The Kindly Ones

Weser wasn’t wrong. I returned to Berlin in the second week of July to report on my activities and await new instructions. I found the Reichsführer’s and the RSHA’s offices hard hit by the March and April bombings. The Prinz-Albrecht-Palais had been completely destroyed by high-explosive bombs; the SS-Haus was still standing, but only partly, and my office had had to move again, to another a

Luck had been with me: my apartment had survived. Once again not a window remained, my neighbor had blocked the openings as well as she could with boards and canvas tarps; in the living room, the windows of the sideboard had been blown out, the ceiling had cracked, and the chandelier fallen; a burned smell stubbornly suffused my bedroom, for the apartment next to mine had caught fire when a firebomb had gone through the window; but it was livable and even tidy: my neighbor, Frau Zempke, had cleaned everything and re-whitewashed the walls to mask the traces of smoke; oil lamps, polished and filled, were lined up on the sideboard; a barrel and several cans of water cluttered up the bathroom. I opened the French windows and all the windows whose frames hadn’t been nailed shut, to take advantage of the late afternoon light, then went downstairs to thank Frau Zempke, to whom I gave some money for her trouble—she would probably have preferred Hungarian sausages, but once again I hadn’t even thought of that—and also coupons, so she could prepare food for me: these, she explained, wouldn’t be of much use, the store where most of them were registered no longer existed, but if I gave her a little more money, she would make do. I went back upstairs. I pulled an armchair in front of the open balcony, it was a calm, beautiful summer evening; of half of the surrounding buildings, only empty, silent façades remained, or piles of rubble, and I contemplated this end-of-the-world landscape for a long time; the park at the foot of the building remained silent, all the children must have been sent out to the country. I didn’t even put on any music, so I could take advantage of this quietness and calm a little. Frau Zempke brought me some sausage, bread, and a little soup, apologizing for not being able to do any better, but that suited me very well, I had gotten some beer at the Staatspolizei bar and I ate and drank with pleasure, caught in the curious illusion of floating on an island, a peaceful haven in the midst of the disaster. After clearing the table, I poured myself a large glass of cheap schnapps, lit a cigarette, and sat down, feeling in my pocket for Bauma