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Reinholz sent two Orpos to summon Shabaev, and served tea to Weseloh; I telephoned the Ortskommandantur to arrange something with Voss, but he had gone out; they promised me he’d call me back when he returned. Reinholz, who like everyone else had heard about Jünger’s arrival, questioned Weseloh about the writer’s National Socialist convictions; Weseloh, obviously, didn’t know anything about it, but thought she had heard it said that he wasn’t a member of the Party. A little later on, Shabaev made his appearance: “Markel Avgadulovich,” he introduced himself. He wore traditional mountain garb and had an imposing beard and a firm, assured ma
“What a circus!” she exclaimed in the car.—“That’s nothing compared to what they did for the commission from the Wehrmacht,” Reinholz commented.—“And those gifts!” she went on. “What are they thinking? That they can buy off SS officers? That’s really a Jewish tactic.” I didn’t say anything: Weseloh a