Eichmann had kept his word: when I returned from Lichtenfelde at the end of the afternoon, I found on my desk a large sealed envelope marked GEHEIME REICHSSACHE! It contained a bundle of documents accompanied by a typed letter; there was also a handwritten note from Eichmann inviting me to his place the next evening. Driven by Piontek, I went to buy some flowers first—an uneven number, as I had learned to do in Russia—and some chocolate. Then I had him drop me off at the Kurfürstenstrasse. Eichmann had his apartment in a wing of his office building, intended too for single officers passing through. He opened the door himself, dressed in civilian clothes: “Ach! Sturmbannführer Aue. I should have told you not to come in uniform. It’s a very simple soirée. But that’s fine. Come in, come in.” He introduced me to his wife, Vera, a small Austrian with a discreet personality, but who blushed with pleasure and gave a charming smile when I handed her the flowers with a low bow. Eichmann had two of his children line up, Dieter, who must have been six, and Klaus. “Little Horst is already asleep,” Frau Eichmann said.—“He’s our latest one,” her husband added. “He’s not yet a year old. Come, I’ll introduce you.” He led me into the living room where there were already several men and women, standing or sitting on sofas. There were, if I remember correctly, Hauptsturmführer Novak, an Austrian of Croatian origin with firm, angular features, quite handsome but curiously arrogant; Boll, the violinist; and some others whose names I have unfortunately forgotten, all colleagues of Eichmann’s, with their wives. “Günther will come by too, but just for a cup of tea. He rarely joins us.”—“I see you cultivate the spirit of camaraderie in your section.”—“Yes, yes. I like having friendly relations with my subordinates. What would you like to drink? A little schnapps? Krieg ist Krieg…” I laughed and he joined in with me: “You have a good memory, Obersturmbannführer.” I took the glass and raised it: “This time, I drink to the health of your charming family.” He clicked his heels and bowed his head: “Thank you.” We conversed a little, then Eichmann led me to the sideboard to show me a photograph framed in black, showing a man, still young, in uniform. “Your brother?” I asked.—“Yes.” He looked at me with his curious birdlike air, particularly accentuated in this light by his hooked nose and protruding ears. “I don’t suppose you ran into him, over there?” He mentioned a division and I shook my head: “No. I arrived rather late, after the encirclement. And I didn’t meet many people.”—“Oh, I see. Helmut fell during one of the fall offensives. We don’t know the exact circumstances, but we received an official notification.”—“All that was a hard sacrifice,” I said. He rubbed his lips: “Yes. Let’s hope it wasn’t in vain. But I believe in the Führer’s genius.”
Frau Eichmann served cakes and tea; Günther arrived, took a cup, and stationed himself in a corner to drink it, without talking with anyone. I secretly observed him while the others were talking. He was obviously a very proud man, jealous of his impenetrable, closed bearing, which he exhibited to his more talkative colleagues as a silent reproach. He was said to be the son of Hans F. K. Günther, the doyen of German racial anthropology, whose work had an immense influence at that time; if this was true, the elder Günther could be proud of his offspring, who had gone from theory to practice. He slipped away, saying goodbye distantly after a scant half hour. We proceeded to the music: “Always before dinner,” Eichmann said to me. “Afterward, we’re too busy digesting to play well.” Vera Eichmann picked up the viola and another officer brought out a cello. They played two of the three Brahms string quartets, pleasant, but of little interest, in my opinion; the execution was adequate, without any great surprises: only the cellist had any special talent. Eichmann played calmly, methodically, his eyes riveted to the score; he didn’t make any mistakes, but didn’t seem to understand that that wasn’t enough. I remembered then his comment two days before: “Boll plays better than I, and Heydrich played even better.” Maybe after all he understood this, and accepted his limits, taking pleasure in the little he could manage.
