The Kindly Ones полностью

Bach, I said to myself, a pious man, would not have appreciated such facetiousness. But I had to admit it was comical. Hanika’s face glowed, he applauded every number; he seemed happy. That evening, I felt at ease, I hadn’t vomited, and I appreciated the theater’s warmth and the pleasant ambiance. At intermission, I went to the refreshment stand and offered Hanika a glass of ice-cold vodka; he turned red, he wasn’t used to it. Adjusting my uniform in front of a mirror, I noticed a stain. “Hanika,” I asked, “what is that?”—“What, Hauptsturmführer?”—“The stain, there.” He looked: “I don’t see anything, Hauptsturmführer.”—“Yes, yes,” I insisted, “there’s a stain, there, it’s a little dark. Rub better when you do the wash.”—“Yes, Hauptsturmführer.” This stain troubled me; I tried to forget it by having another drink, then returned to the hall for the second part of the program. Afterward, accompanied by Hanika, I walked up the former Liebknecht Street, now rebaptized Horst-Wesselstrasse or something like that. Farther up, near the park, some old women, supervised by soldiers, were unstringing a hanged man. At least, I thought when I saw this, these Russians we’re hanging have mothers to wipe the sweat and dirt from their faces, close their eyes, cross their stiff arms, and tenderly bury them. I thought of all the Jews with their eyes still open under the earth in the ravine in Kiev: we had deprived them not only of life but also of that tenderness, for we had killed their mothers and wives and sisters with them, and hadn’t left anyone to mourn them. Their fate was the bitterness of a mass grave, their only funeral feast the rich earth of the Ukraine filling their mouths, their only Kaddish the whistling of the wind over the steppe. And the same fate awaited their brethren in Kharkov. Blobel had finally arrived with the Hauptkommando, and discovered with fury that no measures had yet been taken, except the order to wear the yellow star. “But what the hell is the Wehrmacht doing?! Do they want to spend the winter with thirty thousand saboteurs and terrorists in their midst?” He had brought Dr. Kehrig’s replacement, fresh from Germany; thus I found myself relegated to my old subordinate tasks, which, given my state of fatigue, didn’t bother me much. Sturmbannführer Dr. Woytinek was a dry, glum little man, who nourished a keen resentment for having missed the beginning of the campaign and who hoped that the opportunity to make up for it would soon present itself. The opportunity indeed soon would present itself; but not right away. As soon as they arrived, Blobel and Vogt had begun negotiations with the representatives from the AOK about another Grosse Aktion. But in the meantime, von Rundstedt had been dismissed because of the retreat from Rostov, and the Führer had appointed von Reichenau to replace him as head of Army Group South. No replacement had yet been named to take command of the Sixth Army; for now, the AOK was headed by Oberst Heim, the Chief of Staff; and he, in terms of cooperation with the SP and the SD, turned out to be less complacent than his former boss. He never uttered any outright objection, but every day he raised new practical difficulties in his correspondence, and the discussions dragged on. Blobel was fuming, and taking out his anger on the officers in his Kommando. Dr. Woytinek was getting acquainted with the files and harassed me with questions throughout the day. When Dr. Sperath saw me, he remarked: “You don’t look very well.”—“It’s nothing. I’m just a little tired.”—“You should get some rest.” I laughed: “Yes, after the war.” But I was also distracted by the traces of mud on my pants that Hanika, who seemed to be growing a little negligent, hadn’t cleaned well.

Blobel had come to Kharkov with the Saurer truck, and he was counting on using it for the action being planned. He had finally been able to try it out in Poltava. Häfner, who had been present—the Teilkommandos had gathered in Poltava before marching together to Kharkov—related the scene to me one night at the Kasino: “Actually it’s not an improvement at all. The Standartenführer loaded some women and children in it, then started the engine. When the Jews understood what was happening, they started beating on the sides, shouting ‘Dear Germans! Dear Germans! Let us get out!’ I stayed in the car with the Standartenführer, who was drinking schnapps. Afterward, during the unloading, I can tell you he was not pleased. The bodies were covered with shit and vomit, the men were disgusted. Findeisen, who was driving the truck, also inhaled some gas and was vomiting everywhere. Horrible. If that’s all they could come up with to simplify our lives, they can try again. Only some damn bureaucrat could have thought that one up.”—“But the Standartenführer still wants to use it?”—“Oh yes! But believe me, it will be without me.”