Baumann called me a few days later. It must have been around mid-February, since I remember it was right after the massive bombing in which the Bristol Hotel was hit during an official banquet: some sixty people died, crushed under the rubble, including a number of well-known generals. Baumann seemed in a good mood and congratulated me warmly. “Personally,” his voice said at the other end of the line, “I thought the whole business was ridiculous. I’m happy for you that the Reichsführer settled it. It will avoid problems.” As for the photographs, he had found one showing Aue, but blurred and barely visible; he wasn’t even sure it was he, but he promised to have a copy of it made and to send it to me.

The only people who were unhappy with the Reichsführer’s decision were Clemens and Weser. I found them one night in the street in front of the SS-Haus, hands in the pockets of their long coats, their shoulders and hats covered with fine snow. “Well,” I said mockingly, “Laurel and Hardy. What brings you here?” This time, they didn’t salute me. Weser replied: “We wanted to say hello to you, Obersturmbannführer. But your secretary didn’t want to give us an appointment.” I didn’t react to the omission of the Herr. “She was entirely right,” I said haughtily. “I think we have nothing more to say to each other.”—“Well, see, Obersturmbannführer,” Clemens grumbled, “we think we do, actually.”—“In that case, meine Herren, I suggest you go ask for an authorization from Judge Baumann.” Weser shook his head: “We realize, Obersturmbannführer, that Judge Baumann will say no. We realize that you are, so to speak, an untouchable.”—“But still,” Clemens went on, the steam from his breath masking his fat pug-nosed face, “it’s not normal, Obersturmbannführer, you can see that. There should be some justice, all the same.”—“I agree with you completely. But still, your insane calumnies have nothing to do with justice.”—“Calumnies, Obersturmbannführer?” Weser rapped out, raising his eyebrows. “Calumnies? Are you so sure? In my opinion, if Judge Baumann had really read the file, he’d be less certain than you.”—“Yeah,” said Clemens. “For instance, he could have wondered about the clothes.”—“The clothes? What clothes are you talking about?” Weser replied in his place: “Clothes the French police found in the bathtub, on the second floor. Civilian clothes…” He turned to Clemens: “Notebook.” Clemens pulled the notebook out of an inner pocket and handed it to him. Weser leafed through it: “Oh yes, here it is: clothing splattered with blood. Splattered. That’s the word I was looking for.”—“It means ‘soaked,’” Clemens explained.—“The Obersturmbannführer knows what it means, Clemens,” Weser grunted. “The Obersturmbannführer is an educated man. He has a good vocabulary.” He dove back into the notebook. “Civilian clothing, then, splattered, thrown into the bathtub. There was also blood on the tile floor, on the walls, in the sink, on the towels. And downstairs, in the living room and the entrance, there were traces of footsteps pretty much everywhere, because of the blood. There were prints of shoes, we found the shoes with the clothes, but there were also prints of boots. Heavy boots.”—“Well,” I said, shrugging, “the murderer changed before he left, to avoid attracting attention.”—“You see, Clemens, when I tell you that the Obersturmbannführer is an intelligent man. You should listen to me.” He turned to me and looked at me under his hat. “Those clothes were all of German make, Obersturmbannführer.” He leafed again through the notebook: “A brown two-piece suit, wool, good quality, label of a German tailor. A white shirt, German make. A silk tie, German make, a pair of cotton socks, German make, a pair of underwear, German make. A pair of brown leather town shoes, size forty-two, German make.” He raised his eyes to me: “What’s your shoe size, Obersturmbannführer? If you allow me the question. What’s your suit size?” I smiled; “Gentlemen, I don’t know what godforsaken hole you crawled out of, but I advise you to go back to it on the double. Vermin aren’t allowed to remain in Germany anymore.” Clemens frowned: “Say, Weser, he’s insulting us, isn’t he?”—“Yes. He’s insulting us. He’s threatening us too. Actually, you might be right. He might be less intelligent than he seems, this Obersturmbannführer.” Weser put a finger on his hat: “Good night, Obersturmbannführer. See you soon, maybe.”

I watched them walk away under the snow toward the Zimmerstrasse. Thomas, whom I had come to meet, had joined me. “Who’s that?” he said, motioning with his head at the two silhouettes.—“Pains in the ass. Lunatics. Couldn’t you have them put into a concentration camp, to calm them down?” He shrugged: “If you have a valid reason, it’s possible. Shall we go eat?” Thomas, in fact, took hardly any interest in my problems; but he was very interested in Speer’s. “Things are hopping over there,” he said to me at the restaurant. “At the OT too. It’s very hard to follow. But obviously some people see his hospitalization as an opportunity.”—“An opportunity?”—“To replace him. Speer has made himself a lot of enemies. Bormann is against him, Sauckel too, all the Gauleiters, except Kaufmann and maybe Hanke.”—“And the Reichsführer?”—“The Reichsführer more or less supported him up to now. But that could change.”—“I have to confess that I don’t really understand the sense of all these intrigues,” I said slowly. “You just have to look at the numbers: without Speer, we’d probably already have lost the war. Now the situation is clearly critical. All of Germany should be united to confront this peril.” Thomas smiled: “You really still are an idealist. That’s fine! But most of the Gauleiters don’t see further than their own personal interests, or those of their Gau.”—“Well, instead of opposing Speer’s efforts to increase production, they’d do better to remember that if we lose, they too will all end up at the end of a rope. I’d call that their personal interest, wouldn’t you?”—“Certainly. But you must see that there’s something else in all that. There’s also a question of political vision. Schellenberg’s diagnosis isn’t accepted by everyone, nor are the solutions he recommends.” Now we’ve reached the crucial point, I said to myself. I lit a cigarette. “And what is your friend Schellenberg’s diagnosis? And the solutions?” Thomas looked around him. For the first time I could remember, he looked vaguely worried. “Schellenberg thinks that if we continue on like this, the war is lost, whatever Speer’s industrial prowess may be. He thinks the only viable solution is a separate peace with the West.”—“And you? What do you think?” He thought: “He isn’t wrong. I’m beginning to get into trouble at the Staatspolizei, among certain circles, because of this business. Schellenberg has the Reichsführer’s ear, but he hasn’t convinced him yet. And a lot of other people don’t agree, such as Müller and Kaltenbrunner. Kaltenbrunner is trying to move closer to Bormann. If he succeeds, he could pose problems for the Reichsführer. At that level, Speer is a secondary problem.”—“I’m not saying Schellenberg is right. But what sort of solution do the others envisage? Given the industrial potential of the Americans, no matter what Speer does, time is against us.”—“I don’t know,” Thomas said dreamily. “I imagine they believe in the miracle weapons. You saw them. What do you think of them?” I shrugged: “I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re worth.” The food arrived and conversation turned to other things. During dessert, though, Thomas reverted to Bormann, with a mischievous smile. “You know, Kaltenbrunner is putting together a file on Bormann. I’m handling part of it for him.”—“On Bormann? You just told me he wanted to move closer to him.”—“That’s not a reason. Bormann has files on everyone, on the Reichsführer, on Speer, on Kaltenbrunner, even on you possibly.” He had put a toothpick in his mouth and was rolling it around on his tongue. “So, what I wanted to tell you…It’s between us, all right? Seriously…so Kaltenbrunner, then, has intercepted quite a few letters between Bormann and his wife. And we found some real gems there. Worthy of an anthology.” He leaned forward, looking cheeky. “Bormann was after some little actress. You know how hot-blooded he is, the top secretary-stud of the Reich. Schellenberg calls him The Typist Fucker. Well, he got her. But the great thing is that he wrote about it to his wife, who is Buch’s daughter, you know, the head of the Party Court? She’s already given him nine or ten kids, I’ve lost count. And she answers, basically: That’s fine, I’m not angry, I’m not jealous. And she suggests he bring the girl home. And then she writes: Given the terrible decline in child production caused by this war, we will work out a system of motherhood by shifts, so that you will always have a wife who is usable.” Thomas paused, smiling, while I burst out laughing: “No kidding! She really wrote that?”—“I swear it. A wife who is usable. Can you believe it?” He was laughing too. “And Bormann, do you know what he answered?” I asked.—“Oh, he congratulated her, of course. Then he fed her some ideological platitudes. I think he called her a pure child of National Socialism. But it’s obvious that he was saying that to make her happy. Bormann doesn’t believe in anything. Aside from the absolute elimination of anything that could come between him and the Führer.” I looked at him, mocking: “And you, what do you believe in?” I wasn’t disappointed by his answer. Straightening up on his banquette, he declared: “To quote a passage written by our illustrious Minister of Propaganda in his youth: The important thing is not so much what one believes; the important thing is to believe.” I smiled; Thomas sometimes impressed me. I said so to him: “Thomas, you impress me.”—“What do you expect? I’m not satisfied with stagnating in back offices. I’m a real National Socialist, I am. And Bormann too, in his own way. Your Speer, I’m not so sure. He has talent, but I don’t think he’s very devoted to the regime he’s serving.” I smiled again, thinking about Schellenberg. Thomas went on: “The more difficult things become, the more we’ll be able to count only on the real National Socialists. The rats are all going to start to jump ship. You’ll see.”