Clemens and Weser came back to see me a few days later, this time having duly made an appointment with Fräulein Praxa, who showed them into my office, rolling her eyes. “We tried to contact your sister,” said Clemens, the tall one, by way of introduction. “But she’s not home.”—“That’s quite possible,” I said. “Her husband is an invalid. She often accompanies him to Switzerland for treatment.”—“We asked the embassy in Berne to try to find her,” Weser said aggressively, swaying his narrow shoulders. “We’d very much like to talk with her.”—“Is it that important?” I asked.—“It’s still that damn business of the little twins,” Clemens ejected with his coarse Berliner’s voice.—“We don’t really understand it,” Weser added in his weaselly way. Clemens took out his notebook and read: “The French police investigated.”—“A little late,” Weser interrupted.—“Yes, but better late than never. Apparently, those twins have been living with your mother since at least 1938, when they began going to school. Your mother introduced them as orphaned great-nephews. And some of her neighbors seem to think they may have arrived earlier, as babies, in 1936 or 1937.”—“It’s quite curious,” Weser said acidly. “You never saw them before?”—“No,” I said curtly. “But there’s nothing odd about that. I never went to my mother’s house.”—“Never?” snorted Clemens. “Never?”—“Never.”—“Except exactly at that time,” Weser spat. “A few hours before her violent death. You see that it’s odd.”—“Meine Herren,” I retorted, “your insinuations are completely inappropriate. I don’t know where you learned your profession, but I find your attitude grotesque. What’s more, you have no authority to investigate me without an order from the SS-Gericht.”—“That’s true,” acknowledged Clemens, “but we’re not investigating you. For now, we’re interviewing you as a witness.”—“Yes,” repeated Weser, “as a witness, that’s all.”—“That’s just to say,” continued Clemens, “that there are a lot of things we don’t understand and that we’d like to understand.”—“For instance, this business with the twins,” added Weser. “Let’s say they are actually great-nephews of your mother’s…”—“We didn’t find any trace of brothers or sisters, but let’s say so,” interrupted Clemens.—“Hey, you don’t know, do you?” asked Weser.—“What?”—“If your mother had a brother or a sister?”—“I heard talk of a brother, but I never saw him. We left Alsace in 1918, and after that, to my knowledge, my mother had no more contact with her family in France.”—“So let’s say,” Weser went on, “that they are in fact great-nephews. We haven’t found any paper that proves it, no birth certificates, nothing.”—“And your sister,” rapped out Clemens, “showed no papers when she took them with her.”—Weser smiled cunningly: “For us, these are very important potential witnesses who have disappeared.”—“We don’t know where,” grumbled Clemens. “It’s unacceptable that the French police let them slip away like that.”—“Yes,” said Weser, looking at him, “but what’s done is done. No use going back over it.”—Clemens went on without stopping: “Still, afterward, we’re the ones who get stuck with all the problems.”—“In short,” Weser said to me, “if you talk to her, ask her to contact us. Your sister, I mean.” I nodded. They seemed to have nothing more to say, and I ended the interview. I had never tried to reach my sister; it was beginning to become important, for if they found her and her story contradicted mine, their suspicions would be exacerbated; they would even be, I thought with horror, capable of accusing me. But where could I find her? Thomas, I said to myself, must have contacts in Switzerland, he could ask Schellenberg. I had to do something, this situation was becoming ridiculous. And the question of the twins was worrisome.

Three days before New Year’s Day there was a heavy snow, and this time the snow stuck. Inspired by his Christmas party success, Thomas decided to re-invite everyone: “Might as well take advantage of this shack before it burns down too.” I asked Helene to tell her parents she’d come home late, and it was a really wonderful party. A little before midnight, the whole gang armed itself with Champagne and baskets of Dutch oysters and set out on foot for the Grunewald. Beneath the trees, the snow lay virgin and pure; the sky was clear, lit by an almost full moon, which shed a bluish light on the white expanses. In a clearing, Thomas cracked open the Champagne—he had supplied himself with a real cavalry saber, taken down from the wall of our weapons hall—and the less clumsy ones struggled to open the oysters, a delicate and dangerous art for those who don’t have the knack. At midnight, instead of fireworks, the Luftwaffe artillerymen lit their searchlights, launched flares, and shot off some .88-millimeter rounds. This time, Helene kissed me outright, not for long, but a strong, happy kiss that sent a rush of fear and pleasure through my limbs. Surprising, I said to myself as I drank to hide my confusion, I who thought no sensation was foreign to me, now a woman’s kiss overwhelms me. The others were laughing, throwing snowballs at each other and swallowing oysters from the shell. Hohenegg, who kept a moth-eaten shapka planted on his bald, oval head, had turned out to be the most skillful of the shuckers: “That or a thorax, they’re pretty much the same thing,” he laughed. Schellenberg had gashed the entire base of his thumb, and was bleeding quietly onto the snow, drinking Champagne, without anyone thinking to bandage it. Seized with happiness, I began running around and throwing snowballs too; the more we drank, the more frenzied the game became—we tackled one another by the legs, as in rugby, rammed fistfuls of snow down each other’s necks, our coats were soaking, but we didn’t feel the cold. I pushed Helene into the powdery snow, stumbled, and collapsed next to her; lying on her back, her arms stretched out in the snow, she laughed; when she fell, her long skirt had ridden up, and without thinking, I rested my hand on her bare knee, protected only by a stocking. She turned her head to me and looked at me, still laughing. Then I removed my hand and helped her get up. We didn’t go back until after we’d emptied the last bottle; we had to hold back Schellenberg, who wanted to shoot at the empties; walking in the snow, Helene held my arm. In the house, Thomas gallantly gave up his bedroom as well as the guest room to the tired girls, who fell asleep still dressed, three to a bed. I ended the night playing chess and discussing Augustine’s Trinity with Hohenegg, who had dunked his head in cold water and was drinking tea. So began the year 1944.

Speer hadn’t gotten back in touch with me since the visit to Mittelbau; in the beginning of January, he called to wish me a happy New Year and to ask me a favor. His ministry had submitted a request to the RSHA to forego deportation of a few Jews from Amsterdam, specialists in metals purchasing with precious contacts in neutral countries; the RSHA had refused the request, pleading the deterioration of the situation in Holland and the need to appear especially severe there. “It’s ridiculous,” Speer said to me in a voice heavy with fatigue. “What risk can three Jews dealing in metals pose to Germany? Their services are precious to us right now.” I asked him to send me a copy of the correspondence, promising to do my best. The refusal letter from the RSHA was signed by Müller but bore the dictation mark IV B 4a. I telephoned Eichmann and began by wishing him a happy New Year. “Thank you, Obersturmbannführer,” he said with his curious blend of Austrian and Berlin accents. “Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.” Then I explained Speer’s problem to him. “I didn’t have anything to do with it myself,” said Eichmann. “It must have been Hauptsturmführer Moes, he’s in charge of individual cases. But of course he’s right. Do you know how many requests we receive like that? If we said yes every time, we might as well just close up shop, we couldn’t touch a single Jew.”—“I understand, Obersturmbannführer. But this is a request from the Minister of Armaments and War Production in person.”—“Yeah. It must be their guy in Holland who’s a little overeager, and then little by little it reached the Minister. But it’s all just about interdepartmental rivalry. No, you know, we can’t agree. What’s more, the situation in Holland is rotten. There are all sorts of groups wandering around free, it just won’t do.” I insisted some more, but Eichmann was obstinate. “No. If we agree, you know, people will just say again that besides the Führer there isn’t a single anti-Semite of conviction left among the Germans. It’s impossible.”