For some minutes, Globocnik had been calling the guests to sit down to lunch. I found myself opposite Kurt Claasen, a colleague of Höfle’s, and next to a very talkative SS secretary. She immediately wanted to tell me about her tribulations, but fortunately Globocnik began a speech in honor of General Moser, which forced her to wait. He ended quickly and everyone there got up to drink to Moser’s health; then the General said a few words of thanks. The food was brought over: the roasted animals had been expertly carved, the pieces piled on wooden trays spread out on the tables, everyone could serve himself as he pleased. There were also salads and fresh vegetables, it was delicious. The girl nibbled on a carrot and straight away wanted to go on with her story: I listened to her with half an ear while I ate. She talked about her fiancé, a Hauptscharführer stationed in Galicia, in Drohobycz. It was a tragic story: she had broken off her engagement to a Viennese soldier for him, and as for him, he was married, but to a woman who didn’t love him. “He wanted to get a divorce, but I did a stupid thing, I saw that soldier I broke up with again, he’s the one who asked to see me but I said yes, and Lexi”—the fiancé—“knew it, and it discouraged him because he wasn’t sure about my love anymore and he went back to Galicia. But fortunately he still loves me.”—“And what is he doing, in Drohobycz?”—“He’s in the SP, he’s playing general with the Jews on the Durchgangstrasse.”—“I see. And you see each other often?”—“When we have leave. He wants me to come live with him, but I don’t know. Apparently it’s very dirty there. But he says I won’t have to see his Jews, he can find a good house. But if we’re not married, I don’t know, he’d have to get a divorce. What do you think?” My mouth was full of venison and I merely shrugged. Then I talked a little with Claasen. Around the end of the meal an orchestra appeared, set up on the steps that led to the garden, and began a waltz. Several couples got up to dance on the lawn. The young secretary, disappointed no doubt by my lack of interest in her sentimental misfortunes, went to dance with Claasen. At another table I noticed Horn, who had arrived late, and got up to exchange a few words with him. One day, noticing my leatherette satchel, he had offered, as a way of showing me the quality of his Jews’ work, to have one made for me in leather; I had just received it, a beautiful morocco portfolio with a brass zipper. I thanked him warmly, but insisted also on paying for the leather and the labor, in order to avoid any misunderstanding. “No problem,” Horn agreed. “We’ll send you a bill.” Morgen seemed to have disappeared. I drank another beer, smoked, watched the dancers. It was warm out, and with the heavy meats and the alcohol I was sweating in my uniform. I looked around: many people had unfastened or even unbuttoned their tunics; I opened the collar on mine. Globocnik didn’t miss one dance, each time inviting one of the women in civilian dress or a secretary; my lunch companion also ended up in his arms. But not many people had his spirit: after several waltzes and other dances, they had the orchestra change its music, and a choir of Wehrmacht and SS officers gathered to sing “Drei Lilien, kommt ein Reiter, bringt die Lilien” and other songs. Claasen had joined me with a glass of Cognac; he was in shirtsleeves, his face red and swollen; he was laughing mechanically and while the orchestra played “Es geht alles vorüber” he intoned a cynical variation:
