You must find these reflections extremely interesting, I don’t doubt it for an instant; but I have wandered off the subject a little, I still haven’t spoken of that famous day of October 6, which I wanted to describe briefly. A few quick knocks on the door of my compartment had tugged me from my sleep; with the blinds fastened, it was impossible to know the time, I was probably in the midst of a dream, I remember being completely disoriented by them. Then I heard the voice of Mandelbrod’s assistant, gentle but firm: “Sturmbannführer. We’re arriving in half an hour.” I washed, got dressed, and went to stretch my legs in the antechamber. The young woman was standing there: “Hello, Sturmbannführer. Did you sleep well?”—“Yes, thanks. Is Dr. Mandelbrod awake?”—“I don’t know, Sturmbannführer. Would you like some coffee? A full breakfast will be served when we arrive.” She returned with a small tray. I drank the coffee standing up, my legs slightly apart because of the train’s swaying; she sat down on a little armchair, her legs discreetly crossed—she was wearing now, I noticed, a long skirt instead of the black breeches of the day before. Her hair was pulled back in a severe chignon. “You aren’t having any?” I asked.—“No, thanks.” We stayed thus in silence until the squeal of brakes sounded. I gave her back the cup and took my travel bag. The train was slowing down. “Have a good day,” she said. “Dr. Mandelbrod will find you later on.” On the platform, there was a certain amount of confusion; the tired Gauleiters were exiting the train one by one, yawning, welcomed by a squad of civil servants in civilian clothes or in SA uniform. One of them saw my SS uniform and frowned. I pointed to Mandelbrod’s car, and his face lit up: “I’m sorry,” he said as he came forward. I gave him my name, and he consulted a list: “Yes, I see. You are with the members of the Reichsführung, at the Posen Hotel. There’s a room for you. I’ll go find you a car. Here’s the program.” At the hotel, a fancy but rather staid building dating back to the Prussian period, I showered, shaved, changed, and downed a few pieces of toast with jam. Around eight o’clock, I went down to the lobby. People were beginning to come and go. I finally found one of Brandt’s assistants, a Hauptsturmführer, and showed him the program I had been given. “Listen, you can go right now. The Reichsführer won’t come until the afternoon, but there will be some officers there.” The car lent me by the Gau was still waiting, and I had myself driven to the Schloss Posen, admiring on the way the blue belfry and the arcaded loggia of the city hall, then the many-colored façades of the narrow houses of burghers crowded onto the Old Square, reflections of many centuries of subtly fanciful architecture, until this fugitive morning pleasure collided with the castle itself, a vast pile of blocks abutting a large empty square, crude and bristling with pointed roofs and a tall buttressed tower propped against it, massive, proud, severe, dreary, in front of which the penant-bearing Mercedes of the dignitaries were lining up one by one. The program began with a series of lectures given by experts from Speer’s entourage, including Walter Rohland, the steel magnate, who exposed one after the other, with distressing precision, the state of war production. In the first row, listening gravely to this somber news, could be seen most of the government elite: Dr. Goebbels, Minister Rosenberg, Axmann, the Reich Youth Führer, Grand Admiral Dönitz, Feldmarschall Milch from the Luftwaffe, and a beefy man with a bull’s neck, his thick hair combed back, whose name I asked during one of the breaks: Reichsleiter Bormann, the personal secretary of the Führer and the head of the NSDAP chancellery. His name was known to me, of course, but I didn’t know much about him; the newspapers and newsreels at the cinema never mentioned him, and I didn’t remember seeing his photo. After Rohland, it was Speer’s turn: his presentation, which lasted less than half an hour, reiterated the same themes as those dealt with the day before at the Prinz-Albrecht-Palais, but in a surprisingly direct, almost brusque language. Only then did I notice Mandelbrod: a special place had been arranged on the side for his cumbersome platform-chair, and he listened, his eyes creased, with Buddhist detachment, flanked by two of his assistants—so there really were two of them—and by the tall rugged figure of Herr Leland. Speer’s last words provoked a tumult: returning to the theme of obstruction by individual Gaus, he mentioned his agreement with the Reichsführer, threatening to deal ruthlessly with the recalcitrant. As soon as he had come down from the podium, several Gauleiters surrounded him, expostulating; I was too far away, at the back of the hall, to hear what they said, but I could imagine it. Leland had leaned over and was murmuring something into Mandelbrod’s ear. Then we were invited to return to town, to the Ostland Hotel, where the dignitaries were staying, for a buffet reception. Mandelbrod’s assistants led him out a side exit, but I found him in the courtyard and went to greet him and Herr Leland. I could see then how he was traveling: his special Mercedes, with its immense interior, was equipped with a mechanism by which his armchair, detached from its platform, slid into the car; a second vehicle carried the platform, along with the two assistants. Mandelbrod had me get in with him, and I sat down on a jump seat; Leland sat in front, next to the chauffeur. I regretted not traveling with the young women: Mandelbrod didn’t seem to notice the stinking gases his body emitted; fortunately the journey was a short one. Mandelbrod didn’t speak; he seemed to be drowsing. I wondered if he ever got up out of his armchair, and if not, how did he get dressed, how did he attend to his bodily functions? His assistants, in any case, must have been able to bear anything. During the reception, I talked with two officers from the Persönlicher Stab, Werner Grothmann, who still hadn’t gotten over being appointed to Brandt’s position (Brandt, promoted to Standartenführer, was taking Wolff’s), and an adjutant in charge of the police. It was they, I think, who first told me about the strong impression caused among the Gruppenführers by the Reichsführer’s speech two days before. We also talked about Globocnik’s departure, a real surprise for everyone; but we didn’t know each other well enough to speculate on the motives for this transfer. One of the two amazons—it was indeed hard for me to tell them apart, I couldn’t even say which one had offered herself to me the night before—appeared beside me. “Excuse me, meine Herren,” she said with a smile. I excused myself in turn and followed her through the crowd. Mandelbrod and Leland were talking with Speer and Rohland. I saluted them and congratulated Speer on his speech; he assumed a melancholy air: “Obviously it wasn’t to everyone’s taste.”—“It doesn’t matter,” Leland retorted. “If you manage to get on with the Reichsführer, none of these drunken idiots can stand in your way.” I was surprised: I had never heard Herr Leland speak so brutally. Speer was nodding. “Try to stay in regular contact with the Reichsführer,” Mandelbrod whispered. “Don’t let this new momentum lapse. For minor questions, if you don’t want to bother the Reichsführer himself, just contact my young friend here. I can guarantee his reliability.” Speer contemplated me absentmindedly: “I already have a liaison officer at the ministry.”—“Of course,” Mandelbrod said. “But Sturmbannführer Aue will, I’m sure, have more direct access to the Reichsführer. Don’t worry about bothering him.”—“Fine, fine,” Speer said. Rohland had turned to Leland: “We agree, then, about Mannheim…” With a brief pressure on my elbow, Mandelbrod’s assistant let me understand that I was no longer required. I saluted and withdrew discreetly to the buffet. The young woman had followed me and ordered a tea while I nibbled on a hors d’oeuvre. “I think Dr. Mandelbrod is very pleased with you,” she said in her beautiful, flat voice.—“I don’t see why, but if you say so, I must believe you. Have you been working for him for a long time?”—“For several years.”—“And before?”—“I studied for my doctorate in Latin and German philology, in Frankfurt.” I raised my eyebrows: “I’d never have guessed. It isn’t too difficult, working full-time for Dr. Mandelbrod? He seems pretty demanding.”—“Everyone serves where he has to,” she replied without hesitating. “I am extremely honored by Dr. Mandelbrod’s trust. It’s thanks to men like him and Herr Leland that Germany will be saved.” I examined her smooth, oval, barely made-up face. She must have been very beautiful, but no detail, no particularity allowed one to grab hold of this entirely abstract beauty. “May I ask you a question?”—I asked her.—“Of course.”—“The hallway outside my compartment wasn’t very well lit. Are you the one who came and knocked on my door?” She gave a pearly little laugh: “The hallway wasn’t all that badly lit. But the answer is no: that was my colleague Hilde. Why? Would you rather it had been me?”—“No, I was just wondering,” I said stupidly.—“If the opportunity comes up again,” she said, looking me straight in the eye, “it will be my pleasure. I hope you’ll be less tired.” I blushed: “What is your name, then? So I’ll know.” She held out her little hand with its shimmering nails; her palm was dry and soft and her handshake as firm as a man’s. “Hedwig. Have a good afternoon, Sturmbannführer.”