The Kindly Ones

I spent the next morning at the AOK: they had seized crates of documents when they captured the city, so I had to go with a translator and inspect these files, especially the ones from the NKVD, and decide which ones to deliver to the Sonderkommando for priority analysis. We were especially looking for lists of members of the Communist Party, of the NKVD, or other groups: many of those people must have stayed in town mixed in with the civilian population, to carry out acts of espionage or sabotage, so it was urgent to identify them. Around noon, I returned to the Academy to consult Dr. Kehrig. There was some agitation on the ground floor: groups of men were milling in the corners, whispering agitatedly. I caught a Scharführer by the sleeve: “What’s happening?”—“I don’t know, Obersturmführer. I think there’s a problem with the Standartenführer.”—“Where are the officers?” He pointed to a stairway that led to our quarters. On the way up, I met Kehrig, who was muttering as he came down, “This is insane, just insane.”—“What’s happening?” I asked him. He glanced at me gloomily and said, “How do you expect to work in such conditions?” He continued on his way. I climbed up a few more steps and heard a shot, the sound of broken glass, some shouts. On the landing in front of the open door of Blobel’s bedroom, two officers from the Wehrmacht were pacing furiously back and forth in front of Kurt Hans. “What’s happening?” I asked Hans. He gestured toward the room with his chin, his hands clenched behind his back. I went in. Blobel, sitting on his bed, wearing his boots but no jacket, was waving a pistol around; Callsen was standing next to him and trying without grasping his arm to direct the pistol toward the wall; a window pane had shattered; on the floor, I noticed a bottle of schnapps. Blobel was livid and spluttering incoherent words. Häfner came in behind me: “What’s happening?”—“I don’t know, it seems the Standartenführer is having a fit.”—“He’s gone nuts, you mean.” Callsen turned around: “Ah, Obersturmführer. Go ask the gentlemen from the Wehrmacht to excuse us and come back a little later, all right?” I stepped back and bumped into Hans, who had made up his mind to come in. “August, go find a doctor,” Callsen said to Häfner. Blobel was bawling: “It’s not possible, it’s not possible, they’re sick, I’m going to kill them.” The two officers from the Wehrmacht hovered in the hallway, rigid, pale. “Meine Herren…,” I began. Häfner pushed me aside and ran down the stairs. The Hauptma

An hour later, the officers met in the main hall. Von Radetzky and Häfner had left with Blobel; he had started kicking when they put him into the Opel, Sperath had been forced to give him another shot while Häfner held him round the waist. Callsen began to speak: “Well, I think you’re all more or less up to date about the situation.” Vogt interrupted: “Could you perhaps go over it quickly?”—“If you like. This morning, the Generalfeldmarschall gave the order to undertake a retaliatory action for the ten German soldiers found mutilated in the fortress. He ordered us to execute one Jew for each person assassinated by the Bolsheviks; that is more than a thousand Jews. The Standartenführer received the order and that seems to have brought about a fit…”—“It’s also somewhat the army’s fault,” Kurt Hans said. “They should have sent someone with more tact than that Hauptma