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From the hotel, I sent a telegram to Werner Best in Denmark, telling him I was ready to accept a position in his administration. Then I waited. My sister didn’t call back, and I didn’t try to contact her, either. Three days later they brought me a letter from the Auswärtiges Amt; it was Best’s reply: the situation in Denmark had changed, and he had nothing to offer me for the moment. I crumpled the letter up and threw it out. Bitterness and fear were welling up; I had to do something to avoid collapsing. I called back Mandelbrod’s office and left a message.
MENUET (EN RONDEAUX)
It was Thomas, as you might have guessed, who brought me the letter. I had gone down to listen to the news at the hotel bar, along with some officers from the Wehrmacht. It must have been around the middle of May: in Tunis, our troops had carried out a voluntary contraction of the front in accordance with the preestablished plan; in Warsaw, the liquidation of the terrorist bands was proceeding without obstacles. The officers around me listened glumly, in silence; only a one-armed Hauptma
I didn’t feel much like celebrating, but I let myself be carried along. Thomas spent the night buying me American whiskies and excitedly holding forth on the stubbor