Hohenegg’s brandy turned out to be a poor choice of after-dinner drink: back in my room, I vomited up my dinner. The retchings caught me so quickly I barely had the time to reach the bathtub. Since I had already digested, it was easy to rinse out; but it had a bitter, acidic, revolting taste; I preferred to vomit my meals right away, it came up more painfully and with more difficulty, but at least it didn’t have any taste, or else it tasted like food. I thought about returning to have another drink with Hohenegg, to ask his advice; but finally I just washed out my mouth with water, smoked a cigarette, and went to bed. The next day, I had to go to the Kommando to pay a courtesy visit; they were also expecting Oberführer Bierkamp. I went there around eleven o’clock. From the lower part of town, on the boulevard, you could clearly see, in the distance, the jagged peaks of the Beshtau, rising like a guardian idol; it hadn’t rained, but the air was still fresh. At the Kommando, they told me that Müller was busy with Bierkamp. I waited on the steps of the little courtyard, watching one of the drivers wash the mud off the bumpers and wheels of the Saurer truck. The rear door was open: out of curiosity, I went over to it to look inside, since I hadn’t yet seen what it looked like; I recoiled and immediately began coughing; it was foul, a stinking pool of vomit, excrement, urine. The driver noticed my reaction and said a few words to me in Russian: “Griaznyi, kazhdi raz,” but I didn’t understand the words. An Orpo, probably a Volksdeutscher, came over and translated: “He says that it’s always like that, Hauptsturmführer, very dirty, but they’re going to modify the interior, have the floor slope down, and put a little trapdoor in the middle. That will make it easier to clean out.”—“Is he a Russian?”—“Who, Zaitsev? He’s a Cossack, Hauptsturmführer, we have several of them.” I went back to the steps and lit a cigarette; just at that instant I was summoned, and had to throw it away. Müller received me together with Bierkamp. I saluted him and introduced my mission in Pyatigorsk. “Yes, yes,” Müller said, “the Oberführer explained it to me.” They asked me some questions and I talked about the feeling of pessimism that seemed to be reigning among the army officers. Bierkamp shrugged: “The soldiers have always been pessimists. Already, when it came to the Rhineland and the Sudetenland, they were wailing like sissies. They have never understood the strength of the Führer’s will and of National Socialism.—Tell me something else, have you heard this story about a military government?”—“No, Oberführer. What is it?”—“A rumor is circulating to the effect that the Führer has approved of a military government for the Caucasus, instead of a civilian administration. But we can’t manage to get any official confirmation. At the OKHG they’re very evasive.”—“I’ll try to find out more at the AOK, Oberführer.” We exchanged a few more remarks and I took my leave. In the hallway, I met Turek. He gave me a sardonic, angry look and said with incredible rudeness: “Ah, the Papiersoldat. Don’t worry, your turn will come.” Bierkamp must have talked to him. I answered him amiably, with a little smile: “Hauptsturmführer, I’m at your service.” He stared at me for an instant with a furious look, then disappeared into an office. There, I said to myself, you’ve made yourself an enemy; that’s not so hard.
