The Kindly Ones

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 cu

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 ru

Speer hadn’t gotten back in touch with me since the visit to Mittelbau; in the begi