The Feldpolizeikommissar, a stocky bulldog with wire-rimmed glasses, wearing nothing more than a pair of pants with suspenders and a stained undershirt, welcomed me rather dryly: “It’s about time. I’ve been requesting someone for three weeks now. Ah well, Heil Hitler.” A heavy silver ring gleamed on his hand stretched almost to the level of the lightbulb hanging over his massive head. I recognized him vaguely: in Kiev, the Kommando worked closely with the Secret Feldpolizei; I must have crossed him in a hallway. “I received the assignment order just four days ago, Herr Kommissar. I couldn’t come any faster.”—“I’m not blaming you. It’s those damn bureaucrats. Have a seat.” I took off my shuba and my shapka, put them on my kit, and looked for a seat in the cluttered office. “As you know, I’m not an SS officer, and my group of the Geheime Feldpolizei is under the control of the AOK. But as a Kriminalrat of the Kripo, all branches of the police in the Kessel are under my command. It’s a rather delicate arrangement, but we understand each other. The Feldgendarmen take care of the executive tasks, or else my Ukrainians do it. I used to have eight hundred in all, but there’ve been some losses. They’re divided up between the two Kommandanturen, this one and another one south of the Tsaritsa. You are the only SD officer in the Kessel, so your jobs will be pretty varied. My Leiter IV will explain it all to you in detail. He’ll also take care of your logistics problems. He’s an SS-Sturmbannführer, so unless there’s an emergency, you’ll report to him and he’ll summarize it for me. Good luck.”
