “No problem,” Horn agreed. “We’ll send you a bill.” Morgen seemed to have disappeared. I drank another beer, smoked, watched the dancers. It was warm out, and with the heavy meats and the alcohol I was sweating in my uniform. I looked around: many people had unfastened or even unbuttoned their tunics; I opened the collar on mine. Globocnik didn’t miss one dance, each time inviting one of the women in civilian dress or a secretary; my lunch companion also ended up in his arms. But not many people had his spirit: after several waltzes and other dances, they had the orchestra change its music, and a choir of Wehrmacht and SS officers gathered to sing “Drei Lilien, kommt ein Reiter, bringt die Lilien” and other songs. Claasen had joined me with a glass of Cognac; he was in shirtsleeves, his face red and swollen; he was laughing mechanically and while the orchestra played “Es geht alles vorüber” he intoned a cynical variation:

Es geht alles vorüber

Es geht alles vorbei

Zwei Jahre in Russland

Und nix ponimai.

“If the Gruppenführer hears you, Kurt, you’ll end up a Sturmmann in Orel and no more nix ponimai.” Wippern, another department head in the Einsatz, had come over and was scolding Claasen. “Listen, we’re going swimming, are you coming?” Claasen looked at me: “Will you come? There’s a pool in the back of the park.” I took another beer from an ice bucket and followed them through the trees: in front of us, I heard laughter, splashing. On the left, barbed wire ran behind the pines: “What’s that?” I asked Claasen. “A little camp of Arbeitsjuden. The Gruppenführer keeps them there for maintenance work, the garden, the vehicles, things like that.” The pool was separated from the camp by a narrow rise; several people, including two women in bathing suits, were swimming or sunbathing on the grass. Claasen stripped down to his boxer shorts and dove in. “Are you coming?” he shouted as he resurfaced. I drank a little more, then, folding my uniform next to my boots, got undressed and went into the water. It was cool, somewhat the color of tea; I did a few laps and then stayed in the middle, floating on my back and contemplating the sky and the trembling treetops. Behind me, I heard the two girls chatting, sitting by the edge of the pool, paddling their feet in the water. A quarrel broke out: some officers had pushed Wippern, who didn’t want to get undressed, into the water; he was swearing and raging as he extracted himself from the pool in his soaking uniform. While I watched the others laughing, maintaining my position in the middle of the pool with little hand movements, two helmeted Orpos appeared behind the rise, rifles on their shoulders, pushing in front of them two very thin men in striped uniforms. Claasen, standing by the edge of the pool, still dripping in his boxer shorts, called out: “Franz! What the hell are you up to?” The two Orpos saluted; the prisoners, who were walking with their eyes to the ground, caps in hand, stopped. “These Yids were caught stealing potato peelings, Sturmbannführer,” explained one of the Orpos in a thick Volksdeutschen dialect. “Our Scharführer told us to shoot them.” Claasen’s face darkened: “Well, you’re not going to do that here, I hope. The Gruppenführer has guests.”—“No, no, Sturmbannführer, we’ll go farther away, to the trench over there.” A vivid anguish seized me without any warning: the Orpos were going to shoot the Jews right here and throw them into the pool, and we would swim in the blood, between the bodies bobbing on their stomachs. I looked at the Jews; one of them, who must have been about forty, was furtively examining the girls; the other, younger, his skin yellowish, kept his eyes riveted to the ground. Far from being reassured by the Orpo’s last words, I felt an intense tension, my distress only increased. When the Orpos started moving again I remained in the middle of the pool, forcing myself to breathe deeply and to float. But the water now weighed on me like a wet woollen cloak, suffocating me. This strange state lasted until I heard the two gunshots, a little farther away, scarcely audible, like the pop! pop! of Champagne bottles being opened. Slowly, my anguish ebbed away and then disappeared altogether when I saw the Orpos return, still walking with their heavy, steady steps. They saluted us again as they went by and continued on to the camp. Claasen was talking with one of the girls, Wippern was trying to dry out his uniform. I let myself go and floated.

I saw Morgen again. He was on the verge of indicting Koch and his wife, as well as several other officers and noncoms in Buchenwald and Lublin; under seal of secrecy, he told me that Florstedt too would be charged. He showed me in detail the tricks used by these corrupt men to hide their embezzlements, and the means he used to catch them in the act. He compared the records of the Abteilungen of the camp: even when the culprits forged something, they didn’t go to the trouble of reconciling their forgeries with the documents and reports from other departments. Thus, in Buchenwald, he had gathered his first serious evidence of the murders committed by Koch when he had noticed that the same inmate was registered at the same time in two different places: at a given date, the prison register of the Politische Abteilung bore, next to the name of the inmate, the comment “Released, noon,” while the register of the Revier indicated: “Patient deceased at 9:15.” The inmate had in fact been killed at the Gestapo prison, but his killers had tried to make it look as if he had died of illness. Similarly, Morgen explained to me how one could compare the different administration or Revier records with those of the blocks to try to find evidence of diversions of food, medicine, or property. He was quite interested in the fact that I planned on going to Auschwitz: several leads he was following up on seemed to lead to that camp. “It’s probably the richest Lager, because that’s where most of the special transports of the RSHA go now. Just like here, with the Einsatz, they have immense warehouses to sort and package all the confiscated goods. I suspect that must give rise to colossal misappropriations and thefts. We were alerted by a package sent from the KL by military post: because of its unusual weight, it was opened; inside, they found three chunks of dental gold, big as fists, sent by a camp nurse to his wife. I calculated that such a quantity of gold represents more than a hundred thousand dead.” I let out an exclamation. “And imagine!” he went on. “That’s what a single man could divert. When we’ve finished here, I’ll go set up a commission in Auschwitz.”