The Tuesday raid, even though it had involved only half as many aircraft as Monday’s, promised to turn out to be even more disastrous. The working-class neighborhoods, especially Wedding, had been hit hard. By the end of the afternoon we had gathered enough information to form a brief report: we counted about 2,000 dead, with hundreds more beneath the rubble; 3,000 buildings burned or destroyed; and 175,000 people homeless, of whom 100,000 had already been able to leave the city, either for surrounding villages or other cities in Germany. Around six o’clock we dismissed all the people who weren’t doing essential work; I stayed a little longer, and was still on the road, with a driver from the garage, when the sirens began to wail again. I decided not to continue on to the Eden: the bar-shelter didn’t inspire much confidence in me, and I preferred to avoid a repetition of the drinking bout of the night before. I ordered the driver to go around the zoo to reach the large bunker. A crowd was pressed at the doors, which were too narrow and too few; cars came and parked at the foot of the concrete façade; in front of them, in a reserved area, dozens of baby carriages stretched out in concentric circles. Inside, soldiers and policemen barked out orders for people to move upstairs; at each floor a crowd formed, no one wanted to go higher up, women were screaming, while their children ran through the crowd playing war games. We were directed to the third floor, but the benches, lined up as in a church, were already crowded, and I went to lean against the concrete wall. My driver had disappeared in the crowd. Soon afterward the .88s on the roof opened fire: the entire immense structure vibrated, pitching like a ship on the high seas. People, thrown against their neighbors, shouted or groaned. The lights dimmed but didn’t go out. In recesses and in the darkness of the spiral staircases leading from floor to floor, teenage couples clung to each other, intertwined; some even seemed to be making love—you could hear through the explosions moans of a different tone from those of panic-stricken housewives; old people protested indignantly, the Schupos bellowed, ordering people to remain seated. I wanted to smoke but it was forbidden. I looked at the woman sitting on the bench in front of me: she kept her head lowered, I could just see her blond, exceptionally thick, shoulder-length hair. A bomb exploded nearby, making the bunker tremble and throwing up a cloud of concrete dust. The young woman raised her head and I recognized her right away: she was the one I met sometimes in the morning, on the trolley. She too recognized me and a gentle smile lit up her face while she held out her white hand to me: “Hello! I was worried about you.”—“Why?” With the flak and the explosions we could barely hear each other, I crouched down and bent toward her. “You weren’t at the pool Sunday,” she said into my ear. “I was afraid something had happened to you.” Sunday was already another life, it seemed to me; but it was only three days ago. “I was in the country. Does the pool still exist?” She smiled again: “I don’t know.” Another powerful explosion shook the structure and she seized my hand and grasped it strongly; when it was over she let it go, excusing herself. Despite the yellowish light and the dust, I had the impression she was blushing slightly. “Forgive me,” I asked her, “what is your name?”—“Helene,” she replied. “Helene Anders.” I introduced myself. She worked at the press agency of the Auswärtiges Amt; her office, like most of the ministry, had been destroyed Monday night, but her parents’ house, in Alt Moabit, where she lived, was still standing. “Before this raid, in any case. And you?” I laughed: “I had offices at the Ministry of the Interior, but they burned down. For now, I’m at the SS-Haus.” We continued chatting till the end of the alert. She had gone on foot to Charlottenburg to comfort a homeless girlfriend; the sirens had caught her on the way back, and she had taken refuge there, in the bunker. “I didn’t think they’d come back a third night in a row,” she said softly.—“To tell the truth, I didn’t either,” I replied, “but I’m happy it’s given us the chance to see each other again.” I said that to be polite; but I realized it wasn’t just to be polite. This time, she blushed visibly; her tone still remained frank and clear: “Me too. Our trolley will probably be out of service for a while.” When the lights came back on, she got up and brushed off her coat. “If you like,” I said, “I can take you home. If I still have a car,” I added, laughing. “Don’t say no. It’s not very far away.”

I found my driver next to his vehicle, looking very upset: it no longer had any windows, and the whole side had been crushed in by the car next to it, propelled by the blast of an explosion. Of the baby carriages, only scattered debris remained on the square. The zoo was burning again, you could hear atrocious sounds, the bellowing, trumpeting, lowing of dying animals. “The poor beasts,” Helene murmured, “they don’t know what’s happening to them.” The driver was only thinking about his car. I went to find some Schupos so they could help us free it. The passenger door was jammed; I had Helene get in the back, then slipped in over the driver’s seat. The ride turned out to be a little complicated, we had to take a detour through the Tiergarten, because of the blocked streets, but I was happy to see, passing by Flensburgerstrasse, that my building had survived. Alt Moabit, aside from a few stray bombs, had been more or less spared, and I dropped Helene off in front of her small building. “Now,” I said as I left her, “I know where you live. If you don’t mind, I’ll come visit when things have calmed down a little.”—“I’d be delighted,” she replied with again that very beautiful, calm smile she had. Then I went back to the Eden Hotel, where I found nothing but a gaping shell in flames. Three bombs had gone through the roof and nothing was left. Fortunately the bar had held up, the hotel residents had escaped with their lives and had been evacuated. My Georgian neighbor was drinking Cognac straight from the bottle with some other now-homeless people; as soon as he saw me, he made me take a swig. “I’ve lost everything! Everything! What I miss most are the shoes. Four new pairs!”—“Do you have a place to go?” He shrugged: “I’ve got some friends not too far away. On Rauchstrasse.”—“Come on, I’ll drive you there.” The house that the Georgian pointed out had no more windows but seemed still inhabited. I waited for a few minutes while he went in to see what he could find out. He returned looking cheerful: “Perfect! They’re going to Marienbad, I’ll leave with them. Will you come in and have a drink?” I refused politely, but he insisted: “Come on! For the pososhok.” I felt drained, exhausted. I wished him good luck and left without further ado. At the Staatspolizei, an Untersturmführer told me that Thomas had found refuge at Schellenberg’s place. I had a bite to eat, had a bed set up for me in the improvised dormitory, and fell asleep.

The next day, Thursday, I continued collecting statistics for Brandt. Walser still hadn’t reappeared but I wasn’t too worried. To make up for the lack of telephone lines, we now had a squad of Hitlerjugend on loan from Goebbels. We sent them all over, on bikes or on foot, to send or get messages and mail. In town, the hard work of the municipal services was already yielding results: in some neighborhoods, water had come back, electricity too, sections of the trolley lines were put back in service, along with the U-Bahn and S-Bahn, where it was possible. We also knew that Goebbels was contemplating a partial evacuation of the city. Everywhere, on the ruins, chalk messages were proliferating, people trying to find their parents, their friends, their neighbors. Around noon, I requisitioned a small van from the police and went to help Asbach bury his mother-in-law in the Plötzensee cemetery, alongside her husband who had died of cancer four years earlier. Asbach seemed a little better: his wife was recovering her senses, she had recognized him; but he hadn’t told her anything yet, either about her mother or about the baby. Fräulein Praxa accompanied us and even managed to find flowers; Asbach was visibly touched. Aside from us there were only three of his friends, including a couple, and a minister. The coffin was made of coarse, badly planed boards; Asbach kept saying that as soon as possible he would ask for a permit to exhume the body to give his mother-in-law a proper funeral: they had never gotten along well, he added, she hadn’t hidden her scorn for his SS uniform, but still, she was his wife’s mother, and Asbach loved his wife. I didn’t envy his situation: to be alone in the world is sometimes a great advantage, especially in wartime. I dropped him off at the military hospital where his wife was, and went back to the SS-Haus. That night, there was no raid; an alert went off in the early evening, provoking an outburst of panic, but they were just reconnaissance planes, come to photograph the damage. After the alert, which I spent in the Staatspolizei bunker, Thomas took me to a little restaurant that had already reopened its doors. He was in a cheerful mood: Schellenberg had arranged to have a small house in Dahlem lent to him, in a fashionable neighborhood near the Grunewald, and he was going to buy a small Mercedes convertible from a widow who needed money; her husband, a Hauptsturmführer, had been killed during the first raid. “Fortunately, my bank is intact. That’s what counts.” I made a face: “Still, there are other things that count.”—“Like what, for example?”—“Our sacrifices. The suffering of the people, here, around us, on the front.” In Russia things were going very badly: after losing Kiev, we had managed to retake Zhitomir, only to lose Cherkassy the day I was hunting grouse with Speer; in Rovno, the Ukrainian insurgents of the UPA, as anti-German as they were anti-Bolshevik, were picking off isolated German soldiers like rabbits. “I’ve always said, Max,” Thomas said, “you take things too seriously.”—“It’s a question of Weltanschauung,” I said, raising my glass. Thomas gave a brief, mocking laugh. “Weltanschauung here, Weltanschauung there, as Schnitzler said. Everyone has a Weltanschauung these days, the lowliest baker or plumber has his Weltanschauung, my mechanic overcharges me thirty percent for repairs, but he too has his Weltanschauung. I have one too…” He fell silent and drank; I drank too. It was a Bulgarian wine, a little rough, but given the circumstances there was nothing to complain about. “I’m going to tell you what counts,” Thomas said urgently. “Serve your country, die if you have to, but take advantage of life as much as possible in the meantime. Your posthumous Ritterkreuz might console your old mother, but it’ll be cold comfort for you.”—“My mother is dead,” I said softly.—“I know. I’m sorry.” One night, after many drinks, I had told him about my mother’s death, without going into too much detail; since then we hadn’t talked about it again. Thomas drank some more, then burst out: “Do you know why we hate the Jews? I’ll tell you. We hate the Jews because they’re a thrifty, prudent people, greedy not just for money and security but also for their traditions, their knowledge, and their books, incapable of giving and spending, a people that doesn’t know war. A people that just knows how to accumulate, never to waste. In Kiev you said the murder of the Jews was a waste. Well, precisely, by wasting their lives the way you throw rice at a wedding, we’ve taught them expense, we’ve taught them war. And the proof that it’s working, that the Jews are beginning to learn the lesson, is Warsaw, Treblinka, Sobibor, Bialystok, it’s the Jews who are becoming warriors again, who are becoming cruel, who also are becoming killers. I find that very beautiful. We’ve made them into an enemy worthy of us. The Pour la Semite”—he struck his chest at the heart, where the Jews sew the star—“is picking up value again. And if the Germans don’t pull themselves together like the Jews, instead of moaning, they’ll just get what they deserve. Vae victis.” He emptied his glass in one swallow, his gaze distant. I realized he was drunk. “I’m going home,” he said. I offered to drive him back, but he refused: he had taken a car from the garage. In the still-half-cleared street, he absentmindedly shook my hand, slammed the door, and shot off. I went back to sleep at the Staatspolizei; it was heated, and the showers, at least, had been fixed.