A strange guy, I thought as I was going to bed. His cynicism sometimes shocked me, even though I often found it refreshing; at the same time, I knew that I couldn’t judge his behavior by his words. I trusted him completely: at the SD, he had always loyally helped me, without my ever asking him, and even when I couldn’t be of any perceptible use to him in return. I had asked him the question openly once and he had burst out laughing: “What do you want me to tell you? That I’m keeping you in reserve for a long-term plan? I like you, that’s all.” Those words had touched me deeply, and he had hurried to add: “In any case, smart as you are, at least I’m sure that you can never threaten me. That’s already a lot.” He had played a role in my entering the SD—that’s also how I had met him; it’s true that it had happened in somewhat peculiar circumstances, but one doesn’t always have a choice. For a few years already I had been part of the SD’s network of Vertrauensmänner, informants employed in all spheres of German life: industry, agriculture, bureaucracy, university. When I arrived at Kiel, in 1934, I had limited resources, and on the advice of one of my father’s former directors, Dr. Mandelbrod, I had applied to the SS, which allowed me to avoid matriculation fees at the university; with his support, I had been quickly accepted. Two years later, I had gone to an extraordinary lecture given by Otto Ohlendorf on the deviations of National Socialism; afterward, I had been introduced to him by Dr. Jessen, my economics professor, who had also been his a few years earlier. Ohlendorf, it turned out, had already heard about me from Dr. Mandelbrod, with whom he was in contact; he rather openly extolled the Sicherheitsdienst, and recruited me on the spot as a V-Mann. The work was simple: I was to send reports, on what was being said, on rumors, jokes, the reactions of people to the advances of National Socialism. In Berlin, Ohlendorf had explained to me, the reports of the thousands of V-Männer were compiled, then the SD distributed a summary to the different branches of the Party, in order to allow them to gauge the feelings of the Volk and to formulate their policies accordingly. This replaced elections, in a way; and Ohlendorf was one of the creators of this system, of which he showed himself visibly proud. In the beginning, I found it exciting, Ohlendorf’s speech had impressed me strongly, and I was glad to be able to participate in a concrete way in building National Socialism. But in Berlin, Höhn, my professor, subtly discouraged me. In the SD, he had been a mentor for Ohlendorf and for many others; but since then he had fallen out with the Reichsführer and left the service. He quickly succeeded in convincing me that working for an intelligence or espionage service stemmed from pure romanticism, and that I had much more useful ways to serve the Volk. I stayed in contact with Ohlendorf, but he no longer talked to me much about the SD; he too, I learned later, had his difficulties with the Reichsführer. I continued paying my dues to the SS and showing up for the parades, but I no longer sent in reports, and soon I ceased to think of the matter. I was concentrating on my thesis, which was somewhat daunting; what’s more, I had developed a passion for Kant and was conscientiously boning up on Hegel and idealist philosophy; with Höhn’s encouragement, I planned on requesting a position in a government ministry. But I must say that something else too was holding me back, private motives. In my Plutarch, I had underlined these sentences on Alcibiades one night: …a man, judging by the outward appearance, would have said, “’Tis not Achilles’s son, but he himself; the very man” that Lycurgus designed to form; while his real feeling and acts would have rather provoked the exclamation, “’Tis the same woman still.” That might make you smile, or grimace in disgust; now, it’s all the same to me. In Berlin, despite the Gestapo, you could still in those days find whatever you wanted of that kind. Famous bars such as the Kleist-Kasino or the Silhouette were still open, and they weren’t often raided, they must have been paying someone. Otherwise, there were also certain places in the Tiergarten, near the Neuer See in front of the zoo, where the Schupos rarely ventured at night; behind the trees waited the Strichjungen, or young muscular workers from “Red” Wedding. At university, I had had one or two relationships, necessarily discreet ones and in any case brief; but I preferred proletarian lovers, I didn’t like to talk.

In spite of my discretion, I ended up running into trouble. I should have been more careful; after all, the warning signs were there to see. Höhn had asked me—quite innocently—to review a book by the lawyer Rudolf Klare, Homosexuality and Criminal Law. This remarkably well-informed man had established a surprisingly precise typology of practices, then, on their basis, a classification of offenses, beginning with abstract coitus or contemplation (Level 1), moving past pressure of the naked penis on a part of the partner’s body (Level 5) and rhythmic friction between the knees or legs or in the armpit (Level 6), and ending with touching of the penis by the tongue, penis in the mouth, and penis in the anus (Levels 7, 8, and 9, respectively). To each level of offense corresponded a punishment of increasing severity. This Klare, it was obvious, must have attended a boarding school; but Höhn affirmed that the Minister of the Interior and the Sicherheitspolizei took his ideas seriously. I found it all rather comical. One spring night—it was in 1937—I went for a stroll behind the Neuer See. I watched the shadows of the trees until my gaze met a young man’s. I took out a cigarette, asked him for a light, and when he raised his lighter, instead of leaning toward his hand, I pushed it aside and threw away the cigarette, took him by the back of the neck, and kissed him on the lips, gently tasting his breath. I followed him under the trees, walking away from the paths, my heart, as it does each time, beating crazily in my throat and temples; a sudden veil had fallen over my breathing; I unfastened his pants, buried my face in the sharp smell of his sweat, male skin, urine, and eau de cologne; I rubbed my face against his skin, his sex, and where the hairs thickened, I licked him and took him in my mouth, then, when I couldn’t hold back any longer, I pushed him against a tree, turned myself around without letting him go, and buried him in me, until all time and grief disappeared. When it was over he quickly moved away, without a word. Exalted, I leaned on the tree, readjusted myself, lit a cigarette, and tried to master the trembling in my legs. When I was able to walk, I headed toward the Landwehrkanal, to cross it and continue toward the S-Bahn at the zoo. A limitless lightness carried each of my steps. On the Lichtenstein Bridge, a man was standing, leaning on the guardrail: I knew him, we had friends in common, his name was Hans P. He seemed very pale, distraught, and wasn’t wearing a tie; a fine sweat made his face gleam almost green under the glum light of the streetlamps. My feeling of euphoria suddenly fell away. “What are you doing here?” I asked him in a peremptory, unfriendly tone. “Ah, Aue, it’s you.” His giggle bore a touch of hysteria. “You really want to know?” This encounter was growing odder and odder; I stayed as if transfixed. I nodded. “I wanted to jump,” he explained, chewing his upper lip. “But I don’t dare. I even,” he went on, opening his jacket to reveal the butt of a pistol, “I even brought this.”—“Where the hell did you find it?” I asked him in a muffled voice.—“My father is an officer. I nicked it from him. It’s loaded.” He stared at me anxiously. “You wouldn’t like to help me, would you?” I looked around: along the canal, no one, as far as I could see. Slowly I stretched out my arm and took the pistol out of his belt. He was staring at me with a fascinated, petrified look. I examined the cartridge clip: it seemed full, and I shoved it back in with a sharp click. With my left hand I brutally seized his neck, pushed him up against the guardrail, and forced the barrel of the gun between his lips. “Open!” I barked. “Open your mouth!” My heart was pounding wildly, I felt as if I were shouting, though I was making an effort to keep my voice low. “Open!” I buried the barrel between his teeth. “Is that what you want? Suck it!” Hans P. was melting with terror, I suddenly smelt a bitter stench of urine, I looked down: he had wet his pants. My rage vanished immediately, as mysteriously as it had welled up. I replaced the pistol in his belt and patted him on the cheek. “It’ll be okay. Go home.” I left him there, crossed the bridge, and headed right, along the canal. A few meters farther on three Schupos appeared out of nowhere. “Hey, you there! What are you doing here? Papers.”—“I’m a student. I’m taking a walk.”—“Yeah, we know that kind of walk. What about him over there, on the bridge? Is he your girlfriend?” I shrugged: “I don’t know him. He looked strange, he tried to threaten me.” They exchanged a look and two of them headed at a trot for the bridge; I tried to walk away, but the third man took me by the arm. On the bridge, there was a commotion, some shouts, then gunshots. The two Schupos returned; one of them, livid, was holding his shoulder; blood flowed between his fingers. “That bastard. He shot at me. But we got him.” His comrade gave me an angry look: “You’re coming with us.”