I was still waiting for my summons from the Reichsführer when the English resumed their massive strikes on Berlin, with considerable vigor. It was August 23, a Monday, I remember, late at night: I was at home, in bed, but I probably wasn’t asleep yet, when the sirens went off. I was tempted to remain lying, but already Frau Gutknecht was banging my door. She was bellowing so loudly you could scarcely hear the sirens: “Herr Offizier! Herr Offizier!…Doktor Aue! Get up! The Luftmörder! Help!” I pulled on a pair of trousers and unlocked the door: “Well, yes, Frau Gutknecht. It’s the RAF. What do you want me to do?” Her jowls were trembling, her cheeks were pale, and she was crossing herself convulsively, muttering: “Jesus-Mary-Joseph, Jesus-Mary-Joseph, what are we going to do?”—“We are going to go down into the shelter, like everyone else.” I shut the door and got dressed, then calmly went downstairs, locking my door against looters. We could hear the flak thundering, especially to the south and near the Tiergarten. The building’s basement had been turned into an air-raid shelter: it would never have survived a direct hit, but it was better than nothing. I threaded my way through the suitcases and legs and settled into a corner, as far as possible from Frau Gutknecht, who was sharing her terrors with some neighbors. Children were crying anxiously, others were running between the adults, some wearing suits, others still in their bathrobes. Just two candles lit the basement, little quivering, trembling flames that registered the nearby explosions like seismographs. The alert lasted for several hours; unfortunately, it was forbidden to smoke in these shelters. I must have dozed, I think no bombs hit our neighborhood. When it was over I went upstairs to go back to bed, without even going to look in the street. The next day, instead of taking the U-Bahn, I called the SS-Haus and sent for Piontek. He reported that the bombers had come from the south, from Sicily, probably, and that it was mostly Steglitz, Lichterfelde, and Marienfelde that had been hit, although some buildings had been destroyed at Tempelhof and all the way to the zoo. “Our boys used a new tactic, Wilde Sau, they called it on the radio, but they didn’t really explain what it was, Sturmbannführer. Heard it works, and we shot down more than sixty of their planes, the bastards. Poor Herr Jeschonnek, he should have waited a little.” General Jeschonnek, the Chief of Staff of the Luftwaffe, had just committed suicide, because of his service’s repeated failures to prevent the Anglo-American raids. Even before crossing the Spree, Piontek had to make a detour to avoid a street blocked by rubble, the ruins of a building rammed by a bomber, a Lancaster, I think: its tail was sticking out of the ruins, desolate, like a ship’s stern after a shipwreck. Thick black smoke hid the sun. I ordered Piontek to drive me to the southern part of the city: the farther we got, the more buildings were still burning, and the streets were full of debris. People were trying to pull their furniture out of gutted homes to pile it in the middle of streets flooded by fire hoses; mobile field kitchens were serving soup to lines of shocked, exhausted, soot-covered survivors; near the fire trucks, shapes were lined up on the sidewalks, sometimes with a foot, bare or still wearing a pathetic shoe, sticking out from under a dirty sheet. Some streets were barred by streetcars toppled onto to their sides by the force of the explosions or blackened by fire; power lines trailed on the pavement, trees lay crushed or remained standing but bare, stripped of all their leaves. The neighborhoods most affected were impassable; I had Piontek turn around and return to the SS-Haus. The building itself hadn’t been hit, but nearby impacts had blown out the windows, and broken glass on the steps crunched beneath my feet. Inside, I met Brandt in the lobby, looking terribly excited, animated by a glee that was rather surprising in the circumstances. “What is happening?” He paused for an instant: “Ah, Sturmbannführer, you don’t know the news yet. Great news! The Reichsführer was appointed Minister of the Interior.” So that was it, the changes Thomas was talking about, I thought while Brandt rushed into the elevator. I walked up the stairs: Fräulein Praxa was at her place, made up, fresh as a rose. “Sleep well?”—“Oh, you know, Sturmbannführer, I live in Weissensee, I didn’t hear anything.”—“All the better for you.” The window in my office was intact: I had gotten into the habit of leaving it open at night. I thought about the repercussions of the news announced by Brandt, but I lacked information to analyze it in detail. A priori, it seemed to me, it wouldn’t change much for us: although Himmler, as chief of the German police, was technically subordinate to the Minister of the Interior, he was actually completely autonomous, and had been since 1936 at least; neither Frick, the outgoing minister, nor his Staatsekretär Stuckart had ever had the slightest influence over the RSHA or even the Hauptamt Orpo. The only thing over which they had kept control was the civilian administration, the civil servants; now that would also revert to the Reichsführer; but I couldn’t believe it was a major issue. Obviously, to have the rank of minister could only reinforce the Reichsführer’s hand against his rivals: but I didn’t know enough about the struggles at the top to gauge this fact to its full extent.

I had imagined that this appointment would postpone the presentation of my report indefinitely: that showed I didn’t really know much about the Reichsführer. I was summoned to his office two days later. The night before, the English had returned, fewer than the first time, but I still didn’t get much sleep. I splashed cold water on my face before going downstairs, to try to muster some kind of human appearance. Brandt, staring at me with his owl-like look, made a few preliminary comments to me, as was his wont: “As you can imagine, the Reichsführer is extremely busy right now. Nonetheless, he was anxious to see you, since this concerns an issue he wants to make progress on. Your report was deemed excellent, a little too direct perhaps, but conclusive. The Reichsführer will certainly ask you to summarize it for him. Be concise. He doesn’t have a lot of time.” This time, the Reichsführer welcomed me with an almost friendly tone: “My dear Sturmbannführer Aue! Forgive me for making you wait, these past few days.” He waved his soft, vein-covered hand toward a chair: “Have a seat.” Brandt, as on the first time, had given him a file, which he consulted. “You saw the good Globus, then. How is he doing?”—“Gruppenführer Globocnik seemed in excellent form, my Reichsführer. Very enthusiastic.”—“And what do you think of his management of the yield of the Einsatz? You can speak freely.” His cold little eyes shone behind his pince-nez. I suddenly remembered Globocnik’s first words; he certainly knew his Reichsführer better than I. I chose my words carefully: “The Gruppenführer is a fervent National Socialist, my Reichsführer, there’s no doubt about that. But such wealth can give rise to formidable temptations in his entourage. I got the impression that the Gruppenführer could have been stricter on that level, that he might trust some of his subordinates too much.”—“You talk a lot about corruption in your report. Do you think it’s a real problem?”—“I’m convinced of it, my Reichsführer. To a certain extent, it’s affecting the work of the camps and also of the Arbeitseinsatz. An SS man who steals is an SS man the inmate can buy.” Himmler took off his pince-nez, took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and began polishing his glasses: “Summarize your conclusions. Be brief.” I took a sheet of notes out of my briefcase and began. “In the KL system as it presently functions, my Reichsführer, I see three obstacles to a maximum, rational use of available labor. We’ve just discussed the first obstacle, corruption among the SS in the camps. It is not only a moral question; it also poses practical problems on many different levels. But for that, the remedy already exists—it’s the special commission you appointed, which should intensify its work. Second obstacle: a persistent bureaucratic incoherence, which Obergruppenführer Pohl’s efforts have not yet resolved. Allow me, my Reichsführer, to give you an example, drawn from those cited in my report: Brigadeführer Glücks’s order of December twenty-eighth, 1942, addressed to all head doctors in the KLs, giving them, among other things, the responsibility of improving the nourishment of the Häftlinge so as to reduce the mortality rate. Yet in the camps, the kitchens report to the administrative department, which is subordinated to Department D-Four of the WVHA; as for the rations, they are decided centrally by the D-Four-two, in conjunction with the SS-Hauptamt. Neither the doctors on-site nor Department D-Three have any right of oversight in regard to this process. So that part of the order was quite simply not implemented; the rations remain identical to what they were last year.” I paused; Himmler, watching me in a friendly way, nodded: “But the death rate has fallen, it seems to me.”—“Indeed, my Reichsführer, but for other reasons. There has been progress in the field of medical care and hygiene, which the doctors control directly. But it could be lowered even more. In the present state of things, if you allow me the remark, my Reichsführer, every Häftling who dies prematurely represents a net loss for the war production of the Reich.”—“I know that better than you, Sturmbannführer,” he barked in a displeased, pedantic-school-master tone of voice. “Continue.”—“Very good, my Reichsführer. Third obstacle: the mentality of the superior officers who are IKL veterans. These remarks do not at all concern their considerable qualities as men, SS officers, or National Socialists. But most of them, and this is a fact, were trained at a time when the functioning of the camps was completely different, according to the directives of the late Obergruppenführer Eicke.”—“Did you know Eicke?” Himmler cut in.—“No, my Reichsführer. I did not have that honor.”—“That’s too bad. He was a great man. We miss him a lot. But excuse me, I interrupted you. Go on.”—“Thank you, my Reichsführer. What I meant was that these officers have acquired a perspective that is directed toward the political and police functions of the camps, as was predominant then. That is a problem both of state of mind and of training: few of them have the slightest experience in economic management, and they work poorly with the administrators of the WVHA enterprises. I should stress that this is an overall problem, a generational problem, if I may put it that way, and not one of individual personalities, even if I have cited some as an example.” Himmler had brought his hands together to a point under his receding chin. “Fine, Sturmbannführer. Your report will be distributed to the WVHA, and I think it will give ammunition to my friend Pohl. But so as not to offend anyone, you will first make a few corrections. Brandt will show you the list. Above all, you will not mention anyone by name. You understand why.”—“Of course, my Reichsführer.”—“On the other hand, I authorize you, in confidence, to send an uncorrected copy of your report to Dr. Mandelbrod.”—“Zu Befehl, my Reichsführer.” Himmler coughed, hesitated, took out a handkerchief, and coughed again, covering his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said as he put the handkerchief away. “I have another task for you, Sturmbannführer. The question of feeding in the camps, which you mention, is a recurrent problem. It seems to me that it’s a question you are beginning to be familiar with.”—“My Reichsführer…” He made a sign with his hand: “Yes, yes. I remember your report from Stalingrad. This is what I want: While Department D-Three covers all medical and sanitary problems, we do not have, as you stressed, any centralized authority for the inmates’ diet. So I have decided to create an interdepartmental study group to solve this problem. You will coordinate it. You will involve all the competent departments of the IKL; Pohl will also assign you a representative from the SS enterprises who will give their point of view. I also want the RSHA to have its say. Finally, I want you to consult the other ministries concerned, especially Speer’s, which keeps showering us with complaints from private enterprises. Pohl will put all the necessary experts at your disposal. I want a consensual solution, Sturmbannführer. When you have prepared some concrete suggestions, you will submit them to me; if they are valid and realistic, they will be adopted. Brandt will help you with the means necessary. Any questions?” I straightened up: “My Reichsführer, your trust is an honor to me, and I thank you for it. I would like to make sure about one point.”—“Which is?”—“That increased production remains the main objective.” Himmler had leaned back in his armchair, his hands dangling from the armrests; his face had resumed its sly expression: “Insofar as that does not harm the other interests of the SS, and does not interfere with the programs under way, the answer is yes.” He paused. “The requirements of the other ministries are important, but you know that there are constraints beyond their purview. Take that into account too. If you have any doubts, check with Pohl. He knows what I want. Good day, Sturmbannführer.”