The Questionnaire 9782070770267, 9782072281556

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Ernst von Solomon

The question sheet Translated from German by Guido Meister

P refaceby J oseph R ovan

Gallimard

IMAGINARY COLLECTION

Ernst von Salomon was born in Kiel in 1902. His family, originally from Venice, emigrated via Alsace to Germany where they obtained Prussian nationality and a title of nobility. Following the defeat of 1918, he was a member of the Freikorps, then an activist of the Consul Organization, involved in the assassination of Walther Rathenau, Minister of Foreign Affairs under the Weimar Republic. After the collapse of IIIeReich, he was interned in an American camp until September 1946. In May 1951 appeared the autobiographical novelThe question sheet, which caused a great stir. During the war and the years that followed, Ernst von Salomon wrote many screenplays for lms. He died on August 9, 1972 in Winsen.

AN AMBIGUOUS WITNESS

In 1951, when West Germany was still living under the Occupation Statute — less than six years after the collapse of the Hitler regime, less than two years only after the founding of the Federal Republic — a writer who had, very young, known a great success at the time of the Weimar Republic, and of which the general public had not heard any more since 1933, brought out a big novel which very quickly became what, at the time , it was not yet called a “bestseller”. Ernst von Salomon, the author, was then forty-nine years old. His previous books had testified to a great talent for storytelling, a strong capacity for evocation, remarkable gifts of description; he maintained with his characters a complex relationship of complicity and distancing, he possessed, something so rare in German literature, the sense of irony applied to others and to oneself. However, his books, baptized novels but which were above all testimonies, shaped memories, also included vast ranges of political and ideological considerations, often very hazy, and which bore the seal of belonging to the extreme right. "national". This membership had led the author, former student of a school of "Cadets" (student ocers) and former oier of the Free Corps immediately after the war, to participate in 1922 in the attack which was to cost the life of the Minister of Foreign Aairs Walther Rathenau, powerful and solitary spirit, industrial magnate, Jew dreaming of friendship with the race of tall blond Germans… We then realized that Salomon baptized novels but which were above all testimonies, shaped memories, also included vast ranges of political and ideological considerations, often very hazy, and which bore the seal of belonging to the "national" extreme right. This membership had led the author, former student of a school of "Cadets" (student ocers) and former oier of the Free Corps immediately after the war, to participate in 1922 in the attack which was to cost the life of the Minister of Foreign Aairs Walther Rathenau, powerful and solitary spirit, industrial magnate, Jew dreaming of friendship with the race of tall blond Germans… We then realized that Salomon baptized novels but which were above all testimonies, shaped memories, also included vast ranges of political and ideological considerations, often very hazy, and which bore the seal of belonging to the "national" extreme right. This membership had led the author, former student of a school of "Cadets" (student ocers) and former oier of the Free Corps immediately after the war, to participate in 1922 in the attack which was to cost the life of the Minister of Foreign Aairs Walther Rathenau, powerful and solitary spirit, industrial magnate, Jew dreaming of friendship with the race of tall blond Germans… We then realized that Salomon often very foggy, and which clearly bore the seal of belonging to the "national" extreme right. This membership had led the author, former student of a school of "Cadets" (student ocers) and former oier of the Free Corps immediately after the war, to participate in 1922 in the attack which was to cost the life of the Minister of Foreign Aairs Walther Rathenau, powerful and solitary spirit, industrial magnate, Jew dreaming of friendship with the race of tall blond Germans… We then realized that Salomon often very foggy, and which clearly bore the seal of belonging to the "national" extreme right. This membership had led the author, former student of a school of "Cadets" (student ocers) and former oier of the Free

Corps immediately after the war, to participate in 1922 in the attack which was to cost the life of the Minister of Foreign Aairs Walther Rathenau, powerful and solitary spirit, industrial magnat

had remained silent throughout the Hitler regime to which his past and his opinions should have brought him closer. In fact, before 1933, in several of his books Ernst von Salomon had already expressed the contempt that Hitler and his companions, plebeians and bureaucrats, inspired in him. Now, in 1951, in a West Germany successively liberated from Hitler's censorship and anti-Hitler Allied censorship, Solomon was resurfacing. And with what noise! His new bookThe question sheet(The Fragebogen) seemed to break with all conformism and raise his indictments against the Nazis as well as against the Americans. His ambition — an immense fresco evoking through the episodes of the author's life half a century of German life, and what a half century! — and its ambiguity made “Fragebogen” the most discussed book, the first really discussed book, of the German post-war period. It was translated — more or less well — into the main cultural languages. The German edition, in its successive forms, exceeded 250,000 copies. It was, moreover, the last important work of Ernst von Salomon, who during the last twenty years of his existence was to produce nothing but repetitions and entertainments. It was also if not the last, at least one of the last very great successes of the publisher Ernst Rowohlt, prodigious literary beast and giant in every field, from gastronomy and drinking to metaphysical speculation, to whom Solomon felt bound with a growling and fascinated friendship. Rowohlt who hated the Nazis, Rowohlt who had published an immense list of Jewish and reprobate authors, Rowohlt who had left Nazi Germany, the climate of which was becoming unbreathable to him, had nevertheless returned in 1940, at the cost of an astonishing odyssey of simple sailor from South America, to serve as an officer in the Wehrmacht in Greece and Russia. It is true that a year later he was fired and expelled from the army as a politically suspect element, just as in 1938 he had been banned from doing his job as a publisher. to which Solomon felt bound by a growling and fascinated friendship. Rowohlt who hated the Nazis, Rowohlt who had published an immense list of Jewish and reprobate authors, Rowohlt who had left Nazi Germany, the climate of which was becoming unbreathable to him, had nevertheless returned in 1940, at the cost of an astonishing odyssey of simple sailor from South America, to serve as an officer in the Wehrmacht in Greece and Russia. It is true that a year later he was fired and expelled from the army as a politically suspect element, just as in 1938 he had been banned from doing his job as a publisher. to which Solomon felt bound by a growling and fascinated friendship. Rowohlt who hated the Nazis, Rowohlt who had published an immense list of Jewish and reprobate authors, Rowohlt who had left Nazi Germany, the climate of which was becoming unbreathable to him, had nevertheless returned in 1940, at the cost of an astonishing odyssey of simple sailor from South America, to serve as an officer in the Wehrmacht in Greece and Russia. It is true that a year later he was fired and expelled from the army as a politically suspect element, just as in 1938 he had been banned from doing his job as a publisher. Rowohlt, who had left Nazi Germany, whose climate was becoming unbreathable to him, had however returned in 1940, at the cost of an astonishing odyssey as a simple sailor from South America, to serve as an officer in the Wehrmacht in Greece and Russia. . It is true that a year later he was fired and expelled from the army as a politically suspect element, just as in 1938 he had been banned from doing his job as a publisher. Rowohlt, who had left Nazi Germany, whose climate was becoming unbreathable to him, had however returned in 1940, at the cost of an astonishing odyssey as a simple sailor from South America, to serve as an officer in the Wehrmacht in Greece and Russia. . It is true that a year later he was fired and expelled from the army as a politically suspect element, just as in 1938 he had been banned from doing his job as a publisher.

for covering up Jewish authors. Fat Rowohlt, hero of innumerable charming and charming pages in several books of Solomon, was in his own way a true co-author of theQuizby encouraging the author, by running the risk—limited but not negligible—of entering into conflict with the powers of occupation, and by sharing—in his life as in his work—the "German" ambiguity of which Salomon is a witness of choice, passive and active. Since its publication in FranceThe question sheetaroused equally passionate support, admiration and condemnation. Everything in this divisive book that could provoke clashes between Germans was further magnified and obscured in France by national prejudices and ignorance. And then, in both countries, time, distance, oblivion have woven a web of silence around Solomon and his work. If the French publisher deems it possible today to releaseThe question sheetof his temporary tomb, one can think that time itself has neither prepared this reversal. Solomon was so remote and so out of date that entire generations in Germany and France can rediscover it today as a sort of lost continent.

* If he were still alive, Ernst von Salomon would be seventy-nine years old today. One imagines him, a frivolous and unrepentant old man, apparently little inclined to metaphysical anxiety and totally foreign to the Catholic faith of his origins, a gourmet and greedy roughneck, drinker, eater, retired ladies' man. Such men often find it difficult to age decently; it was undoubtedly a benevolent destiny that caused him to die at the age of seventy. But to imagine him today at his real age, we also restore him with his works to his true historical environment, the Weimar Republic. The work of this Prussian

singular, resulting from a family of French catholic origin, of this former “Cadet” ls of a high official of police force, deals with the bottom only one youth which was its only true adventure. When the Nazis seized power in 1933, Salomon was only thirty-two years old, but everything he had to say had already happened to him: the Cadet School, the war, the conspiracy, terrorism. , murder, prison, literary success. Solomon's entire work, at least that which he held to be avowable - which excludes the many film scripts committed during the Hitler era, subjects without pretension and away from political and social news, choice meritorious from a writer whom the Regime would have willingly annexed - deals with German youth from the end of childhood to their thirties,Cadets, published in 1933, constitutes in chronological order the first volume of this strange Bildungsroman, of this very particular sentimental education. Then comes the book which immediately, first appeared, the glory of the author:The Forsaken, title badly translated but also become famous, because “die Geächteten” comes from “Acht”, the ban, the banishment, and the “reprobates” are young people where half-pays and lost soldiers, volunteers and mercenaries mingled death was the only profession and also perhaps the only fatherland - terrorist groups, Bünde, leagues of all kinds and sizes, on which National Socialism ultimately imposed its power and its uniforms, while eliminating or reducing to silence the marginals, idealists or anarchists, who did not want to let it go. But if someone, with the experience, the talent, the disappointments and the irreducible prejudices of a Solomon (prejudices which do not only reflect an aesthetic conception of the world,

Quiz), if a new Solomon arose today to describe the both formidable and ridiculous bubbling of the militant and contesting extreme left, the "Terroristenszene" in its various acts and sub-acts, in its concentric circles formed of perpetrators, of accomplices, sympathizers, applause and understanding, perhaps, ranging from the Solomon of the 20s to the 40s, a right-wing man recounting and commenting on the twists and turns and falls of the far right, to his successor in the 60s at 80, the reader would discover surprising analogies. Those concerned defend themselves (not always) with bitterness and vehemence. Published in 1930, by a man who had just spent five years in prison,The city, released in 1932, follows on from Forsakenand recounts, around the evocation of the Berlin metropolis at the start of the great crisis, the struggle of the peasants of Schleswig-Holstein against the consequences of this crisis which is beyond them and from which the Republic does not know how to protect them, the outline of a “Resistance” rather ridiculous, but which will help Nazism to accelerate the destruction of the republican regime. His participation in peasant agitation and his rather goodnatured terrorism was Ernst von Salomon's last political action, and The cityAndCadetshis last "serious" books before the fall of Nazism. The signature of the author ofForsakendid not come to light again until 1951 withThe question sheet, which resumes in a

great fresco globalizing all the themes and all the periods of the previous work, by situating them in the continuity of a life which approaches the threshold of fifty. This time, however, to the adventures of military education, war and terrorism are added the memories of the Nazi era lived in a fairly comfortable marginality, and above all the story of the internment of the author by the Americans, which expands into an ample fresco of denazication as seen, if not by a Nazi, at least by a German nationalist. After which, Ernst von Salomon once again takes up all his themes inThe Destiny of AD, a young nationalist militant turned Reichswehr officer, convicted of high treason for having warned of an upcoming arrest a communist militant who happens to be the father of his ancestor. A soldier lost in a prison dungeon, AD will be put by the Nazis in a concentration camp, from where he will only come out to be interned, as a result of an error, by the Americans. When he regains his freedom, around 1950, he will have spent thirty years in the prisons and camps of all the regimes that have followed one another in Germany since his youth, a portrait of an Ernst von Salomon who would not have had a chance. A historical novel,The Beautiful Wilhelmina, ends the work at the end of a rather brief account; it's entertainment a little on the fringe of the rest, but a very Prussian story, that of the mistress of King Frederick William II (1786-1797), the nephew without genius of the Great Frederick. The daughter of petty bourgeois, promoted to Countess of Lichtenau, the beautiful Wilhelmine is a charming woman, good and light, mother of countless bastards and who bears disgrace with decency after the death of her royal lover and morganatic husband. This unpretentious story belongs rather to the line of films that Solomon wrote without concern for literary glory to survive pleasantly and apolitically under Nazism.

* An elegant and rapid writer, encompassing his person and his ideas in an almost universal irony, a rare quality in a right-wing writer and even in a committed writer of whatever stripe, Ernst von Salomon gave valid literary expression to one of the currents which make up the German destiny during the first half of our century. Evoking this world of fighters, conspirators and terrorists that the French before 1940 had the greatest difficulty in understanding, identifying himself in the eyes of his readers with heroes whose comrade he had indeed been for a time, Salomon appeared to young French people of the 1930s as one of the gures of the Adventurer. This is how he read, very young, Roger Stéphane, who after the war was to give him a somewhat surprising place in his Portrait of the adventurer, alongside Colonel Lawrence. After the defeat of 1940, Salomon, cantor of a resistance of young nationalists against foreign victors and an internal regime considered by them as a traitor to the fatherland, greatly interested many young resistance fighters with a taste for literature. We then only knew of his workCadets,The ForsakenAndThe city. Anti-fascism aside, Solomon's lost soldiers could have got along quite easily with the resistance fighters of theBad shots of a Roger Vailland. The authors at least resembled each other in their alert and superficial cynicism, the taste for risk and the gratuitous gesture, a certain disenchantment going hand in hand with the taste for pleasure. And the Ecole des Cadets in Karlsruhe recalled the closely watched bigoted youth that Vailland had experienced in Reims. But the French readers of Solomon who were looking in his books not only for models but for a key to the Nazi enigma were unaware at the time that the painter of a young sectarian and frugal nationalism, even a puritan, was also a fat, pleasure-loving man.

libertine. The dialogue in hell of Salomon and Vailland, of the right-wing libertine and the left-wing libertine, would certainly not lack spice. It is true that one might think that the left has more natural links with licentiousness than the right. Even. Robespierre is no more libertine than Monseigneur Dupanloup. It was his libertine, pleasure-loving and cynical side, it was the taste for elegance revealed by his style that kept Salomon away from Nazism, plebeian, petty-bourgeois and boring. And also, and this counts for a great deal in Solomon's life and work, the delicacy of friendship; in this not very virtuous existence, friendship and tenderness hold a capital place. This second-hand terrorist had the double vocation of the writer and of individual delicacy, which one does not necessarily learn in the Schools of Cadets, especially the first. Society, global destinies did not preoccupy him much, despite the rather empty speeches on the Reich and the Reichside, on the bourgeoisie and the anti-bourgeoisie, on the peasantry as a source of renewal, on the opposition between eternal Germany and the West, which he puts in the mouths of the characters of his first books (and which are indeed the speeches held in their smoky and smoky meetings by the half-payers, conspirators and other lost soldiers of the extreme right before and para-Hitler). Man is bound to virtue only in interpersonal relationships: in camaraderie, in friendship and in love. By this essentially private, aesthetic and non-conformist morality, Solomon resembled a character who holds, in global destinies did not preoccupy him much, despite the rather empty speeches on the Reich and the Reichside, on the bourgeoisie and the anti-bourgeoisie, on the peasantry as a source of renewal, on the opposition between eternal Germany and Occident, which he puts in the mouths of the characters of his first books (and which are indeed the speeches held in their smoky and smoky meetings by the half-payers, conspirators and other lost soldiers of the extreme right pre- and para- Hitlerite). Man is bound to virtue only in interpersonal relationships: in camaraderie, in friendship and in love. By this essentially private, aesthetic and non-conformist morality, Solomon resembled a character who holds, in global destinies did not preoccupy him much, despite the rather empty speeches on the Reich and the Reichside, on the bourgeoisie and the anti-bourgeoisie, on the peasantry as a source of renewal, on the opposition between eternal Germany and Occident, which he puts in the mouths of the characters of his first books (and which are indeed the speeches held in their smoky and smoky meetings by the half-payers, conspirators and other lost soldiers of the extreme right pre- and para- Hitlerite). Man is bound to virtue only in interpersonal relationships: in camaraderie, in friendship and in love. By this essentially private, aesthetic and non-conformist morality, Solomon resembled a character who holds, in on the bourgeoisie and the anti-bourgeoisie, on the peasantry as a source of renewal, on the opposition between eternal Germany and the West, which he puts in the mouths of the characters of his first books (and who are indeed the speeches held in their smoky and smoky meetings by half-payers, conspirators and other lost soldiers of the pre- and para-Hitler far right). Man is bound to virtue only in interpersonal relationships: in camaraderie, in friendship and in love. By this essentially private, aesthetic and non-conformist morality, Solomon resembled a character who holds, in on the bourgeoisie and the anti-bourgeoisie, on the peasantry as a source of renewal, on the opposition between eternal Germany and the West, which he puts in the mouths of the characters of his first books (and who are indeed the speeches held in their smoky and smoky meetings by half-payers, conspirators and other lost soldiers of the pre- and para-Hitler far right). Man is bound to virtue only in interpersonal relationships: in camaraderie, in friendship and in love. By this essentially private, aesthetic and non-conformist morality, Solomon resembled a character who holds, in that he puts in the mouths of the characters of his first books (and which are indeed the speeches held in their smoky and smoky meetings by the half-payers, conspirators and other lost soldiers of the pre- and para-Hitlerian extreme right) . Man is bound to virtue only in interpersonal relationships: in camaraderie, in friendship and in love. By this essentially private, aesthetic and non-conformist morality, Solomon resembled a character who holds, in that he puts in the mouths of the characters of his

first books (and which are indeed the speeches held in their smoky and smoky meetings by the half-payers, conspirators and other lost soldiers of the pre- and para-Hitlerian extreme right) . M

closed in on himself, represented by the delicious little Basque who taught him, for a season, a way of being in harmony with nature, as with society, totally unaware of"Forsaken ». This idyll, very embellished, Solomon had needed to discover the full dimension of his difference with his comrades.Glück in Frankreichfirst appeared as part ofQuiz;much later, the author created a separate volume with a very moral end in which the lovers reunite with their spouses and children, twenty years later, on the occasion of the lm that Solomon made of this episode. The early learning of death, made before the beginning of adult life, perhaps makes it possible to consider the own adventures of the hero-author as subjects of lm. Ernst von Salomon, in his own eyes, has a lot of importance and none. He saw in his own way the truth of the famous verse of Schiller's Song of the Soldiers: Und setzet ihr nicht das Leben ein, nie wird euch das Leben gewonnen sein. And if you don't risk your life, you will never gain life (as a reward for combat).

* During the war, young French readers of Salomon, enthusiasts of collaboration or resistant volunteers, often pronounced his name in the same sentence as that of Ernst Jünger. Salomon appeared more like a witness, the reciter of the great post-Wagnerian opera played by part of the German youth; Jünger, more meditative, more observant, more entomological and at the same time more up-todate, since the French were able to learn

soon after the publication of the German text of thewar diary as well asmarble cliffs. Reading these works revealed to them a conservative and elitist critique of Hitlerism, whereas Solomon's books which had appeared up to that point dated from before the seizure of power. But some passages ofThe cityalready show the contempt of the intellectual adventurer for the petty bourgeois Nazis, the brown “monks” who were to replace the red “monks”. Jünger, solemn and curt, never made fun of himself; Solomon, from his first books, mixed irony with the fanaticism of the war enterprise. But both of them belonged to the movement which had just led to the apparent triumph of Nazism, despite the contempt they had for these victors without panache: the enterprise, the war, and above all the war of the Freikorps, volunteers on the margins of any State, conspiracy, attacks formed and furnished an end in itself, the nation itself was only a penultimate pretext, and not a final end: both belonged to right-wing anarchism which waged war for war's sake and wanted power for power's sake, not to transform the world but to abolish it in a universal conflagration; both of them, totally foreign to Christianity, exalted an existence devoid of meaning, meaning as well as nality, in both senses of the word. Ernst von Solomon says inThe question sheetto what extent he has, since his early adolescence, felt alienated from all religious faith. And Hitler, in hisTable talk—much more lively and gripping book thanMein Kampf, solemn, confused, entangled— said with inimitable accents of truth his hatred of Christianity, his desire to settle accounts with the Churches once the war was won, but also his contempt for the German people, whose “biological substance” would have to be reconstituted, a contempt that he confirmed in his Testament a few moments after the suicide. The admiration the Rathenau assassins harbored for their victim—all the more reason to shoot a man

so seductive and so important — arises from the same conception of action which devours its goal to become its own sole justification. And in this way, despite their contempt for the Nazis and despite the suspicion with which the Nazis looked at them, despite their links, or at least their sympathy for certain resistance fighters, aristocrats, soldiers, high officials, Jünger and Salomon belong to the same great river. of the nihilistic right than the Hitlerites.

* The question sheetis a book of impenitence. The idea of using the outline of the

famous questionnaire, drawn up by the Americans to take the Nazis through the infallible trap of innumerable questions, to tell his own life story and denounce the imbecility of the victors, to show and demonstrate that they were no better than the vanquished, to denounce the injustices and ill-treatment inflicted on the Germans, this idea was, if not brilliant, at the very least clever and funny. The immense narrative is carried on at high speed, with a large number of subordinate narratives, short stories embedded in the major novel, and freed from the ideological digressions which sometimes weighed down the books of the first period. Rowohlt and Salomon no longer risked much from Allied censorship in 1951, but the two old friends must have had a good laugh at the good trick played on these pretentious American fools. All adult Germans living in the American zone had become acquainted with the famous questionnaire; unprepared for European complexities, the American military bureaucracy even filled it in with foreigners found in Germany, and not just with “civilians”. At Dachau itself, a few days after the Liberation, every French deportee was asked to submit to it, and in fourteen copies if you please! We imagine the and not only to "civilians". At Dachau itself, a few days after the Liberation, every French deportee was asked to submit to it, and in fourteen copies if you please! We imagine the and not only to "civilians". At Dachau itself, a few days after the Liberation, every French deportee was asked to submit to it, and in fourteen copies if you please! We imagine the

head of the resistant deportees summoned to indicate if they had been part of the NSDAP, and from what date!

This time, Salomon tells us what he was like between 1933 and 1945, or what he wants us to know. Neither adherent nor resistant, critical, grumpy, bon vivant and managing to live well while the victims take the paths of the holocaust and his comrades and his sons die on the battlefields of a war in which he ignores, desiring neither victory nor defeat of the Nazi masters, the man ofForsakenno longer seems concerned by an affair, that of his people, which will certainly end badly. He makes fun of Goebbels, but he manages to earn a lot of money with harmless films, which isn't always easy when you have talent and a name and a minister who would like to compromise you. He detests Nazi anti-Semitism, a diabolical and finicky implementation of ideas which he himself expressed and no doubt shared (there are two important Jewish characters inThe city, who without being really unsympathetic are all the same men apart), and he lives throughout the duration of the "Millennium" with a Jewish companion whom he protects and saves, without this appearing to be a problem. It is not the Nazis but the Americans who will arrest and humiliate the Jewish woman. But Nazi anti-Semitism, like Nazism as a whole, is presented above all as grotesque and ineffective, lying next to the real problems and the real solutions. Solomon grants them neither indignation nor condemnation. The victims are absent, and the solidarity of the vast majority of the nation with its Nazi masters is evaded. That he himself, a young Freikorps fighter and accomplice of the Rathenau assassins, contributed to opening the door to the Nazis by participating in the dismantling of the Weimar Republic, the idea does not occur to him; his own responsibility does not seem to preoccupy him at any time. At most, his former hostility to democracy, to humanist ideas has been transformed into

indiference, butThe question sheetmore willingly to denounce American inconsistencies and insusances than German crimes, American straw rather than German beams. Since chaos, prevarication and sadism reigned in the American internment camps, the reader could in good conscience no longer think of Auschwitz. This is why this huge, fascinating, intelligent, amusing book, this prodigious document which informs us (partially, partially and in a partisan way) about a character, a nation and an era, was and remains above all a bad action. Instead of helping his people to reflect on their past, to become aware of their responsibilities (which he refused to do himself), Solomon pushes his readers - who will be counted in the millions - to feel sorry for themselves. themselves and to complain, not of the horrors committed in their name, but of the bullying and injustice suffered after the failure of the monstrous attempt at world domination. Solomon was too smart to give German nationalism another chance—and too smart too, after living under Nazism, to really want it. But he remains loyal to the habits adopted after 1918, when he and his friends denounced the crimes of the Treaty of Versailles while adorning their own camp with all the virtues, granting it all the rights. The hero of the nal part of theQuiz, the quintessence and epitome of all the gures of Solomonic heroes, is a fearless and blameless SS officer, Hauptsturmführer Ludin, former officer of the World War, ex-Frank Corps — and former Reich Ambassador to the Slovakian puppet government in Bratislava . Since nothing is simple and Solomon knows the rules of the game,her game, Ludin seems to have been a fanatic and narrow-minded, but honest, courageous and devoted to a kind of morality of honor. According to Salomon, he could have escaped a hundred times, when he knew that the Americans would hand him over to the

Czechs and that he would not be entitled to a fair trial. But he believed he owed it to his former subordinates and to the Slovak leaders who had believed in the victory of the Reich, to presenttheir defense rather than his own. He therefore agreed, eyes wide open, to indulge in certain torture. One cannot read without emotion the pages that Solomon devotes to this man whom he loved and respected deeply. But, as Hitler's ambassador, Ludin had to make himself the instrument of all the demands that the Führer and his operatives were to impose on this small country; he had to—and no doubt wanted—to organize the deportation and extermination of the Jews, to organize the struggle against the Resistance; A high-ranking official, Ludin had to fight with all his might for the victory of the Hitler Reich, and also want everything that this victory would have meant. Of all this Solomon says not a word. One could have sympathized with the tragic fate of a man not devoid of virtues but victim of his errors, who made him a criminal, or the accomplice of criminals. By thus dressing in a single color a story of which he was not innocent, by publishing only six years after the catastrophe of his people a book so unrepentant, Solomon showed that in spite of his cautions, his disgust and of his procrastination, he had never changed sides. At the time, adorned with so many attractions, this book should not however be judged according to literary criteria. It was then a political act, a lifeline thrown to hardened hearts, to the Pharisees, to those nostalgic for brown greatness, but a skilfully camouflaged act. Thirty years later, the author of despite his disgust and his procrastination, he had never changed sides. At the time, adorned with so many attractions, this book should not however be judged according to literary criteria. It was then a political act, a lifeline thrown to hardened hearts, to the Pharisees, to those nostalgic for brown greatness, but a skilfully camouflaged act. Thirty years later, the author of despite his disgust and his procrastination, he had never changed sides. At the time, adorned with so many attractions, this book should not however be judged according to literary criteria. It was then a political act, a lifeline thrown to hardened hearts, to the Pharisees, to those nostalgic for brown greatness, but a skilfully camouflaged act. Thirty years later, the author ofQuizstill does not deserve to be considered a mere litterateur. As long in any case as there will remain victims and nostalgics of Nazism, and resistance fighters who confronted it.

JOSEPH ROVAN OCTOBER 1981

MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF GERMANY QUIZ WARNING:Bead the entire Fragebogen carefully before you start to ll it

out. The English language will prevail if discrepancies exist between it and the German translation. Answers must be type-written or printed clearly in block letters. Every question must be answered precisely and conscientiously and no space is to be left blank. If a question is to be answered by either “yes” or “no”, print the word “yes” or “no” in the appropriate space. If the question is inapplicable, so indicate by some appropriate word or phrase such as “none” or “not applicable”. Add supplementary sheets if there is not enough space in the questionnaire. Omissions or false or incomplete statements are oenses against Military Government and will result in prosecution and punishment.

WARNING :Read the entire questionnaire carefully before completing it. In case of doubt, the English text will prevail. Responses should be typewritten or in block capitals. Answer each question conscientiously, precisely and without omitting any. If the answer to a question is "yes" or "no", write "yes" or "no" in the space provided. If the question does not apply to you, answer with “none” or “not applicable”. Add sheets if you do not have enough space in the questionnaire. Any omission or false or incomplete declaration constitutes a violation of the orders of the Military Government and may lead to prosecution.

I have just carefully read the entire questionnaire1. Without being specifically invited, I even read it several times, word by word, question by question, in German and English. This questionnaire is not the first that concerns me, I have already had to deal with a certain number of questionnaires of the same kind or of a similar character, at a time and in circumstances of which I will have much to say in the “Remarks” section of this questionnaire. Even in the period between January 30, 1933, and May 6, 1945, a period generally referred to as the "Third Reich", naively "Millennium Reich", briefly "Nazi Regime", and appropriately "German National Socialist Government", I I had before my eyes many questionnaires and I can be sure that I have always read them attentively. To satisfy from the start all the requirements that I will have to face in the present case, I will say right away that the reading of all these questionnaires has, in me, invariably produced the same eect: it has provoked a certain a number of sensations, the first of which— and the strongest—was that of a penetrating malaise. When I try to deny this sensation, I find that it is comparable to that of a schoolboy caught in the act, therefore of a very young man who makes his first experiences with the great and threatening powers of the law, of tradition, order and morality. He cannot yet know that the world arrogates to itself the right to be as it is; he has a good conscience when he thinks he is more or less in agreement with him, and a bad conscience otherwise.

However, as a result of circumstances which will be elucidated in the answer to question 19, I am in no way qualified to pronounce with authority on problems of conscience. Besides, it's not me who wants to do it. But how to understand the existence of this questionnaire if not as a modern attempt to encourage me to examine my conscience? The institution in my eyes the most admirable of this world, the Catholic Church, by auricular confession, knows only sinners, no criminals, and only one irremissible sin, the sin against the Holy Spirit. The Catholic Church seeks to save by conversion the pagan who aspires to happiness according to his own lights. But she cannot forgive the heretic who, having heard the message, refuses to accept it. Here is something clear and full of sublime consequences including the secret of confession as well as the possibilities, oered to each individual, to make depend, at least partially, on his intimate decision the extent of the hoped-for grace. I could subscribe to it if I did not have to fear that a painful contradiction would oppose the quintessence of the teaching of the Church, that is to say the Ten Commandments,

For it is not the Catholic Church that offers me questions for selfexamination, but a much less admirable institution: the Allied Military Government. It is true that he ignores these sublime consequences. He does not approach me like the priest his penitent, far from the world, in the privacy of the confessional. He sends the questionnaire to me at my home and begins immediately and abruptly, like an examining magistrate before a criminal, with a series of 131 questions. Coldly and sharply, he demands of me nothing less than the truth, threatening twice, at

at the beginning and at the end of the questionnaire, to inflict on me punishments of which I cannot help but sincerely fear the type and extent. (See Notes section.) Dressed in stylish uniforms with many shining decorations, they were representatives of the Allied Military Government who pointed out to me with insistence that it was unbecoming of a man not to examine his conscience before undertaking any action. I saw them before me, one after the other, all nice, well-groomed young people; they spoke with the greatest simplicity of something as important as consciousness and I admired their apodictic assurance, I envied them the unity of their vision of the world. Whenever I have tried to accord any action with any kind of conscience, I have found myself faced with the cruel alternative either of doubting the legislative power of conscience or of renouncing all action. The tone and content of the questionnaire does not reveal the reasons for which I am being questioned. I have failed to learn the purpose of, for example, question 108. When I examine myself carefully to see if I can complete this questionnaire, I must admit that in answering questions like numbers 18 to 25, or 99 to 102 or 120, or 126 to 128, I can commit an agracious violation of the rights of others, which seems to me to be profoundly immoral. Finally, given the general tone of this questionnaire and the fact that all Germans, or almost, at least in the western zones, are obliged to fill it out, my conscience, which has become very sensitive, makes me fear that I am participating in a capable act, in these uncontrollable circumstances, to harm on the order of foreign powers a country and a people of which I am irrevocably.

only thanks to the historical reality of the German debacle and following an agreement reached with men whom their interlocutors considereda priorias criminals. Thus these foreign powers acquired all the rights to power—all but the right conferred by the law in whose name they presented themselves. They have thereby created a void in which we are permitted to settle, we who have abdicated all rights— except the right conferred by the law in whose name we presented ourselves. Calm down! I will finish by completing this questionnaire, as I have completed all the others. The crucial point of the process as it appears here in the first question has never changed: we rely on the desire of the people questioned to simply submit to a stupid and humiliating disturbance in order to be able to continue to exercise an activity which seems to them reasonable and on which their whole life rests. It is a most curious phenomenon that each power develops an adverse component which is particular to it and which, if it does not succeed in using it to increase its energy, represents the only force capable of overthrowing it, until Both of them are exhausted. The opposing component of the powers of our time seems to me to be the act of solidarity. From this point of view, I certainly act in an exemplary way when I do or refuse to do something in a situation that would require the same behavior from everyone. But the speculation of which I have spoken is particularly lost in that it strikes the individual in an artificial isolation. We do not want everyone to submit together to a procedure that concerns them all, but that everyone undergoes it in isolation of their case. All heroism then becomes senseless, either because no one will know about it, or because

that it does not involve any obligation for others. There remains the possibility of heroism as a moral principle, and I have no doubt that there are men who would rather die than submit to a stupid and humiliating disturbance. In this case, I only wonder why they did not prefer to leave this world as soon as they were born. Indeed, in the present situation, the individual has no other obligation than to examine whether his submission does not conceal a new possibility: that of finding certainties which could lead to an act of solidarity. It is precisely here that this questionnaire has a reconciling aspect. It is so pleasantly voluminous! The abundance of questions requires the abundance of answers. In any case, I consider it worthwhile to examine the possibilities offered by this strange thing that general skepticism has agreed to call “truth”. The inventor of historical idealism, Friedrich von Schiller, observed that all things contain only a grain of truth, which does not exist in a pure state. To grasp it, one needs the greatest possible number of testimonies—that is to say, pure truth is dened by the number of relations of an event. We thus join the result of the research undertaken by the inventor of historical materialism, Karl Marx, who found the point where quantity becomes quality. That two such different minds arrive at the same result obviously gives cause for thought. However, both Schiller and Marx belong to a nation whose testimonies do not enjoy a very good reputation in the world. They bear the barbaric traits of a people who, for thousands of years, have camped behind their hills and who, even now, can reserve surprises. But if I am required, with regard to the questionnaire, to obey the requirements of the

conscience, it must be with a view to the truth. And so, in fact, I have no other method than that of Schiller and Marx. It will be seen, from my answer to question 24, that I have often enough had occasion to study German judicial methods. Each time, I had the chance to see that the legal obligation in which the judges found themselves to bring out the whole truth deprived me of any right to inner revolt. That they were faithful to this obligation inspires me with the greatest esteem for each of them. They feared no effort to discover, in the accumulation of facts, the most subtle truth. I soon recognized that it was absolutely to my advantage to support them in this effort. My defender himself urged me to do so, because he had found, as the quintessence of his science, that it was easier to lie by using the truth. The procedure of this questionnaire ignores the defense, but precisely because no one knows where he is coming from, no one can ensure that his methods do not hide the unforeseen possibility of revealing the whole truth. I want to serve this possibility in the hope that many others will be tempted like me, so that from the quantity of the answers results the quality of an approximately true picture of what has happened in our country. But then, the questions of this questionnaire are not addressed to my conscience, but to my memory! an that from the quantity of the answers results the quality of an approximately true picture of what happened in our country. But then, the questions of this questionnaire are not addressed to my conscience, but to my memory! an that from the quantity of the answers results the quality of an approximately true picture of what happened in our country. But then, the questions of this questionnaire are not addressed to my conscience, but to my memory!

1. In my answer to question 131, it will be seen that my knowledge of the English language is short, not so short however that I cannot suspect typographical errors in this questionnaire.

A.PERSONAL A. PERSONAL INFORMATION

1.List position for which you are under consideration (include agency of rm). —2.Name (Surname). (Fore Names). —3.Other names which you have used or under which you have been known.—4. Date of birth. —5.Place of birth. —6.Height. —7.Weight.—8. Color of hair. —9.Color of eyes. —10.Scars, marks or deformities. — 11.Present address (City, street and house number). —13.Identity card type and Number. —14.Wehrpass No. —15.Passport No.—16. Citizenship. —17.If a naturalized citizen, give date and place of naturalization. —18.List any titles of nobility ever held by you or your wife or by the parents or grandparents of either of you. —19.Religion. — 20.With what church are you aliated?—21.Have you ever severed your connection with any church, ocially or unocially? — 22.If so, give particulars and reason.—23.What religious preference did you give in the census of 1939?—24.List any crimes of which you have been convicted, giving dates, locations and nature of the crimes.

1. WHAT JOB ARE YOU APPLYING FOR?

see Attachment. add 1:On reflection, I think it is necessary to say at the outset that at the decisive turning point in my life there was a woman. This will surprise no one; statistics show that it

there are about as many men as women and that after the world wars, women are generally more numerous; so that many men shamelessly express their predilection for the society of women. But the woman I want to talk about belonged to a category that seems to have a predilection for me and I recognize that I return it to them. It is not women of the maternal type; Certainly, I have nothing against them and it is not I who will contest the benefits they tirelessly lavish on those around them, but all my life I have done without them. Nor is it a question of young girls, whose species are as innumerable as those of the owers, who also seem to us all the more precious the older we get. On the contrary, it is a type of woman that every man of our time should find the occasion to notice. It is true that types are mass-produced, a process which is the invention par excellence of our century. In fact, this type of woman was born with our century and I will immediately add that I have not yet found a type of man of whom I could say the same thing.

I refer to a whole generation of young girls of old who set out at the beginning of the century, around the time of my birth, to defend against a world of prejudice the political, economic and social rights of their sex. To this day, covering their intelligent heads with a shapeless but capricious felt hat over their gray hair, wearing heavysoled shoes and a severe dress, brightened only by something less austere around their necks, still brandishing the invisible banner of our century, they continue on their way, imperturbable. She's just the kind of woman needed at the crossroads of life, to get hold of the poor knights-errant of our time and show them the way.

All these women have this in common that one day they suddenly left their well-ordered bourgeois surroundings: they had aired that events were preparing under the crust of society and that they would later demand that we be equal to them. Sometimes the change took place in confusion; often their hearts rushed first to overcome the obstacles, while the head staggered dangerously; but almost all of them landed safe and sound thanks to their excellent ability to firmly grasp the tail of God's mantle when it passed them and to consider things with humor when it was not a question of God or his mantle.

One of them was called Miss Doctor Querfeldt. I don't know the reason that had pushed her one day to go to Paris to paint there, in very expensive colors and on canvases as virgin as herself, flowers, a piece of cheese and a lobster next to a glass of wine. Despite the innocence of his occupations, it is certain that the beginnings had been marked by violent upheavals in the family, accompanied by many maternal tears and paternal storms: “What will we say? One cannot overestimate the fact that Miss Querfeldt neglected what people would say. Because, at the time, it was said unanimously that Mlle Querfeldt would say badly; it is true that we said just as well as at thetwentiethcentury a war was absolutely impossible. War broke out—neither the first nor the last of thetwentiethcentury — and Miss Querfeldt resolved to abandon all sorts of still life; it must therefore be admitted that she was born well. She set out on foot from Paris and managed to fight her way to the German lines through the fighting. There, the many-sided mantle of God had taken the form of a military hospital tent. Miss Querfeldt served for four years as a nurse's aide and, at the end of the

war, she had discovered uses for the canvas that she had never suspected in Paris. She passed her baccalaureate and began her medicine. When I met her, she was a medical doctor, chief medical officer, to tell the truth, with gray hair, wearing heavy-soled shoes and a severe dress, brightened only by something less austere around her neck, and she was stood at the turning point that would decide my path. I had no idea of this turn. At that moment, I was quite happy to arrive by car. The height of my childhood dreams had always been to ride in a car, leaning softly against the cushions, on the carefully sanded paths of a park with giant trees, and to stop with a pleasant little jerk in front of the terrace. The car stopped, and on the terrace stood Fate himself, with gray hair and heavy-soled shoes. "Hello," fate said hoarsely. You will not live the main house, but the doctors' villa. I jumped out of the car. Here I am in front of her, thin, of average height, twenty-six years old, unpleasantly aware of being badly dressed. And I know everything I swore I wouldn't do. I bowed with a "dry" movement, clicking my heels; and when introducing myself, I say my first and last name, without forgetting the particle. "Querfeldt," replied the hoarse voice. Come in ! A few steps led up to a small entrance to a country house. Stopping in front of the closed door, I thought: "It's the doctors' villa, it's not the main house, so you have to believe that my case isn't so serious all the same." Mademoiselle Querfeldt climbed the stairs and, seeing me hesitate, she hesitated too. Then she said: “Ah”, nothing more; she opened the door and I stepped inside, only to remember at once that I should have let her in

the first one. But I didn't have time to think about it any longer, because I had to make the acquaintance of a disturbing crowd in the half-light of this little hallway. I was condemned, that day, to commit only blunders. I don't know if anyone else has the same feelings; but I know very well the fatal moment when I realize that, despite the best resolutions, everything is going wrong. It would not have been possible to introduce me in a more disadvantageous way into this house where, however, it was of the greatest importance to behave like a normal man and not to attract attention. Of a sanatorium for nervous illnesses, I had the quite current idea of a kind of asylum for the insane rich. And, although I didn't have to fear the straitjacket or the transfer to the "main house" the first time I was lacking in good morals, I realized how important it must be to pour the right drink. in the right glass when at lunch, I saw no less than three glasses behind my plate. I could easily imagine that conscientious doctors were interested in facts much more than opinions. Never could I make it understood by words, had I the eloquence of angels, that deep down I was in fairly good health. I could only make things worse. Everyone present must have been aware of my case, the imposing dark-haired, determinedlooking lady whom the others called "Frau Sanitaetsrat", as well as her daughter by her side, this remarkably pretty young girl, with cool colors, his son, that tanned young man who wore a hairy woolen jacket, a jacket love, and surely Miss Doctor Querfeldt, seated next to me, who occasionally gave me a seemingly scrutinizing look,

very complicated. Everyone seemed to know each other very well and the things we talked about were familiar to everyone. But when they spoke to me, for example about the qualities of the new car that had brought me, I was careful not to say anything other than platitudes: that it was pretty, that I liked it . It is certain that the slightest allusion to the pleasant little jolt would have aroused only profound astonishment. I was therefore obstinately silent. After the soup, a young girl came in, whom I did not yet know. I got up as usual, to introduce myself, bowing sharply, clicking my heels and saying my first and last name, without forgetting the particle. "It's our Louise," said Mademoiselle Querfeldt, pitilessly, while Mademoiselle Louise, rather confused, was serving the soup. "Frau Sanitaetsrat" hadn't stopped talking for a second about the design of an upholstery fabric she was planning to buy. But I couldn't know that Louise was the right one. I couldn't imagine the disturbing way artichokes are eaten and expected of a cultured man to like them. I couldn't have known that parsley is only used to garnish dishes. And if several plates had been placed next to the glasses, I would not have been encouraged to help myself so copiously from the first course. All this, I could not know and, under the watchful gaze of Mlle Querfeldt, I decided to make it the argument of my defence. Later, in the library, where we were having coffee, I braced myself for the hopelessly unctuous medical question that I would no doubt be asked as soon as the others had quietly slipped away: "So, what do not go ? This question always puts the patient in an unfavorable position. But

silently smoking a cigarette, Miss Querfeldt remained seated near the fireplace. I handed her an ashtray and she said: "It's a very precious Sevres cup." We don't use it Never. Wanting to get right to the heart of the matter, I said to him:

- I can not know it. I would like to tell you bluntly that everything you may have noticed while staring at me earlier has very simple causes, one of which is that I really can't know most of these things. Mademoiselle Querfeldt dropped the ashes into the Sèvres cup and replied: - Do not regret it! It makes a lot of sense to me, for example, to use that thing as an ashtray. — Please don't try to find everything I do particular causes, I say. It is obvious that I always try to do what is normal. But I can't always know what is normal. Artichokes weren't planned when I was born and I always ate finely chopped parsley. Besides, I think I eat too much for your taste, but not for mine. And if I find three glasses behind my plate, it may seem natural to you, whereas to me, the choice poses problems and requires reflection.

"You always took the bigger one," remarked Mademoiselle Querfeldt. — Yes, I replied, so we come to the main point. I am came here because I believe people with good intentions advised me to do so. They feared for my health. I have no judgment on that. But, since I am here, it would be foolish to oppose your prescriptions. Cure me if you think I'm sick, try whatever seems good to you. But know that it is useless to

forbid me alcohol. I know from experience that would not make sense. Miss Querfeldt stood up.

“Alcohol is a dirty word. How can one designate from a name so ugly one of life's most precious possessions! She opened a cupboard saying: 'It's Madame Sanitaetsrat's liquor cabinet. Come to see ! The cupboard was overflowing with bottles. There were round ones, square ones, slender ones, curved ones. "Here are the glasses," said Mademoiselle Querfeldt, "would you like a kirsch?"

- Of course. I had a friend whose grandfather was a farmer in The Black Forest. One winter, my friend was hiking through the forest. When he arrived at his grandfather's, he stood in front of the door and asked him: "Do you want a kirsch?" “Yes,” said my friend, stomping his feet, “it's cold today. Then the old man: "Well, we others don't drink kirsch for the cold, but for pleasure!" » "To the health of that old man from the Black Forest," said Miss Querfeldt. There

Marie-Brizard isn't bad either. The Marie-Brizard was excellent. There was a battery of the most noble drinks, tasty clear or tinted wines, made of oily herbs or fragrant fruits. We tried them one after the other and we all agreed that the sequel was much better than a mixture and that the modern fashion for cocktails was regrettable barbarism. We were both of the opinion that vermouth did not belong in serious drinks, that the moldy taste of juniper should not cause it to be despised, and that soda robbed whiskey of its most delicious quality, that slight haze of smoke which knows beat the heat as well as the

cold, so this unique drink refreshes at the North Pole as well as at the Equator. "You really know a great deal about these things," said Mlle. Querfeldt filled with admiration. I looked at her suspiciously, but she didn't look scrutinizing. "Don't think I drink to get drunk!" I said. “Of course not. We drink for pleasure! - Of course, and I'm doing very well. — No secondary eects? she asked, pouring herself a Cointreau. But I was confused. "No, miss doctor," I said. I have never seen a white mice. No such hallucinations. "Know that," she said suddenly excitedly, grabbing a hand my arm and in the other the bottle of gin. Know that, we drop dead, right? "On the contrary," I said, holding the glass against which the bottle of gin. On the contrary. Awake like sin. Can't sleep at night, no matter how much I drink. "Not sleep at night!" exclaimed Mademoiselle Querfeldt, bewildered. She

straightened up, leaning on my arm, looked at me sternly and said in a burst: Milk! In a hurry, I exclaimed:

"Right away, Mademoiselle Doctor, I'm going to get Louise." But she held me back. Painfully, she said: - Milk ! Best remedy for insomnia! - Yes yes ! I say to calm her down. But she shook me and conjured me: "A glass every time you wake up!"

- Yes yes ! I exclaimed. Have a glass of Fernet-Branca. Best remedy when you have a heartache! Obediently, she drank a Fernet-Branca, shook herself off after this bitter but delicious remedy, and looked at me again with a scrutinizing eye. She insisted: - Do not forget ! Surround the nerves with fat! Always milk ! You can drink as much as you want. But always milk! After every glass of wine, beer or... She made a vague gesture that embraced the whole cupboard. I squeezed his arm saying:

"Yes, yes, but don't you want to sit down?" She shook her head. - Medical prescription ! she says. And, while his free hand was looking for mine, she added: Is it promised?

- But yes ! I exclaimed in despair. I promise ! She sat down and whispered:

- It tastes of ... hazelnut ...! Miss Louise helped me carry Miss Doctor upstairs. Miss Doctor did not attend dinner. But Louise placed a carafe of milk next to my glasses. Obediently, I drank some after each glass of wine. The milk did taste nutty. "Miss Doctor is smiling," said Mrs. Sanitaetsrat. She please excuse him. Worried, I asked: "She couldn't stand it?" - What ? asked Madame Sanitaetsrat. - The alcohol.

Everyone looked at me. In a calm and determined voice, Mrs. Sanitaetsrat said:

'Miss Doctor Querfeldt never drinks alcohol. When I went to bed, I found a carafe of milk on my nightstand. For a long time I walked around my room, as usual, six steps in one direction, six steps in the other. Finally, I drank some milk and, for the first time in a very long time, I slept like a log. Anyone who has ever followed a herd of cows returning from pasture will understand the feelings that animated me during the following weeks. I was, so to speak, surrounded by a mist of milk. Wherever I was, Louise was there, well-starched, holding a domed jug full of fresh milk, foaming and still lukewarm. I was given over to milk, incapable of the slightest gesture of revolt since Mademoiselle Querfeldt, seeing the glass of milk next to my plate, had said to me in a voice even more hoarse than usual: - I knew you were a good player. I carried this remark as a distinction, decided to drink milk; thus, whoever wears a ribbon in his buttonhole is required, for the rest of his life, to behave like a hero. Milk was indeed to strong drinks what glory is to heroic exploits. It didn't kill the pleasure of nobler liquids, only the desire to taste them. From then on, Miss Querfeldt hardly had time to take care of me in particular. She had a lot to do in the "main house", and I hardly ever saw her until breakfast, sitting across from me, watching carefully as I tried a new way to eat my egg each morning without staining. The other occupants of the house didn't care much about me; I walked around aimlessly; sometimes I stayed in the library, reading or playing patience. The library consisted mainly of works by

medicine. There were also large volumes of an encyclopedia which was my favorite read. I carefully read the newspapers, including the business page and the classifieds. I was walking in the park and on the road that ran alongside it. The nursing home was near a small provincial town in eastern Holstein. The surroundings did not offer any exciting spectacle, so that I was left alone with my thoughts, which did not favor a particularly cheerful state of mind. My laziness had taken on the most exhausting form it could appear in: I was doing nothing while wanting to do something. I applied myself to it with the intensity that I brought to all my activities, drinking, smoking, doing patience, and I sank into a state of numbness which no longer allowed me to restrain, but which eventually led me to kitchen where Louise, wearing a blue apron over her starched dress, was washing the dishes. I asked her permission to help her; this idea must have shocked her so deeply that she felt compelled to communicate it to Mademoiselle Querfeldt. When, after the meal, Mlle Querfeldt brought the Sèvres cup to her to deposit the ashes of her cigarette in it, I realized that once again fate, with gray hair and wearing heavy-soled shoes, was waiting for me at the turning, inevitable like the jug of milk that Louise had taken care to place next to me. But, since my preoccupations could not arise in the medical field, I had no scruples in explaining my condition to Mlle Querfeldt. I was already secretly delighted to see for once disconcerted this being so sure of himself. I told Miss Querfeldt everything. I openly explained my situation to him, I told him of my bold hopes and of the pack

marauding with my doubts. I even had the courage, at the end, to allude to the pleasant little jolt. Miss Querfeldt looked at me thoughtfully, then she said in her hoarse voice:

"You are a typical case of occupation neurosis!" I cannot say how much this sentence relieved me. So what worried me was nothing out of the ordinary. On the contrary, typical, one could classify it, understand it and therefore cure it. The diagnosis seemed conclusive to me and, very satisfied, I drank a glass of milk while waiting for the therapeutic prescriptions. Miss Querfeldt did not hesitate for a moment. In a tone that seemed to me not devoid of a little mockery, she asked me: — Have you ever thought about the possibility of working seriously ? 'Of course,' I replied hastily, 'but Louise didn't want to. 'Don't be silly,' said Miss Querfeldt. Have you ever worked seriously? I had enough to satisfy her. If I was silent for a moment, it was only to allow my memory to recall and order all the activities I had already carried out. Then I enumerated, full of zeal: — I glued bags, knitted nets, braided straw... "That's not what I want to know," said Miss Querfeldt. To propose things more likely to approve, I say: — I planed hammer handles, I sewed slippers in felt and hemmed with sheets…

Mademoiselle Querfeldt looked at me knowingly and repeated in her hoarse voice: “Hemmed with sheets!!! Then she got up and left me alone in a forest of exclamation points.

The next day Miss Querfeldt came to me on the veranda. We had removed all the objects that were usually there to place six sewing machines. Five young girls, somewhat embarrassed, were just going to sit there. Miss Querfeldt installed me at the sixth machine and said: — Mrs. Sanitaetsrat ordered an inventory. Here, we hem sheets. Do you know how to do this job?

And how ! For eight days, I know nothing else. There were unsuspected quantities of sheets, a whole arsenal of sheets of the finest linen such as they must have been made in the days of our grandmothers, all a little thin from prolonged use; one basket of sheets came after another, and I did the hemming as I had learned, neatly and in one go, with pretty little even stitches, using a great number of needles and bobbins of l forty-pounds. four particularly n. For reasons easy to imagine, I was not accustomed to the company of these young country girls with embarrassed laughter; I therefore remained leaning over my machine, taciturn and relentless, working, so to speak, non-stop, as I was accustomed to. Only once in a while, I quenched my thirst by drinking from the jug of milk that Louise held out to me with an ironic smile. After eight days, we had exhausted the seemingly inexhaustible supply of sheets, and the daughters and I received the customary pay in the region. That same evening, Mrs. Sanitaetsrat prepared a pineapple cup to celebrate the first money I had won. We drank it by the fireplace. Mademoiselle Querfeldt, who had not failed to expertly check my hemlines, dispensed me the obligatory glass of milk for that evening. I enjoyed this permission as much as the fruit that remained at the bottom of the glass and which I ate diligently. Laughing out loud, everyone insisted that Miss Querfeldt

consented at least to taste the cup, which she did when I asked her to be a handsome player. She put the ashes in the Sevres cup, swayed her legs with the heavy-soled shoes and began to talk about her life with great animation. Me too, I started to talk about my life, and we told who better. When I was silent, Miss Querfeldt said that, from the medical point of view, she was above all interested in knowing what had been the first impressions of a man who, after years of isolation, had found the free world again. She asked me to tell about my first day of freedom, all day, in chronological order, from waking up to going to bed. "For six years," I said, "every morning I had the same the feeling of having before me the saddest, most desperate and darkest day of my life. For six years, each day had meaning only because it passed, each day was only a step towards the first day of freedom. For six years my thoughts have been fixed on that first day, on those first twenty-four hours and their unspeakable content of sun, space and life... When I had finished, the fire in the fireplace had died down, the cup was empty, the pieces of pineapple eaten, the Sèvres cup full and Mlle Querfeldt very tired. As I had been dispensed from milk, I walked around my room for a long time, always taking six steps in one direction and six steps in the other, as usual. Embarrassed, I thought that once again I had taken myself too seriously. I knew very well that this deplorable inclination must have been an immediate consequence of the detention. When, for years, one has been forced to be the absolute center of one's own universe, one finds effects on oneself that are different from those which the philanthropic idea of modern justice with its old-fashioned means has intended for educational purposes. I had the opportunity to study for

years, until becoming an expert, the organization of prisons. For a long time, I had been a librarian's assistant in the civil servants' library. From morning to evening, I remained in the small cell lined with green notebooks, not even cut, published by the "Society for the Prison of Essen." I was waiting for one of the officials to come and ask for a book necessary for his professional career. But none showed up, except those who were interested inSexual crimesby Wulen. Returning to life, I therefore carried with me a wealth of knowledge about the problem of the rehabilitation of prisoners in the wellordered bourgeois world, and the unshakeable will never to make use for anything in the world of the institutions of the Prison Society. from Essen. The luminaries of philanthropic science, who deal with the organization of prisons and the well-being of prisoners, were in agreement in saying that the released prisoner should at no price be stigmatized by his sentence. Care had to be taken as far as possible that no shadow should fall on the difficult path of his later life. Many said that it was necessary to bury in the tomb of the police stations and the administrations the secret of a penalty incurred. Had my case already had too much publicity at the time, had said luminaries simply been mistaken in their ideas about the moral reactions of the sympathetic world? Still, I was asked too often and too insistently— but usually not without kindness—to recount my experiences.

because I was in danger of being the complacent center of an interest which was in no way due to my own merit. Obviously, this was happening at a time when it was exceptional to be able to boast of being imprisoned for several years. Today, all these problems may seem quite incomprehensible since a little investigation in any society in our country leads to the entertaining result that everyone, men and women, old and young, has already been behind bars. And if by chance one or the other was not in this case, it is easy to deduce from his embarrassed behavior that he is ashamed of this obvious lack and that he is firmly determined to remedy it as quickly as possible. possible. When, the next morning, Miss Querfeldt incidentally asked me if I knew how to write on a typewriter, I immediately understood what that meant. I said no, and Mademoiselle Querfeldt asked me to find out; it was part of his medical prescriptions. She showed me how to use her little portable machine and added that it would probably be more useful to practice on a text. With indescribable cunning she drew my attention to what I had said the day before and advised me to write it down as I had told it. Full of zeal, I endeavored to deliver a manuscript as clean as possible. I worked for three days, hampered much more by the technical diculty than by that of "freeing myself" by writing. With just pride, I gave the manuscript to Miss Querfeldt, who read it and took it away without saying a word. A few days later, I found on my breakfast plate several newspapers in tape and a letter. Seeing the conniving looks that Mrs. Sanitaetsrat gave Miss Querfeldt, I understood the full extent of this medical plot. Instead of giving in to my first impulse and opening my mail with

a hasty joy, so I contented myself with little facetious exclamations like: "Hey, who could have sent me that?" and: "It is surely a mistake." However, I proceeded to undo the tape, shaking with fear that it might really be a mistake. Then I tore open the envelope, read the letter and handed it to Miss Querfeldt while Mrs. Sanitaetsrat, full of good humor, grabbed the papers. These were the proofs of the

DAZ1, publishing the story "The First Day". The letter was from literary editor, Paul Fechter2;he wrote to me that he would be interested in other articles, but that they should no longer speak of the time of confinement, and he announced to me a fee amounting to one hundred and fifty marks. As soon as she had read the letter, Mrs. Sanitaetsrat launched into the calculations: three days per article, that would make ten articles per month and an income of one thousand five hundred marks.

"Net income," she said enthusiastically, and without investment of

capital. Dreamily, she added: "That's a profession!" She was ready to prepare a new haircut for the evening. Miss Querfeldt, on the other hand, watched wordlessly as I tried, otherwise unmindful of Mrs. Sanitaetsrat's merry reckoning, to demolish all the shells and skins of my egg in the hope of for once succeeding in eating it. without staining. Finally, she says: “I fear that you are inclined to despise too much the easy solutions. "It is obvious," I answered, "that during my detention I am seriously concerned about the life I was to lead later, in freedom. Although the main vision evoked above all a steak

with a fried egg topped with lots of lightly browned onions, it was only natural to explore the possibilities that would allow me to enjoy such a delicious dish every day. "I dispense with the irony," said Mademoiselle Querfeldt.

A peculiar tone in his voice made me look up. She no longer looked at me with her attentive calm, but with a stern look, her brow furrowed.

— Irony is the only weapon I have against opinions preconceived, I say. And you have one, don't you? - Indeed! "Well," I replied, "please think I'm just as ironic. when I say how concerned I was, during my detention, about the answer given by the Catholic Church to the question: "Why is man on earth?" In the small catechism, we find this answer: "To love God, to serve Him and thus to go to paradise." But, although I tried to penetrate the depths of this simple observation, I could not manage to forget the frequent saying of the oers of Breslau: "What man can he wish to become if not emperor, pope or cuirassier of the guard? “Once, I wanted to become a cuirassier of the guard. Miss Querfeldt breathed heavily. I hastened to resume: — Please note that there is a considerable discrepancy between extreme humility and extreme pride. But seen from the cell, the possibilities within this gap are singularly restricted. For anyone who likes order, prison is a perfectly possible place. Known in the four bare walls, we are obliged to impose absolute requirements on ourselves. At the same time, one is obliged to master the realities. - You are free ! reminded me of Miss Querfeldt.

"I'm free," I said, "and on the first day of freedom, I immediately felt how problematic freedom is. If the balance sheet of detention is to result in an asset, it is necessary to maintain oneself in the world of freedom without giving up on oneself. "The pure-hearted madman!" said Miss Querfeldt.

"The pure-hearted madman," I replied. Ignorant, but full of best intentions, the law within him, the starry sky above him and in any case determined to act always so that the maxims of his actions may serve as general laws. - My God no ! cried Miss Querfeldt. Nobody you ask that! - Yes, that's what I'm being asked. Or else you ask me to deny the only asset of my life. All I learned is hemming and planing hammer handles. And, in this last activity, the limits of my skill already appear clearly when it comes to acacia wood. But, don't get me wrong: I would be quite willing to hemming sheets or planing hammer handles, because it's a useful and necessary activity. It is a real function, and I cannot imagine a nobler requirement than that of fulfilling its function. "That's very commendable," replied Miss Querfeldt. Only you have another job to do! (Fiercely:) That of writing! - But precisely, this is not one! I exclaimed in despair. I tried to explain to him that, until then, I had imagined that a writer was always a gentleman of a certain age, with dandruff on the collar of his jacket and rather thin cuffs. He had nothing to do with the image of a cuirassier of the guard. I told him that obviously that could not be an objection. What gave me pause was Mrs. Sanitaetsrat's beautiful carelessness and

Miss Querfeldt: They saw the profession of a writer as possible for someone who had nothing but the ability to read and write! Like everyone else, I had learned to read and write at school, without however excelling particularly in writing. During my detention, I had started a diary with the absurd idea of thus fixing what concerned me and of finding by this means the real and true truth. Later, this diary turned out to be unreadable. He was confused, full of resentment and impulses of pride, and even during my detention he had already alienated me definitively from the art of writing. What did I have interesting to say? I had experienced nothing outside of my detention. I felt that Paul Fechter's incidental and restrictive remark was perfectly justified. There was the possibility of carrying on during the rest of my life a polemic against the publications of the Society for the Prison of Essen, and that might very well feed her man. Just thinking about it wore me out to imagine Kant rolling over in his grave. - First day ! exclaimed Miss Querfeldt, while Mrs. Sanitaetsrat, indignant, walked away noisily. I replied that the first day was characteristic of productions where the material is stronger than the author. I had only to choose subjects where the author would be the strongest, declared Miss Querfeldt quite simply. I explained to him that I was not capable of it. Did she want me to write memoirs, despite Paul Fechter, memoirs at twenty-six? The Memoirs, too, presuppose a long life filled with activities and things worth telling. - Imagination! said Miss Querfeldt. I replied that I had none. I had stripped myself in prison of the little that I had possessed when I realized

that at decisive moments it turned into an illusion. I added with contempt that the imagination was in principle something remote from life, therefore exactly the opposite of what I expected. Miss Querfeldt wrestled with me like Jacob with the angel. She couldn't hear the phrase "on principle"; and, with my idea of life, the march of the universe was decomposing into a system of disagreeable and boring functions. "But what remains," she exclaimed emphatically, "the poets give ! I accepted the possibility, but nothing seemed more justified to me than the mocking look of any hotel porter when seeing someone designate himself as a "poet" without hiding his face in shame. "The objection is pathetic," said Mademoiselle Querfeldt.

But I was of the opinion that she was not so shabby as that when you thought of the reasons which made the designation "poet" so compromising. She discovered in effect a claim where everyone immediately saw the flight from the realities that everyone must face, a step back from life under the pretext of repeating it. "That's absurd," muttered Miss Querfeldt wearily. But the fire of a sacred anger had seized me. "And they know it!" I exclaimed, they know it! If not why would they try to claim an autocracy of the mind? Miserable compensation of a power for those to whom other powers are rightly forbidden! What do they represent, then, when they claim to represent the power of the spirit? They represent themselves, less than themselves, the echo of themselves! They talk about themselves, they write about themselves, they talk and they write

for themselves. Everything they say or write is autobiography! And pointing to Miss Querfeldt, as if she was responsible for all this, I shouted: "But there's one thing they don't write about: the fact that they have no right to arrogate this supremacy to themselves! With all the lost impertinence of those who know how to express themselves, they never said a word about it. And that is precisely what should be said! Precisely that!

"Write it down!" Miss Querfeldt exclaimed in despair. She banged on the table and jumped up. She xed at me bitterly, shook her head until her gray hair was flying, and fled. And I wrote it down. But I had lost the innocence of writing. It was only one torment. The article never appeared. I destroyed the manuscript when the fifth version also revealed that I was working on acacia wood. Miss Querfeldt never read a line from me again. The day after this interview, after having received the announced fees, I left the house. Shortly after, this excellent woman died of an infection which she had contracted in the exercise of her profession. For twenty years, I have been a writer. May eminent men, who hold the thunderbolt of the severe imperatives of conscience, forgive me if I say that for twenty years I have acted against my understanding. Now I have an attitude rather like Miss Querfeldt's towards the expression "in principle" and I am ready to believe that the world is not only made up of "functions" although I still don't know what else. In any case, I live without function. I don't know how I came up with the formula “spiritual autocracy” at the time; it is probable that I had read it shortly before and that it had impressed me, which proves the

harmful character of the literature even on this point. I don't know either what upset me then, the solemn attitude of our heralds of the word or the cackling of the barnyard of writers who scratch on all the bastards of our country. In short, I became a writer. I have since filled thousands of pages, each of which, in one way or another, was autobiographical. But when I try to understand the meaning of my activity, I willingly admit that deep down, it made me very happy, but that I have not succeeded so far in discovering its deep meaning - except whether throwing chickpeas against a wall is a meaningful act. I am a child of my time and I see with esteem the possibility that there might still be excellent minds today who, like Minister of State Goethe or University Professor Schiller, would have to say things not yet said. I follow with esteem the stampeding zeal of my colleagues in Apollo and Minerva on the vanity fairs of our time, defending freedom of thought at each congress. I'm ready to be bowled over by the results. I finally look forward to the moment when the real powers of our world will stop speaking the jargon they have agreed upon, in order to carry out their plans. It will then no doubt be very interesting for the writer to know what his position may be.

So I continue to live

calmly,

disappointing

necessarily everyone who has read my books—a gentleman of a certain age with dandruff on the collar of his jacket and rather loose cuffs. The cuirassiers of the guard no longer exist, nor does the emperor. Alone, the pope reads his mass every day, and the day when he reads his last mass will be that of the Last Judgment, the day from which I will just have to wait for the small pleasure of seeing these eminent men, these holders of the thunderbolt, next to me.

2. NAME:

von SolomonFIRST NAME: Ernest

see Attachment. add 2:I have absolutely no idea if I have any connection with the first Solomon of which history speaks. My friend CW Ceram3 weapon that King Solomon had not married the Queen of Sheba because she had hairy legs. If so, I would rather be inclined to refuse any relationship with this first bearer of my name. See also the answer to question 18.

3. OTHER NAMES YOU ARE USING OR UNDER WHICH YOU ARE KNOWN:

see Attachment. add 3:If it must be said, in my early youth, I was generally called "Nini".

4. DATE OF BIRTH:

September 25, 1902, at 2 hours 15 minutes

in the morning. see Attachment.

add 4:"At the time of this birth, the fire sign Leo was rising in the east, while the sun was in the air sign of Libra. Moreover, Mars was in the ascendant and therefore held personality and fate in general under its influence. The sign of Leo gives a positive and angry temperament, a lot of attractive force, and does not admit enemies; it should even be easy to turn enemies into friends. A xed sign, it confers considerable perseverance, firmness, tenacity, and like all xed signs, it directs the mind to tangible realities. The desires are strongly developed; they tend towards an eminent position, as influential as possible, and are allied to the love of a certain splendor and beauty in the environment, while personal modesty remains possible.

characterized by courage, a certain temerity even, here reinforced by the solid position of Mars which too often leads to impulsive acts. In addition, this aspect of Mars confers an independent and broad spirit, a cheerful and lively nature, a love of sports and, above all, a lot of charm. But often, it incites to launch with too much impetuosity to stop halfway. Mars trine Uranus indicates organizing abilities and forcing energy. These traits are always accompanied by a spirit of initiative that goes straight to the point. However, Mars is in opposition to Jupiter; this aspect has an unfavorable inuence on all relations with the administration and often goes hand in hand with a certain lack of discipline. The sun, dominating birth here, was in the airy sign of Libra where Venus reigns. By this configuration the character becomes more amiable, more accommodating, and more easily adaptable; from it is also born the love of art and all that is beautiful. Reason and feeling should balance each other, but this is difficult to achieve in this case since the sun was in a dissonant aspect with the Moon and Neptune. These aspects can always intervene annoyingly and make the balance of Libra difficult. The Sun-Jupiter trine, a so-called royal aspect, is particularly precious because it carries man always far beyond the milieu in which he was born. The so-called house of the profession undergoes the influence of Venus, which finds itself under an intellectual sign, revealing a literary gift. Venus can give literary works a particularly artistic accent and a style that is always skilful and refined. The Venus-Saturn trine gives these works a more serious and profound background from which continued successes always result, with the qualification, however, in this case, that Venus was greatly harmed by Uranus. This opens the door to a certain

instability, but no doubt also to originality, with, however, very variable chances of success. The fact that the Meridian passes through xed signs allows us to suppose that the uctuations will not be too great with regard to external life. A configuration which clearly indicates a literary gift is that of Mercury in Libra, a sign of Venus. Furthermore, Mercury was in the third intellectual house, while its aspect with Venus is quite pleasing in nature, for it not only brings forth eloquence and ease of expression, but also love of the youth.

If marriages were concluded, the first, placed under the sign of Uranus, could not be lasting, but the second does not benefit from very favorable aspects either. Caution is also required with regard to at least some of the friendships. We can see a tendency towards love affairs that are almost too romantic. Family affairs are generally expressed in a somewhat negative way; aections are partially hampered by hypersensitivity, but this disposition could be valuable in the artistic field. This is what the horoscope says, established by an astrologer who I am assured is highly sought after.

So of course. Let's see.

5. PLACE OF BIRTH:

Kiel. see Attachment. add 5:The place of my birth is easy to spot on any geographical map. It is located about twenty minutes north of 54eparallel of north latitude. Considering this latitude, I discover with astonishment that, thanks to my place of birth, I can consider myself a Nordic man, and the idea that in comparison with my situation, the

New Yorkers must pass for temperamental Southerners, amuses me greatly. The 10edegree of longitude east intersects the said parallel a few minutes west of my birthplace. The two lines, at the intersection of which I was born, encounter relatively a lot of water, salt water. The seas contain an average of 3.5% salt. Kiel is also located at the edge of a body of water, but which contains only 1.5% salt. At the time, a hundred thousand men were established on both sides of the bay which the Baltic pushes deep into the country. Most inhabited the small, narrow houses of the old town at the southwest end of the bay, called Förde, and the cheap, fairly recently built and rather dreadful housing barracks of a district called Gaarden. All around the old core, the city crumbles; soon, there are no more than pretty country houses separated from each other by gardens or parks. I wasn't born in the upscale neighborhoods, but a little to the north, beyond the lake called “little Kiel”, next to a public park, the “Hohenzollernpark”, also endowed with a considerable pond. I live in the daytime at number 14 Jahnstrasse, on the third floor of a house which represented the type of apartment building in this region and at this time. My mother used to hang a tea towel in the window of my native bedroom when lunch was ready and Rose, our maid, was still taking me for a walk in the park. This is the first image that my memory has retained: flowers, birds, bushes, trees, and a rough, good, red fist that gripped my hand; at my side a red and white striped dress, and a white bonnet covering a beaming face, raised towards the window of a gray house where a white dishcloth was floating, far above.

above the trees. And Rose pulls me by the arm, exclaiming: “The dishcloth! We have to go back! » This red and white striped dress reminds me precisely that to the three dimensions of space, we must add that of time, in accordance with Albert Einstein's theory of relativity. At that time, Einstein was working on this theory and even foreseeing the possibility of publishing it, which was three years after I was born. The red and white striped dresses, starched like the white cap, were the clothing of the maids of the time. They were called—and they were called— good for everything, for the expression "housekeeper" would only have provoked, on the part of the "masters," only a sour and contemptuous smile. Of course, there were already wicked and envious men then, social democrats, to put it bluntly, who wanted to share everything, who were prepared to simply take away from people the money collected with such zeal and sweat, who were ready at any moment to throw bombs and assassinate princes. It was incomprehensible that the police allowed them to cross at 1erMay the respectable streets of our city behind blood-red flags and sing bloodthirsty chants. But we had our Emperor watching, our Emperor to whom the city of Kiel owed so much! Wasn't it true that for many years Kiel had been just a modest little provincial town? It had a university (since 1665), commercial relations with Denmark and Sweden, somewhat hampered by better-placed neighboring towns, and a few saurisseries whose famous smoked sardines were the messengers who made the activity known throughout the world. tireless people of Kiel. But now Bismarck founded the Reich which our young Emperor led to glory. It was he who built the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Kanal, thus connecting the city to the

North Sea and seas around the world (3.5% salt). Moreover, it was the Emperor who created the beautiful German fleet, the Imperial Navy, our navy. Here they are on the waters of the Förde, these magnificent ships moored edge to edge to buoys. And in the streets of the city, we saw our guys in blue, cheeky and bare-necked. There was one in our Rose's kitchen. It is true that the Secretary of State for the Navy lived in Berlin. It was Admiral Tirpitz, the Emperor's paladin, best known for his long graying two-pointed beard. But the command of the Baltic naval base was based in Kiel. Kiel had the most beautiful naval port in the Reich and beyond the Förde, in Kiel-Gaarden, rose the pulleys and the cranes of the shipyards where these magnificent ships were built. Thanks to them, the money had in the city. Since 1895, every year, in the month of June, high-masted, slender and beautiful yachts have arrived from all over the world for the "Kiel Week", to measure themselves in a nobly sporting competition. The Emperor himself inaugurated the solemn event on his "Meteor", and his faithful people, deeply aware of the value of the dynasty, saw him himself at the helm while Prince Henry kept the sheets. Dominating the whole, the black-white-red flag, the new symbol of the Reich, wafted in the wind, because our future was on the water (1.5% salt). As for the enemies, here is where things stood: our Emperor, who loved peace (had he not, in 1896, sent a telegram of congratulations to Ohm Krüger, the president of the valiant republic of the Boers, for having repelled the invasion of British troops?) invited people to safeguard their most precious possessions while in the Far East, the Chinese killed, during the Boxer Rebellion, the German ambassador, von Ketteler (1900). At the hour of my birth, the last soldiers

Germans had just returned from China, and among them the marine rifle battalion of the Kiel garrison. They were very proud of the now historic order:The Germans to the front!»which British Admiral Seymour, Commander-in-Chief, had launched during the attack on the Chinese positions. A painter full of talent had xed this moment and the painting could be seen everywhere, including in my native bedroom. But, at the time when I was walking by the hand of Rose in Hohenzollern Park, the Russians and the Japanese had, still in the Far East, measured their forces, as they say, in the terrible naval battle of Tsushima (1905 ). An echo of it was very popular with children in the shops of Kiel: a specially prepared sheet of paper showing Russian and Japanese warships in battle. They looked like the ones everyone could admire on the Förde in Kiel. When the sheet was lit in the intended place, a spark jumped, following a route drawn in advance, to a ship to explode there with a slight fizz. Almost always, the flag of the ship in question carried the cross of Saint-André, which was not very in keeping with the intentions of the Emperor, since his sympathies were with our Russian cousins. Because the other cousins were beginning to look at our country with envious eyes; slowly, the “Albion era” was becoming the “lose Albion”. But we had the threatening guns of our fleet, moored edge to edge to the buoys of the Förde. And our blue guys, cheeky and bare-necked, were walking through the streets of the city; the inns grew, the tearooms were filled with standard-bearers and second lieutenants; the poor but brave ociers of 85 the inns grew, the tearooms were filled with standard-bearers and second lieutenants; the poor but brave ociers of 85 the inns grew, the tearooms were filled with standard-bearers and second lieutenants; the poor but brave ociers of 85ePrussian infantry regiment, also stationed in Kiel, remained kindly on their own. In Kiel, we always remained nicely on our own, the University as well as

merchants and officials. The unity of the Reich was not yet solidly welded. When we went to play in Laboe, the seaside resort on the other side of the Förde, we children of Kiel did not dig the sand to build castles: on the contrary, we formed a beach company. In the morning we went out in a row, uniformly dressed in becoming suits, called Kiel suits, similar to sailors' uniforms, but blue and white striped instead of blue. Bamboo stalks served as guns, the black-white-red armband adorned our left arm, and we were not wearing suroîtes but black oilcloth hats as they were worn in the early navy.

Basically, I was much too young for the beach company, but my grandfather was a respected citizen of Laboe and got me through his intervention to be allowed to march in line when we left singing for the merry war games, the blues against the reds, with Chantilly strawberries after the victorious fight. My grandfather didn't think much of me. He was overflowing with pedagogical principles like all those who have not reached the true goals of their life. If Rose, with her white and red striped dress, is my first childhood memory, here is the second: Above the glistening, gurgling water was a wooden footbridge made of loose planks through the cracks of which the water could be seen. Yes, the boards were shaking and I was clinging to a stake covered in wet dark green moss and small seashells. My grandfather was very personable, his large, congested face rested on a flat white collar. He wore a very baggy black jacket. He wanted to drag me away, because a huge boat was approaching, snorting, purring and beating the water in raging whirlwinds. We were supposed to get on board, but I

I clung to the stake shouting and people gathered and laughed. My grandfather, his face even more congested than usual, furiously undid my fingers, one after the other, and the fingers were turning white when my grandfather tore them from the stake. I cried out and, full of contempt, my grandfather exclaimed: “Buy of tears! I had to join beach company to become a real boy; and I became a real boy, because after the victorious battle there were Chantilly strawberries. My grandfather was the first and only member of our family who did not embrace an honorable career such as a civil servant or a steelworker or a farmer. He had become a merchant and had not failed to go bankrupt with his factory in Liverpool. Now he was one of the managers of the Diedrichsen coal house, whose impressive offices and warehouses were near the port. However, he passed for a great lord whose life he led despite his modest resources. Not that he lived in a beautiful chateau, for his little house in Laboe, all surrounded by roses, could only shelter him and his already elderly housekeeper. But when in the summer, he had a glass of wine with my father on the terrace of a café in Laboe, he wore a black lustrine jacket and a genuine Panama straw hat, whereas my father, always correct and polite, was dressed in a salt-and-pepper long tailed frock coat. My father's face was sunk into a very high, starched white collar, the little corners of which hampered his thin neck to the point of robbing him of all freedom of movement. My grandfather's red, fat chin, on the other hand, lay placidly on the edge of a flat, wide collar. His silk tie fluttered happily in the wind, while my father's was pulled tight and held in place by a pearl. While my father carefully tasted the expensive drink, my grandfather carried the glass to My grandfather's red, fat chin, on the other hand, lay placidly on the edge of a flat, wide collar. His silk tie fluttered happily in the wind, while my father's was pulled tight and held in place by a pearl. While my father carefully tasted the expensive drink, my grandfather carried the glass to My grandfather's red, fat chin, on the other hand, lay placidly on the edge of a flat, wide collar. His silk tie fluttered happily in the wind, while my father's was pulled tight and held in place by a pearl. While my father carefully tasted the expensive drink, my grandfather carried the glass to

his nose to savor the fragrance, the bouquet, before "rinsing" his mouth. His gaze followed a pretty girl whose dress sometimes revealed her calves with an inconsiderate step. He was a brilliant cavalier, who never missed a ball where he waltzed the most beautiful. One day, the Society for the Rescue of Castaways tried a new method for throwing a rope to a boat entering the Förde. My grandfather left the ball, followed by the growing crowd of onlookers. When the rope was thrown and a man from the crew had to descend into the "breeches buoy" to test the lifeboat and be hoisted to the shore, my grandfather, full of enthusiasm, rowed up to the boat, climbed into the lifebuoy and hoisted himself up, repeatedly plunging into the water up to his neck, to the joy and fear of the spectators. Then, without changing, and to the cries of admiration from the crowd, he dried himself off and warmed up while dancing, not without shouting a "buoy of tears" at me because I had watched him crying. A brilliant horseman indeed, despite his modest resources. And here is the last image of my childhood memories: I stand on the terrace, my eyes still filled with tears, behind me the exuberance of the party and the dance, in front of me the sparkling waters of the Förde and the sun above the city. The ships of the Imperial Navy, moored edge to edge at the buoys of the Förde (1.5% salt).

When twenty years later I returned to Kiel — for I was born there and my life was about to begin again — I had before my eyes the sparkling waters of the Förde and the sun above the city. But there were no longer, edge to edge, boats moored to the buoys. For a long time, my grandfather no longer lived, nor my father, and

Strangers lived in Laboe's little house, all surrounded by roses. Our blue guys were still walking around the city, cheeky and bare-necked, but they had become rare and the cafes were complaining about it. The standard-bearers and the second lieutenants always had in the tea rooms where they met the students of the University, who had just lunched for 60 pfennigs in the foyer of the "Seeburg", vis-à-vis the tea room. , and who now ate 2.40 marks of cakes to stop being hungry. But apart from that, everyone always kept his own, the navy remained in its corner—and it was no longer the Imperial Navy, it was our Reich Navy, small but courageous. There was no longer a trace of those from 85. The University remained in its corner, as did the shopkeepers, civil servants and also dentists, many of whom were former naval officers. The unity of the Reich was not yet well welded, less than ever. At 1erIn May, the Social Democrats marched through the respectable streets of the city in procession, housekeepers among them, and they carried blood-red flags. Not many, however, for most wore black-red-gold, the colors of the Republic. And the Social Democrats were by no means bloodthirsty, on the contrary, and certainly far from throwing bombs or assassinating princes. The Emperor was gone, the peoples of Europe had failed to safeguard their most precious possessions, and no one could yet say where our future lay. Certainly not on the water.

The inhabitants of Kiel had worries, each kindly for himself. The University was in trouble because it saw itself raising a proletariat of academicians, an army of happy, ambitious and hopeful young people who all, but all, had only the desire to pursue a remunerative education. She saw the fifth faculty, that of economics, grow disproportionately

while the German economy was far from national and the nation nothing less than economic. The merchants also had worries, each kindly for himself. Momentarily embarrassed, the merchants had taken out loans; it's something that can happen and you don't throw a man out just because at some point he finds himself without money. But whoever borrows once, willingly borrows more, and whoever lends once, willingly lends more. With loans, interest increases, and with interest, worries. There were already, then, clever people who formed new ideas because the old ones were exhausted, and who established er calculations that the more debts one had, the less there was — thank God — of chances of ever being obliged to pay them. They were, so to speak, royal merchants, but they were not the only ones to have new ideas. The communes issued loans, the repayment of which was hardly possible. The cities sent their mayors abroad to negotiate on this subject. People said to themselves that one way or another, things had to continue well and that it was very consoling to know that we were keepingde jure thatde factowe haven't had it for a long time. People thought things had to go well, only they didn't know how.

The officials also had their worries, kindly for them. Kiel was not only the great port of the small navy of the Reich, Kiel was moreover the capital of Schleswig-Holstein, one of the most beautiful and richest provinces of the Reich, with surplus agricultural production. There were the rough pastures of the Marsch (and a surplus of lack of fodder), the gentle hills of the Geest (and a surplus of sand, heather and marsh), finally the great estates of the east coast (and a excess debt). And

However, this is where the crisis began! Particularly in the region of the west coast where the richest peasants lived, the great ranchers, there was beginning to be agitation. But it is always the rich who feel the first ripples of the crisis, the poor of which will bear the full brunt. First of all, the peasants began to complain of burdens and excessive taxes. Everyone smiled because everyone was doing the same, and especially the peasants, since their race existed. But the peasant, especially if he is rich, knows how to calculate very well; the peasants of the west coast did not need to inquire at the University to learn that charges and taxes, wages and tithes, were taken from the capital of the property itself and that from a given moment, it was not possible to maintain the budget balance of their farm nor the farm itself. This calculation gave rise to concern, concern, protests, protests, resistance and resistance, in short, a thing called "Peasant Movement" and which raised a lot of dust, dust of files, wigs and , finally, explosions! The peasants, accustomed for centuries to taking care of their farms peacefully and pinching the tails of their oxen from time to time, just to see if they were already fat enough, suddenly found themselves forced to do completely different things, and they decided to become politicians. resistance and resistance, in short, a thing which was called “Peasant Movement” and which stirred up a lot of dust, dust of files, of wigs and, nally, of explosions! The peasants, accustomed for centuries to taking care of their farms peacefully and pinching the tails of their oxen from time to time, just to see if they were already fat enough, suddenly found themselves forced to do completely different things, and they decided to become politicians. resistance and resistance, in short, a thing which was called “Peasant Movement” and which stirred up a lot of dust, dust of files, of wigs and, nally, of explosions! The peasants, accustomed for centuries to taking care of their farms peacefully and pinching the tails of their oxen from time to time, just to see if they were already fat enough, suddenly found themselves forced to do completely different things, and they decided to become politicians.

This revolution was nothing extraordinary. All those who formed new ideas because the old ones were exhausted sooner or later found themselves faced with this decision. THE people who stood on street corners when the SA4delay, remained pensive. Admittedly, the color of their uniforms was dull, but you don't look at a man's clothes, you look at his heart. We didn't know exactly what these people wanted. But of

less did they seem to want firmly. This distinguished them from others, parties, administrations and corporations where things happened the other way around. We had to see who would go the furthest with their methods. All parties had promised something. They had been elected in the hope that things would work out. They weren't getting along. More trust for the parties; but these claimed not to be a party but a movement, and the movement was exactly what was needed at a time when everything was beginning to stall. They had momentum, we had to admit, and they were wonderfully organized. That's what we needed: momentum and organization. There was even a program. A new program, as new as the will of the leaders to engage their heads. One of the points recommended for example: “Abolition of department stores. There were very few of them in Kiel, but there were a lot of small traders. Another point read: “Freedom from the bondage of interests. There were many people who had to pay interest, and there were only a few, and fewer and fewer, who received it. A third point proposed: "Dissolution of the non-German mercenary army and formation of a people's militia." Would there perhaps once again be a large navy whose boats would be moored edge to edge at the buoys of the Förde and whose blue guys, cheeky and bare-necked, would walk the streets of the city again? The innkeepers couldn't fault it. There was also the point about the Jews. But the few Jews in Kiel were good, honest people whose ancestors had already been citizens of the city and against whom even the National Socialists could have no serious grievances. Respectable Jews, then; and what could other Jews have been looking for in a dying city like Kiel? Here is the word: Kiel was a dying city and therefore

the programs promising improvements in all areas were worth studying, much more even than the Reich Constitution which dealt only with rights. This program, on the other hand, spoke of advantages, and even if it inspired reservations, they had to be thrown overboard; because is it not true that at a given moment, a superior intelligence wants us to act against the intelligence? We'll see. This is Kiel, one city among many others. I saw Kiel for the last time at the beginning of the summer of 1928; Seated on the terrace of this inn in Laboe where my grandfather, more than twenty years earlier, had warmed up and dried himself while dancing, I watched the sparkling waters of the Förde; there was sunshine above the city.

* The following passages are taken from the communications of the Statistical and Electoral Oce of the City of Kiel, concerning the “buildings and apartments in Kiel destroyed or damaged by acts of war”. (Official survey, November 1947). “Kiel ranks among the big cities that have suffered the most from the war. Apart from the disappearance of the main foundations of its economic existence, the city was particularly affected by the air war; it suffered considerable destruction in 90 aerial bombing attacks, during which more than 43,000 explosive bombs, 900 mine bombs and about half a million incendiary bombs of all kinds were dropped...

… At the time of the survey, only a quarter of the buildings were unscathed while more than a third had been completely destroyed and

about 40% more or less seriously damaged… … Barely 20%, that is to say less than a quarter of the habitable premises, emerged unscathed from the bombardments. Of the remaining 80%, half was completely destroyed, the other half damaged... … Whichever point of view one considers the eects of the bombardments in the various neighborhoods — whether one considers the greatest percentage of buildings and apartments completely destroyed, whether one highlights the parts of the city with the lowest percentage of unscathed buildings and apartments or whether we establish the comparison between habitable and uninhabitable apartments – we will always find the following three districts in the lead: the old town, Brunswick and Ellerbeck… … An examination of the number of habitable or uninhabitable premises reveals for these three districts only 10 to 20% habitable against 80 to 90% uninhabitable. Here again, depending on the point of view, one can consider slight differences. It shows that the center and the region of the shipyards suffered the most from the bombardments... … It should be added that the building sites could not be enumerated in detail since both the number of buildings existing before the destruction and the dierent partial or total destruction were not notified to the ocial investigators. In the statistics, all the worksites therefore represent only one building. » On the terrace of the once Imperial Yacht Club, British sailors placidly watch the fast little British boats glide through the sparkling waters of the Förde (1.5% salt).

6. SIZE:

1 m. 75 (decreasing with age).

7. WEIGHT:

variable.

ad 7:I am happy to be able to give particularly precise information about variations in my weight. I have always devoted the greatest attention to this question. Nothing reassures me more than the calculation of American scientific institutes which say that the food of men is guaranteed until the year 3000, on condition that the food reserves of the globe are used and distributed rationally. Although the food in the prisons of Prussia was, around 1925, infinitely better than anything to which I have been entitled so to speak since 1945, my weight was only about 116 pounds when my first imprisonment came to an end in 1928. Considering my height, this weight was clearly unsustainable. I don't know to what extent I owe to the milk diet prescribed by Miss Doctor Querfeldt the weight of 142 pounds of which I could boast when I left her. I seriously tried to continue this diet and analyze the results; but although, to my knowledge, the world's milk reserves have hardly diminished, it has not been possible for me for nine years to obtain, even approximately, the share which, on condition of use and rational distribution, is guaranteed to each individual until the year 3000. I was able to maintain my weight at 142 pounds for about a year to see it drop back down to 126 pounds in the fall of 1929 for reasons which will be elucidated in the answer to point 29 of this questionnaire. I maintained this weight until 1931. Then I easily managed to increase it to 151 pounds (see question 125).

I had the ambition to reach, once in my life, the weight of 200 pounds. I did not succeed. In August 1939, I weighed 96 kilos and I nourished the justified hope of gaining without difficulty, the eight pounds missing. But from then on, I kept losing weight. In May 1945 my weight was exactly 175 pounds and considering all the circumstances I thought I had reached rock bottom. But when in September 1946 (see Remarks) I stepped on the scale, it read only 132 pounds although, unlike many other things, it was intact. Currently, I weigh 161 pounds again. I succeeded with all the legal possibilities and some that were not, and I don't think I can maintain myself there. I definitely gave up hope of ever reaching 200 pounds.

I like being big. They only rushed to grant me credits when I was overweight. I have never worked with so much ease as when experiencing the sensation of fullness, even bodily, and I have experienced that women especially have confidence in corpulent men. In politics, fat men enjoy general sympathy. We do not really believe in their fanaticism and we are tempted to appeal to their human side, quoting the words that William Shakespeare, that great psychologist, put in the mouth of his Caesar: "Surround me with corpulent men, bald-headed and sleep well at night. » In fact, John Bull, who personifies England, is always, and in contrast to Uncle Sam, who personifies America, represented as a man of considerable build, and I know of nothing else which has so favored general popularity. English people.

8. HAIR COLOR:

see Attachment.

add 8:To sharpen the conscience, Hamlet tells us, is the interest of the power which likes, for its tranquility, to command cowards. The best way to achieve this has always been the presumption of administrations. Administrations have always known the magic force of power which, by registering it, most surely fascinates the individual. Recording is the perfect form from which all the consequences of the regime of terror will flow. A man in a file is, so to speak, already a dead man. The presumption of the administrations consists in the mania to exercise terror in order to possess the practice when they obtain power. No formula has ever left a self-respecting administration without taking on the character of a report. But if madness has method, the moment always comes when it appears that the method itself is madness. The time has come. Nothing reveals the signal nature of this questionnaire and its baseness better than the question concerning hair color. The same reasons, which make this question unworthy of being reported, prohibit believing it useful for statistical purposes. If the question concerning the weight could have the intention to follow the uctuations of the time through those of the weight, this intention becomes insane when it comes to the hair. Everyone knows that hair color automatically changes with age, necessarily changing to gray or white. Each time I found myself faced with this question, the official filling out the form would write after a brief glance and with incomprehensible lightness: "Dark blond." But if I did the same today, I would undoubtedly expose myself to prosecution for falsification of the questionnaire, and I have enough reason to

fear the procedure more than its results. I am by no means dark blond and I do not believe I have ever been, without however being able to provide the slightest proof. Anyway, today my hair is an almost unmistakable color of dark dust; each one shows a certain tendency towards gray, and I note every day with sadness the victorious progress of this tendency which does not go without showing, like all victories, distinct signs of a general disintegration of the substance, therefore a behavior distinctly nihilistic. Cesar would have been happy to see me, even for my bald head.

9. EYE COLOR:

see Attachment. add 9:Negligent officials may well have taxed me once as dark blond and the fact that I am 1 m. 75 is indisputable, but my eyes are not blue. They are anything but blue. When I examine my eyes in front of a mirror—which happens very rarely— — I discover all sorts of shades but certainly no blue. On second thought, I could argue that brown, gray or green colors predominate in my eyes, but that would not increase the reporting value of this questionnaire. Because the colors are constantly changing. They clear up when I think of the answer to question 125, but if I think of what I will have to relate in the Comments section, my eyes become very dark, even piercing. Friends who had been in North Africa for a long time told me never to try to do business with Arabs, because they would see in the position of my eyes what they call “the evil eye”. Any Arab, on seeing me, would immediately extend the index and little finger of his right hand to

shield me from my gaze and he would avoid approaching me. Let's say that I have no intention of doing any business with any Arabs. The days when I occupied myself with arms plots are over and, in the present conict which opposes the Arabs to the Jews, my sympathies go, for considerations of principle, to Israel. I don't know if there is any truth in what people say about the evil eye, but I remember with pleasure a sentence written twenty-eight years ago by a talented journalist about a trial whose I was the accused: “It was enough to see the close-set eyes and receding forehead of the accused to understand that this young man would have become a criminal even without politics. I have no hesitation in asserting that the author of this sentence was in no way Arab.

10. SCARS, DESIRES OR DISFIGURATION:

To) nil,b) nil,vs) see Notes. (City, street, number) see attachment. add 11: The presumption of the administrations alone prevents me from giving a clear answer to this question. My current address is as ephemeral as the moment that constantly takes the form of the present. As I finish this sentence, the answer to question 11 may already change. Worse still: question 12 being closely linked to this one, it is no longer possible for me to answer it correctly. My mouth does not remain closed out of spite but out of shame: 11. CURRENT ADDRESS:

I don't have a residence permit!

12. PERMANENT HOME:

(City, street, number) see answer to the

issue 11.

13. IDENTITY PAPERS:

German identity card nohB.78561 see

attachment. add 13:This document, called the German identity card, consists of

four gray canvas pages whose columns are printed in the following four languages: German, English, French, and a series of letters which I am inclined to deny as Cyrillic. The first page of the identity card has a few lines of "Notice" whose tone and content belong exclusively to the German language. I learn with interest that I am of "German" nationality (which I consider to be either expired or premature), that I am designated as "stocky" and that the official completing my card had the impression that my eyes were light brown in color — at that time I must have thought intensely about trips abroad.

The identity card is adorned with a portrait that a photographer made of me. He shows me as I am not, never have been and never will be. In addition, the prints of my left and right index fingers have been added to the card. Unlike most of my compatriots, I know the reason for this process. My father, as a senior police official, helped introduce fingerprinting into Germany. It is employed in the police identification department. Until now, fingerprints have only been taken from criminals, which seems reasonable since only they are likely to leave traces relating to illegal actions.

We know that there are entire peoples for whom each part of the body exerts a particular magical force. In Polynesia, cut hair or nails are taboo, they have their magic meaning, they exert a charm. Among the Germanic peoples, it was dishonorable and a sign of servitude to have their hair cut. Even today, Islam forbids Arabs to allow themselves to be portrayed. The Chinese say of a man who has breached an intimate rule of honor or dignity that he has lost face, which seems to them very serious. Children only diligently part with an extracted molar, and Greta Garbo does not like to be photographed in private life. All of these things are on the same plane. When fingerprinting was introduced, those in charge were careful not to offend one of the most important manifestations of human beings: modesty. This is why they consciously limited the procedure to those whom one could believe had already abdicated this noble sentiment on their own.

The fingerprints on my ID show me either 78,560 people have already been considered criminals before me or that the time of subtle reflections, usual in my father's time, has passed. This type of identity card was introduced in Germany by the National Socialist government. However, at the time, it featured only one language and omitted one particular design that brilliantly reects the perfection of current policing methods. Possession of the identity card is compulsory in this country. Until now, no one could get a ration card without producing the ID card. But this was issued only to those who were able to prove that they had completed the registration form required by the law of the Chamber.

arbitration. I cannot discuss this law of March 5, 1946, promulgated to free us from National Socialism and militarism, because I do not know anyone whose opinion on this subject differs from mine. The Arbitration Chamber informed me that this law does not concern me. Notwithstanding, I consider it politically stupid, humanly infamous and legally impossible. I am firmly convinced that by completing my registration form, by which alone the law could take effect, I have been guilty of aiding and participating in an act which must be qualified as a criminal for the reasons which I just said. If I did not fill in my registration form, I saw myself condemned by the excellent administrative foresight to starve. I could have avoided this punishment by a whole series of illegal acts.

Of course, I filled out my registration form. Among all those who share my opinion on this law and its authors, I do not know anyone who has acted otherwise.

14. MILITARY BOOKLET NUMBER:

see Attachment. add 14:Unfortunately, I cannot give the number of my military booklet. Of course, I had one like any German my age. As long as the National Socialists were in power I never had to produce it, but as soon as the Americans came in that changed. The military booklet became an important document for me because it was the only proof that I had not been a soldier and that, therefore, they had no right to put me in a camp as a prisoner of war. Every American soldier on every street corner demanded to see my

booklet which, in those days, allowed me to circulate freely as far as possible. My hand was already taking it out automatically as soon as I saw an American uniform somewhere. Very close to my house, at the crossroads through which I had to pass to go into the village, American sentries had taken up residence in a tent. These soldiers must have known me since I passed several times a day, but each time they imperturbably forced me to show my papers. So my hand automatically went to my pocket when one day I saw a man on duty who had taken his place on a stepladder next to the tent. His gaze fixed on a big girl leaning against a railing, he nonchalantly sang one of those tunes that the Americans called “long haired”. I noticed this man because he wore no less than three wristwatches on his left arm, while the lapel of his uniform was adorned with a whole series of small gold brooches, decorated with multicolored stones, as worn at we peasants and maids. Without taking his eyes off the island, the man motions for me to approach. He grabbed my booklet, leafed through it for a few seconds with a visibly bored air, then he tore the document twice, with a slow and voluptuous movement, and threw the pieces into the ditch without interrupting even a single moment, his sentimental song. Without taking his eyes off the island, the man motions for me to approach. He grabbed my booklet, leafed through it for a few seconds with a visibly bored air, then he tore the document twice, with a slow and voluptuous movement, and threw the pieces into the ditch without interrupting even a single moment, his sentimental song. Without taking his eyes off the island, the man motions for me to approach. He grabbed my booklet, leafed through it for a few seconds with a visibly bored air, then he tore the document twice, with a slow and voluptuous movement, and threw the pieces into the ditch without interrupting even a single moment, his sentimental song.

I knew right away what the reaction of any self-respecting American would have been. I had seen enough similar situations in enough American movies to realize that the only thing to do was knock the guy out with a well-directed blow to the chin, and walk on quietly. This process is manly, elegant, satisfying and morally blameless.

However, I admit that I have not made the slightest attempt to live up to the idea that the great American people have of the behavior that can decently be expected of a man in such a situation. I continued on my way without any additional adornment, returned home and henceforth sought to avoid all contact with the Americans as much as possible.

15. PASSPORT NUMBER:

see Attachment. add 15:My passport, valid until 1938, has not been renewed. I haven't made any effort to get a new one. At the time, many people were dying who were officially declared to have committed suicide. A group of friends, including myself, then decided to make a solemn commitment to two things: never to commit suicide and not to emigrate. It is very dicult to check if all my friends have kept their promise. A few died, others disappeared, and nothing can be learned about their eventual death. Two of these friends were surprised in Austria by the collapse of the Reich and have not yet found a way to return. A third is Austrian and still lives in West Germany today. When reminded that he had promised never to emigrate, he replied that it was not he who had emigrated,

16. NATIONALITY:

see Attachment. add 16:I am Prussian. The colors of my flag are black and white. They remind us that my ancestors died for freedom and demand that I remain Prussian not only in serene weather but also on dark days. It is not always easy.

Accustomed, required and forced, as a Prussian, to look at the facts as they are, I note with great attention the declaration of the Allied Military Government saying that Prussia is dissolved. But this same attention obliges me to point out without delay that the Allied Military Government makes an error when it believes itself the author of this dissolution. It is only natural that a great nation like the United States of America, which is above the fray, should have lost sight, pressed by world affairs, of some not unimportant facts. Wishing to answer a particularly difficult question, I will recall these facts with the aid of an ordinary encyclopedia. At a time when the valiant settlers and merchants of the immense American continent were preparing to take, by a long and bloody act of war, from the English motherland a flourishing colony, the small state of Prussia, in the heart of overpopulated Europe and impoverished, had defended its position against three great powers by a long and bloody act of war. Prussia then had fewer Germans than are found in the United States today. It was governed by a king named Frederick II who passed for the most enlightened sovereign in Europe and who was - I hardly dare say "as everyone knows" - the first monarch of the old continent to enter in friendly relations with the independent, freedom-loving republic of greater Washington. During the following decades, during particularly cruel struggles, the United States pushed America's original inhabitants, the Indians, ever further west, thus increasing the number of its member states from thirteen at the time of the Declaration of Independence to twenty-six in 1823, the year of the Monroe Doctrine. During this period, Prussia, like all other states in Europe, was invaded by a certain Napoleon

who had known how to make himself Emperor of France. But like all the other states of Europe, she rose up against Napoleon in a war generally called the "War of Independence", until the tyrant was overthrown. In this war, the United States took—I hardly dare say "as everyone knows"—the side of Napoleon. The desire for freedom which took hold of Europe after this war crystallized among the German peoples in the desire to obtain equality vis-à-vis other nations and to form, too, a united nation. To realize this desire, a power was needed that was disinterested enough to renounce a significant part of its sovereignty in favor of the unity of the nation, even risking, by persevering in this way, to compromise its own existence without prot. This power was Prussia. Despite the suggestions of very important powers, the prime minister of Prussia, a certain Bismarck, resisted the temptation to meddle in the internal affairs of the United States when the Civil War broke out there. He renounced betting on the disintegration of the United States by recognizing, for example, the Southern States as belligerent powers. He refused any collaboration in such undertakings. Bismarck had great sympathy for the goal of the great American President Lincoln, who wanted to achieve the unity of the American nation through the lofty ideal of the liberation of the Negroes. He would have been surprised to learn that one day America would reproach him for having brought about the unity of the German nation through the noble ideal of the liberation of the Germans. Prussia has always felt sympathy for the great nation of the United States of America, and if ever her feelings have not been expressed with sufficient clearness, the reason must be sought in the real difficulty of telling the glory of the Americans more than the Americans themselves say.

Each State has the desire to justify its existence by seeking to attribute to itself a denied task and to put itself in a position to accomplish it. The constitution that a State has adopted will therefore always provide information on its intentions. Following Bismarck's initiative, the German state had given itself a constitution that created a balance by sharing power. It knew how to prevent any unjustified desire for power from one of its parties as well as the imperialist orientations of a State which would tend towards centralization. The Reich was a constitutional monarchy subject to triple control: that of the people by the Reichstag and the parliament of the Länder, that of the member states by the Federal Council and that of the monarchy by Prussia. The Emperor of Germany was always restrained by the fact that he was at the same time King of Prussia. Bismarck himself always considered the office of Prime Minister of Prussia more important than that of Imperial Chancellor. According to the constitution, the prime minister of Prussia was also the president of the federal council composed of the princes representing the Länder. These could influence the policy of the empire, assert their claims to the rights that the empire could grant, and exercise control. Even if, following the example of Bismarck, the Prime Minister of Prussia was at the same time Imperial Chancellor, the balance of the Reich was guaranteed since the Chancellor could only represent overall policy in his capacity as Prime Minister of Prussia. , — preponderant power of the federation of States. Prussia had therefore, in the words of Bismarck, the task of serving as ballast in the bark of the Empire. This task was entrenched in the constitution and there is no doubt that it was a useful, if not a very glorious task. These could influence the policy of the empire, assert their claims to the rights that the empire could grant, and exercise control. Even if, following the example of Bismarck, the Prime Minister of Prussia was at the same time Imperial Chancellor, the balance of the Reich was guaranteed since the Chancellor could only represent overall policy in his capacity as Prime Minister of Prussia. , — preponderant power of the federation of States. Prussia had therefore, in the words of Bismarck, the task of serving as ballast in the bark of the Empire. This task was entrenched in the constitution and there is no doubt that it was a useful, if not a very glorious task. These could influence the policy of the empire, assert their claims to the rights that the empire could grant, and exercise control. Even if, following the example of Bismarck, the Prime Minister of Prussia was at the same time Imperial Chancellor, the balance of the Reich was guaranteed since the Chancellor could only represent overall policy in his capacity as Prime Minister of Prussia. , — preponderant power of the federation of States. Prussia had therefore, in the words of Bismarck, the task of serving as ballast in the bark of the Empire. This task was entrenched in the constitution and there is no doubt that it was a useful, if not a very glorious task. the Prime Minister of Prussia was at the same time Imperial Chancellor, the balance of the Reich was guaranteed since the Chancellor could only represent overall policy in his capacity as Prime Minister of Prussia — the preponderant power of the federation of states . Prussia had therefore, in the words of Bismarck, the task of serving as ballast in the bark of the Empire. This task was entrenched in the constitution and there is no doubt that it was a useful, if not a very glorious task. the Prime Minister of Prussia was at the same time Imperial Chancellor, the balance of the Reich was guaranteed since the Chancellor could only represent overall policy in his capacity as Prime Minister of Prussia — the preponderant power of the federation of states . Prussia had therefore, in the words of Bismarck, the task

of serving as ballast in the bark of the Empire. This task was entrenched in the constitution and there is no doubt that it was a useful, if not a very glorious task. the task of serving as ballast in

The causes of the dissolution of Prussia have nothing dishonouring. The principle of dynasty was inescapable in the mind

Prussian. When the Emperor William II, a man brilliant in his temperament and his talent, began to develop his personal initiative in his government, every Prussian found himself faced with the alternative either of continuing the task of Prussia or of remaining loyal to the dynasty. Bismarck — and with him the task which Prussia assumed in the Reich by the will of the Emperor's fathers — had to bow before the dynasty. The Emperor secured a personal government by giving the offices of Imperial Chancellor and Prime Minister of Prussia to a docile non-politician, a general brought up in the tradition of unquestioning obedience. It was the only possibility that Bismarck had not taken into account in building the scaffolding of empire because he had deemed it negligible, so much his conception of the dignity and obligations towards the State of His Majesty the King of Prussia was severe. King William Ier, despising the title of emperor until his death, had strong tendencies to make the interests of Prussia prevail. Bismarck had to fight them in favor of the German interest. At William II, the King of Prussia had capitulated to the Emperor of Germany. The tragic figure of the Emperor, who only remembered being King of Prussia at the most terrible moment of his fall, was opposed to all that Prussia had to believe in substance and in spirit. Bismarck dismissed, the task of Prussia lost its meaning. The empire perished, not because Prussia had done too much, but because she had not done enough. After the abolition of the monarchy, the new constitution of the German Republic provided instead of the federal council for a senate with very reduced tasks, representing the Länder in legislative and administrative matters. The President of the Senate was no longer the Prime Minister of Prussia, but a Minister of State. Thus the federative character of the Reich was abandoned at the same

time that Prussia lost all influence and all mission. Prussia had ceased to be a State among others, it was no longer anything more than one of the Länder without sovereignty and without the possibility of influencing the policy of the Reich other than through the mass of its electors. The Länder no longer controlled the Reich, the Reich controlled the Länder.

Under these conditions, logic dictated that the non-Prussian Chancellor of the German National Socialist Government should declare himself, by the law of April 7, 1933, known as the Law of Unification, Governor of Prussia and that he should make his close friend Hermann Goering, no more Prussian, the Prime Minister of Prussia. During the so-called Reich Reform unification, the latter immediately organized the merger of all ministries with the corresponding ministries of the Reich, with the exception of that of finance. Thus he disintegrated the last bastions of an autonomous Prussian administration and, hence, Prussia itself. It was the final n of the State of Prussia. Instead of devoting itself to the Reich, Prussia got lost in it. With particular amazement, every true Prussian must have noted that this tragic death of Prussia passed unnoticed. For the Germans and for the whole world, Prussia no longer had any reality and there existed only the appearance of its being, the shadow of its spirit and the monstrosities of its nature. The question of nationality is a question of life and death, because it not only regulates the legal relations of an individual with a partial totality, it also imposes clearly defined duties. Military service is one. The subject of a nation can easily find himself in the embarrassing situation of being killed or of killing for his country. If the first possibility is horrible, at least it does not depend on the will of the individual. All men are mortal and they have no influence on the choice of the hour. He is leaving

completely different from the second possibility. It is even more horrible than the first because it requires the active cooperation of the individual. We are obliged to grant the individual the right to examine beforehand the state for which he could possibly agree to kill another man. In general, nationality is an indispensable thing. It is difficult to find a man who can do without it in the long run. Commonly, nationality is acquired quite simply by birth, that is to say by chance. I was born in Kiel. At the time of my birth, Kiel was part of Prussia. So it was by chance that I became a Prussian. I became Prussian, but I didn't feel like a Schleswig-Holsteiner. Of all the German races, those of Schleswig-Holstein and Bavaria are the most sympathetic to me, but it would be just as foolish to call me Schleswig-Holsteiner, because by chance I was born there, as to call me Bavarian. simply because I really liked living in this region.

According to the law which still decides the question today, my nationality is quite simply German. This is what was written by an official, who must know it, in my identity card. This law was created by Hermann Goering. I do not know whether, in the stern eyes of current experts in public and international law, the Reich of the National Socialist Government could have had an existence as a state. Be that as it may, at the present time, the denomination “German” used to deny a nationality is absurd. Because all the premises are missing, or almost. Germany is not a state, and if it is a geographical notion, it is already a lot. My father was born in Liverpool, my mother in Saint Petersburg. But my father did not remain English nor my mother Russian. My parents are

become Prussians. I don't know why, but I know that if I hadn't been born a Prussian, I would have become one by election. The main thing is to know what maxims define the state to which I must belong. On this subject, the United States of America has left no doubt. They based the constitution of their nation on principles which, at the time of their proclamation, were in contradiction with all principles valid or conceivable hitherto in the life of the States. The United States has proclaimed its principles so often and with such insistence that no one could ignore them. They are deposited in the declaration of the Rights of Man which include the principles of the freedom of the men and the freedom of opinion. These are dignified and inexhaustible principles like the possibilities of a country that calls itself “the land of unlimited possibilities”.

Indeed, the English version of this questionnaire — and “in case of doubt, the English text will prevail” — uses the word “citizenship” in question 16. I do not believe that “nationality” is the exact translation of “citizenship”. It is a translation consistent with the meaning it takes in a region where the political order can only be conceived in the form of a state. The idea of living as a citizen of the United States in the United States or in the western parts of the globe strikes me as attractive; not enough, however, to make me accept the alternative of killing or being killed for her. It would become absolutely unbearable the moment we set about imposing the principles of the United States of America on peoples with limited possibilities. The first attempt to move Germany from the shadow of foreign history into the clarity of a personal life was undertaken

by Prussia. To recognize why the notion of the state as an abstract form must have taken on central importance precisely in this state, it is enough to take a look at the geographical map of Prussia under Frederick William Ier. A chaos of tiny bits of land and people stretched from Lithuania to Berg County across northern central Europe. Incoherent and dispersed, they were linked to each other only by chance births, marriages and dynastic deaths. No region is sheltered by a conguration of the terrain, no tribe protected by unbroken borders. The existence of the state ended where the consciousness of the state ceased to be alive in the mind of the individual.

Prussia lived the state. At no time in history have responsible men been able to avoid thinking about the notion of the state. Day after day, Prussia saw itself placed before hard realities. The dangers were as enormous as the task. Perhaps it is for this reason that an elite from all the noble families of Germany felt drawn to Prussia. The best Prussians did not belong to this country by chance of birth. A jenesais-quoi surrounded this Prussia, producing a series of documents which all bring to light that particular consciousness of duty which alone can serve as a basis for intimate order. Prussia lived the state.

One fact must astonish: the Prussian sense of civic duty had to offer the individual only severe obligations. He required the king to be the first servant of the state, he never valued intentions but acts, he safeguarded neither interests nor advantages, but ideas and forms. When all is said and done, this civic sense—visible in men and documents, laws and commandments—has a character of virtue far more pronounced than demonstrations.

other conceptions of the state. He is more ethical than metaphysical or ideological and his sobriety oriented towards practical life is probably closer to Confucius than to Christ. Considering the virtues to which the State wants to compel them, the Prussians are the Chinese of Europe, and we know that the Japanese, disciples of Confucius, are called the Prussians of the East. Of course, one can conceive of the happiness of the German people without the state. From time to time, one can even imagine, like a pleasant and desirable dream, the modest, good-natured and above all obedient Germans, indulging in their charming valleys and on their gentle hills in a peaceful activity. The happiness of the German people is possible if the Germans want to ignore the problems of the world and if the world, for its part, wants to spare the Germans its problems. It is possible if the Germans want to forget their history, consider their efforts foolish, their deeds and their thoughts as wrong, and if they want to believe that their great men were fools and their faith madness. In fact, the State is the enemy of such happiness. He would even be the enemy of the people if they nourished the dream of happiness. It is a dream born of exhaustion. It is a narcotic dream that suddenly makes the world appear simple, light and filled with transparent bliss. Such dreams last only a second, like the moment when Americans and Russians joined hands on the Elbe and all exhausted hearts heaved a deep sigh of relief. Yes, that way everything works out! So everything is simple, fair and clear! Abolish the nations! Abolish the States! All ! "And all will be well!" I am not qualified, and it is necessary, to criticize the victorious powers, their intentions and their opinions. I fully realize that the Allied Military Government

representing the new order can crush me like a louse, precisely because I have no other nationality than that which is the subject of this questionnaire. The victorious powers, the four Big ones and the fifty-six or fifty-seven Little ones certainly have their reasons for not having abolished the nations at the moment when it was really possible, far from it, on the contrary… Whatever noble principles will henceforth reign over the world, they will have to use the nations as an alembic which will transform them into earthly realities. Every spirit seeks a body, and if we have the slightest intention of making the German people participate in the spirit which alone must preside over the political destinies of humanity, the German people will have to, willy-nilly, form a nation again. A nation which will be sovereign and which will know other alternatives than the pleasantly passive one of allowing itself to be violated or corrupted, a nation of which no one yet knows exactly what form it will take. We only know that it will be neither from the East nor from the West, neither from heaven nor from hell, but from this earth; and in any case, it will have the will to make the state, since this will is the only thing that binds the nation together. So it only remains for me to wish with all my heart that this is a state worthy of the name. And as long as I cannot say that I am of German nationality, I will assert that I am Prussian and that I want to be Prussian.

17. IF YOU ARE NATURALIZED, INDICATE DATE AND PLACE OF NATURALIZATION : not applicable.

18. INDICATE ALL YOUR TITLES OF NOBILITY, THOSE OF YOUR WIFE, OF YOUR RESPECTIVE GRANDPARENTS:

see Attachment. add 18:You really can't blame the Americans for what, apparently, they don't see through the complicated customs and ambitions of the nobility. In 1919, the authors of the German and Austrian constitutions were not there either. The German constitution of Weimar declared the title of nobility an integral part of the name. So it obviously cannot be changed. This resulted in consequences, more than one of which made a whole family laugh and troubled an entire administration. One of my distant cousins, for example, called Aunt Traudchen, an already somewhat doddering old canoness, suddenly began to stubbornly refuse to pay her taxes. She returned or threw away all the collector's letters and summonses. After much trouble and heated consultation with family and a lawyer,

I never cared much about my family history. I had no reason to; we were too obviously deprived of any landed property and nothing reminded us of glorious traditions. The Gotha, this definitive work that the nobility has given itself and where each family finds its genealogical tree with all its known ramifications, does not really know what to do with our family. There is talk of a mysterious Venetian nobleman who unexpectedly emerges from the night of history, establishes himself as father of our house and disappears without leaving any more precise information. The signet ring my brother inherited from my father was unable to shed any light in the darkness that surrounds our family. An absolutely meaningless and inopportune bear that the Gotha pretends to be red,

green according to the Gotha. In the sky or, according to the technical term of the Gotha, in the chief, shine on a blue background three silver five-pointed stars. The whole is supported by two animals looking at each other; their tongues, toes and tails are long and more or less split; they lack any suggestion of male strength around the waist. My brother claims they are lions. Surprisingly, the coat of arms is adorned with a ninepointed crown, therefore a count's crown, which for a long time encouraged my brother Günther to speak on occasion and discreetly of old privileges which, in his modesty, he did not state. In any case, I never learned glorious things about our ancestors except a few anecdotes, coming from I don't know where and propagated by my grandfather with as much pleasure as by me. With a nervous tic of the eyelids, my brother persisted in qualifying these anecdotes as apocryphal, the one for example, which tells that General de Salenmon returned the fort of Wesel to Napoleon in 1806 "without firing a shot", because of which he was broken and covered with shame. Another anecdote relates that at the time of Frederick the Great, an er-à-bra of the same rank spent a season at Ems. One day when he was in his bathtub, he got mad at the boy and, wearing only a saber, he chased him down the happily bustling main street. an er-à-bra of the same grade spent a season at Ems. One day when he was in his bathtub, he got mad at the boy and, wearing only a saber, he chased him down the happily bustling main street. an er-à-bra of the same grade spent a season at Ems. One day when he was in his bathtub, he got mad at the boy and, wearing only a saber, he chased him down the happily bustling main street.

At the time of the National Socialist government, however, the suspicious sounding of our name was a rather compelling reason to take care of our family more closely. Embarrassed by the alcove secrets of its ancestors possibly exposed to ocial reprobation, the human mind, which since the Old Testament has had the tendency to make a virtue of necessity, suddenly developed a science of melancholy charm, genealogy. . Full of ardor, my brother threw himself into this new field, and it is thanks to him that

I am able today to give information on a thing which I usually did not concern myself with. My brother initiated an extensive correspondence with upset presbyteries and town halls; he was quarreling with the exchange brokers who were to allocate him the currency necessary to pay the fees and emoluments occasioned by research abroad; he kept in suspense the organs of the Ministry of Foreign Aairs which disturbed the peace of the cemeteries in various parts of the world and swirled the dust accumulated on the family archives, to the greatest astonishment of foreigners. One day, a letter addressed to my brother was mistakenly put in my mailbox, which happened quite often. I opened it and read it, realizing too late that it wasn't meant for me. I telephoned my brother and, in a sepulchral voice, I begged him to come to my house because, I said, it was better not to put on the telephone what I had to say to him. My brother, who gets angry easily, came immediately. I looked at him with a chagrin look, and after making sure that no witness could hear us, after covering the telephone with a cushion, I declared in a dull voice that a letter from the stranger was arrival—de Reval! My brother was immediately very excited. "From the Embassy," he said; he explained that he had written to them for

find out about our mother's ancestors, whose family had lived in Reval before settling in Petersburg. 'Yes,' I said. Clearing my throat, I continued firmly: — The embassy in Reval did some research. I unfolded the letter which I contemplated the dark face and which I immediately withdrew when my brother wanted to seize it. He

began to understand. - What is it ? I stared at him penetratingly and he stammered:

"Is something…?" I nodded. —Weinberg5!I said. Our mother's grandfather! My brother turns pale. - That's it ! he said. He grabs me by the arm.

"My God, what are we going to do?"

- There is nothing to do ! I said darkly, handing him the letter. There is absolutely nothing to do. We must resign ourselves. Here is black on white: Martin Weinberg, pastor at Reval Cathedral… Several minutes passed before my brother's blood began to circulate normally again and he realized that I had made him walk. For a long time he resented me for this brutal joke. He forgave me only because I knew little else to approach these things which filled him with such anxiety. In any case, he did not weaken in his efforts; he engaged in hopeless struggles with national oces with pretentious names whose aim was to give young unemployed academic proletarians the possibility of placing multicolored flags on immense topographic maps, of sending questionnaires, of filling in checks. , in short, to do all that is commonly called digging up water. My brother always knew how to coordinate his business and pleasure trips with research concerning our family. When war broke out and France was occupied, he even managed to obtain permission to travel through Alsace which, according to his findings, was the land

nurturer of the harvest he intended to bring into his barn. He communicated to me the result of his efforts when the occasion arose to do so with the solemnity which seemed to him to require the importance of the matter.

My brother had been mobilized; he "regulated his business," as he said gravely; he informed his wife of the dates when the premiums for her life insurance had to be paid; he was having trouble with his tax roll; he made his will, begged his son to always be honest and came to find me to give me the briefcase with the documents concerning our family and our origin, his most precious possession. He already wore the uniform of his infantry regiment, which could now be called a “grenadier regiment” without being more belligerent; he wore a recruit's tunic, much too large, long pants that weren't new, and shapeless studded boots that smelled of grease and clacked with each step against his skinny legs. We praised his bloodthirsty air. He found him very fiery and congratulated him with the reckless gaze of his eyes which had become hard as iron, while I expressed my satisfaction at seeing once again a son of our glorious family open his chest to the enemies. My brother laid out a number of papers in front of him, arranged a series of multicolored coats of arms, unrolled a family tree and said: "Leave your ridiculous sarcasms now!" And he began: — It seems beyond doubt that our family is originally from Italy. - Oh! say I, the noble Venetian!

"Yes," said my brother. I went to the city archives of Venice. I was told that a "Salamon" or "Salomon" family, which split into several lines, is mentioned in the manuscripts of Barbaro:Trees by Patrizi Veneti, in the Campidoglio Venetoof Cappellari and in the Dizionario storico portatile de tutte le famiglie patrizie venete, Bettinelli edition, Venice, 1780. - Oh ! said Ille, repeat that! It's pretty ! Patiently, my brother repeated the titles of the documents. With a dreamy air, Ille t: — I always thought that Mussolini was exaggerating, but apparently,

these people really talk like that! My brother continued:

— In chapter 528 of his book, Barbaro indicates that two members of the Salomon family, Felippo di Gasparo, born in 1530, died in 1578, and Simon di Giulio, born in 1547, died in 1606, were banished after having held a few official offices. But neither the year nor the causes of this banishment are specified. "That's already suspicious," Ille remarked.

My brother gave him a dark look, but Ille continued: — What interests me most is to know how your family had this curious name.

"But that is quite simple," replied my brother with eagerness. This name comes from the Crusaders who, after their return, added a name from the Old Testament to their surname, as proof of their warlike participation in the Crusades. "Well, you know," said Ille, "these customs of old fighters… "Please," said my brother. It was an established habit. The order of the Templars also took its name from the temple of Solomon.

"When were the Crusades?" Ille asked. — The first around 1096, the fifth and last around 1220, I say modestly. "And all the while, for three hundred years, no one knows nothing of such a glorious and chivalrous Crusader family? It's incomprehensible ! "Perhaps there were not many opportunities in Venice to point out during these three hundred years, proposed my brother. - Oh ! I say, there you are wrong. Basically, these are the three centuries

who saw all the great historical events. Without taking into account the fact that it was precisely the glorious time of Venice. What did not happen in the world then! The invasion of the Mongols, the fall of the Hohenstaufen, the Sicilian Vespers, the Hundred Years' War, the ruin of the Teutonic Order, the Hussite Wars, the growing power of the Turks, the struggles of the Renaissance in Italy, the plague, the agellants, the schism, the Inquisition, until the discovery of America by Christopher Columbus! "There," said Ille, "and no trace of a Solomon." "Perhaps there were," said my brother, "only they are not known. — Listen, cried Ille, we know very well who took part in the discovery

from America ! "You are wrong," I said. Suitable families ensure that keep things like that secret. "What was your Venetian aristocrat's name again? I want to say what his first name was? Ille asked. "Felippo," said my brother. "The other," Ille insisted.

— Simon, said my brother, and Ille t only: Hm! My brother fiddled with his signet ring, his eyelids quivering.

'Don't make me unhappy,' he said, 'I belong to the Party.

- Keep on going ! I said. My brother felt relieved.

"Always one of the two, and I suppose it was Felippo di Gasparo, he says firmly, fled to France and settled in Mirecourt. "Burgundy," I said covetously. "Lorraine," said my brother soberly. There, he had to succeed in make a name for yourself. Our coat of arms probably dates from this period. "Have you been able to clarify what it is about the nine-pointed crown

? I asked. My brother replied: — I think it's a recognition of the nobility Italian. — Your Venetian will not have looked at the expense when he ! A few points more or less… says Ille. I told him to shut up and my brother continued:

“It is impossible that he was a man without merit. He has married the daughter of the Royal Lieutenant General of the Bailliages of Lorraine.

He stood up and made a deep bow, a rite she performed whenever she wanted to show her respect and which, under her gentle pressure, we had all adopted like so many other things. My brother said sadly: “I'm afraid you tend to waste your respect. you let the language impress you; it's like in Italian and in the bulletins of the Wehrmacht, it's pretty, but it designates something very simple. Bailiwicks! I searched for a while

inni, I searched all accessible French archives, looking for a Bailliage family. By chance, I found the solution to the mystery in the encyclopedia. It's not a name, it's a load designation. It means lease, administration. And Lieutenant General has nothing to do with military rank. Lieutenant means deputy in the background, in Italian loco tenente;therefore substitute, and general means chief, and the whole... "A collector!" cried Ille. "Yes," said my brother, indeed. Only, at that time it was a very important and coveted office which the crown attributed to particularly deserving noble families; she understood everything related to the State and the Domains, she was a kind of “Gauleiter”… — That's fine, said Ille, I withdraw my bow with the expression of my

regret. - And then ? I asked. "And then there's an interruption," said my brother. The first note that

I found in the parish register of Mirecourt concerned a Jean, in brackets Baptist, of Solomon, who was born there on November 21, 1660 and who died on January 22, 1739 in Colmar, Keeper of the Seals of the Sovereign Council of Alsace. This man is the true father of our family. "That's a pleasure to hear," said Ille, who was pursuing our noble Venetian with an incomprehensible hatred. Now it's starting to get interesting. Unless the Keeper of the Seals turns out to be a kind of district chief, receiving gas in civilian clothes. My brother ran his hand over the family tree. He says : — It is very curious to note that basically the family was not truly flourishing only for about a hundred years. From this JeanBaptiste de Mirecourt, the tree grows abundantly, makes

lots of branches that proliferate until after a while they all die… Looking at us candidly, he added: — Leaving my son Michel last and only heir of the tradition. Her son Michel was sitting on the floor playing with a train. Thoughtful, we looked at him and Ille said: 'So it wasn't really worth it. Passing my hand over the family tree, I hastened to say: — This Sovereign Council of Alsace repeats itself, so to speak, in every name! — Yes, said my brother, it must be a consequence of the Treaty of Westphalia. The peace treaty of Munster ceded not only Alsace to France, but also the free towns located in Alsace. — Colmar, I say, Sélestat, Haguenau, Wissembourg, Landau, Strasbourg, Mulhouse.

— Yes, said my brother, and again Obernay, Rosheim, Munster, Kaysersberg and Turckheim, while the fate of Strasbourg and Mulhouse was settled otherwise. It was my turn to stand up and bow to my brother. He says : 'I didn't know that either; even in Alsace, no one could inform me with precision; the documents relating to it are packed away in some cellar. But from all that I have been able to learn, I suppose that this Sovereign Council was, originally, a representation of the free cities, responsible for watching over their interests with the crown of France. Membership of this Council must have been hereditary. We find the same title and the same office among the first ls, four in all, Jean-Baptiste, his ls Jean-Sébastien, his grandson Jean-

Baptiste-Sébastien and his great-grand-son Étienne-Ignace. They are the same whose coat of arms includes a magistrate's hat, a completely unusual heraldic figure. This Sovereign Council survived the loss of the freedom of the cities. When in 1680, Louis XIV annexed these cities, he had to give the Council new functions quite similar to the old ones. The rights inherent in their freedom, for example, had to be attached to the crown of France. Basically, the tactics of the French conquests consist in long trials which do not replace wars but which make defeat more bearable to the adversary. In short, the Council existed until the death of Étienne-Ignace, and what also existed, from its beginnings until its end, were the disputes between the Sovereign Council and the oces, the councilors and the courts of justice. of the King. My brother was in his element. He leafed through papers, arranged documents, gave demonstrations on genealogical trees and coats of arms, piled up photocopies, and despite myself, I tried to identify him with the character he was talking about. I imagined him as a member of the Conseil Souverain and I was surprised at the immediate ease with which comparisons imposed themselves. My brother looked like a lawyer, with the loose gestures that the word 'Keeper of the Seals' involuntarily suggested to me, though I couldn't imagine the seals he was keeping. With seriousness and precision, he laid down document after document; he had the rhetorical intonation that lends dignity to arid facts, and without the slightest effort I saw the high aedice of a wig land on his bare skull with narrow temples,

— This Jean-Baptiste de Salomon, from Mirecourt, is a gure remarkable in more than one respect. It is curious to see how

not this man foretells, by his life, his actions and his character, our entire family. It does not only contain the germ of what was to flourish in its sometimes very numerous posterity. Even things which at bottom escape biological laws, such as the choice of profession, political views and opinions, in short interests which his descendants express in the most diverse ways, are already found in Jean-Baptiste. He was an ocier, magistrate, receiver-general of domains, secret adviser to the king—and all these offices and activities recur continually in the family. He had nine children, his first son, JeanSébastien (1684-1745) had eleven, his third son, Béat-Dagobert (1723-1789) had seventeen… At these words, Ille stood up loudly and I followed her example. My brother also rose and bowed, although he usually did not conceal the horror with which the habits and customs of Ille inspired him. He looked thoughtfully at his only son Michel who was sitting on the floor playing with a train. Then he resumed: — Which is quite special — I mean special in the literal sense of the word, being part of our family — is the political and historical position of John the Baptist. He is French, without a doubt, both in nationality and in language. And it is no less certain that until the foundation of the Prussian line by Louis-Frédéric Cassian (1759-1834), the family felt French. And yet, from JeanBaptiste to his great-grandson, the family takes care of the affairs of the free German cities. And there is also no doubt that she dealt with it in a spirit that was neither French nor German, not even Alsatian, but in the spirit that the office demanded. Bismarck would have said they were faithful curators. Alsatian chroniclers, alluding to the greatgrand-son of Jean-Baptiste, the Keeper of the Seals Étienne-Ignace (1741-1818),

used the extremely meaningful word "amphibious". As for its national particularity, our family is an amphibious family which manages to balance within itself, and in a very fruitful way, all national tensions, always and expressly on the only truly neutral ground, that of law. This family is deeply devoted to its work, attached to the realities it served; this service is his honor, to take the best care of it, his dignity; in fact, his rich prayer withered away with the realities on which rested the task and the historical significance of the family. My brother searched a bit among his papers, then he said: "As for the rest, a few character traits of our family, quite fact recognizable to this day, already exist in Jean-Baptiste; I mean a certain penchant for complaining, a not always pleasant way of wanting to be right, a mixture of irony and arrogance, which have earned the father of our house and many of his descendants a not particularly pleasant reputation. All the time my brother was talking, I couldn't hide from myself that I didn't like our family history at all. My opinion of my blood was far too high to make me admit that dry pedants, scribblers, bureaucrats and other finicky people could be responsible for the anxiety that had seemed to me to be a characteristic hereditary trait in our family. Unlike Ille, the noble Venetian was perfectly sympathetic to me; the uncertain, the wandering side attracted me; and despite all my examinations of conscience, despite everything I thought I knew about myself, I could in no way discover in myself a penchant for the state of a civil servant. And a certain undeniable attachment to the courts was, as far as I was concerned, to be understood in the most passive sense.

Ille's thoughts, completely opposed to mine, tended above all towards security and comfort. My brother's report, however, seemed to him lacking in luster. I immediately understood what she meant by saying that in her opinion the attitude and qualities of our family were very German in all their manifestations and very little French. My brother protested immediately. He claimed that the lawyer type, as he said, was typically French, but he had to agree that in fact, at least in appearance, the French character was above all represented by women. He said that by marriage we were related to half the French nobility. Catherine de Gomé, the wife of Jean-Baptiste, led the round of the noblest names in France. "Our family," said my brother, "never owned land stretches. Jean-Baptiste-Sébastien (1716-1785), grandson of JeanBaptiste and son of Jean-Sébastien, built the Château d'Ingersheim, near Colmar, because the fortune of his wife, who came from an old Alsatian family des de Thann, made him independent. I went to Colmar and saw this castle. Today, it is a hospice for old people, not very imposing as a building, let's say a construction resembling a castle. According to the documents, Jean-Baptiste-Sébastien had to pay rent to the hospital in Colmar for the garden which had replaced an old house. In the room which is now used as an oce and where, during the Revolution, mass was read, you can see in the middle of the ceiling the stucco magistrate's hat dominating the coat of arms.

But as small as the castle is, it knows what it owes to its reputation. He is haunted. The chronicler relates: "In the castle of Ingersheim, a gentleman dressed in the old fashion and wearing a

tricorn makes appearances. We hear him opening and closing doors, and walking in the corridors. He shows himself especially in one of the rooms at the back overlooking the mountain. Often he breaks everything. It is said that for some time now no tile remains intact in this room. Unaware strangers had to leave this room in the middle of the night. Sometimes something heavy landed on them, sometimes the covers were taken away from them, sometimes the blanket itself danced across the room as the doors kept opening and closing. »

"What foolishness!" I said. If I was a ghost, I could do better than amuse myself in such a childish way. Apparently only very inferior spirits can become ghosts and these have no other idea than to haunt castles. 'I suppose,' Ille said, 'that's the noble Venetian. My brother continued: "But the second small castle belonging to a member of our family was also haunted. This is the castle of Blotzheim which had been the dowry of Antoinette d'Anthès, wife of Nicolas de Salomon (1694-1740), second son of Jean-Baptiste. The castle is near Huningue in Sundgau. Nicolas is therefore the founder of the Blotzheim line. He was Advocate General to the Sovereign Council and died on November 22, 1740 in Metz where a tile fell on his head. On the same day, another Nicolas de Salomon, Louis-Nicolas (1718-?), nephew of Nicolas de Blotzheim, went into exile and disappeared... My brother broke off to give us a look full of insinuations, then he repeated: "Disappeared!" He coughed as his eyelids twitched nervously. Fingering his signet ring, he continued:

Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

— The son of our first Salomon de Blotzheim, Pierre-Nicolas (1734-1799), no doubt ventured into very delicate undertakings. His wife had a political salon at the Château de Blotzheim. One day General Pichegru was arrested there, meeting the agents of the Prince of Condé, the most active enemy of the Revolution. Sentenced to deportation, Pichegru managed to reach England from where he immediately conspired against Napoleon. It is very significant that the founder of the Prussian line of the Solomons, Louis-Frédéric-Cassian de Salomon (1759-1834), from whom we descend in direct line, participated in this first Pichegru plot. And it is even more significant that, since this failed plot and up to our days, all the plots attempted by our Prussian line have been equally doomed to failure. We don't have a lucky hand with conspiracies, my brother said insistently.

— After Jean-Baptiste, the third son of Jean-Sébastien, BéatDagobert (1723-1789) was again Receiver General of Estates and Forests. His son, Louis-Dagobert (1752-1810) succeeded him. After him, we find, in the same function, Étienne-Dagobert (1779-1834), second son of Étienne-Ignace, and nephew of Béat-Dagobert. Perfection in this area, however, was achieved by Dagobert tout court. (It is truly astonishing that all the members of our family who dealt with the forests should have been called Dagobert, as if their career had been prescribed to them from the cradle, which obviously is quite implausible.) This Dagobert, therefore (1783-1854), son of Louis-Dagobert, devoted himself very early to the administration of the forests. He began his career in 1803 as a simple forester in Haguenau. He became team leader and supervisor at Eguisheim and Altkirch, then sub-inspector at Château-Salins and Rufach, inspector at

Wissembourg and, finally, in 1829, in Colmar. It therefore took him twenty-six years to learn his trade, before, thanks to his experience, he was called to direct the Forestry School of Nancy, one of the finest and most important institutions in France. He did not seek the easy way, our Dagobert, and it is certain that he did not owe it to the many relations of our family to finally reach the highest positions in the administration of Water and Forests. In 1838, he was appointed general administrator of the Haut-Rhin forests. He was named knight, then ocier of the Legion of Honour. His contemporaries highly esteemed this man of balanced character. He is the author of a fundamental work on forest economy, this branch of agriculture so important for the prosperity of nations. This book is called:Treatise on forest management, taught at the Royal Forestry School in Paris, Mulhouse and Nancy, 1837; it comprises two volumes, an atlas and several tables and engravings. My brother looked up and announced:

— I would like to point out immediately and with all the necessary insistence that our family thus possesses in this Dagobert, the one and only member who has achieved literary glory. With a scowl, I noticed: “It's all very petty. This is in contrast to my the well-established thesis that the nobility, just like the state of soldiery which it founded, finds its true raison d'etre in the great aim of mutual annihilation. - Oh ! if it is only that, said my brother, I have enough for you to satisfy: In our family there is on every branch, among the innumerable flowers, a flower that blooms in all its

charm of all. And it's always the last eur. Among the Keepers of the Seals, it is Étienne-Ignace, among the Forest Rangers, it is Dagobert. And among the soldiers, there is also one who combined in him, to perfection, all the warrior virtues so becoming (my brother looked at his gray uniform and fiddled with his signet ring while his eyelids contracted nervously). Attention, fanfare for a special press release: here is the hero of our family: Jean-Baptiste-Étienne-Ignace de Salomon (1776-1827), the eldest of our Étienne-Ignace and at the same time the first direct descendant who did not become not Keeper of the Seals with the Sovereign Council. Our hero already chooses a military career very early. In 1790, at the age of fourteen, he entered the Bretagne infantry regiment as a second lieutenant. But the old royal army was decaying. Already in 1791, we find the young man with the first names of all the important men of our family, in the Civil Guard of Colmar, of which François-Nicolas de Salomon de Florimont and Souarce had just been appointed commander. But this formation that we can imagine as a kind of SA could not particularly attract the young man greedy for glory and perhaps also for blood. He preferred to serve in a real regiment. In 1792 he entered the fifth regiment of hussars. A cavalry lieutenant, he only took a liking to life now when he risked losing it. Joyful wars were not lacking. First there were the campaigns of the Army of the Rhine, those against the Netherlands and against Germany.Monitor. Barely seventeen years old, he had taken command of twenty-four dragoons of the fourth regiment; during the assault on Giessen he crossed the river Lahn at the

swam and forced the whole second battalion of the corps regiment of the Emperor of Austria to lay down their arms.

I thought I knew Ille well enough to know that she would be unable to refrain from commenting on this historic event. But I wasn't sure what she was going to say. She just remarked: 'Of course, the Lahn.

My brother manipulated his signet ring while his eyelids twitched nervously and continued, filled with secret triumph: — Shortly after, our hero repeated this brilliant feat of arms during of the campaign of 1803. Aide-de-camp to General Lecourbe, he distinguished himself so well during the crossing of the Inn and in the meeting at Sulzberghofen that the First Consul made him captain. During the campaign against Prussia in 1806, he found himself in the corps of Marshal Lefèvre which was besieging Danzig. On this occasion, he was wounded by two bullets. But on May 7, 1807, barely recovered, he attacked at the head of the grenadiers of the first legion the redoubt of Kalkschanze, defended by two hundred and fifty Prussians, whom he took prisoners, and by four pieces of artillery, from which he seized. grabbed. For this feat, he received the Cross of the Legion of Honor.

In 1808 he was in Spain with General Puthod. There he distinguished himself in the battle of Espinoza de los Monteros and was appointed commander of a detachment. In the battle of Télés, he came to the aid of General Mouton-Duvernet, then colonel, when he was about to be shot, he saved his life. After joining the Grande Armée, he took part in the Battle of Wagram on July 6, 1809, where he distinguished himself in the attack on the enemy position near Neusiedel. At the head of the fourth battalion of the seventeenth regiment of light infantry, he threw himself on an enemy section, and,

separated from his men, t alone prisoners the commander and two soldiers. At this moment, Ille sparked a lively discussion. She noted a certain monotony in the exercise of the trade of soldier which she reduced to a general lack of imagination inherent in this profession. I disputed this opinion and insisted on the artistic aspect of the war. I pointed out that the coup de main, in the field of warfare, corresponded more or less to the anecdote in the field of literature. A collection of helping hands should create the same boredom as a collection of anecdotes. I was saying that our Jean-Baptiste-ÉtienneIgnace had no doubt possessed extraordinary talent in his field. I begged Ille to please notice the nesses that gave each feat of this boy subtle differences. I dwelled at length on this subject,

— In 1813, he obtained the command of the twenty-fourth regiment of mounted chasseurs. On January 2, 1814, near Bonn, he suddenly saw himself face to face with a column of two hundred and fifty Russian infantrymen. When he saw the confusion of the Russians, he immediately threw himself on them, followed by five chasseurs from the fifth regiment and a few infantry; he seized a cannon and captured the Russian major with all his men. The rosette of the Legion of Honor rewarded this exploit. "What strikes me," said Ille, "is that our artist chose always soldiers from another regiment than his own when it came to accomplishing his exploits. Was it a delicate attention or did his soldiers sense in advance what was going to happen and slip away cautiously? "I suppose," I said, "in the general confusion...

— Confusion seems to me to be a valid explanation… said Ille. This probably also explains the fact that our carrier of the Legion of Honor never tires of always attacking other nations. My brother, who felt no inclination for this way of looking at things, continued his monotonous story. Sometimes our devil of a man overpowered six hundred Hungarian hussars, sometimes he surrounded a detachment of Spaniards, he conquered vans, covered retreats, attacked and put to flight, until, after twenty-two campaigns , covered with scars and decorations, he died peacefully and with a clear conscience in his bed. Exhausted, we begged for mercy, granting that Jean-Baptiste-Étienne-Ignace was unbeatable in the field of guerrilla warfare, and renouncing, to my brother's great displeasure, the detailed description of the various heroic deaths that the less fortunate sons of our family suffered in the snowfields of Smolensk and at the crossing of the Beresina. After so much glory, we were eager to meet Louis-Frédéric-Cassian de Salomon, the founder of the Prussian line. My brother prepared for it with some hesitation, sorting through papers and not knowing where to start. He apologized for being obliged to warn us that the Prussian line was probably not going to correspond to the hopes which the destinies of the French stock had been able to give birth to, "because," he said, "the brilliance of the final harvest of fruits”. — Louis-Frédéric-Cassian de Salomon was born on October 12, 1759

in Rufach, only son of François-Gatien-Casimir de Salomon and MarieÉlisabeth Bolard d'Angirey. Obeying the wishes of his father, he entered as a cadet gentleman in the German cavalry regiment of Nassau, then in French pay. If we are told that a member of our family undertakes at a time quite

unsuspected and for no apparent reason something that gives a completely different direction to his life, we can be sure that an innate character trait is responsible for it. I thought about it for a long time and remembered the events that took place in the intimate circle of our family; I was led to deny this character trait as the ability to be ready at every second of life to take your hat off for nothing and walk away forever. Louis-Frédéric-Cassian believed at sixteen or seventeen that he was the victim of an injustice when another received promotion in his place; he left his regiment immediately and took service with the Prussians. We don't know exactly what happened; in the letters of the young man to his father, in the letters of the father not at all in agreement with his son, there are allusions to certain obscure affairs; there are notes according to which, at this time, a Solomon would have escaped by night from the fort of Belfort or the fort of Landskron. It can only be Louis-Frédéric-Cassian, for they speak expressly and with a sort of contempt of a Solomon of the Prussian line. Now, at that time, a Prussian line did not yet exist. There was no Prussian Solomon except Louis-Frédéric-Cassian. In any case, against the wishes of his father, who never forgave him for this decision, Louis-Frédéric-Cassian entered around 1779 or 1780, in Wesel, the Frankish Prussian battalion placed under the command of a general from Salenmon. It can only be Louis-Frédéric-Cassian, for they speak expressly and with a sort of contempt of a Solomon of the Prussian line. Now, at that time, a Prussian line did not yet exist. There was no Prussian Solomon except Louis-Frédéric-Cassian. In any case, against the wishes of his father, who never forgave him for this decision, Louis-Frédéric-Cassian entered around 1779 or 1780, in Wesel, the Frankish Prussian battalion placed under the command of a general from Salenmon. It can only be LouisFrédéric-Cassian, for they speak expressly and with a sort of contempt of a Solomon of the Prussian line. Now, at that time, a Prussian line did not yet exist. There was no Prussian Solomon except Louis-Frédéric-Cassian. In any case, against the wishes of his father, who never forgave him for this decision, Louis-Frédéric-Cassian entered around 1779 or 1780, in Wesel, the Frankish Prussian battalion placed under the command of a general from Salenmon.

- Oh! I say, glad to finally meet a familiar eur in the somewhat tangled branch of our genealogical tree, it was he who in 1806 returned the fort of Wesel without firing a shot and who was broken and covered with shame! I had never seen my brother so reserved before. Her cheeks were tense, her eyelids were rigid and motionless; he is

stared coldly. Without trembling, his hands held the sheet halfway up, and he said firmly: — At this moment when I give you the documents of our family, where I must expect to be sent as early as tomorrow morning to the Eastern front, at this time, the last that I will probably spend among you, at this time, I say, I would like to declare once again and with all due emphasis that there is no, I repeat, no conclusive proof that this Salenmon is a member of our family! I don't know who he's descended from, and I don't want to know. I do not care. In any case, in the history of our family, there is only one destiny that has remained vague, that of Louis-Nicolas de Salomon, born in 1718, fourth son of Jean-Sébastien, therefore the brother of FrançoisGatien-Casimir, father of our Louis-Frédéric-Cassian. There is not the slightest reason to believe that the family would have ignored the event if this Salenmon had really been the uncle of our Louis-FrédéricCassian. And besides (my brother's voice becomes severe and strong), besides, Louis-Nicolas was born in 1718; he would therefore have been far too old for service at the time the fort was surrendered. "That objection is not valid," I said. Everyone knows that the Frederician generals who commanded the Prussian army in 1806 were all very old. "If I put together all the known circumstances," said Ille, "I am of more and more convinced that this general of Salenmon who surrendered the fort of Wesel without firing a shot is the same as this general who, wearing only his sword, pursued the bath boy through Ems!

"But don't always come out with this stupid story!" exclaimed my brother, pissed off.

- Why not ? Ille asked. Can't you see that this man simply had a complex that somehow related

or another to his sword. One day, he gives up his fort without pulling it, another day...

— Excuse me, cried my brother in despair, but that's stupid! 'Allow me,' said Ille, 'it's not that stupid. This man simply noticed earlier than his colleagues that Napoleon was not a bath boy… I had a lot to do to stop a serious argument and to calm Ille, whose remarks were dictated (she claimed) only by the ardent interest she took in our illustrious family. Finally, she promised to curb her benevolence and my brother read a series of documents which showed that Louis-Frédéric-Cassian received his lieutenant's license on 1erMarch 1781, that he served in the Frankish battalion of Salenmon, then stationed in Gelderland, that there he met FrédéricHenri de Petit, Chancellor of the Court of Appeal of Gelderland and Royal Governor of the Duchy of Guelders, his wife Caroline, née von Plönnies, and their daughter Marie-Constantine-Adolphine-Anne. We also learned that, still at odds with his parents, he turned to his cousin Étienne-Ignace when he needed a certificate of nobility which he received without difficulty and that he finally went secretly to Blotzheim, at the castle of his uncle Pierre-Nicolas, as a Prussian delegate to General Pichegru's plot. My brother read these documents with joy, in a high voice, taking extraordinary pleasure in the complicated style and the bizarre expressions. Louis-Frédéric-Cassian married his Constantine and, thanks to her, became the owner of the house and the lands of Grotelaer near Gelderland. "I saw the house and the grounds of Grotelaer," said my brother with

a pensive lust. It is just a very simple house in the middle of the fields, located in the flat landscape of the Bas-Rhin, in front of

the gates of Guelders, on the road to Sevelen. Grotelaer's estate has a melancholic charm. I visited it with a certain nostalgia, because, modest and simple, of an unshakeable tranquility vis-à-vis fate, it is the starting point of our Prussian line. Currently, British and American bombers are buzzing day after day over the house on their way to the Ruhr. When they return, after the attack, they drop just before the Dutch border the bombs which they could not drop on their objectives. They hover low and enjoy aiming their sidearms at the cattle in the pastures. They not only shredded the poplar driveway leading to the house, which dates from Napoleonic times, they also repeatedly destroyed the roof of the house. It is pure chance that no bomb has yet hit the house itself. When you enter, you immediately recoil in horror: in the vestibule, there is a large portrait of Winston Churchill. You have to look closer to discover that it is a portrait of his ancestor, the Duke of Marlborough, a portrait composed of tiny bird feathers glued on by monks. Hesitating between fear and hope, I thought at first that, one way or another, we were related to Churchill. But I couldn't find any confirmation. Only the supposition remains that the Duke of Marlborough spent a night in Grotelaer's house, possibly when in 1702, during the War of Succession, he drove the French out of Guelders. Anyway, I'm afraid that one of these days, Winston Churchill does not have his bombers destroy the memory of his own ancestor, who, moreover, was not very sympathetic either, as I recently read in Swift. It is quite curious that when Louis-FrédéricCassian died in 1834, it was not his eldest son, Friedrich, who inherited Grotelaer, but the youngest, Ernst, our great-grandfather. I own

a correspondence between Friedrich and Ernst von Salomon concerning questions of inheritance; the letters are conciliatory and friendly. The split was probably due to the fact that Friedrich continued his studies while Ernst had more of a taste for agriculture. The real force behind this little quarrel seems to have been the sister, Josephine, a rather original woman to judge from many small traits. As she grew older, she became blind from a cataract. But, by a fall she had in the cellar, the membrane was torn and she regained her sight a little. She carefully hid it and watched hers with minute attention. Then she gathered all her children together—she had five—and exclaimed: "How old and ugly you have all become!" I would like to go blind again! » Our great-grandfather, Ernst von Salomon, born in 1809, died in 1888, married in 1839 our great-grandmother Caroline von Büllingen, daughter of a Bavarian general. Ernst von Salomon's wife was a wealthy heiress and our great-grandfather badly needed this inheritance, because Grotelaer never brought in much, the property barely covering the costs. But by a formal flaw in the will, the whole inheritance had to be sold. He only had the small property “Kleine Spey” left.,near Rheinberg, a small town on the Rhine. At the end of February 1942, she suffered the fate that I fear for Grotelaer: a Tbomb of the house, of its owner, the Countess Gerghe von Trips, and of her servants, the victims of the descendants of the Duke of Marlborough. Our great-grandparents therefore led the simple and modest life of country gentlemen. They were obliged to work hard and to be thrifty and industrious. But, thanks to their energy, they succeeded in restoring the property, which was so neglected, to a certain extent.

» During thisXIXcentury when world affairs prospered so extraordinarily — or so we feel today — we Solomons don't seem to have been very lucky. It seems that the family did not know how to adapt very well to the changed circumstances and that they no longer had the vitality necessary to maintain their rank and importance. Our great-grandfather had eight children, four of whom died very young; his brother Friedrich even had eleven, all of whom died relatively young or at least left no heirs. No member of our family has been more successful, none has achieved fame, honor or fortune. Our grandfather Félix, the eldest son, did not take over from Grotelaer, nor did he become a steelworker or a lawyer; for absolutely unknown reasons, he became something which hitherto had not existed in our family, he became a tradesman (my brother hesitated as if this terrible word did not want to pass his lips). He was the first merchant in the family, and I am the second and probably the last.

I couldn't refrain from bowing to him. “But as far as I know, grandfather went bankrupt and, to my great astonishment, you haven't arrived there yet, I say.

"In fact," said my brother, "he made imprudent speculations." He lost his money on the stock exchange, an institution which I know still exists, but which I have never had the opportunity to use for good or ill. Grandfather was often happy in his speculations — which was his misfortune. The noble Venetian's blood must have worried him. He must have been a tall, handsome man.

"I knew him again," I said; with his modest resources, he was a brilliant horseman. — He married Marie Roes, who was also tall, slender and beautiful. They were considered a beautiful couple who matched

beautifully to quickly squander his fortune. Grandfather took long trips; it had branches in America and Africa; the principal home was in Liverpool where he lived with his wife, although she could not stand the climate. She fell ill and died young of pulmonary tuberculosis. Grandfather sent his three children, Felix, our father, Karl and little Gerda, who did not live long, to Grotelaer where his sister Thérèse lived. Grandfather only occasionally took care of the education of his sons. I can very well imagine what it must have been like. The boys, Felix and Karl, must have seen in their father an apparition from Wonderland. Each time he came, he brought a buoy from the great world, from the open sea, from the exhilarating life. They always saw him beaming and in good humor, generous, very proud of his well-made sons whom he inundated with gifts, whom he spoiled beyond measure—only to disappear again immediately, God knows where. And Aunt Therese realized much too late that grandfather had taken advantage of his stay in Grotelaer to quickly sell precious fields and pastures without his knowledge. Aunt Thérèse carried all the family responsibilities alone. Grandfather lost everything in gambling and speculation; his debts were increasing and Aunt Therese, animated little by little by a ferocious hatred against all levity, finally refused to help him out of trouble. She denied him and he eventually disappeared. They claim to have seen the old man in Kiel… "In a little house surrounded by roses, in Laboe," I said. AT a time when you were not yet born. I believe that, thanks to friends, he had become authorized representative of the Diederichsen house, coals. "Then there was at least no fraudulent bankruptcy," said my satisfied brother. In any case, Felix and Karl remained dependent on Aunt Thérèse. She was a magnificent woman. I saw her during my

first visit to Grotelaer. An active member of the Catholic youth movement, at that time I was making a bicycle trip in the Bas-Rhin region and, on this occasion, I went to pay a visit to Grotelaer. Aunt Therese stood in the entrance, straight, very old, cane in hand, but still strong and fresh. She was about to turn eighty, but she still rode; she had just returned from one of her walks of inspection across the fields. She had stomped across the yard, and while I was putting away my bicycle, I had heard her snub a footman because he had dared to sier. When I approached her in the hallway, her clear, hard eyes peered at me with polite denial. She only became more welcoming when I told her that I wanted nothing from her but would like to see Grotelaer. When I told her that I had come by bicycle, she replied: “In my day, we didn't yet go by bicycle! What could I have answered him? Her people called her "Miss Thres", a name that seemed to combine respect and trust.

She refused to tell me about our father. “My two nephews disappointed me a lot,” she says. " I hate lies. I disinherited them. She impressed me a lot. I was trying to learn details of her falling out with father and Uncle Karl from neighbors and people in the house. But I really didn't learn much. It seems that she particularly liked Uncle Karl. He must have been gifted but lazy. He entered the fifty-seventh regiment at Wesel, but apparently he had our grandfather's light blood. There were debts which he hid from Aunt Therese—it must have been extremely disagreeable to confess them to her. As Aunt Therese refused to pay the debts, he was forced out of uniform. Probably, he was not more successful in civilian life. In short, one day he disappeared,

by a newspaper that a former Prussian ocier, Karl von Salomon, had joined the Foreign Legion. Among the few papers of our father, I found a photo of Oran. At the head of a detachment of legionnaires, we see marching a standard bearer, of extraordinary height, looking splendid, bold and elegant, clutching his staff proudly to his breast. Since there was a little cross in ink above his head, I guess it was Uncle Karl. In any case, Aunt Thérèse never heard from Karl von Salomon again. - No ! cried Ille, please bring Uncle Karl back. My brother shrugged. "He never came back again!" he said. - He came back ! Ille persisted. I know it, I know life! I see the scene: Aunt Therese, just back from a horseback ride, is in the hallway. She has the cane in her hand, like Frederick the Great. So — what is it? A noise on the terrace. The old valet Francois, on his already a little shaky legs, runs to the door, and he sees - a car has stopped, it's eight meters long, a chrome bodywork, a hundred horsepower engine. In the background, leaning carelessly, a handsome man with gray hair, dressed in magnificent fur. Old François turns pale, then he raises his hands and stutters: “Karl! He pulls himself together in joyful devotion: “Monsieur! Karl von Salomon, tanned by the African sun, gets out of the car with youthful verve. He seized the slender and trembling hands of old François, he squeezed them affectionately and said: "Yes, my old man, dear soul, it's me, it's really me. I came back, healthy, I'm fine. Discreetly, he wipes the shiny top of his hundred horsepower with the finger of his gloved hand. Then he looks gravely for the moist eyes of old Francois. "And Aunt Therese?" he asks hesitantly. Therefore the

old Francois pulled himself together. His face, hollowed out by service, lights up. " Yes ! he shouts. " No ! he shouts. "How pleased Miss Thres will be!" If only,” he said worriedly, “if only this great joy doesn't kill her! And old Francois runs towards the entrance. Here is Aunt Therese, straight up, cane in one hand, while the other passes over the chairs to check if they are not covered by the dust of centuries, these high and rigid chairs, placed against the wall; the family crest is woven into the cushion and the nine-pointed crown is carved into the back. At this moment, old François, with trembling knees and raised hands, forgetting in his excitement the proper forms, rushes into the entrance and exclaims: “Mademoiselle Thres, Mademoiselle Thres! Karl is here! Karl is back! » "Which Karl?" asks Aunt Thérèse sternly. "Karl!" shouts old Francis pleadingly, "Karl von Salomon!" So Aunt Therese takes her pompadour which is swinging beside her cane and searches it for a long time; Finally, she takes out a brand new fivemark coin and hands it to old François, saying: "Give him that!" » - There is not a word of truth in this story! said my brother. There has never been a servant in Grotelaer who was called François.

— You forget, I said to Ille, that at that time the cinema was not not yet invented. "You have no imagination at all," Ille said resignedly. "That's all," my brother said and began to put away his papers. I asked: "Why did Aunt Therese disinherit our father?" "It's a mystery," said my brother. I once questioned our mother, but she avoided the subject. I guess Aunt Therese didn't agree with our father's marriage. Our mother was

Protestant and Aunt Thérèse a strict Catholic. Also, mother was not noble and probably did not have a fortune. When father wanted to become a steelworker, Aunt Thérèse strongly opposed it. But I believe the real break came when my father secretly got married. Aunt Therese really hated lying. Our parents got married in England, in Greenwich. I don't think we're asking for certain papers here. When I tried to obtain proof of our Aryan descent, I received, among other things, our parents' marriage certificate. This attributed to our father the profession of “Circus-rider”. I asked our mother for an explanation and she told me that father, who was born in Liverpool and therefore a British subject, had not wanted to reveal that he was a Prussian ocier, which he still was at the time of his marriage. Since he was an excellent horseman, he used to joke that he could never know true misery because, if everything went wrong, he could always perform at the circus. This explanation seems valid to me.

"Yes," Ille said, "it's all very reasonable." But I always found that there is something more real than the facts, that is, the inner truth of which the facts give only a weak reet. Throughout your presentation, I have longed to discover the meaning of your family history. And now you're slipping away, talking about reason when it comes to heart. But I see clearly now. Think then of the time of yore, think of yourselves, think of this peculiarity of your family, this faculty of suddenly taking up one's hat and leaving. It seems to me that I was present. Düsseldorf was then a city that flourished thanks to its increasing industrialization. The municipal councilors spoke proudly of the two hundred thousand inhabitants, a figure which had not yet been quite reached. THE

municipal councilors of Cologne and Frankfurt were beginning to look with some uneasiness at the new metropolis on the Rhine, where the money earned in the Ruhr would be found. Düsseldorf had become an elegant city, with beautiful wide streets through which carriages rolled. And in the carriages were the ladies, dressed in expensive dresses; between the ruffles of the parasol and the brim of the hat, they cast oblique glances towards the passers-by. Suddenly, however, the ladies in the carriages cocked their mischievous little heads, for on the wide sidewalks a few young oers scurried along, rattling their spurs. Nonchalantly, they raised their gloved hand to the cap, turning the bust with a sudden and elegant movement a little to the side. Already the cars had passed, but the ladies were quite permitted to cast a furtive glance at the proud faces of the gentlemen of the ociers. They are the demigods of the city which, as an elegant city, has two cavalry regiments garrisoned, the Er Uhlans and the Fine Hussars. The uhlans are dressed in the long and fitted tunic, the hussars in the trousers tightening the thighs and the green tunic coquettishly decorated with braid and cords; at each step, the sabretache slams against their legs, the saber drags on the pavement or is stuck under the arm; when approaching a superior steel, one lets go and raises it slightly by the shell guard. There they are, multicolored and beautiful, splendid to look at. They are well suited to this elegant city that makes its money in the dirty, smoky gullies of the Ruhr. They embody the dreams of an era that does not yet know its strengths, that in its barbaric luxury is ready to attack, ready to brandish the saber and bring down the spears, and they do not know that they will never will go on the attack and never again will they pierce the bodies of their enemies with spears. Here they are passing in front of the exhibition halls of the painters of the Düsseldorf school,

they cross the public garden, and advance towards the Golzheimer Heide where the famous Italian circus Tonelli has pitched its tents as the colorful signs announce it at every street corner. Apparently they have great horses. It's a nice habit for the cavalry to go see each circus, since it's almost the same atmosphere — stable atmosphere, circus atmosphere. Here they are in the boxes, very close to the riding school; and the musicians, dressed in fanciful uniforms reminiscent of those of the hussars, play a lively march in their honor. — Terrific program! Itzenplitz's First Class Lieutenant said to Second Lieutenant von Salomon at his side. Five riding numbers! and Sub-Lieutenant von Salomon clutches his monocle in his eye. "Father never wore a monocle," my brother remarked. — Silence, I said, let her tell the story. "Put his monocle in his eye," said Ille with his calm stubbornness, and studies the program. Gentlemen the ociers were present with enough indiference at the first numbers. They hardly smiled at the jokes of the two clowns; they let the trained geese pass. Seeing the Chinese acrobats who swayed suspended by their braids from the oscillating cords, they felt only a slight tickling below the straight lines, pomaded and traced down to the nape of the neck. Even the tightrope act—a spindly little girl, skinny legs turned a little outward, face outstretched, hand swinging a poor little umbrella— would have made them yawn if they hadn't been held back by pure friendliness. Then, however, gentlemen oers braced themselves for more attention. The first equestrian number was announced: "Lony and

Anuschka, the reckless Circassian Amazons in the sensational evolutions of the steppe! » My brother, who used to always look at his fingers when Ille spoke, now lifted his head and gave him a wary look. But she didn't even notice and continued: “Then entered a big horse of the most egmatic race, grey-brown, brushed against the hair; his big, resigned head bent towards the ground, he advanced, his rear end shaking, and circled the arena. On his back he carried, instead of a saddle, a small stool adorned with fringes; gasping slightly, he was sweating continuously on the dusty sand of the riding school. And now—a triumphant fanfare—the curtain below the musicians' platform rises and two girls, pretty as a heart, appear, greeted by an "ahhh!" a general to which the voices of the gentlemen of the ociers are certainly added. Smiling, the two girls bowed, kissed hands in all directions, and their dark eyes flashed. They wore tall, shiny Hungarian ankle boots, mud-gauze tutus, fitted bodices, and a gleaming star in dark hair. One was as slender as a sylph, the other majestically plump.

The horse had completed the U-turn of the arena. Little Juno began to move; she took a few skipping steps, then she ran alongside the horse, which calmly continued its course. Suddenly, she took a dash and, after a magnificent leap, she stood on the stepladder. She stretched one of her shapely legs back, arms outstretched, straining her plump, heaving chest. Eyes alert, she shouted, “Hepp! » The applause from the audience rang out.

'A woman of thunder,' said Itzenplitz's first-class lieutenant, fiddling with his mustache. "You allow me," said my brother, "here is the list of the officers of the

Eleventh Hussars when Father was serving. None of Itzenplitz among them. "He was in the Uhlans," Ille decided without hesitation. The subLieutenant von Salomon of the Eleventh Hussars clutched his monocle tighter and said in a slightly hoarse voice: "I'm more interested in the horse!" » and he xed severely the animal which waddled in a comfortable trot, while the little sylph also climbed on his patient back and went to shout his « Hepp! sound. 'I had no idea, comrade, that you were flailing about war horses which could at most interest our comrades in the heavy artillery,' sniffled Lieutenant First Class from Itzenplitz. Thinking about changing weapons…? But Second Lieutenant von Salomon didn't even hear him because little Juno had just given him a mischievous look. The Junos were the fashion. Sub-Lieutenant von Salomon looked absent and contented himself with fiddling with his signet ring while Juno and Sylphide performed their number, weaving around the neck of the horse which continued its noisy trot, jumping through a paper hoop held out to them by the squire, doing somersaults and finding himself on the horse with a "Hepp!" " cheerful. Sylphide handed out smiling hand kisses while Juno, her fists firmly planted on her hips, searched with her dark, shining eyes for the lodge of the gentlemen of the ociers. "Excellent, absolutely excellent!" said Itzenplitz's first-class lieutenant, of the uhlans, at the end of this number, whereupon his comrades clapped their white-gloved hands vigorously, for Itzenplitz's first-class lieutenant was doing

authority on good tone. Sub-Lieutenant von Salomon had dropped his gloves without realizing it; he had taken off his monocle and watched with indifference the following numbers, the high school of Mr. Tonelli the headmaster and the tinkling evolutions of twenty-four white horses adorned with plumes, although they were indeed formidable horses. But he was the first who, between the acts, took the road to the stable, which was a tradition among cavalry officers. Without hesitation, he directed his steps towards the box where the jovial big horse was chewing huge tugs of hay to his great pleasure. No one can blame Second Lieutenant von Salomon if he cast a quick glance down the dark corridor that led to the artists' dressing rooms and came out just behind the big horse's box. A figure of a sylph, wrapped in a large red cloak, had she not just slipped behind a door? Where was it—and the young hussar's heart stopped beating—was it a figure of Juno? In short, remembering the decided courage which distinguished his ancestors and which was even prescribed by the regulations of the Royal Prussian cavalry, Second Lieutenant von Salomon entered this corridor where a sign read: "Entry forbidden." And while his spurs sang a melody as silvery as his heart, he advanced towards the door behind which the sylph— or was it Juno? — had just disappeared. But then a being rose from a chair, a stern little being in a severe, high, black dress, from the collar of which hung a little gold cross—your dear grandmother!

- Now, that's it! cried my brother, unable to contain longer her excitement as she fiddled with her signet ring. Gosh, that's too much! Mum and Aunt Loni…it's really absurd! You don't mean to imply that...

"Exactly," said Ille. You can reassure yourself. things happened passed with all honor. Grandmother, daughter of a pastor from Reval, guarantees it! "After her husband's death, grandmother came to Germany with her two daughters to give them an excellent German education, my brother said firmly. "Of course," said Ille. Circus people are the most honest, hardest-working and best-mannered; they have an extremely serious conception of life. Everybody knows it. Or do you think you can do somersaults, somersaults on the back of a swinging horse, jump through paper hoops, etc., if you lead a dissolute life? My brother glanced at the ceiling, then he hid his face in both hands and his shoulders shrugged in a desperate movement. "Leave her, then," I said, "let her tell her story!" All of this interests me a lot. "Don't you understand then," asked Ille, "that all this was to happen? That it couldn't have happened otherwise? Love is a heavenly power. It struck your father like lightning—the famous thunderbolt! — a look from those starry eyes, a white arm glimpsed through the half-opening of a door, a silvery, joyous laugh: and what until then had probably been only a flirtatious joke, a little hussar's adventure , changed into stinging pain when your grandmother stood before him, stern and pious, a venerable lady from Reval, and said, in her slightly hoarse German, slightly rolling her rr: "It will first be necessary to to kill me. » No more question of hussar adventure! Marriage — or give up! In three days, Tonelli will continue on his way. But what will aunt say

Therese? We don't have time to ask his opinion. There are still three gold coins in the purse, left over from the last monthly payment. Too bad for the papers, London is not far. Passport is only required in Russia. So we throw ourselves head over heels, we take our hats as the Solomons are used to! And giving in to a crazy mood, we register in the Greenwich certificate “Circus-rider”! But don't you understand? And then, at Grotelaer, Aunt Therese. She is in the entrance while outside, the chimneys of the tilery are smoking and a valet crosses the courtyard sising. "I hate lies," says Aunt Therese, and her clear, hard eyes sparkle. She strikes the ground with her cane and says, “I disinherit you! And your father has to accept all of that; the supplement from the tile factory now goes to his brother Karl, the wise Karl who does his service in the wise 57ede Wesel and who will surely never disappoint Aunt Thérèse. And the scandal in Düsseldorf! " Tremendous ! say the comrades in the hussars' mess and they forget to be enthusiastic about His Majesty the Emperor's last speech. The ladies in the carriages tilt their pretty heads whispering and the little greedy tongues pass over the red lips when a hussar roams on the wide pavements, the sabretache snapping against the leg. The Uhlans adjust the monocle when they meet a comrade of the color green, intimately convinced that "this" could never happen in their regiment. They show a mocking smile under their waxed mustache; countless saber duels are in the air. It is even said that lately a simple lieutenant of artillery greeted a captain of the hussars in the street in a nonchalant way, but really very nonchalant.

“Absolutely impossible! Yes, all that remains is to leave the service in all honor, "for personal business" and disappear forever. This is what happened to general satisfaction, and little by little the elegant and joyful metropolis on the Rhine forgot this story. The carnival was approaching; the crocuses bloomed and withered in the public garden. The hussars readjusted the monocle when they met the Uhlans, and in the street a captain of the hussars bullied a mere artillery lieutenant considerably, really very considerably, because he wore white gloves instead of the recently adopted brown ones. And everything was fine. His Majesty could be sure of the enthusiasm at his next terrific speech; the painters of the Düsseldorf school exhibited their paintings in the museum. These gentlemen of the cavalry passed with clanking spurs in front of the decorated doors of the museum and crossed the public garden because multicolored aches announced that the Tonelli circus was in the vicinity. Apparently they have great horses. They also had a terrific program. Five acts of excellent horsemanship. Instead of Chinese acrobats, there are acrobats; crested parrots with hoarse and joyful cries have replaced the trained geese; Moroccan acrobats whirl the sand of the arena. But hold on! the little girl on the tightrope is still there! The lean legs, turned a little outward, have become a little longer; they now wear stockings with red circles. And everyone gets a nonchalant, kind applause. Here is the first riding number: "The Three Lomonis!" »

The musicians in their uniforms reminiscent of those of the hussars, intone a lively march and a big horse already a little

asthmatic enters the arena. Then a fanfare, the curtain rises and a figure of Sylphide and a figure of Juno appear hopping. And in the middle, shaking hands with the two girls, a slender young man, dressed in a sweater, wearing a scarf around his waist and a green waistcoat with silver cords. Already, Juno rushes forward. “Heep! She is standing on the horse, which continues its patient trot. And “Hep! here's Sylphide, and now the young man makes three jumps and lands — "Hepp!" » — with an enormous, elegant leap behind the two girls who send kisses to the hands. The man raises one arm over his head, snapping his fingers. And so the horse, carrying in its even trot its brilliant and supple load under the enthusiastic applause of the spectators, passed in front of the lodge of oiers. 'But it's... but is it possible,' stammered a hussar. And there happened what was to be talked about for a long time in the messes of the hussars and the uhlans, what even the artillery recounted filled with astonishment, there happened what no one could remember having ever seen: the lieutenant of first class of Itzenplitz, of the uhlans, dropped his monocle which shattered on the ground. From that moment, the gentlemen of the oers stood very straight in their box, their faces stony. Only their sparkling eyes followed each movement of the artist who, without caring the least about the spectators in the box, slipped first around the neck, then even around the belly of this brave horse. He accomplishes one bold evolution after another to finally, in a beautiful crescendo, hover on, above, beside, behind and under the horse and to perform the riskiest tricks sometimes on the head, sometimes at the tail of the horse. the patient animal, always supervised by the

graceful movements of her beautiful partners. When, in the final round, the horse with its triple victorious load and era passed in front of the lodge, all the eyes of the gentlemen of the oiers turned to the lieutenant first class of Itzenplitz who was an authority in matters of good manners. Itzenplitz's first-class lieutenant, however, raised his hands, clad in the recently adopted brown gloves, and clapped them vigorously. And immediately, the applause, reinforced by the gentlemen, erupted into a dizzying ovation. From that day, however, the three Lomonis never performed again.

"It's a very pretty story," I said. He smiles. I say : “I'm so glad you told us. But I I would like to know where you got all this from.

Ille's voice was suddenly weak and hoarse. "But don't you remember?" she said softly, - I was there little girl on the tightrope! - But of course ! I exclaimed. How could I have forgotten that! There

girl with red circle stockings. And on Sundays, to go to church, you wore a very short tartan skirt with a little belt whose varnish was already all cracked. — Yes, said Ille pensively, and you, you couldn't come with me because you had to dye the horse white for the morning! "And the chief of the cowboys beat me so hard with the lasso because I used his best toothpowder. And I ran away to hide in the main tent, at the very top, where the trapeze artists had fixed their ropes. "But I found you right away, while the others sought, and I comforted you. I loved you already then, said Ille;

too bad that three weeks later I fell off the rope! "I was paralyzed with horror," I said. And how I wept! And then I spent the whole night on your grave. That's where I caught my deadly flu! My brother was looking at us like he was like two crazy people. Finally, he turned to his wife, my sister-in-law Hilde, who all this time had been quietly smoking, looking through her big glasses with her gray eyes, sometimes one, sometimes the other. "I hope I don't need to explain to you, Hilde," said my brother, there is not a word of truth in all this story! Then my sister-in-law Hilde opened her mouth for the first time and said: - Damage.

19. RELIGION:

see Attachment.

20. WHAT CHURCH DO YOU BELONG TO??

see Attachment.

21. HAVE YOU EVER, OFFICIALLY OR INOFFICIALLY, SEPARATED OF A CHURCH?

see Attachment.

22. IF SO, DETAIL YOUR REASONS:

see Attachment.

23. WHAT RELIGION DID YOU LIST IN THE 1939 CENSUS?

see Attachment.

ad 19-23:I was baptized in the catholic religion. My father was Catholic, my mother Protestant. I never had reason to think that my parents had been guided in their choice of Catholic baptism by motives other than practical ones. I failed to find out the names of my sponsors who had pledged before God to watch over my Christian life. I don't know what became of them. Away from my father's house since the age of eleven, I followed religious instruction at the Royal Corps of Cadets in Prussia. My first communion was postponed for a year for lack of moral maturity, because, as an altar boy, I had drunk the mass wine in secret. The day of the first communion — according to the chaplain of the division "the most beautiful day of the life of Napoleon", disappointed me, because instead of the watch which I had ardently desired,

After reading Wilhelm Gölsche's booklove life in nature, I was persuaded to be sufficiently instructed in the things of the world. When I was thirteen, I surprised my mother with a detailed lesson on everything related to the act of procreation. Thus, I read his sexual instruction without suspecting in the least that such reasonable and logical things could have something to do with sin and morality. My conscience spoke to me only in specific cases where I knew I had violated the laws, which had to be paid for by well-defined punishments. Besides, I was subjected to the severe discipline of “what we do” and “what we don't do”. In my nineteenth year, I was forced, for some reason, to think about the problem of guilt without my heart formulating any prayer. Thereafter, I sought to make my religious instruction by an assiduous reading of writings which reassured the human reason on what exceeds it. It presented no

attraction for me who a priori considered doubt to be more fertile than certainty. Reading religious writings filled me with a boredom that even assiduity could not overcome. The Bible interested me for the extraordinarily concrete force of its images, which had exerted such a remarkable influence on Western art. The admiration of concrete language that I attributed to Martin Luther disappeared, however, when I tried to examine the revealed facts, especially those of the New Testament, in the light of a literary analysis, quite limited, I admit. . The story of Christmas, for example, which always has the power to fascinate modern men and to soften them, seemed to me not to live up to its demands; miracles, in their disproportion between the magnitude of a possibility that abolishes natural laws and the smallness of the goal pursued, irritated me equally. Only the awareness of my incredibly philistine attitude made me put the Bible aside, without my having felt the need to concern myself with it again. In my twenty-eighth year, after a last and vain effort to believe, at least with serious intention and with the support of the Church Fathers and of modern theology, the moment came when I began to think that he could exist men without organ for religion.

It cost me to admit this hypothesis because it was opposed to the spiritual claims to which I believed, rightly or wrongly, to be entitled. This explanation of the phenomenon approached me very nearly to a materialism which, at least in the jargon of cultivated men, tries to interpret in the flattest way and on the lowest plane, the depths and the miracles of spiritual life. But for a long time, I had to get used to the idea that a whole series of organs, three at least, I miss.

I have no organ for music. This fact makes a large sector of my professional life inaccessible to me and I smile about it. I have no organ for mathematics. Many people brag about it with a smile. Me, I sometimes seriously wonder if, in truth, I am not a complete idiot. I have no organ for lyric poetry which makes me doubt my ability to really understand the language of the people of my choice. The fact that apparently I have no more organ for religion is even the least painful to me, I confess. I know that there are many men who have to smile about the lack of one or the other of these organs. It seems that religion also needs an organ which enables the individual to benefit from it. This experience leads logically to the desire to examine whether this so to speak biological fact does not explain the curious phenomenon that in the life of peoples, even of communities of peoples like the West, we have witnessed periods of great uctuations. of religious need. To XIIIAndsixteenthcenturies,

for example, the whole of life unfolded in the

light and shadow of religious ideas, while for three centuries religiosity has been undergoing continual crises caused by the most diverse problems. This makes it possible to wonder whether in reality this organ functioned fully at certain times while at others it atrophied. One might even wonder if it is not developed differently among different peoples, as is the case with the organ of music; because some peoples are particularly distinguished in this area, like the Germans, while others are distinguished by literature, for example, like the French. Wouldn't it be possible then that the organ of religion

was developed differently among whole masses of men, on other continents for example, as is the case with metaphysics, the disgraced sister of religion. Be that as it may, it is surely because of the very coldness with which I am accustomed to considering the desert of my religious conscience that the advisability of also cutting the external ties which bind me to The Catholic Church hasn't caught my eye yet. The temporal construction of the Catholic Church is the only hierarchy in the world after the disappearance of the hierarchy of Prussian civil servants and until we can judge the hierarchy of Bolshevik civil servants. My admiration for it is as platonic as my aection for its religious foundations. It was as annoying to pay the taxes of the Church as those of the State. But the use that the Church would make of it seemed relatively innocent to me. Without scruples and with great indifference, I have always answered: "Catholic", when a questionnaire inquired about my religion, during the 1939 census, for example. I would rather have wondered if the Church hadn't expelled me from its midst long before I made such a decision myself. Since the age of fourteen, I have no longer had recourse to the sacraments of the Church. If the agony must wrest a prayer from me, according to illustrious examples, it is to be feared that the priest will not be able to take lightly the error which will have lasted all my life, that he will consider my unbelief as a sin. against the Holy Spirit, the only irremissible one, and that he does not refuse me the sacraments. But I cannot quite give up hope that the Church, in its wisdom, will allow the priest to smile softly,

Everything would be perfect if the President of the United States of America did not take an oath on the Bible before attending a review of army and air force training. Because this gives their particular meaning to questions 19 to 23 of this questionnaire. In the face of this fact, the mere existence of men like myself—and I can assure the Allied Military Government that there are many, and more every day—has aggravated the problem terribly; it has shown that decisive things are at stake here. Religious wars are so terrible because they can only end with the annihilation of the adversary. To make impossible these religious wars which have devastated the earth, the most eminent minds of the two hemispheres have sought to deny and gain acceptance of the idea of religious freedom. Only the Catholic Church, in its wisdom which sees far beyond the misery of each day and of the world, has denied this right on principle. The 1864 encyclical describes it as "deliramentum", madness. The modern states, however, led by the United States, England, France and Germany, consenting to this folly, might expect their wars henceforth to have a simple and national character. They would no longer be carried out for such subtle and ruthless things as the absolute-hungry consciousness, but for very real and perceptible advantages to the individual for which one can very well haggle even with the vanquished. The superior wisdom of the Catholic Church has been confirmed by the fact that this expectation has been proven wrong and that after less than a century, modern states have returned to war in the only valid form from the point of view of the Catholic Church.

It may not be disagreeable to the Christian to hear the voice of America promise, under the roar of bombers and the noise of marching battalions, to bring peace to all who are of good will. Throughout its history, the Church has always found a temporal sword when faith was at stake, and if it was not, it knew how to calmly watch the quarrels of this world, even if each of the belligerent nations claimed to have God with her. It is true that Christianity has not yet identified itself with the voice of America, but the voice of America has identified itself with Christianity. The expression “of goodwill” denies a moral realm; of those to whom it is addressed, it demands the recognition of certain moral laws,

It is true that at this point, I am forced to raise my finger and ask for a little patience since I am being questioned so insistently. Since Socrates, the foundation of this edifice formed by Christian moral laws, consists in the hypothesis that morality is innate to man. It follows logically that these fundamental laws must be pretty much the same throughout the world, apart from the small differences which result from the greater or lesser capacity of the individual or of communities to make goodwill progress. . From the Ten Commandments revealed in the Old Testament and repeated in the New Testament, Christianity can indeed boast of an evolution which allows it to demand a very high degree of morality. Seen from this height, phenomena which in individuals or communities reveal a more or less total lack of moral knowledge,

must be considered as a kind of disease, as “moral insanity”, a moral debility. This state is either innate or acquired by vices, such as drunkenness, and changes sickness into sin or sin into sickness; similar to religious freedom, it must inexorably be prohibited as “deliramentum”. If religious liberty, which, however, does not attack morality, contains the danger that the divine will no longer be adored in the intelligence, how much greater is the danger that the divine will no longer be adored in the will of good; this is without doubt the fundamental danger since it renders illusory the mission of the Christian Church, which is to save the soul of the individual. But precisely in our time, and for the first time in the history of Christianity, the will to good, morality, the path that leads to God through redemption, has been challenged by power, and by a power precisely that has already conquered half the globe. In countries where a doctrine other than Christian denies the whole life of the State, it is obvious that the Ten Commandments have lost their normative moral value, if not entirely in the relations of individuals, at least entirely in the requirements of the state and the class that represents it. They have been replaced by others who propose to regulate individual life in view of its functions. From the outset, we see that the first three commandments are entirely abolished, the fourth partially, in the face of the effective omnipotence of the doctrine;

No doubt it must be recognized that the doctrine reigning in these countries possesses, at least in its manifestations, the characteristic traits of a religion. If the non-religious man in the sense

Christian has an immediate certainty of his situation vis-à-vis a class, and not of God, and, consequently, the intimate need to subordinate his whole life to this class, and not to God, and if this need of the e class-conscious man demands another will to good than that of the religious man, then Christianity can try to contest the immediacy of this certainty, and it does contest it. He can arm, and he arms in effect, that these laws are not moral laws. In any case, Christianity cannot deny, and indeed it does not deny, that this painful evolution represents the most violent attack which, since the year 1, has been directed against Christianity and the moral law valid until now. 'now. Christendom, including the humanism which is due to it by its moral laws, unquestionably finds itself in the extremely unpleasant situation of acting contrary to its sublime principles in defense of these same principles. What large parts of our globe can expect from this situation and from the fact that the President of the United States of America is sworn on the Bible, is nothing good, even if it promises to overcome goodwill.

That's the situation. I don't know if everyone understands how terrible she is. I only know that for me it is particularly terrible. Because I am being asked for an answer to a question that does not concern me at all. It is power that asks this question, and I do not care about any power. The question is posed in the form of an alternative, and I disregard the alternative. I only know that before the alternative question of power, the truth is in any case false. I find myself in the situation of a man who wanders in no man's land. Out of the night comes the question "who goes there?" » and it only remains for him to shout: « a friend! and wait which way the gunshots will come from. For more than a hundred years, the question of religion has been called in our countries the “Marguerite question”. Marguerite asks her question in the scene that takes place in Marthe's garden, in the first part of theFaustof Goethe. And even more than Marguerite's question, Faust's answer moved the hearts of the Germans. This answer consists of ten questions. These are the ten questions of pantheism, that unique work of the Western mind in the face of Christianity, enamored by Olympian fire and carried from dispatch rider to dispatch rider, from Plato to Aristotle, from the Stoics to the Neo-Platonicians, from Giordano Bruno to Spinoza, from Fichte, Schelling and Hegel to Schopenhauer and Hartmann. Sometimes the flame brooded, sometimes it rose; she caused more than a flash of straw to be born along the way, and if she only succeeded in blackening the marble building of the Catholic Church, she succeeded several times in reducing to ashes the fragile construction of Protestantism . It would be to miss

respect to the eorts of a series of such illustrious names if one did not see in it the attempt to find its own laws. These laws have always risked taking the form of a substitute for religion, but they have escaped this danger. They have never passed the question stage and I fervently hope that they never will. These laws are therefore a permanent act of questioning; they alone represent life, spirit and time. And the more inconvenient it is to declare oneself a partisan, the more fertile they will be; they are in no man's land; and when the guns go off, the bullets will perhaps pierce the bodies of those who have crouched in the furrows. But if there is only one survivor, they will continue to ask these questions, and they will not be statistical questions. I don't understand anything about physics or metaphysics. Specialists in both fields, however, have assured me that the time is not far off when the latest results from both fields will coincide. This will probably be the moment when it will be vain to ask for proof of the existence of God. Until then, let's keep asking questions.

24. LIST ALL OFFENSES AND CRIMES FOR WHICH YOU HAVE BEEN SENTENCED, WITH INDICATION OF DATE, PLACE AND NATURE:

see Attachment.

ad 24:Immediately after my release from prison, I went to see Hartmut Plaas. At that time he was working in Berlin, in the office of the Commander Ehrhardt6. Basically, I was trying to reconnect with the commander himself; but I knew that Plaas worked for him and I was glad to see him again. Of all the comrades, he had been the one I liked best. He was barely older than me, and during the trial before the State Court for the Protection of the Republic, we had been side by side in the dock. He

had been the last of my comrades whom I had seen after the announcement of the verdict.

Now he lived on Steglitz Street in Berlin, an unremarkable, dark, gray street near Potsdam station. The office was on the fourth floor of a filthy, rundown house with worn stairs and dust-blinded windows. The office door was open. I groped along a small dark hallway and found myself in a large, almost empty room where the faded patches of wallpaper indicated the former location of the furniture. Now rolls of paper, large bundles of old newspapers, and piles of smudges lay along the walls. There was only a large dirty brown table, and behind that table was Plaas.

We had always called him "the big one"; each time he saw him, the commander would say, "You're going to blow up the Spaniard soon!" The wide dark blue cape with a golden buckle that the oers of the Imperial Navy wore in mild but misty weather was called 'Spanish'. The man who walked towards me with the same slightly embarrassed smile on his pale face as when I had last seen him, was thin, almost bony, like me, his blond hair had been thinning, like the mine, and we greeted each other with a little laugh. - Well ? he asked. I slapped him on the arm saying: - Well ! — The boss is not here. He went to eat. But it will come back this afternoon. "Okay," I said. I'm glad to see you again, old man. Hey, how could we ever call you "fat"? Plaas's smile became more frank.

"Yeah, it's funny, isn't it?" With you and with me, this has no didn't want to take. But little Techow has become chubby in jail, like an infant. And it seems that it is the same with Techow elder. He is the last one still there. "Yes," I said abruptly, "and Kern and Fischer7, how are they ? I think they're turning in their graves a little bit, what? 'Yes,' said Plaas, 'it's quite possible. Besides, how was it

? - Well, I said, thank you for informing you. Fairly well, I believe. And what are you doing right now ?

Plaas turned to the table, showed the proofs, binders and pile of newspapers and said: - You see ! (He grabs a few sheets.) I just finished a article on the essential separation between Christianity and the State. Now I just need to get the commander to sign it. "Here, here," I said. Do you still have your fad? Plaas smiled weakly. - More and more. You know, in the parish register of my village, there is near each Plaas a remark like: “t a child in Gehsa Harms and disappeared” or “did not believe in God. The devil came looking for him at sea”. - Oh there ! I said. How good! I'm just surprised that your family is not extinct! A young girl in a coat entered. Plaas says: “This is Sonja Lankes, the boss's secretary. She wrote to you several times in jail. I shook the girl's hand.

- Exact. I always wondered who this S could be. lankes. Excuse me, I thought you were an elderly gentleman with philanthropic leanings. And thank you also for the books.

Sonja Lankes blushes. She says emphatically:

- It gave me so much pleasure. I hope I guessed your tastes. I still had the whole series of Jean-Paul and I thought that one only reads seriously when one has plenty of time. Pardon ! she added, blushing. "How about we go eat?" Plaas asked. There is a place quite close. We left. I say : “Pretty girl, little Sonja. "Yes," answered Plaas. The restaurant was on the first floor of a drab gray building. It was a vegetarian restaurant. On the side of the tables were spread stained tablecloths; the waitresses in dirty white aprons looked tired and listless. On each table was a vase with owers. - Is it the vegetable? I asked. Seriously, Plaas replied: - No, they are paper. We ate in silence and without wanting anything, a sort of vegetable fiber dumpling. It tasted like straw and didn't satisfy the hunger. Plaas ordered a few more raw vegetables. He incorporated them silently, then he said with a little laugh: — Here, we are stuffed with pacism.

"Still bloodthirsty?" I asked. He nodded. - More than ever.

— So, in your place, I would start by changing restaurants, I advised. He looked at me.

— It's the cheapest. Calmly, I say: “Listen, if you think I came to be with you load, you are wrong! Plaas did not flinch. He says :

“If we can help you, we will, of course. As soon as the boss learned that you were on the loose, he told me that we will do everything we can for you. We have organized a kind of “National Relief”, so to speak, a counterpart to the “Secours Rouge”—not as effective, of course. - THANKS ! I said. No, really, I would say it if I needed to YOU. It would be ridiculous to want to do the dicile. But that's part of the system I proposed to myself in jail from the start. I want to manage on my own. Do not blame me. Plaas looked dull. - It will be difficult for you! What have you learned ? You know how to do

something ? I say with grandezza: 'No, but that doesn't matter. I swore to myself that in ten years at the latest, I will have arrived.

Plaas looked at me. "Perhaps, if you join the party!" "Which party?" 'The National Socialist Party, of course. "Of course," I said. You're there ? Plaas laughed. - Of course not !

— Why: of course not? Plaas x has one of the many stains on the tablecloth.

"I don't want to influence you. You will see. None of ours there is, I mean former putschists of the OC8, except Killinger9. The boss sent him there on purpose to get tips. Unfortunately, because now Killinger is more on their side than on ours. — What do you have to do with the "Steel Helmet"10?askedI. I saw aches at the top. "The boss is trying to interest them," replied Plaas. But it's hopeless. They are all philistines. Everything is hopeless. He looked at me gravely, a deep crease creased his forehead. "Everything is hopeless!" he repeated. - That is what I thought. And the boss himself? Does he know what he wanna ?

- No, but that at least, he wants it firmly! "Pretty," I said, "very pretty."

I felt very bad, but I continued: - Well, let's get started in this bourgeois life. In ten years I will have arrived.

"Yes, that's what I thought too when I came out of prison, said Plaas. I was only three years old. But I assure you that those three years were easier than this lifetime. People like you and me are not cut out for the bourgeois life. We can't breathe there. - I must say that you encourage me, I said. Plaas, my old Plaas! He gave a tormented smile. - Do not blame me. You are certainly right to try to go your own way. Don't get bogged down in the foolishness

I do. I can't abandon the boss, you understand? - I understand. You don't need to take care of

Me. - Truly not ? - Truly not. We left. Upstairs in the office, Miss Lankes says: — The boss has just arrived. I gave him the article on the Christianity. He is in his office. Major Ehrhardt was in a smaller but also poorly furnished room. He didn't seem to have changed. Only his little sea bass beard, the fly on his chin, had become a little grayer. He greeted me cordially. "Well, there you are!" Glad to have you back among We ! Has Plaas already settled everything with you? "Yes, sir," I said, unwittingly correcting the position, which was natural to me vis-à-vis him. “I'll have to break this habit,” I thought, “it's probably gone out of fashion. But vis-à-vis the major, I never lost it. "Then everything is in order," said the commander. Rest first properly. Me, I was lucky; when I got out of prison, I immediately went hunting in Tyrol. Besides, I'm leaving for the country this evening. Will you accompany me? Are you a hunter? “No, Commander. - How ? Why not ? “If animals could defend themselves… - Ah ... Hm, funny idea. Well I have boars too behind the potato field… “No, thank you, Commander!

Commander Ehrhardt looked at me, dumbfounded. I exchanged a quick glance with Plaas. Finally, the commander says: "Okay, if you don't want to shoot anymore, then come as tout! Plaas takes care of it from time to time. He too is one of those curious hunters who prefer to observe animals rather than kill them. 'No, thank you, Commander,' I said. "And you, Plaas?" "I can't, sir, there are still so many work. For example, there is this article on Christianity and the State. He has to go finally... - Oh yes. Tell me, Plaas, how do you see that? YOU you were a naval officer, if I remember correctly. Was it normal for those who didn't feel like going to worship to say, “That's none of my business! »? Holy shit, nice precedent for the day when the commotion will be proclaimed! Plaas gave me an apologetic look. He says :

"Sir, it's so important!" — Yeah, said the commander, this is much more important: in the latest issue ofsteel helmet, a fool gets angry because that Prime Minister Braun11killed a deer from the nearby hunt. Write a little on my behalf that I can't smile Braun, the old socialist, but poaching is a beautiful thing. Me too, I poach. "If I may make a suggestion, sir, I said, I find that your opinion on poaching agrees very well with that of Plaas on Christianity. "You are becoming insolent, Solomon," said the commander with bonhomie. I'll be kicking you out soon. "I'm leaving, I'm leaving," I said.

Plaas escorted me to the stairs. I say : "Good-bye then, my big one. In ten years, I'll come to car ! Plaas smiled.

- Well ! "I bet ten bottles of cognac!" I will take myself to a big car with a chrome face! During the following years, I saw Plaas often. He never alluded to our conversation of 1928. He let the ten years pass and even one more. But when after eleven years, to the day, he called me, I was in a good mood. He reminded me of our bet with a laugh and I admitted that I had lost it. “I'm going to come to your house one of these days,” I say on the phone, “and then we'll celebrate your won bet. » I was nishing the last scene of the first script of the lmThe Casilla Trial. In the cooler, there was already the bottle of champagne that Ille and I used to drink when the word “n” was dictated. I was expecting a slice of my fee. And a few days earlier, I had signed a contract for another scenario, that of the lmCongo Express. He came home just as I was dictating the "n" word. We drank champagne. I was relieved, liberated, and as if drained by the work. What was coming now was still work, heavy work even, but the scaffolding of the film was erected, not much more could happen. The doorbell rang: the UFA errand boy was bringing the advance for the Congo Express. I stuffed the big wad of cash in my pocket and said:

"Now we're going to eat a meal." We drank a few more liqueurs and left. At the corner of Eisenzahnstrasse and Kurfürstendamm, we passed the

Renault store. Since the light was red and we couldn't cross, we looked at the cars on display. Right against the window was a large black car with a red leather interior. — Look, said Ille, her mouth all chrome! Quite frankly, I say: - You want it ? I give it to you ! He looked at me, amazed. I grabbed her by the arm and pushed her into the store. We were crazy, drunk. I told the salesman, who was smiling indulgently, to pack the thing up so I could take it away, and with the stubbornness of a drunken man I insisted on the joke when it had long since ceased. to be funny. Ille spoke to the car only in French and called it “Monsieur”. Everything was exactly as I had always dreamed. He called it "little Toto's dreams". I threw the wad of cash on the table and signed the papers. He was allowed to honk his horn again to his heart's content, and we were off. We drank the rest of the deposit. In the interests of household peace, I had promised Ille not to learn to drive if she got her license after ten lessons. To fill out papers, she had to go to the police station in Grolmannstrasse. She was very afraid of official offices. But I could not accompany him. I advised him to address the agent with the Baltic cross. One day, a friendly conversation with him revealed that the Freikorps in which he had served had been in the same sector of the front as mine.

He went there. When she came back, she had red eyes and was in the kitchen, which was not at all her habit.

When the secretary left, I asked Ille if everything hadn't gone well. - It was awful! cried Ille. - Tell me, quickly! - I can not stand it any longer! Is there really no possibility of leave this country?

- Recount ! I said. He twisted his handkerchief. Her eyes were swollen. — It was nothing — nothing at all — for that cannot look, right? "Did you go to the one with the Baltic cross?" He nodded. “He was very nice. He was particularly kind to me and filled out the paperwork himself. “You're Aryan, it goes without saying,” he laughs, “no need for me to ask you. I signed. I should have paid a few marks. But I only had a fifty-mark note and he couldn't make change, nor could the other agents. I wanted to run to the next tobacconist. Then a gentleman, who the whole time had been standing against the wall, approached and said very kindly: "I believe I have what you need." He had a good head, you know, a smart face, and I thought, "What a good head he has!" And I say, "That's really very nice, thank you very much!" So the sergeant, yes, the one with the Baltic cross, began to yell: "What are you thinking, you filthy Yid!" He turned to me and said, "You know, he's a Jew!" I swallowed my saliva and said: “But it's very nice of you to want to help me. Then the sergeant: "But you're not going to accept a service from one of those filthy Yids!" And turned to the gentleman: "Go to your corner, you!" I said: "Since he wants to save me from running to the next tobacconist...", and I would have liked to die because I couldn't find anything.

else. The gentleman leaned against the wall again, he still had his wallet in his hand, and he smiled. He smiled ! and then he said in a low voice: "If you still want it, I'll gladly give you some change." And me, yes, and me, I slammed the fifty-mark note on the table, in front of the agent, and I shouted: “Hold on! get drunk on the rest or give it to Wintersave! And the gentleman was quite pale. I said, "Thank you," grabbed the paper, and ran out. Along the way, I cried and prayed that he understood why I only said “thank you”! 'He understood it,' I said.

"I wish I didn't learn to drive," Ille said softly. “Listen,” I say. You promised me to do everything I told you will ask! In a low voice, He replied: “But I'm almost done. - No ! I said. You understood ? I registered you with the monitor. His name is Kirchhof!12If that's not a good omen! Eh ? And now, smile, smile like the gentleman. There was a little grimace, which wasn't a smile. After a while she says: "I just want to know... - What ? "If they're going to get drunk on that money or give it to the Help… "Getting drunk," I said, no doubt. Plaas lived in a small house in Finkenkrug. When Ille got his license, we went to see him. He drove slowly and carefully; the car was still in the break-in period. I was sitting on the red leather next to Ille, silent and happy. From time to time, Ille spoke in French to the car, which hummed comfortably.

I was dreaming, the sun was shining, my work was going well. No change or change was expected. The car stopped with a pleasant little jerk. We had just arrived. Ille honked in fanfare. Plaas came out of his house. He waved at him. He crossed the small garden as Ille descended. We had lowered the hood. Plaas came towards us. I say : - Well ? - The chrome mouth! said Plaas, smiling. 'Yes,' I said. Now you still lost your bet! Ille entered the house to say hello to Sonja and the children. I stayed in the car. Placed around the car and admired. I say with pride: — I succeeded.

Plaas looked at me.

"Yes, you succeeded. As long as it lasts, as the mother said of Napoleon. - For what ? I asked as I descended. - Between.

We sat down in his studio, the walls of which were adorned with the heads of a few not too old stags. "Yes, you succeeded, I'm happy for you," said Plaas. “My old Plaas! He smiled weakly. "Now the children and the country house!" — Yes, I say, and I have become very fat, it even seems chubby like an infant. And satisfied! That's what you meant, right? He shook his head.

"I'm glad I succeeded in an honest way," I said. And I will continue on this path. Man, what can he become if not

emperor, pope or cuirassier of the Guard?

"Tank driver," said Plaas. Absolute silence enveloped us. He must have been upstairs with Sonja and the kids. I asked: - Poland ? "I don't know," said Plaas. - You do not know ! What are you doing, deep down, in your ministry? — I plant little flags. I knew I couldn't get anything out of him. He was an adviser in a strange ministry in charge of atmospheric research. I told Plaas what had happened to Ille at the police station. He looked at me quietly and said: "Does that surprise you?" What happens to the Jews will happen to us

all. And by the same people, for that matter. It starts small and ends big. They were no longer allowed to have a maid, do you have one? Here is your car, enjoy it while you own it. They don't have the right to work as they please, can you? — Yes, I said, until now… "I don't," he said. The one who once broke windows, set fire to churches and diamé of whole groups of men, takes a liking to it and will start again. "We deport them and kill them."

"We're going to be deported and killed." What do you demand of

Me ? Pity? No one will pity us. Ernst Jünger always says: “There is an immanent justice! It's the only deity I believe in, too. She knows no pity. "Old prophet!" I said. Don't talk like that in front of Ille; she can't stand it.

Ille, where is Ille? Plaas asked. He got up, went to the stairs and shouted:

"He!" I heard Ille's voice answer. "Don't tell such exciting stories to children anymore!" shouted Plass.

I heard Ille laugh and say something. She came down right after and I had to go upstairs to say hello to the children. I went downstairs with Sonja and we stayed together for a while. "Hey," Ille remarked, "you've got a bunch of uniforms upstairs."

— Three, replied Plaas, the SS uniform, the army uniform of the Air and that of adviser. If it cracks, I'll be forced to kill myself three times. - Will it crack? Ille asked. 'Yes,' said Plaas, 'and I'm going to kill myself.

'How can you say such things,' said Sonja with a drawling voice.

"I don't like that," said Ille. Ernst and I have the right to grumble, we are not. But you, who are part of it, you don't have the right. "Leave it," I said to Ille.

"But I'm not grumbling," said Plaas. - How comfortable one feels at home! s-i. Sonja fetched wine and cognac and we drank. Plaas stretched a little and said: "I need to talk to you seriously!" - Please ! - Not now. One day when we'll have our head quite free. Amazing that you have a chrome mouth. I would like

go to Pauly in Silesia, he invited me to hunt. Basically, you could take me there. - But I'm not invited, me! - It does not matter. Pauly will be happy to see you. I the will warn. All right ? "If we have time!" He would very much like to make a big travel by car. "Good," said Plaas. I called you. Coming home, he says: “I can't tear Plaas apart. 'He's the most honest guy. — The butler of the Adlon13is also all there is more honest, but I rip it pretty good, says Ille. "If one night I come to Plaas's and tell him that I have committed a sadistic murder and I have to get away, he will help me no questions asked. "One might wonder whether the butler of the Adlon told him Also… - Does not insist ! I said. "What is he really doing, Plaas?" Ille asked. 'He doesn't say it, not even to me. This, too, is basically all what is most honest. He trusts me, but he doesn't want to worry me. On his Air Force uniform, he has a small decoration. Sonja said: "For the Sudetenland". What does this mean? He didn't move from here. — I think he works for Canaris14. - Who is this ? — Admiral Canaris, head of the second bureau, espionage and counterintelligence.

He frowned. - I do not like it. - Me neither. It's dirty work that spoils the character. But I think it's better for Plaas to do such things than any bastard. Canaries is an interesting guy. He was a lieutenant on the little cruiser Dresden. After the battle near the Falkland Islands, he was interned on the Chilean island of Quiriquina; he fled and crossed the Atlantic on a sailing ship arriving just for the Battle of the Skagerrak. After the revolution he was lieutenant-captain and adjutant of Noske15. With that, he was a supporter of Ehrhardt. - With you, that excuses a lot? - Almost all ! He knows the whole world. In his offices, it is called "the Levantine". He is not very Aryan in appearance, although he is of Greek descent. He's our best man. I would like to shoot the film of his life! He smiles. “Very well,” she said; I prefer that to the work of Plaas. 'I don't know what Plaas is doing, it's only a guess. Besides, what did he mean with the "exciting stories" you weren't supposed to tell the kids? Ille honked happily. “Sonja told me that children are brought up in a pure paganism; you know, without any religious instruction, only with heroic legends. At Christmas, when Plaas and Sonja were gone and I was babysitting, I told them the Christmas story. They found it amazing. They had never heard of it. They were delighted. Plaas must have learned that. "And what did you tell them today?"

- Nothing at all ! They are the ones who told me something: the Christmas story!

By telephone, we made an appointment for our excursion to Silesia. When we picked up Sonja at Finkenkrug, she told us that Plaas had warned her not to wait for her outside her office but a little further away. As soon as we had stopped, Plaas appeared. He immediately came upstairs saying: "Quick, so no one sees me!" He started immediately. - What is going on ? I asked. Plaas smiled. — All holidays have been canceled because tomorrow is the day of quest. We would have allocated our sectors today. "Do you remember Massow von Prince?" I asked with good mood. Returning from Africa in 33, he was delighted with the victory of National Socialism, like almost all Germans abroad. He came expressly from his African bush to experience this era. Six weeks later, he no longer understood anything. One day we were together and saw on a street corner a man clinking his tin can16. Massow was upset. " Look at this ! " he told me. “However, this man looks decent, and on top of that he wears the First Class Croix de Guerre! He approached the man and said aloud: "You were an ocier?" The man nodded warmly and held out his box. Massow replied, "And aren't you ashamed to stand on a street corner and beg?" I was very scared and thought the houses would collapse. But the man leaned over and said, “What do you want me to do? I am a civil servant ! » Everybody laughs. I say :

'Don't go so fast, Ille. Yesterday, a decree appeared prohibiting cars to go over sixty an hour, even outside the city. "Yeah," Ille said. Everyone is going fast. But she still had to slow down. The exit road was congested. When we saw a long line in front of us, Ille decided to speed up and show what "sir" was capable of. We were passing a bunch of cars, but all of a sudden, Ille pulled up sharply behind the first car in le. - What is it ? I asked. "Police car," said Ille laconically. Plaas explained: — They drive at sixty and every car that passes them is stopped.

At sixty an hour, we were driving behind the police car. Behind us, we were honking loudly. We were constantly busy giving warnings to cars requesting passage. Wisely, they lined up. Suddenly, a siren sounds. We turned around. A large, silvercolored convertible quickly passed the whole island. At the wheel, there was a very beautiful blonde girl, who let a long silver-colored scarf hang behind her head. Next to her was a fat, white-haired gentleman, holding his silver hat with one hand clad in a pale yellow glove. We gave them insistent signs. But the siren was howling. In the police car, the officers turned around. The silver-colored car was still moving forward. One of the officers stood up and waved the car over and stopped. Then the fat gentleman took off his hat, waved his glove, and showed his face. "It's Ley," cried Plaas.

For a moment, the agent was stunned. Then he shrugged and nodded energetically. He was of the opinion that even Ley should obey the police. Ley waved in disgust and put his hat back on. The siren wailed and the car sped away. In the police car, the officers deliberated. "Obviously," I said, "for civil servants, it's a serious problem.

Suddenly, the police pulled over to the right and reduced their speed. One of them got up and signed that the road was clear. She honked her horn like crazy. Everyone answered immediately. “Forward, sir! cried Ille, stepping on the accelerator so that the car jumped. "Let's get him, Doctor Ley!" Ille said. But the silver-colored car was gone. I say : — My sister-in-law Hilde, my brother Horst's wife, was cited before a special court in 1934. As a young girl, she had attended a private school in Wickersdorf. Wickersdorf students met from time to time. They organized “evenings”. At one such party, Hilde did not wittily notice that Ley had lost the "v" in her name. One of these daughters was married to an assistant of Ley to whom she reported the incident. The indictment was terrific. It was all there, all the chatter, the hint that Hilde was wearing a hat that had cost forty marks, everything. I accompanied Hilde to the debates. The atmosphere was awfully scary, much worse than I had imagined. The prosecutor asked: "So you wanted to insinuate that State Councilor Ley is really called Lévy?" Hilde says: "Yes".The prosecutor: “The fact of the insult is therefore clearly established. » Hilda

says "No". The President: “But listen, you wanted to imply that State Councilor Ley was Jewish! Hilde said, "My name is Solomon too, and I'm not a Jew." She was acquitted. After the verdict, she bowed, tore her old Basque beret off her head and threw it in the air, singing: "My forty-mark hat!" » Everybody laughs. Plaas remarked:

“Your name is really great. I say : — When in 1922, Kern sent me to Hamburg to find a driver—for gentlemen naval officers all knew how to drive a torpedo boat but not a car—I went to find Warncke. He couldn't drive either, but he took me to a cafe where his men used to meet. And in fact, there were a lot of young people, almost all of them ex-marines. While Warncke was looking for a driver, I looked at these boys. I discovered one that I had known from the cadet days, a certain Winzer whom we called "ticking time bomb" because we never knew when he was going to explode. I couldn't help but pat him on the shoulder and say, “So, ticking time bomb? He turned around and exclaimed: “Solomon, gosh! I was afraid, because it goes without saying that I was traveling under a false name. “Hush! " I said, “my name is Schievelbein! He understood right away and we stood aside to talk. Later, when the police discovered the Hamburg trail, all the young people in that café were interrogated, including Winzer. None knew what it was. The questions always revolved around the young man from Berlin. One of those boys who wanted to be especially smart

and who really knew nothing, laughed. " That one ? He certainly had nothing to do with Rathenau's assassination. He was Jewish! The police immediately asked where he got that from. He says Winzer called him Solomon. Winzer was asked what the name of the young man from Berlin was. Winzer couldn't remember the name at all, he only knew this guy superficially, from military school. He thought there were a lot of cadets. The police established that Winzer had been to the military school in Karlsruhe; she inquired if there had been a pupil named Solomon. And I was taken! Everybody laughs. I say : 'Ille, don't go so fast. In 1927, on the first day of the trial of the Vehme, I hadn't finished my breakfast when they came to fetch me from my cell. I was already going to put aside my piece of bread, but I tell myself that the debates could be long. So I took my bread with me. In my brown prison clothes, I entered the room, chewing my crust. I wasn't even aware that I was making an "entrance", as they say in the theatre. The room was packed because the trial, the first of the Vehme trials, caused a sensation. But it wasn't just that. The trial took place in Giessen, near Frankfurt-am-Main, where my father had been a very well-known character. I was heard first and had to step forward so that I had my back to the audience. Throughout my testimony, the room was very worried; people came and went and the president threatened more than once to have the room evacuated. This bustle behind me bothered me a lot since I had to concentrate. At the entrance, I had immediately noticed that it was mostly ladies who filled the room, as always during sensational trials, and I was furious. At noon,

my interrogation was not over. The president ordered that the interruption should serve as a rest and that lunch should be brought to me in one of the court's waiting cells. These were simple rooms with barred windows, which were not locked as long as they were unoccupied. The sergeant who accompanied me led me through the crowd and suddenly opened the door of the first cell. I walked in and was speechless. I understood the animation that had reigned in the room. My piece of dry bread had produced a miracle. On the table in the cell, marvels were piling up: cakes, fruit, biscuits, chocolate, sandwiches, flowers. "What a happy prison," I thought as I approached. And I saw that each plate also had a business card on it: Mrs. Frankfurter, Mrs. Lilly Oppenheim, Mrs. Ruth Beyfuss. I think all Jewish society in Frankfurt must have wondered and wondered again: “Who knows? maybe he is still one of us—who knows? I was very touched and strongly inclined to admiration: What solidarity! what people! Everybody laughs. I say : - Ille, I beg you, not so fast! "I'm the same," said Plaas. If I try to remember the past, I always think of funny stories first. — Yes, I said, it seems deeply rooted in nature human. Do you remember ? At the time when the "Steel Helmet" was founded, this "Union of combatants", it was about the "experience of war", neither more nor less. And we went to the meetings. What enthusiasm in the room, a goose step to shake the walls, and lots of beer. And one tapped the other on the shoulder: "Hey, do you remember the Chemin des Dames?" Dude, what shit! And that's the experience of war—yes, I know what you're

means. “I am unfair. Sure, but what was the actual result? A few journals that made efforts, not the official organ, but theArminiusand theStandardwhere wrote Ernst Jünger and Franz Schauwecker17and a small handful of others, and theTatof Hans Zehrer18which brought sociological transformations back to the experience of war. As for the rest, rallies, flags, brass bands, retreats followed by fireworks. The experience of war! It was an emotion of the soul, more important as a process than as a result. Ernst Jünger believed with his books that he had snatched war from the teeth of the petty bourgeois. Do you think ! They're holding up, those teeth. The sublimation remained paper, the process a personal affair, and now we see the result. Funny stories—that's our experience of war!

Plaas looked at me attentively: “Enough, Ille! Go slower! - I go as I want! cried Ille. I leaned over and said in a low voice: “Come on, Ille! He slows down a bit. After a while she says: - Plaas! - Yes ? - Is it true ? Plaas looked at me. He says :

'It's true in part, like everything. I say : — I did not recognize the act as presented in the trial before the State Court for the Protection of the Republic. The Attorney General was so proud to have succeeded in establishing the exact facts. But what I felt about those facts was just a

painful contradiction. Suddenly, something totally foreign to me lived like my act; he had become a being apart, with his own demands and his own rights. Every defendant has this experience. Plaas quietly remarked: — Very well said, but the image of the act at trial was created because we mention it in a shameless way. — Of course, we mention. First, it is the right of the accused to lie ; then we couldn't say everything because a lot of other things would have been discovered, and ultimately it was, so to speak, a matter of honor that no one charged his co-defendants. So we mention, but obviously that was a mistake. For in unloading the other, each was unloading himself, so that the eet nal was the same. No, it was not the lie that distorted the image of the act, but the false perspective. And that's why I tried, seven years later, to tell it all again.

— Plaas, you read the book and you participated in everything. Are the

Forsakentell the truth? 'Yes,' said Plaas, 'yes, in part. Like everything. "You see," I said with a sort of satisfaction, "everything depends on the

point of view from which one looks at things. And this point of view can be different not only in space but also in time. Seven years later, facts were no longer as important as motives. And I can assure you that the analysis of the motives was even more painful than the analysis of the facts. My French translator spoke in his preface to the French edition of a “cacophony of the mind”. And it was true, and necessary, because I had to describe all the confusion of the spirit from which the act was born, if I wanted to be sincere. Of this

way, the book has become a "document", in the same way as the deeds of the greer. Plaas looked at me.

- And now ? he asked. 'Now,' I said, 'funny stories are true. "Pretty," said Ille, "pretty." And Rathenau must have died. After a silence, Plaas said diligently:

“You can't look at it that way, Ille. She says in a low voice: "I know, forgive me. "I think you have to separate two things," said Plaas. On one side the

plan, the conception of which this act was a part, and on the other side the personal motives which pushed individuals to participate in it. How was the plan born? Basically, the only political denominator capable of uniting the whole “national movement” of that time was negative; they wanted to get rid of the policy of respecting treaties. On this point, all the groups, large or small, were in agreement, even if their union ended there. So it was basically a matter of temperament, if I can put it that way. One could imagine that the national movement would gain momentum, that one day it would be strong enough in numbers to gain power by parliamentary means or at least have enough influence to put an end to to this policy which threatened to hand us over entirely to the West. But in time,

— would have supposed, precisely, what we wanted to avoid at all costs: development in breadth, towards the masses and the tendencies of the masses. We wanted to avoid having one evil driven out by another, that the national movement come to power by using the means

adversaries, by becoming a party, an organization created with a view to elections. We wanted a priori a transformation in principle, the "national revolution" which was to free us from the material and ideological domination of the West, as the Revolution had freed France from royalty. Our means therefore also had to be different. I believe it was Kern himself who, in heated argument, voiced the temperamentally logical idea that in this case every treaty-keeping politician should be "suppressed." “Deleted” obviously meant “killed”. What other means were there? None of those who hesitated before this consequence could name one. And when there was a group, a very small group, that agreed to it, everything else happened almost automatically. The idea was expressed that each attack "at least advanced evolution", that they were "beacons", signs of a real and dangerous despair, showing these politicians the immense responsibility they were assuming. The atmosphere must have been similar to that in which the Russian socialist revolutionaries prepared their attacks, with the only important difference that their decisions originated in the belief in the victory of a well-defined ideology, political and economic doctrine, while that ours proceeded rather from a vague feeling. Finally, the doctrines of the socialist revolutionaries did not impose themselves in an absolute way either. In any case, there as here, the rest took place automatically. There, as here, lists were popping up, and on one of those lists was,

- This list ! I said. It consisted of a small piece of paper dirty room where names were written indiscriminately, some crossed out, others added. Most of these names meant nothing

For me. In general, I noticed that there were a good number of Jews. I bias one, Wassermann, because I thought it was author Jakob Wassermann. But it was about the banker Oscar Wassermann whom I did not know. Everything was really done with incredible lightness. I saw the list only very late, in Berlin, in the middle of the preparations for the attack on Rathenau. Kern had left it lying on the table at the boarding house where we lived. It was also pure chance that I participated in the assassination of Rathenau; it happened automatically, because I had become so attached to Kern. Later, reading the proofs ofForsaken, I discovered that the entire book did not contain a single anti-Semitic word. And in fact, Rathenau is the only Jew who was murdered by us. "But we were anti-Semites," said Plaas. 'Yes,' I said. The whole national movement was anti-Semitic, to varying degrees. I was very impressed with Rathenau's position on the Jewish question. He specified that the Jews were for him a German tribe like the others, that he liked them less than, for example, the Brandenburgers and Schleswig-Holsteiners, and better than, for example, the Saxons and the Bavarians. It was convincing enough, but my likes and dislikes were never biological. After the publication of my book, I was very curious to have the opinion of Ernst Jünger. He was silent. I was shameless enough to ask him. In his drawling voice he said, "Why didn't you have the courage to say that Rathenau was killed because he was a Jew?" I received letters, even from Palestine, asking me the same question. Each time, I answered: “Because it is not true. » — In the recitals of the verdict was a sentence saying that the act was not a political crime, but of common law, because

anti-Semitism was not a political belief, says Plaas. — Without taking into account the fact that under certain conditions

anti-Semitism may very well be a political conviction, although it is never honourable—it was not true. Rathenau was not killed because he was a Jew. "I'm tempted to say he was killed even though he was a Jew," said Plaas.

When Erzberger19had been shot by Schulz and Tillessen and that Kern began to prepare the attack on Rathenau, I feared that the true aims were thus veiled. Rathenau was obviously the most eminent treatyrespecting politician, but at a time when one could read on every street corner: "Get Rathenau down, you jew bastard", the attack was bound to miss its eect, since one was going to believe that Rathenau was not killed because he was this politician but because he was a Jew. And that was indeed the reaction of the public. I could not make my opinion known vis-à-vis Kern, but I did not participate in this attack either. I was only condemned because I was in on the secret. I say : — When after the event I went to Munich to to organize help for the fugitives Kern and Fischer, I obviously went to see the major. He received me with a terrible shouting match. He wanted to know who had the idea for this attack, and when I told him about the list, he absolutely wanted to have this idiotic piece of paper. “You have ruined all my politics! " he said. I was desperate and told him that I was going to shoot myself in the head if he talked to me like that. He calmed down a little and explained to me that this attack dealt him a terrible blow because it was butter in the spinach of his adversaries. From the way he spoke of these “adversaries”, I could conclude that they were groups from Munich, probably the National Socialists. But these local aairs

really didn't interest me. The Commandant seemed to me quite a prisoner of his provincial interests. Once arrested, I awaited the instruction with the certainty that everything we had proposed with the attacks had completely failed. That was perhaps the bitterest thing. During the trial, of course, I couldn't say anything about it, and later, when I was writing the book, the politics of respecting treaties still lived on and the thought that a young man in flames might again have the idea of to take up arms seemed somewhat agonizing to me. "In reality," said Plaas, "the politics of respect has all the same suffered the hardest assault at that time. All the same ! What happened next was only the decline of this policy. In fact, and looking at it that way, we still succeeded. Everyone was silent. Suddenly, Plaas says:

- If there is a word that I hate, it is the word "succeed"! I say : — Plaas, my old Plaas. "At that time, it was easy for me to jump the wall," he said. I did not want at any price to live continuously in the lie. The shame of the policy of respect consisted in my eyes not so much in the waste of the economic and political substance of Germany, but in the fact that we were constantly signing treaties, concluding conventions, giving promises whose politicians had to know exactly the impracticality. I was of the opinion that it was better to perish than participate in such things. Thus, it was no more dicult for me to declare myself ready for action than to enlist on a submarine or a minesweeper.

— Me, I said, I got into these things like Karl Moor20 in the forests of Bohemia. “Men, oh men, hypocritical brood of crocodiles! The process was for me much more important than the result, this incomparable intoxication of the sacrifice, the selfdestruction, the grandiose character of the attempt to "blow up the earth to reach the moon". In short, a very nice phenomenon of puberty. - That's what you say now! - Yes ; at the time, it was obviously very serious. But in retrospect, it's still worrying. We were young ; I was nineteen, and you, Plaas? - Twenty-one ! "And Kern twenty-four." We all belonged to "good families”. At that time, it was still a well-defined notion. Navy officers, well-to-do bourgeois boys gathered together and coldly discussed an assassination, what am I saying, a series of assassinations. It is still worrying. Plaas smiled.

'You know, Ille, he dealt with 'problems'. He had made himself a whole theory according to which we had to assume the “guilt” so that the assassination became bearable. - You're wrong. I wanted us to admit before useven the vileness of crime. That's what I meant by guilt. I wanted us not to deceive ourselves, to devalue our "sacrice" by excusing the assassination as a political action. I demanded that we consciously and totally assume our guilt. This was to be our "sacrice". Many had fallen before the enemy; it was easy to bear death or punishment. We were all planning to leave it there.

skin, but the intimate recognition of our guilt should not justify us, but the action itself. - That is to say excuse all the same! — Yes, Kern also said: "These are words that do not not advance. And indeed, when later I spoke to the magistrate of my "guilt" in this sense, the only result was a painful embarrassment of the judge, the warden of the prison and the chaplain. They didn't know what to do with it and gave me to understand that they considered my explanation as a dirty scheme intended to assure me sympathy and advantages without great expense. Erwin Kern! Of all of us, he was probably the only one who saw quite clearly. His absolute authority and superiority came from there. Do you remember how we used to rush to Rathenau's writings? How did we discuss his theory of "the man of courage and the man of fear"? The more we talked about it, the better we liked it. Finally, Kern would say, "Leave it, it only softens us." » "Rathenau was a Fascist," said Plaas. - Tatata! - Yes Yes ! Read his books! I don't think first of all about her proposal of a "mass levy" towards the end of the war, nor even to his economic and political theories. I am thinking precisely of this theory of courage and fear. Starting from psychology, he exposes exactly the new morality. He distinguishes between "good" and "evil", and the next step is already quite modern. It is the new American theory of "man of evolution" and "man of adaptation", the former to be considered good from the point of view of the idea of progress, the latter as bad. From the State's point of view, the next step is summarized in this

sentence: "Is just what serves the people". It is a rectilinear evolution towards a new morality, and it is a fascist morality, if not a Bolshevist morality. — The fact is that Rathenau was met with a great deal of skepticism

in his own camp - if, however, he can be attributed to a "camp". When I got out of prison in 1928, I went to Kiel after visiting you in Berlin. By some chance, Walter Schücking, professor of international law at the University of Kiel, learned that I was in the city and what my situation was. He sent me a card inviting me to see him and received me in his magnificent library; he had a heavy body and an enormous head in which shone splendid eyes. He greeted me with immediate kindness. At first, I was suspicious; what did he want from me? He said he had heard of my situation and that he considered it his duty to help me as much as he could, as he helped every man in a similar situation. I thought it fair to tell him right away what my attitude towards Rathenau had been. I explained to him that now there were only two possibilities for me to overcome this man and what concerned me about his case: the humanitarian and the cynical. I had decided on the second, because no one believed in the first. To my surprise, he replied that he had not been a friend of Rathenau. Unlike Rathenau, he was a convinced pacist. Then, without bitterness, he listed what had separated him from Rathenau: his call for a mass levy, of course, but also his initiative for a department of raw materials at the Ministry of War, and above all his attitude in the question of the deportation of Belgian workers in the German armaments industry during the war;

peace organizations. The situation was grotesque: I was forced to defend Rathenau against Schücking. At one point, in connection with Rapallo, Schücking came to be stricken with the possibilities of Bolshevism to which Rathenau wanted to open all the doors at the conference of Genoa and by the Treaty of Rapallo. I told him that we then doubted the sincerity of his Russian policy, that the purpose of the convention was above all to shake up the Western allies to induce them to accept Rathenau's proposals—as had indeed been the case. I wondered if I should find out from Professor Schücking that he had also been on our list, but his name had been deleted after some controversy. Finally, I had the brutality to reveal it to him. He then had a word that upset me. He says : “Then it would have been better to shoot me instead of Rathenau. The conversation ended with the idea of finding me a position as librarian. Although I had not yet decided on my profession and had expressed my admiration for his books to him, I followed my first impulse and declined the offer, thanking him. After all these years of detention, I wanted to know life, not books. Later, I often wondered if I wouldn't have done better to accept. I wanted to know life, not books. Later, I often wondered if I wouldn't have done better to accept. I wanted to know life, not books. Later, I often wondered if I wouldn't have done better to accept. Plaas says:

— The Chancellor at the time, Wirth, was also on the list and was discarded after some controversy. He had to find out somehow. In the final days of the trial, when it came to whether Techow elder, the man who had driven the car, should be considered a sidekick or an accomplice, — and, as an accomplice, he would have incurred the death penalty — Wirth suddenly announced to the Reichstag that an attempt was also planned against him. But he presented the danger as imminent, which is very

of effect. All of a sudden, Techow's chances had gone down a lot. The day after the sentence, the news was denied. Techow was sentenced as a sidekick to fifteen years' imprisonment. — Of course, he was an accomplice, I said, we were all accomplices,

all ready for action, except perhaps you, Plaas, who was simply in on the secret! "You were only judged so harshly because of your impertinence! From a legal point of view, the evidence against you was very thin! But you couldn't shut up when you had to. You know, Ille, he was insolent! Old Fehrenbach, former Reich Chancellor, who was one of the six political judges alongside the three lawyers, slept from time to time or read the newspaper. Sometimes, when ordinary boredom gave way to a bit of excitement, he scratched his head with an ink pencil. One day when I saw this, I said in a low voice to Ernst, seated next to me in the dock: "When Fehrenbach washes his hair, his head will be quite blue." But the president had already urged us several times not to gossip during the debates. He then said: “The defendants are making conversation again! What do you have to say ? Ernst stood up and said: “I simply allowed myself the remark that Mr. Fehrenbach, former Chancellor, as a sworn judge, reads the newspaper during a trial where the heads of the accused are at stake. And then he is surprised that the court had a grudge against him! — But Fehrenbach left his newspaper like a schoolboy caught at fault ! In fact, my case was quite complicated from a legal point of view. The debates unfolded like a theatrical performance, and it was a matter of details whose significance we did not understand at all. It had only been proved that I had been in Hamburg to hire a driver, Waldemar Niedrig, who

died while in custody. But Kern had already found Techow whom he trusted more, and he fired Niedrig. According to the indictment, I should therefore be considered as a sidekick. Me Luetgebrune—who, moreover, was Tillessen's defender and not mine, but who helped me a great deal—contested this interpretation immediately after my deposition. I was heard first because I was the only one to have attended the preparation of the action from the start; that is why the judges believed that my guilt was greater than the pure and simple facts seemed to indicate. Luetgebrune, who, with his little white goatee and white cravat over his black silk robe, had an imposing air and spoke in an excellent manner, noticed that the driver Niedrig had not taken action at all. The public prosecutor, in his harsh Bavarian voice, was referring to a decision of the Imperial Court concerning an abortion case. A young girl had an abortion; her ancestor had given her pliers for this purpose which she had not used. Despite this, the ance was condemned as a sidekick because his act, which had supported the intentions of the girl, was considered as "moral aid". Luetgebrune, who in such cases always showed extraordinary mastery, unhesitatingly indicated a comment that things were different if the girl expressly refused the pliers. The attorney general admitted it with a chivalrous gesture, and I was pleased. Nothing serious could happen to me anymore! The debates went on for days and days. Finally, before the pleas, the president asked if anyone had one more question. The Attorney General expressed a desire to see the Defendant Solomon again. I had no idea why and I stepped forward. The Attorney General wanted me to inform him about the concept of “comradeship”; he wanted to know what, in my opinion, a "comrade" was. I say the

only thing that came to my mind: "Comrade is the one on whom you can absolutely count." “Good,” said the attorney general; “did Kern know your idea of camaraderie? Without hesitation, I replied, "Of course." " - " Of course ! said the Attorney General, "and that establishes the fact of psychic assistance." And he sat down, content. And on October 22, 1922, I was sentenced to five years' imprisonment and five years of national indignity. “The Attorney General was terrific! says Plaas. Apart from Me Luetgebrune, he was the only jurist really up to the job. How in a few minutes he demolished and dissected the whole building of defense —magnificent! "Yes," I said; you know, Ille, Plaas pissed me off terribly during the prosecutor's plea. “Good guy, good guy,” he kept saying. And he pinched me with every sentence while the prosecutor was cutting my throat. "And you, you drove me crazy with your habit of always doing snap your nails, during the whole trial! "We really were stupid kids!" First we had tight throat; but seized by the extremely objective process and the possibility of having our say, we became arrogant. The debates were inhuman in the sense that they dealt almost exclusively with facts. But that changed when the nurse dropped off, who had gotten into Rathenau's car immediately after the attack. This nurse, a thin, pale woman, no longer very young, had happened to be nearby. She hadn't had a single look for the killers' car and was therefore of no use to the prosecution. She had only understood that a man was in distress. She gave her statement in a small, emotionless voice. And she only says: "The dying man couldn't speak any more." He just gave me one last look. »

After a while I added: "And then the letter from Rathenau's mother." Techow's uncle, his mother's brother, knew Rathenau very well. In the midst of the proceedings, the president read a letter that Rathenau's mother had written to Techow's mother. The letter began with: "You, poorest of mothers", and continued something like this: "... If your son had known mine, he would rather have pointed the weapon at himself than at this most noble son." …” Then, she tried to console: “Let your son confess before the earthly judge and repent before the eternal judge…” That was probably why the president was reading this letter. She showed such greatness of soul that we were overwhelmed with shame. "Yes," said Plaas. Techow sat in front of me. I leaned over a bit to ask him: "Techow, what is this letter?" He turned his head slightly and answered: "It is authentic, only it could be read in the Vossische

Zeitung21before my mother received it. During the adjournment, I insisted that Techow tell the judges. But he believed it was the police who intercepted the letter and gave it to the press. This apparent political abuse provided us with a weapon to use. But Techow said with a laugh: “What, we murder indiscriminately and we are outraged if the police commit some small irregularities in their fight against us? Obviously, he was right. "I don't know if he was so absolutely right!" Basically, the entire trial was illegal. The Law for the Protection of the Republic was enacted after and because of Rathenau's assassination. We were therefore judged according to a law which at the time of our crime did not yet exist. The attorney general, whom I don't admire like you, didn't worry about it. For him, the law

had entered into force as soon as it was adopted by the Reichstag, where a two-thirds majority was enough to modify the constitution. The Court itself argued that the verdict would take into account the ordinary penal code alone, but, practically, we were still deprived of two important advantages: we did not have the possibility of appealing, and we were removed from our ordinary judges. . In our case, this may have been irrelevant. But it set a precedent. For the first time in the history of German jurisdiction, the principle ofnulla poena sine lege. And that had fatal consequences, the Lex Lubbe, for example. In 1933, during the Reichstag arsonist trial, National Socialist legislation expressly referred to the Law for the Protection of the Republic enacted at the Rathenau trial, and Lubbe was executed as an arsonist contrary to the ordinary penal code. In the same way, the institution of special courts has generally been justified. The horrific cancer of the courts of political obedience was born in Germany during our trial; this institution is an invention of the Weimar Republic.

- All the same ! We would have been ridiculous to complain about

the procedure. We were really not wronged! On the contrary, we basically considered the sentences as a sign of the weakness of the Weimar Republic. We had all expected heavier sentences. If I think about the attitude of the National Socialist state towards its enemies... — We had very honest professional judges, that's the raison. I am not a supporter of assize courts. In times of political turmoil, juries are never impartial. What an excellent man President Hagens is! Throughout the trial, we defendants were the only ones talking loudly and making

remarks in the air. Then Hagens adjusted his golden glasses and gave us a worried look as if he no longer understood the world! Immediately after our trial, he retired. He had from the beginning stood up against any influence of politics on the Supreme Court, but he could not prevail against the practices of the Court of State for the Protection of the Republic, which was then directed especially against the Communists. Shortly after my release, when Hagens and most of our judges were already dead, I socialized with one of the career assessors from the Rathenau trial. I was introduced to him unexpectedly and we recognized each other immediately. Apart from the others, we discussed the trial. He explained to me that he had insisted that my sentence be more severe. I recognized what he had assumed, which was that the evidence could only reveal a small part of our activities. We drank a large number of bottles of Moselle. Towards the morning, we used familiar terms and I brought him home and put him to bed. Everybody laughs. I say : "And then M. Cramer, who presided over the Vehme trial in Gissen! "The trial of Giessen!" says Plaas. How everything is connected! It is truly the curse of crime that must engender crime. The crime was the Baralong case. Because the first English submarine trap, the baralong, had sunk a German submarine, Lieutenant-Captain Patzig, of U-27, believed that the English hospital shipLandovry Castlewas also a submarine trap, and he sank it. He was put on the English list of war criminals, but as he was missing, his two guardsmen, Boldt and Dietmar, were condemned by the Empire Court. We them

had freed us by force and the driver of our car, Wagner, tried to blackmail us. As he thus risked paralyzing all our preparations, his death was decided upon. I say : — It was a hard blow for me when, five years later, this story came to the mat. Of all the cases that had not been cleared up, this one weighed on me the most during my stay in prison. I was still trying to convince myself that basically nothing had happened. I thought Wagner was still alive; I had left him alive and I couldn't understand why nothing was happening. The director of the prison, old Dronsch, at Striegau, had on his own initiative sent a petition for a pardon for me, a pardon which could be requested at the end of three-quarters of the sentence if the prisoner had behaved well. I had not behaved well. Dronsch once told me that I was the "most recalcitrant prisoner" he had seen during his twenty-five years of service. But since I refused to send a petition for pardon, it was he who took care of it. It was therefore at the beginning of 1927 and I was constantly waiting to be released. And then this! Accused of having murdered Wagner! I was transferred to Butzbach prison and interrogated for fourteen hours. Locked up for years, I had no idea what the other statements were. So I found it safer to dictate the few pages of the minutes myself. The presiding judge was delighted. It was a real confession. Then I was transferred to Giessen. There I was sometimes the only prisoner. The prison inspector then fed me from his own cooking, which was excellent. But I couldn't get his wife a beefsteak with an egg, french fries and lots of onions. For five years, I had dreamed of this meal. But the inspector Accused of having murdered Wagner! I was transferred to Butzbach prison and interrogated for fourteen hours. Locked up for years, I had no idea what the other statements were. So I found it safer to dictate the few pages of the minutes myself. The presiding judge was delighted. It was a real confession. Then I was transferred to Giessen. There I was sometimes the only prisoner. The prison inspector then fed me from his own cooking, which was excellent. But I couldn't get his wife a beefsteak with an egg, french fries and lots of onions. For five years, I had dreamed of this meal. But the inspector Accused of having murdered Wagner! I was transferred to Butzbach prison and interrogated for fourteen hours. Locked up for years, I had no idea what the other statements were. So I found it safer to dictate the few pages of the minutes myself. The presiding judge was delighted. It was a real confession. Then I was transferred to Giessen. There I was sometimes the only prisoner. The prison inspector then fed me from his own cooking, which was excellent. But I couldn't get his wife a beefsteak with an egg, french fries and lots of onions. For five years, I had dreamed of this meal. But the inspector I had no idea what the other statements were. So I found it safer to dictate the few pages of the minutes myself. The presiding judge was delighted. It was a real confession. Then I was transferred to Giessen. There I was sometimes the only prisoner. The prison inspector then fed me from his own cooking, which was excellent. But I couldn't get his wife a beefsteak with an egg, french fries and lots of onions. For five years, I had dreamed of this meal. But the inspector I had no idea what the other statements were. So I found it safer to dictate the few pages of the minutes myself. The presiding judge was delighted. It was a real confession. Then I was transferred to Giessen. There I was sometimes the only prisoner. The prison inspector then fed me from his own cooking, which was excellent. But I couldn't get his wife a beefsteak with an egg, french fries and lots of onions. For five years, I had dreamed of this meal. But the inspector The prison inspector then fed me from his own cooking, which was excellent. But I couldn't get

his wife a beefsteak with an egg, french fries and lots of onions. For five years, I had dreamed of this meal. But the inspector The prison inspector then fed me from his own cooking, which wa

sadly knew that his treatment forbade him such luxury. The stay in Giessen was quiet. Only the thought of my defense tormented me. I immediately wrote to M.eLuetgebrune and he accepted immediately. But time passed and I had no more news from him. Files piled up; the indictment was a veritable little book; one hundred and twenty witnesses had been foreseen. Luetgebrune did not arrive. The last day before the start of the trial passed. Desperate, I paced back and forth in my cell. The inspector who came to lock me up in the evening advised me to hire a defender or to have myself defended by a lawyer for my co-defendants. But it seemed to me to be too late for that, and besides, I had placed all my hope in Luetgebrune. I was already in bed when I heard footsteps. The cell was opened; Luetgebrune had arrived. He wore a light camel hair coat and a handsome leather briefcase. He looked so neat and smelled so good of the exquisite cigar! I jumped on his neck. He laughed a lot at my excitement, and when I told him what mountains of files had piled up, he brushed them aside, so to speak. “I rely on your memory,” he said. "Is she still as good as five years ago?" I didn't know, but I hoped. He said, "Well, tell me exactly what you told the magistrate, just that, no more, no less!" I was going back and forth and I was sweating with so much concentration. Luetgebrune sat on my bed and listened. When I had finished, he said, "There are seven crucial points!" And without having written anything down, he began to explain the various points to me and told me for each of them what questions the president was going to ask me and asked me what I intended to answer. I told him and he corrected me carefully. When we had reviewed the seven

points, he stood up and declared that he would make my testimony the basis of the whole trial. He bade me good night and left. He had only stayed half an hour.

The next day, I was interrogated first, and all was well. As soon as I reached one of the seven points, Cramer interrupted me and asked me exactly the question that Luetgebrune had foreseen. I really had the best lawyer in Germany. The proceedings passed quickly and without incident. Cramer always got straight to the point in the hundreds of conflicting witness statements. It was not easy; in political trials, the depositions of witnesses are almost always fallacious, dictated by likes and dislikes. Luetgebrune once told me that each time he discovered a perjury in a witness statement, he felt a dryness in his throat and automatically put his hand to his mustache as if to remove an imaginary foam.

Plaas laughs.

"I don't remember if I was a perjured witness then, but I know I would have been unscrupulous to do you a favor. - Thank you so much. I hope this will not happen again! But at the time, I was really upset to see you all come in, the old comrades, solemnly dressed in black, with white collars — and I, I was in the dock, in my brown prison clothes. You were in a suit and you looked like a section manager in a department store. "Cramer pressured me terribly," said Plaas.

"He was right," I said. You know, Ille, Plaas wanted to give me back

service and began to tell what an excellent man I was, completely innocuous, entirely devoted to belles-lettres. I looked like a complete idiot. What did you imagine when you said that I had always only been interested in Rainer Maria Rilke and Stefan George? Plaas laughs.

— During my testimony, Cramer continuously tapped on the table and repeated: "Come to the facts! Answer my questions ! Did you notice the traces of blood on the coat that the accused gave you to clean? So I started talking about Stefan George again. And it was true, you had always quoted it! "The prosecutor, an old gentleman with very white hair, from Weidemann's name, smiled terribly over ill-fitting dentures and spoke the purest Hessian patois. In his indictment, he referred to Plaas' testimony and said verbatim: “Well, I didn't know who this Schtefan Schorsch was; I had his books come and I have to say that this Schtefan Schorsch, well, he's crazy! For me, this prosecutor was precious. No one took him seriously. However, it had to be taken seriously. He had prepared the nail very well. He understood perfectly what was the fundamental principle of my defense. He first let the defense develop its arguments, then came the witness Wagner, Wagner himself, the victim. He had been in hiding and had not even made himself known when the trial began. We had to look for it, the police even had to arrest him. There he was, a rock of accusation, accusation itself. My defense was obviously based on paragraph 46 of the penal code, concerning the abandonment of the attempt. Originally, Kern and I intended to kill Wagner. This could not be disputed and I admitted it without

Ambages. In Kern's expression, circumstances had caused us to miss the assassination. Kern had feared that a shot in the night park of Nauheim-les-Bains would alert passers-by. He therefore ordered me not to use my pistol. He himself had a truncheon on him, a steel spring with a lead head. But Wagner also owned an instrument of this kind. An appalling and disgusting brawl ensued in which Wagner fell into the pond. The park was deserted. Only on the other side of the pond, we saw a light flickering. When Wagner came out of the water, Kern ordered me to shoot him. But I couldn't. I was there, gun in hand, and Wagner saved his life by crying and promising to do whatever we asked. I was there and couldn't. I had been ready for anything, and yet, at that second, everything inside me rose up. I was not yet at the point where I was to arrive a few months later, when I had jumped the wall, pushed precisely by this overwhelming feeling of "failing". I shouted something to Wagner, something very moral, like: "Try to get back on the right track!" without understanding its terrible irony; I put the pistol back in my pocket and went with trembling knees to confess to Kern what I had done. Later, Kern had been reluctant to let me participate in the Rathenau aaire. And now, five years later, Wagner was here. I learned that he had dragged himself as far as this light, which was the lamppost of the Water Company of Nauheim. Covered in blood, he told the guard that he had been attacked by criminals. The man took him to the hospital and notified the police. But when the next morning the police wanted to take his statement, Wagner had disappeared, having taken a doctor's civilian clothes from a closet. He hid, healed his terrible wounds somewhere, took the name of Weigelt, and began "a new life", as he

said in court. In the five years he had come a long way in the bourgeois direction; in the war he had been an air force officer, he knew about motors and automobiles. When the police arrested him, he was an expert in the automotive department of a large insurance company. His arrest dealt him a hard blow. His whole bourgeois existence was threatened, because in fact he had participated in the release of the "war criminal" Dietmar. But Weidemann had been able to bring this witness to speak, to overcome all his reluctance and to understand that everything had to be said. And Wagner said it all. Without malice. He looked at me, motionless; I saw in full his figure that the serious injuries had transformed a little. The medical expertise listed them: fracture of the clavicle, fracture of the arm, severe concussion from a fractured skull. The atmosphere of the trial, which until now could not have been more favorable to me, changed suddenly. And Wagner disputed the abandonment of the attempt. Weidemann didn't even have to tell him. Wagner said that I had definitely given up the attempt. But that I had decided to do so because a car had passed on the road located very close to the place. The headlights of this car had prevented me from shooting, therefore an exterior influence and not an interior resolution. Luetgebrune looked at me with a searching eye. I hadn't told him about this car. I think at that moment he really doubted my words. He tried to save what was to be saved. He t endure a close interrogation to Wagner, but this one was unshakable. As a matter of fact, my situation had become desperate. When the exhausted Luetgebrune had finished, Cramer asked, "Does anyone else want to ask the witness a question?" Smiling, Weidemann gestured negatively. Cramer was about to say, "The investigation is closed..." when I interrupted him and, in desperation, tried a

last way, asked to be able to ask a question myself. I asked the president to ask the witness if this serious concussion had not perhaps caused memory problems. The audience began to laugh. Luetgebrune grabbed me by the sleeve and tried to make me sit down. Weidemann burst out laughing. Cramer gave me an indignant look, but he said, “Witness, you heard the question. Answer it, please. Wagner turned to me and said, "Let the accused not worry about my health." The concussion had no consequences. Again, laughter rang out. And Cramer signals me to sit down. But I remained standing and pleaded: "Mr. President, please - this is so important to me - please ask the witness once again if he has memory problems, at least sometimes! Cramer said amid laughter, “The witness gave an unequivocal answer. Sit down! I remained standing and exclaimed, "I have thought about my question very well." It is an integral part of my defense and I ask not to be hindered in my defense! Cramer tapped the table; for the first time, I saw him upset. He said curtly: "Accused, you have no right to complain of being hampered in your defence, don't you!" God knows if you have taken advantage of all the possibilities! Sit down! But then Luetgebrune, who the whole time had been watching me very attentively, stood up. Very politely, he said, "Since my client apparently attaches such great importance to this question, I suppose he is referring to a specific fact, and I would like on my part to ask that the question be admitted." Can the accused formulate it a little more exactly? Weidemann wanted to protest, Cramer gave him a sign. I swallowed my saliva and said, "I certainly don't know much about medicine, but I know very well that severe concussions can sometimes cause partial memory problems so that the patient sometimes remembers very

exactly certain events while memory has not retained other details. Thus, it happens that such patients suddenly cannot remember a place, for example, — or a name…! Luetgebrune put his hand on my shoulder and whispered: "Sit down!" He remained standing, smiling politely at the president. Burn the xa, then he suddenly said, “Witness, would you like to come closer—here, very close. Witness, I draw your attention to the sanctity of the oath. You have sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, even in seemingly insignificant details. I would like to ask you again and insistently: have you not forgotten something from time to time? For example, what name do you have, — or something like that? Don't answer yet, think again, think again! Absolute silence reigned in the room. The prosecutor, who understood nothing, wanted to get up already, but Cramer, without taking his eyes off Wagner, signaled him to be quiet. And Wagner suddenly turned his eyes towards me. Then, slowly, his gaze returned to Cramer. Very quietly and very diligently, he said, “Yes, I must admit. "Thank you," said M.eLuetgebrune aloud, and Cramer said in a neutral voice: "The investigation is closed, but we are still going to the scene." »

There was a great animation. Luetgebrune said with a smile: “You see what a good memory is worth. I think the prosecutor still hasn't figured out what it's all about. And yet, it was so simple. In countless insurance cases, where Wagner was heard as an expert, he had evidently been sworn under the false name of Weigelt under which he now lived. The president had understood, Luetgebrune had understood, Wagner too—only the prosecutor suspected nothing. Since Cramer was not there to convict Wagner of perjury but to

contrary to prevent it, he had made this bridge of gold. But Wagner's testimony was obviously shaken to its foundations. My memory must have worked again, during the reconstruction at the scene. The entire court took the train to Nauheim, judges and jurors, prosecutor and defense, press, witnesses and public. We arrived late at night and marched in a long procession to the pond in the park. Five years had passed almost to the day. Again, the light from the Water Company shimmered in the distance. On the spot, near a small balustrade fixed there for the fishermen, Wagner and I had to reconstruct the facts. We grabbed each other and struggled. Wagner pretended to punch me in the nose like when he broke my nasal bone, and I pretended to dislocate his arm. The whole pack was around, the women, the witnesses, the jurors. It was undoubtedly very impressive, for suddenly Weidemann lost his temper. He gestured enraged as he protested once more. Anticipating large parts of his indictment, he shouted that it was inadmissible to base the trial solely on my depositions. This was inadmissible, he said, because a man who had spent five years in prison could not cling so blindly to his memory. Cramer thought we could test my memory. He asked me if I found the premises altered in any way. After looking around I say that from my recollection there had been more trees on one side of the driveway. The president inquired if anyone in attendance was from Nauheim. One of the jurors came forward. Cramer asked him if, to his knowledge, anything had been changed in the trees. The man replied, “Yes; I am an architect, and when we built the road, there behind the embankment, we actually had to cut down some trees. —

“When was the road built? asked M immediately.eLuetgebrune. The architect reconsiders and says that it must have happened around 1924. And Luetgebrune concludes: “This is the road on which the witness saw the car coming — it was not built until two years later! Finally, Cramer called for silence and declared the site visit over; addressing me, he asked me if they had let me take something to eat. I say no. He ordered: “Sergeant, go with the accused to a restaurant…” he looked at me thoughtfully and continued: “… a good restaurant and give him something to eat. As he left, he turned to me again and asked, "What would you like to eat?" Beaming, I said, "A beefsteak with an egg, french fries and lots of onions!" Everyone burst out laughing and the whole press was talking about this beefsteak. And I didn't even have an appetite. The excitement had made me sick; I could only swallow a few pieces and the two officials shared the dish.

After a dazzling plea from Luetgebrune, I was sentenced to three years in prison for assault and battery with dangerous instruments. The prosecutor had asked for five years in prison. But the Court had nevertheless accepted the abandonment of the attempt, and the sentence was reduced to six years and three months of imprisonment in all. When the verdict was pronounced, a crowd pressed around me to congratulate me. Weidemann himself came over to tap me on the shoulder, and suddenly he brought Wagner to you. Wagner shook my hand and assured me that deep down he was grateful to me. Because he had taken the wrong turn and my act had awakened him. It was a touching scene. I had the feeling that with the trial of Giessen a whole period of my life was closed, but I found myself in prison. I was not sent back to Striegau, but transferred home

center of the country of Hesse, in Marienschloss-Rockenberg, a building that was beautiful only in name.

'I'm surprised,' said Plaas, 'that you resisted all that so well. Me, I was imprisoned for much less time and my stomach was out of whack. Quite recently, at the ministry, passing near the sinks, I suddenly had rubber knees; I felt sick to my stomach because I thought I smelled that terrible penitentiary smell again, made up of dust, sweat, lime, still-damp tiles, bedbugs and excrement. The worst thing was still being forced to live for years in his own latrine.

- Oh ! stop! begged Sonja, let the old stories! "We would like to leave them," I said, "but they don't don't leave. "Basically," said Plaas, "of all the comrades of old, we two, we are the only ones who still see each other.

- Yes, I said, and here we are on the highways of Adolf Hitler!

"Yes," said Plaas, in a chrome-mouthed car that you belong, and you write lms! "And you plant little flags, and I don't know which of the two occupations is the dumbest. Everyone was silent. Finally, Plaas says diligently: "Didn't you, deep down, don't you sometimes have the feeling, like

me, that is unworthy? I mean — how to express myself? — I mean that our life has, basically, no meaning if we don't, yes, if we don't deduce a sort of obligation from what we once wanted and did?

"Yes," I said, "yes." I tried, and you too, Plaas, right after my liberation, in the peasant movement. Plaas shrugged. "Yes," I said. It was still in line. And later, why did I write my books, if not for this reason? In theCity at least I tried to bring out the spiritual consequences… "Don't talk to me about the 'spiritual consequences'!" exclaimed Plaas, giving me a suddenly furious look. The spiritual consequences lead either to Philistine existence or directly to Bolshevism! "I sailed for Bolshevism a long time ago," I said. Only, I can't disembark, the port is full of mines. We were crossing the great dark forests behind Forst. Suddenly Ille turned to the right, braked and stopped in one of the freeway parking spots. "Let's have lunch now," she said. put yourself somewhere in the grass, men! Sonja and I are going to get everything ready. We went down, stretching. The highway had just been completed. Everywhere there were still stones and blocks of cement. We looked for a small spot in the sun next to a stream. Plaas dropped to the ground. He patted the ground saying, “Good ground! Good old earth! » I slept next to Plaas. We sucked herbs. Ille and Sonja brought the food and aired themselves out. After a while, Plaas says: - Excuse my comment earlier. But you know I don't not only plant little flags, I also learn a lot of things that you will never know anything about.

- Something new ? Plaas spat out his blade of grass. “Six months ago, that was it. Then there was Munich, that big success for him. And the generals withdrew. "Of course," I said. Does that surprise you? What would they have against him?

Never has an army been as fulfilled as ours. In all countries, the generals have to fight with the parliaments for every penny intended for the army. Here, we give them everything.

"That's not it," said Plaas. Of course, it is dicult for everyone world to see beyond its own interests. But the school of Seeckt retained a fairly great influence. Basically, all evolution depends on one man—and while he's here... Canaris told me that generals, at least those he can influence, ask for a chance of success of fifty-one for hundred. And since Munich, they no longer believe in it. It would be a revolution without echo. I spoke about it at length with Canaris. You have to be consistent. Finally, I made myself available to him. - Plaas! I exclaimed, Plaas! "Yes," he said, "I am resolved." Canaries thought I should contact some old comrades. Obviously, it's not a matter of a few days, and obviously, I can't do it alone. So far, I have the agreement of the two Muthmanns, of Erdeler, of Goetz—and I have also thought of you. - No ! Plaas was silent. Motionless, he watched the highway and the car shining in the sun.

'That's not it,' I said. The bourgeois life that I lead now has always struck me as a scam. But I immediately knew that wasn't true, at least not entirely; I knew that I was taken, that I wanted to live, to live from

that way. And then there was Ille. But it was useless to tell Plaas about these things. — The concept, Plaas! I say hitting the ground. Give me the concept ! "Yes," said Plaas, "I knew you were going to ask that right away. question. In the past, too, you always wanted to know. Canaris obviously wants a military dictatorship. - Obviously ! With the same generals who have just to withdraw. Who never do anything without fifty-one percent certainty! Amazing! "I wasn't alone with Canaris," said Plaas. There was one of these generals, a very young man, you don't know him. It was he who gave this turn to the conversation. He wanted it to sound casually casual, "Well, Plaas, you've done that sort of thing before!" I said: "After you, General!" » “Good,” I said, “very good.

“It wasn't good. We need the generals afterwards. He there is no power but theirs when it comes to taking responsibility. If the act was committed by a general or by any member of the army, everything would be hindered. Canaris explained it to me, and he's right. He told me that if we made it out alive, he would be forced to ruthlessly pursue us, arrest us, and convict us. And he's right.

'Plaas, my old Plaas,' I cried, 'don't do it! "We have to do it, who else but us?" I do not believe not even that there will be a war. He's a smart enough fox to always try to get out of the way when things get dangerous. He got away with it in the Sudetenland area. Do you think a war will be started for Danzig? It was always something absurd,

even in the eyes of Western powers. They won't close that trap either. It is precisely that. It will be a monster success again, and everything will continue. - What ? "Life in lies," said Plaas. When just now you told those stories of the past, I had to think about them all the time. So we didn't want to live a lie, at least not me, and neither did you. And now we can't get out. Worse still, we participate in the lie, we have, so to speak, helped to install it, like, in our own way, everyone living today in Germany, and not only in Germany. You know that wasn't what we wanted then. Truly not ! Who else could do it, if not us? I cannot demand of another an action which I should undertake myself. Do you think it's easy for me? I too have a wife and children, and in a few years a little house of my own. But I can't live like this. Compared to what remains to be done, our life is only corruption. We have to do it because we've done it before, because we've jumped the wall before and we know now. It's our turn, man, it's our turn. That's the point of everything, and if you're honest with yourself, you know it.

He had crouched down beside us and was watching the flame from the alcohol stove. Plaas was lying on his back and holding his face up to the sun.

I say : - Plaas! It's a lie, another lie that you don't can escape. This is the worst lie, that of assassination. If the attempt on Rathenau was an assassination—and we both know it was a lost and miserable assassination—the one on Hitler is also. He's worse than a lie, he's a fake

detriment to life, to evolution, to everything. This man is our destiny, more than Rathenau was; it would be distorting our destiny, whatever it may be, to assassinate him.

"So it's also our fate if he's shot down." - Plaas, my old man! Suddenly Ille was in front of us. She spread her fingers blackened by the fire and told us to come and eat. I got up immediately.

Plaas remained lying, his eyes open, turned towards the sun. He approached him, lifted his foot and stuck it in his side. Quietly, but in a low, penetrating voice, she said: "Apage Satanas!" Plaas sat up and looked at Ille, then he rose silently. Quietly, we ate and continued on our way. When, near Liegnitz, the castle of Walstätt rose in the evening light, I said: “Here Hindenburg lived when he was a military student. At the junction for Striegau, I say: 'This way, we're going to Striegau where I spent five years of my life. Passing by the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse in Breslau, I say:

'This is where Kern lived. In Jaenschdorf, Pauly warmly welcomed us. We spent a few days in the estate located very close to the Polish border. Every morning at two o'clock Plaas got up to go hunting. But he never killed anything. He only recounted all the game he had seen. Since we doubted his skill, he brought back to us starlings which he had shot in the swarms which that year circled in such great numbers over the country. We were walking through fields and Pauly we

showed his smelly rettings of which he was very proud. I was very worried, which I attributed to the boredom that I couldn't stand.

Every day Ille insisted that I go with her to Striegau. She wanted to see the remand center where I had lived for so long. At first, I didn't really want to, but one morning we left. "Don't imagine that life in prison was always a life terrible, I said to Ille. At first I thought that after the disorderly life of freedom I was going to find myself in an atmosphere of deadly dryness where I must necessarily perish. But I was again incorporated into an order. The worst was not at all the loss of freedom — it is quickly lost and the man does not even notice it. Every soldier loses his freedom, every official is not free in a certain sense — the worst was the loss of dignity. Man is not terrible by nature, he is so only when, as a subordinate spirit, he possesses a certain power over other men. True sovereignty is always tolerant, which is why it is so rare. Everywhere, in all areas of life, sovereign men are very few, perhaps three or four out of a hundred. They then carry for all the entire burden of reason and humanity. Accomplished bastards are very rare; in all my life, including the years in prison, I have known only five or six. I don't know if that has changed, but at the time, the prisoner had his well-defined rights, and he had a few. He could defend these rights, claim them when he thought they were being denied him. I once struggled for months for a pencil and a book and finally won. The fight for the law detoxifies the atmosphere, that is what makes the law so indispensable. The arbitrary is mortal, the right removes its poison. In the prison, there was no arbitrariness; where he threatened I only knew five or six of them. I don't know if that has changed, but at the time, the prisoner had his well-defined rights, and he had a few. He could defend these rights, claim them when he thought they were being denied him. I once struggled for months for a pencil and a book and finally won. The fight for the law detoxifies the atmosphere, that is what makes the law so indispensable. The arbitrary is mortal, the right removes its poison. In the prison, there was no arbitrariness; where he threatened I only knew five or six of them. I don't know if that has changed, but at the time, the prisoner had his well-defined rights, and he had a few. He could defend these rights, claim them when he thought they were being denied him. I once struggled for months for a pencil and a book and finally won. The fight for the law detoxifies the atmosphere, that is what makes the law so indispensable. The arbitrary is mortal, the right removes its poison. In the prison, there was no arbitrariness; where he threatened I fought for months for a pencil and for a book and finally I won. The fight for the law detoxifies the atmosphere, that is what makes the law so indispensable. The arbitrary is mortal, the right removes its poison. In the prison, there was no arbitrariness; where he threatened I fought for months for a pencil and for a book and finally I won. The fight for the law detoxifies the atmosphere, that is what makes the law so indispensable. The arbitrary is mortal, the right removes its poison. In the prison, there was no arbitrariness; where he threatened

to spread out, I always had the right for me. There were a few officials, just a few, whom we called "good guys." We could always contact them. Moreover, it was the same among the prisoners. There were always a few who immediately stood out from the great mass. They could be real criminals, professionals; I liked them better than most of the others who had stumbled once and who could be good people, but precisely without any inner strength. This moral force was found in effect rather among the professionals, as strange as that may seem. They had, so to speak, their "honour" of their own. In prison, they represented compensatory justice. They weren't even the spokespersons, they acted by example. There was one who had been in the Foreign Legion for eighteen years. He was serving a sentence for homicide. He was in charge of cleaning the yard and preventing any blade of grass from growing between the cobblestones. In addition, he had to clean the kennel and look after the manager's chickens and pigs. One day when I brushed past him on a walk, I complained of being hungry. It was quite the beginning where the food was bad and insuscient. The guy grabbed a hen, cut off the rump and took the animal to the manager's wife, telling her that the rats had gnawed it. " My God ! exclaimed the woman, "kill her and bury her!" He then roasted it carefully in the hut where the pig food was prepared. And during the next walk, he slipped it to me. You understand what I mean. From a "moral" point of view, it was certainly not beyond reproach, but between villains, it was still an honest action. he had to clean the kennel and look after the manager's chickens and pigs. One day when I brushed past him on a walk, I complained of being hungry. It was quite the beginning where the food was bad and insuscient. The guy grabbed a hen, cut off the rump and took the animal to the manager's wife, telling her that the rats had gnawed it. " My God ! exclaimed the woman, "kill her and bury her!" He then roasted it carefully in the hut where the pig food was prepared. And during the next walk, he slipped it to me. You understand what I mean. From a "moral" point of view, it was certainly not beyond reproach, but between villains, it was still an honest action. he had to clean the kennel and look after the manager's chickens and pigs. One day when I brushed past him on a walk, I complained of being hungry. It was quite the beginning where the food was bad and insuscient. The guy grabbed a hen, cut off the rump and took the animal to the manager's wife, telling her that the rats had gnawed it. " My God ! exclaimed the woman, "kill her and bury her!" He then roasted it carefully in the hut where the pig food was prepared. And during the next walk, he slipped it to me. You understand what I mean. From a "moral" point of view, it was certainly not beyond reproach, but between villains, it was still an honest action. I complained of being hungry. It was quite the beginning where the food was bad and insuscient. The guy grabbed a hen, cut off the rump and took the animal to the manager's wife, telling her that the rats had gnawed it. " My God ! exclaimed the woman, "kill her and bury her!" He then roasted it carefully in the hut where the pig food was prepared. And during the next walk, he slipped it to me. You understand what I mean. From a "moral" point of view, it was certainly not beyond reproach, but between villains, it was still an honest action. I complained of being hungry. It was quite the beginning where the food was bad and insuscient. The guy grabbed a hen, cut off the rump and took the animal to the manager's wife, telling her that the rats had gnawed it. " My God ! exclaimed the woman, "kill her and bury her!" He then roasted it carefully in the hut where the pig food was prepared. And during the next walk, he slipped it to me. You understand what I mean. From a "moral" point of view, it was certainly not beyond reproach, but between villains, it was still an honest action. " My God ! exclaimed the woman, "kill her and bury her!" He then roasted it carefully in the hut where the pig food was prepared. And during the

His opposite was a giant, brutal, unsociable guy; he had been a proxyholder and was serving a sentence for fraud. It was

employed on outside work and managed to seize large quantities of food and smuggle it inside, obviously with the help of corrupt officials about whom he had "intelligence". The head guard, Staude, caught his stage fright and put him under arrest. As he passed by my door, I overheard the guard say, “And the goods will go to the kitchen and be distributed to the community. Then the other shouted, "No, they will be destroyed!" Staude replied wistfully, "Okay, they'll be destroyed." And they were destroyed because some regulation said so. The guy clung to his right and we gave it to him. Later, he tried again to get a nice seat. He was applying for the post of assistant to the intendant. And he achieved his goal. When the steward came one day to my cell, I reproached him about it. He replied, "One more morsel is easily given to a naughty dog," thus revealing a whole system. His name was Jaensch; he wasn't bad, but incredibly primitive. One day he saw some books in my cell and shook his head disapprovingly. “In all my life, I haven't read a single book, whether you believe me or not,” he says. I believed him. Formerly, he had administered the batonnade. In the shed behind the kitchen, you could still see the leather-covered easel to which the prisoner was tied, dressed only in thin canvas trousers. The doctor supervised the operation and if the offender fainted, they doused him with cold water and continued. For each hit, the steward received a penny of the prisoner's savings; and since thirty strokes were received for the slightest infraction, the intendant had a good source of additional income. Batonnade was not abolished in Prussia until 1908, and it seems that the movement started precisely from Striegau. For the punishment was administered in the courtyard behind the kitchen, and this courtyard adjoined the building where the

officials and their families. Naturally, the delinquents howled, and one day the steward's wife begged her husband not to do this job any more. The steward did not want to give up such a lucrative business, but the wife threatened to refuse the fulfillment of marital duties. The intendant replaced himself, but, in collusion with his wife, the wives of the other functionaries confronted their husbands with the same alternative. The aaire t a lot of noise and resulted in the abolition of the batonnade. I believe that in England it is still in force. Of course, we were still beating in the remand center. But no one ever touched me. If one of the officials couldn't smile at a prisoner, he would tell his aides who would do anything for a pipe of tobacco. The official was suddenly indispensable elsewhere and the aides took advantage of the opportunity. Each time I heard of such a story, I reported it to head warden Staude who investigated. But usually, she didn't give anything, because the officials didn't know anything and the testimonies of the prisoners among themselves were not admitted. One New Year's Eve, we heard fierce screams in the corridors, strange banging and muffled exclamations from the guards. In such a case, the whole house revolted. Everyone in the cells got up, started screaming and pounding on the door with the stepladder. If five hundred prisoners expressed their rage, despair and indignation in this way, the whole house would shake and the infernal noise could be heard in town. So that day. But in the middle of the crash, the door of my cell opened and Staude entered. I rushed at him, exclaiming: “Someone is beaten! The guard said calmly, "Come!" He led me to the underground corridors

where the dungeons and the cells of the madmen were located. The latter were absolutely bare but abundantly padded. Staude opened the first door and looked at me. There was a prisoner, without chains, who kept jumping up and down screaming. Sometimes he jumped almost a meter, like a fish, and fell back screaming. The guard also glanced at me in the other cells: everywhere the same sight. "It's the carpenters," says Staude. “They stole lacquer-cut alcohol from the workshop and made themselves an end-of-year grog with the sugar they had saved up. Here are the sequels. The doctor will be arriving any moment. Then he closed the door, gave me a reproachful look and said, "And you always claim that people are beaten here!" »

Each prisoner evidently protested his innocence. For in the mind of the criminal, the measure of the penalty is in grotesque disagreement with the duration of his act. Its calculation is simple: for an act of two minutes, a sentence of several years! He understands this incongruity with difficulty. Over the years, I had become very skeptical when someone assured me that I was innocent. For a time, I was an "assistant" in the library. It was sad, this library. It was made up of a pile of old volumes that had completely peeled off and a few old journals. Striegau was a Catholic institution and the library felt that way; it included pious treatises, which no one wanted to read, and stories of high moral quality. Every day I filled a basket and went from cell to cell to exchange books. I also entered workshop number one, where the prisoners who had a long sentence to serve were mostly found. It was a particularly well-guarded room where they made

brushes. During the work, it was allowed to talk; when I entered, a certain Trautmann was saying that he was quite innocent. He was convicted of murder. I couldn't see him, he was a rough and quarrelsome guy. As I left, I said, “In this room there are a hundred men, and a hundred men claim to be innocent. I'm willing to admit it for ninety-nine of you, but certainly not for Trautmann. Trautmann leapt from his seat and chased after me, brandishing his stool. I just had time to take refuge behind the gate that the guard opened for me. A few weeks later, however, Trautmann was suddenly released. He was truly innocent. He was originally from Münsterberg in Silesia, where he had worked as a butcher's boy. He had dated a young girl who was found one day with her throat slit. In such a case, all butchers tremble, because the experts claim with apodictic certainty that only a butcher knows how to cut in this particular way. Trautmann was arrested and had no alibi. On his jacket, we found the girl's hair. He denied it from the start and defended himself by saying that blood should be found on his suit. He insisted on the bloodstains that we hadn't found. His reputation was bad. Nothing happened, he was condemned to death; as a measure of grace, his sentence was commuted to hard labor for life. He had been imprisoned for twelve years, when a vagrant asked for alms from the gardener Denke, whose house was located on the outskirts of Münsterberg. This Denke was a respected man and his rhubarb, which was particularly good, was much appreciated by the housewives of the town. Denke asked the wanderer to write a letter for him because he had an injured finger. The tramp sat down and Denke began to dictate to him. But he was dictating such curious things that the tramp turned round laughing.

Denke stood behind him, brandishing an axe. He was about to shoot her. The tramp jumped up, knocked Denke down and ran to the police station where he told what had happened. But, to begin with, the police put him in the shade. To accuse a man so honest and considered as this Mr. Denke who always carried the banner in processions! As the tramp insisted, the police entered Denke's house and found him hanging in the attic. She found other things as well: whole barrels of human flesh, suspenders made of human skin—and the good rhubarb was fattened with human blood. And a diary was found where Denke had carefully noted down all the murders he had committed over the past eighteen years. With that of Haarmann at Hanover, the Denke case was one of the most famous of its time22. In his diary, the murder of this girl was also recorded. Trautmann was released. He obtained forty thousand marks and a post at the slaughterhouses of Beuthen. He was very happy. Desalinated old prisoners told me that justice was not doing well in our country. The penalties would vary from region to region. They told me that in big cities like Berlin and Hamburg, very light penalties were always imposed, while in the countryside and in small towns, they were much harsher. Catholic areas were less popular with criminals than Protestant areas. It was the same for the dierent central houses. Striegau was famous for its good food, while Lichtenburg in Saxony was feared for its small portions. Lichtenburg happened to be a Protestant house and Striegau a Catholic one. One day, about twenty inmates of Lichtenburg declared that after serious intimate struggles, they had decided to convert to Catholicism. The Weimar Republic was very meticulous about these things. The twenty men

Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

were transferred to Striegau where our chaplain taught them catechism. He took great pains and spent a lot of time properly resolving the always very delicate questions of conscience of his new flock. He wanted to make a solemn feast of collective conversion. When the time came, he decorated the chapel; the choir met very often during working hours—which greatly annoyed the labor inspector—to learn new hymns; the archpriest was invited and high ecclesiastical dignitaries from Breslau were to take part in the ceremony. The day before, the pious Lichtenburgers, after a final examination of conscience, asked for an interview with the chaplain and declared that the dogma of transubstantiation had not convinced them, that the Protestants also gave wine and that they preferred to preserve the faith of their childhood. In Striegau, the food was good in eet, but the discipline was very harsh, much more unpleasant than in Lichtenburg. And so they returned to Lichtenburg, bellies well rounded. The food was really good in Striegau. The Bursar went to great lengths. It goes without saying that we mostly ate soups. Even today, I remember the order of the menus: Monday, oatmeal soup; Tuesday, the ageolets; Wednesday, rice; Thursday, noodles; Friday, a feast: boiled apples and cod; Saturday, soup made from all the leftovers from the week; and Sunday, either boiled potatoes with a real piece of meat, or pea soup with bacon. In the evening there was a semolina or flour soup or a piece of bread with a herring or a slice of blood sausage that smelled like rubber and that you could stretch out like chewing gum. What was serious was obviously the morning coffee, a terrible brown liquid with a piece of dry bread. I believe the food was strongly

cut with soda. It probably had to. But I think the sexual problem, as it arises in prisons, is exaggerated. Of course, many of the inmates modeled obscene figures out of bread, and in the workshops filthy words were common. But it is really allowed to think that it comes rather from a crude and dirty imagination than from a real sexual distress. I was talking about it one day with Plaas who said that the real problem of detention began only where the sexual question was overcome. This is certainly correct. It is very typical that these excesses of the imagination occur only in community, most often in three-person cells, so to speak never in secret.

“I am a fanatic of the individual cell. It was prescribed that after three years of this regime, the prisoner should no longer be left alone against his will. After three years, I asked to be left alone. If the joint detention with all the loathsome bickering was bad enough, the threesome cell was worse. Only psychopaths, the hardest race of men, support the common life of three with all the intimacies that it entails. The three-way cells were always the focus of all the trouble. Alone in the cell, I felt good. The stripping of the four walls precisely allowed me to hold on. A few had settled down as comfortably as their limited means permitted, creating the illusion of a poor bourgeois home. I didn't do that; I didn't want to forget that I was in prison. I proposed from the beginning to consider the cell as a kind of battlefield, to oppose the threat of emptiness with a personal psychic and spiritual construction. Later I wrote these things, but it obviously represented the solution of my particular case which cannot be generally valid. Real prison life has

been described by Hans Fallada in hisPrisoner's novel. There is no better book on life in prison. I've always wanted to write down all the prison stories one day. The inmates told me much more than any magistrate will ever learn. And a prison is still a microcosm. But I hesitate to publish such things today when so many men go to prison, when severe verdicts strike everywhere; I wouldn't like to add to the frequent impression that life in prison is basically quite amusing. My way of seeing things in the past is perhaps all the same too special. As for the political events of the time, I especially remember the more or less curious or funny stories. The spirit of such an establishment is almost always determined by the director. When I first saw the warden of Striegau Prison, Mr. Dronsch, I was scared. I thought I felt that without a doubt this man must be my enemy. He was short and fat with a red face and a neck so fat he could barely turn his head. He wore very small steel glasses with very thick lenses; when he appeared in the house, he was dressed in a black coat, with a velvet collar, which his belly forbade him to button. He wore a black bowler hat. A new prisoner, an impertinent Berliner, said to him the day he saw him for the first time: “What, you want to be the warden? You look like a walking "krapfen"! Dronsch immediately put him under arrest. But the comparison was fair enough. However, this itinerant "krapfen" had not fallen from the last rain. Dronsch was a Pomeranian peasant son. His father's farm was located on the Baltic coast and Dronsch was mainly concerned with planting the dunes. He gained a certain reputation there and the State granted him the plantations of the Hela peninsula near Danzig, where

mainly employed prisoners. In this way, he entered the prison service and became a labor inspector. The house of Rendsburg in SchleswigHolstein had many sailors among the prisoners, particularly violent guys who soon broke discipline. Dronsch was sent to them, who put things back in place. I believe that, subsequently, he was the only prison director who was not a lawyer. I never heard him scream. With all the comical features of his appearance, he had an inimitable way of giving an order and, as a sign of conclusion, of slamming the bowler hat down on his big head. I vexed him as best I could. I protested against everything, I wrote one complaint after another and I constantly incited the other prisoners against him. Without emotion and ruthlessly, he proclaimed: "I punish you with eight days of rigorous arrest..." And so on. But one day, it was during my third year of detention and I had just come out of arrest, he came to my cell. He never came alone, he was always accompanied by the head guard. He asked, "So, have you had enough now?" I said, "Far from it, Headmaster!" Don't think you can check me! He said, “Good! turned and walked away. Mr Director! Don't think you can check me! He said, “Good! turned and walked away. Mr Director! Don't think you can check me! He said, “Good! turned and walked away. But two hours later he came back. He said, “I have reviewed your file once again. I don't believe you are being dishonest. — "I thank you, Monsieur le Directeur!" " I said. He replied, “Leave your cynicism. I want to make a trial with you which I have not yet made with any prisoner. I can watch you! You know I can tear you down. You stir up the house. But I believe you have a sense of honor. I offer you this: Give me your word of honor that you will do nothing more against the discipline of the prison, and I will grant you all the freedoms that it is in my power to give you. For you he

There will then be only one closed door in this house: the gate! I was stunned. But I couldn't help noticing, "Yes, it's easy to give a naughty dog one more morsel!" He gave me one of those downside looks I hated. He says, “Think that the outside world has also changed. Your political orientation no longer stands a chance. But perhaps you will be freed by the ordinary way. I will only be able to subscribe to your petition for pardon if I am truly convinced that I have not mistaken your sense of honor. Think about it, I'll be back in a week. He slapped the melon on the head and walked away.

Eight days later he returned. I said: “Mr. Director, there is one thing I cannot promise you: that is not to smoke. Smoking was strictly forbidden, but tobacco seems to be as indispensable to man as speech. It was impossible to enforce this prohibition. Everyone could get tobacco; the civil servants paid in tobacco for sewing thread, fabrics and other products which the prisoners could easily save during work. The salaries of the employees were so minimal that they were always tempted by these little jitters. Of course, the director knew. He started laughing. It was the first time I had seen him laugh. He said, “Good; if you are caught smoking, I punish you as usual. But this will not be included in your file and will not change our agreements in any way! He held out his hand and I gave him mine. He said, “Staude, that door remains open. The prisoner has free access everywhere, except to the gate; he can have light as long as he wants, he will receive food from the infirmary and can write as often as he wants. He can choose his work and is no longer bound by his standard. Then he went away and the door remained open. He can choose his work and is no longer bound by his standard. Then he went away and the door remained open. He can choose his work and is no longer bound by his standard. Then he went away and the door remained open.

It was unheard of. The house had never seen this before. Later, political detainees were to obtain the same favors. But at that time, there were no “politics” yet and according to the verdict, I was a common criminal. It goes without saying that I kept my commitments. I was, so to speak, free inside the house. I s immediately come books, whole cases of books. I wrote to everyone that I knew I had a good library. To the spite of the intendant, I organized a veritable postal service of books; boxes came and went. I read all the publications of the General Staff on the Great War, the publications of Foreign Affairs, I read all of Jean-Paul, Dickens, Raabe, Stifter, Dostoïewski, Thackeray and, of course, all the writings of Walther Rathenau , I read and read. And then I was lucky enough to be able to take my revenge. Exchanging books in a cell for three, I heard a prisoner, seated just behind the small curtain which hid the toilet, telling a story to his two companions. He was in the process of ending it with the phrase: "It's lucky that the Grolmannstrasse area has never been discovered!" “Aaire” meant “criminal act”. I no longer thought of that sentence. The prisoners tell each other a lot of things. But one day Staude told me that the director was involved in a very unpleasant affair. A detainee had managed to reconnect with his former accomplices. His letters had been smuggled out by an official. During the proceedings against him, it was discovered that the letters were written on household paper. The director had declared under oath that this paper could not leave his office where he kept it locked. It therefore had to come from another department. Finally, a prisoner had denounced the director, accusing him of perjury, because he was able to

to prove that he himself had been able to steal this paper from the director's office. The affair was very embarrassing for Dronsch. When Staude told me the snitch's name, I knew I might be able to help; with my case of books, I went to this cell at three. "Did you report the director?" " - "Yes, it concerns you? " - " A lot. The director is a good guy and, if he is transferred, we are in great danger of falling on an asshole. You just want to have your personal little revenge. You will withdraw this denunciation immediately! " - " I do not think about it. " - " Good. In that case, I only say one word to you: Grolmannstrasse! You understood ? Grolmannstraße! And I went away. Shortly after, Staude came back to see me and asked, "How did you do it?" The guy really withdrew his denunciation! It goes without saying that I am silent. I don't even know today what could have happened at Grolmannstrasse. On June 4 of each year, a marching band sounded a few marches in memory of the Battle of Hohenfriedberg, which had taken place in 1745 near the town. It was the only music I heard all those years. In a letter home, I wrote that, without having an organ for music, I missed her very much. For years, I wrote, I had heard only the disgusting noises of the house: the clanking of keys, the dull thud of hooves, the metallic sound of dragging buckets, the slamming of cell doors, the tinkling sour of the bell calling to work and the heavy monotonous trampling of the promenade. The same evening, I was called to the director after curfew. It always meant something. The director was in his office, poring over files. I noticed that the door to her apartment was open. The manager said he had a question for me and asked me to take a seat

waiting for him to finish. This was extraordinary, because no prisoner had the right to be seated in the presence of the warden. So I sat down in a chair and enjoyed the feeling. Dronsch, a green visor on his forehead, once again dove into his papers. Suddenly, I heard a small noise in his apartment, whispers, and then music, a piano and a violin. For over an hour I listened to Mozart sonatas. I guess the director's wife and son were the interpreters. When the music died down, the door closed and the director looked up, saying, "Hey, you're still here!" He asked me a trivial question and I was able to return to my cell. “Good old Dronsch! For the Giessen trial, Weidemann, the prosecutor, had brought my disciplinary file from Striegau. He was not famous and Weidemann quoted Dronsch to testify to my recalcitrant character. And Dronsch testified. When he was done, Weidemann looked very unhappy. The public was agitated, handkerchiefs appeared. Myself, I had tears in my eyes, so touched I had been by Dronsch and by the noble picture he had painted of my character. Good old Dronsch! I would love to know what happened to him. I don't think he's still in service, he was a convinced socialist. We were approaching Striegau. I say : — My knowledge of Striegau resembles that of the prince Georgian inTartarin of Tarascon. He lived in Tarascon for four years, but he only knew a very small area of the town; this one, however, he knew well. This was what he saw from his cell. I was taken to Striegau in a closed car and left the same way. » Attention, we are there! Here is the gasworks. The bell of the gasometer protruded from the wall. Here is the wall! Too late ! Too bad, we

didn't see much. "Let's go to Graul's hotel!" Very early in my detention, the warden entered my cell one day, wearing a fuchsia with countless flowers. Dronsch asked me if I knew a certain Graul, from Striegau. I had never heard the name. Mr. Graul, owner of the hotel of the same name, sent me these owers. They had been accepted at the gate by mistake; usually, all these things were refused. The director made an exception. I put the pot on my windowsill, but one day the door was closed a little abruptly and all the flowers fell at once. The gasworks directly next to the wall did not tolerate owers. But I haven't forgotten Graul's name. There was someone in This town who was thinking of me! Here is the street—over there—yes, that must be the hotel!

We stopped. It was a modest old house. We descended and entered a dark and melancholy room. A tall man with very light blond hair walked towards us. I asked to see M. Graul. It was him. I introduced myself. Mr. Graul looked very excited. He rushed into another room, apparently reserved for choice guests, and promptly returned, followed by a number of gentlemen sporting broad smiles and all raising their hands in the Hitler salute. I returned the salute and watched Ille on the sly. She got off very well, with enthusiasm and feeling, as if, in all her life, she had never greeted in any other way. We gathered around a table and Mr. Graul related. He had been one of the first National Socialists in the small town. At first it had been very difficult. Only the first party members came to his hotel. When they learned that I was going to be incarcerated in Striegau, they were very moved. It was as if suddenly an illustrious guest was staying within their walls. Several

On several occasions, they sent me owers, parcels of food. Implacable, Dronsch refused everything. They had employees convey greetings to me, they were never conveyed. Now they shook my hand and drank to my health. In a moment of inattention, Ille said to me in a low voice: - You're not nice to make fun of these good people! You do not don't you see how sincere their joy is? Although I was a little ashamed, I couldn't help it. Nor does he, for the rest. I s the curious experience of seeing the prison from the outside, with the eyes of this small town. All the officials I asked about because I had fond memories of them suddenly had very different faces. They were political adversaries. I asked about Dronsch. He had been retired soon after my departure. He had a terrible death. In an automobile accident he lost both legs and death was long in coming. His wife died with him. I had a drink in his honor and asked these gentlemen to do the same. They complied, although Dronsch had been a socialist. The prison had been decommissioned in 1932. It was really too old. Mr Graul says: — The center parties staged a coup and the buildings were returned to the Church. We weren't in power yet. We would have liked to install the collection there. "What a laudable idea," I said. I added that I would have liked to visit my dear old prison once more. Mr. Graul frowned and said regretfully: “That won't be possible. There is now a race of monks, Oblates, they call themselves. We would all have liked to visit, but they

don't let anyone in, especially not us old party fighters. - How ? I asked. Now you all have positions important! 'Of course,' said Mr. Graul, 'I'm a municipal councilor. "Then," I said, "why would you have been victorious?" And Ille supported me vigorously. "Why would we have fought for fourteen years?" "Call them then," I suggested. Say that a writer of Berlin, while visiting the works of art in Silesia, heard that there were old Romanesque heads in the convent and that he would like to see them. M. Graul went to telephone. In the corridor downstairs that led to the

arrest cells, two heads dating from around 1100 were carved into the rock. I remembered it well. - Heard ! cried M. Graul, returning. It lasted so long because — his whole head blushed, you could see the color through his almost white hair — because I asked if my wife could come with us. She would so love to see that. He neither accepted; one of them will be waiting for us at the gate to lead us. I spoke to the superior himself and called him “holy father”. I don't know if that was fair. Everyone started laughing. He says: — The Oblates are a lay congregation, therefore brothers. But we will say "my father" to our guide, it will certainly please him. 'I,' I said, 'will call him 'reverend father'. Mr. Graul's wife arrived and we left. Above the gate the wordsO Mariawere carved into the wall. I showed them to Ille. The original project had planned a large church, but

the invasion of the Mongols had stopped the work. Instead of being finished, the building had been transformed into a Benedictine convent and consecrated to Saint Hedwig. After secularization, it was transformed into a prison. The walls, especially those of the central building, where I had spent many years, were extraordinarily thick, veritable mountains of stone into which the cells and work rooms had been dug. The other constructions were all added later. A lame brother, still very young, dressed in black, came to meet us and immediately led us up a narrow stone staircase to the concierge's lodge. She had hardly changed. I immediately made competent remarks on an old wooden carving, the statue of a saint, which had once stood beside the altar in the chapel and which now adorned a ledge in the box. As he opened the door to the old administration corridor, the brother told the story of the convent. He was expressing his concern that we would be very disappointed with the works of art. But for centuries, criminals had struggled there; he does not say whether by "criminals" they meant the powers of the state or their victims. Yes, these were the hallways I knew—and I immediately smelled the terrible smell of dust, sweat, bedbugs, and excrement. I stopped, struck. Here I had waited, face turned to the wall, in front of the door to the director's office; and there was the gate separating the administration from the prison itself, but now this gate was open. I followed the brother and didn't dare turn back towards Ille, whose footsteps I heard behind me. It seemed to me that I had again to drag my feet which had once worn heavy studded shoes or coarse clogs. We entered the courtyard. that she was small,

this court which I had known filled with a gray animation! Timidly, I looked around me. He approached me. Suddenly, I no longer dared to speak aloud, no one dared to, except the brother who, carefree, gave his explanations. I felt the row of lower windows of the central building with my gaze, here is the window of my cell, half buried in the ground, always provided long and wide with large iron bars, and behind the bars, there was always a thick iron l-shaped beam, and behind, the opaque glass. I nodded to this window, and Ille understood. Our guide explained that everything had remained in the state in which his order had found it. Only the chapel and the prison had been fitted out. The walls between the cells had been partly removed and the windows enlarged so that classrooms had been obtained, because the brothers belonged to the interior mission. The wall was still big, gray and imposing. The bell of the gasometer rose above it, as did a few trees that I hadn't seen before; they had grown since then. My throat tightened. How small, so unspeakably small and poor. This tiny yard, these gray walls with the little windows. Everything was as I remembered it, and yet different, so miserable, so terribly oppressive, full of shadows, dark shadows. I looked up at the sky, but the piece I saw was really blue. I could hear Ille's rapid breathing next to me. I dared not look at her. And then I saw the almond tree. He was right in front of the staircase leading to the central building. How many times had I passed in front of this almond tree! I had told Ille how beautiful this tree was in the spring when one morning it was covered with pink moss. There it was, that tree, and it was blossoming; he had skinny, brave little owers. I stared at him in bewilderment and Ille grabbed a branch and

caressed. It was intolerable. I took a few steps and the brother looked at me in a strange way. Mr. Graul and his wife did not move. They were only whispering. And I heard Ille say in a loud voice full of anger: "What's that tune?" It is impossible to breathe! The brother says in a sorry tone: — Yes, it's the gasworks. It's always the same smell. Sometimes it's untenable. He said in a harsh voice: “Prisoners walking around here must have breathed this air, day after day, for years, just that air! "Yes, the bandits!" said the brother. Quickly, I asked: "Aren't we going to visit that great building?" "We don't use it," said the brother. We left it as it is was. I'm just going to show you the chapel. We climbed the spiral staircase which the prisoners liked very much because it was possible to talk and make exchanges there. At the start of my detention, I had been to the chapel a few times. How small she was! The brother said that it had been enlarged and he showed me the ceiling where some pale frescoes had been unearthed; with pride, he also showed an altarpiece in striking colors, the work of a contemporary colleague. I paid him a lot of compliments and very ostentatiously slipped a big bill into the trunk, which was also new. Then I wanted to see the Romanesque heads. The brother hesitated, saying that it was very dark downstairs and that one never entered that part of the house where everything had remained as in the time of the bandits. But I insisted on my Romanesque heads and finally, we crossed the sonorous corridors, and, with a creak, one gate after another opened.

in front of us.

And I was seized with emotion. It was more terrible than I imagined. A force that I had thought had been dominated for a long time grabbed hold of me. The hallways were dark and damp. The dirty little tin containers were always hung under the blind windows where they were to collect the water falling from the gutters. We always threw our diorme cigarettes in there when a guard threatened to surprise us. I picked up one of the containers and peered into it. A dirty, wet mass stuck to the bottom, and there was ash. The flagstones, reddish brown, had been dug by the shuffling feet of generations of prisoners. In the past, had the corridors really been so low, so scary, so dead? This is the corridor leading to the dungeons. Here are the two Roman heads. Dark and menacing, they emerged from the rock. The brother lit a candle, and in that flickering light we gazed at the moist, shiny, roughly carved heads. Cold and rigid, they guarded access to the dungeons. He had approached one of the cells and had pushed back the small counter. She took a step back. The brother had noticed it. He says : "That's where we put the bad guys." There is quite black, and inside there is still a cage where they were locked up with water and bread. Then, with an energetic step, he continued on his way.

We approached the cell where I had lived. I looked for the door with my eyes. It must have been easy to find, I had double locks! There ! I wave to Ille and she says in her clear, sonorous voice: “Oh, my dear Reverend Father! I would so love to see one of these cells.

She stopped in front of mine. The brother gave him a look as strange as the one he had given me in the yard. He muttered something like "criminals" and shook his head slightly as if he didn't think highly of such thrill-seeking women, but he opened the door. He opened by slamming the locks. My ears received a small painful shock, it was the familiar noise. We entered. It was my cell, exactly as I had left it. It was there that I had lived for five years. I no longer understood myself. How young I must have been and my strength intact! I wouldn't be able to live here any longer, I wouldn't be able to spend five years here, I would perish as many had perished. It was terrible, much more terrible than I had imagined. This window, this tiny window, in front of which one day a fuchsia had suddenly lost all its flowers! The bed was folded up against the ugly whitewashed wall. When it was folded down, I had just enough room to stand. The table was also folded, that tiny table where my books had once been piled up. Next to the disgusting spittoon which I never used and which I still had to clean every morning in disgust, there was the stepladder. And the brown earthen bucket still stank. The walls, the ceiling, threatened to crush us. It was a hole, a foul, dark hole, filled with bad thoughts. If I closed my eyes, the shadows would assail me. It was nothing. The cell was exactly as I knew it. A quite ordinary cell, as there are many, where men spend long years of their lives. It was nothing. It was rough. He was crying. Tears were streaming down her face. Mr. Graul was crying and Mrs. Graul was hiding her figure in her hands. I looked for the place where I had incised a calendar. Although the wall had

probably been whitewashed, it was clearly distinguishable. And under the calendar, I had drawn a swastika. November 9, 1923. I turned around and left.

Past the gate, the sun enveloped us all at once. I say to Ille: “I can't wait to get back to my work. We left. We set out into the resplendent spring of the year 1939, the year which promised to be so incomparably beautiful.

1.Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, a conservative newspaper, defending, in most cases, the ideas of theDeutsche Volkspartei, started by Doctor Stresemann.

2. Conservative-leaning literary critic, author of aHistory of German Literature, very controversial. 3. Author ofGods, Tombs, Scholars, history of archaeological discoveries. 4. SA: at the beginning of National Socialism,Sport Abteilung;then, until 1934,Sturm Abteilung;after June 30, 1934,Sicherheits-Abteilung. 5. Jewish name.

6. One of the leaders of the Free Corps Organizations which fought against Poland after the end of the First World War. 7. Rathenau Assassins. 8. Organization Consul, one of the best known organizations, grouping former members of the Freikorps. 9. Participated in the struggle of the Freikorps. Became, under Hitler, Statthalter of Saxony. Appointed ambassador to Romania, he committed suicide when the Red Army entered Bucharest.

10. Organization of Veterans of the First World War, politically right-wing. 11. President of the Council, Social Democrat, of Prussia. Was removed from power by von Papen when he became Reich Chancellor. Died in emigration.

12. Kirchhof: cemetery (N. d. T.). 13. Berlin's most luxurious hotel. 14. Head of German counterintelligence, one of the conspirators of July 20, 1944. Was executed by Hitler. 15. Minister of War, Social Democrat, who put down the Spartacist revolt. Participated in the resistance against Hitler. Died after the war.

16. After Hitler's accession, the quests organized by the National Socialist Party were extremely frequent and often paid the price for Berlin humor. 17. Author of several war books, of extreme right tendencies. 18. Was at the same time editor at theVossische Zeitung(Democratic newspaper) and editor of the journalDie Tat, of nationalist tendency. Was the theoretician of a nationalism with a socialist tendency, and was considered the inspiration for the policy of General von Schleicher, last Chancellor of the Weimar Republic. 19. Member of the Center Party, supporter of the signing of the Treaty of Versailles. Was assassinated by nationalists. 20. heroes ofThe Bandits, by Schiller.

21. Berlin Democratic Journal. 22. Two famous criminal cases in Germany, which make as much noise as the Landru affair in France.

B. SECONDARY AND HIGHER EDUCATION

B. SECONDARY EDUCATION AND HIGHER

see Attachment.

ad B: Secondary and higher education.

At Easter of the year 1909, aged six and a half, I was admitted to the model school in Frankfurt am Main. I believe that at that time already, the wheels of German education were greased with enough social oil to allow everyone, for quite reasonable tuition fees, to send their children there. I don't think it was very easy for my father to pay these fees. But I had to “acquire a solid knowledge”, to be later “up to the demands of life” and to “practice an honest profession”. My admission to the model school was certainly not due to my father's social rank, for he had just been transferred from Kiel to Frankfurt, where he was the youngest commissioner of the criminal police and therefore an absolutely unknown civil servant. No one except him

My father owed his great professional successes to an exceptional assiduity, an all-consuming ambition and an almost pedantic correctness; I suppose he did it consciously. But what distinguished him above all was his excellent memory. This memory is the only thing I inherited from him. It is very dicult to issue armaments about one's own qualities. However, I think I can say without hesitation that my memory is excellent. I don't know if an excellent memory constitutes at the same time an excellent quality. It is certain that it paralyzes the flight of the imagination without entirely supplying it. However, it opens the possibility of control and reinforces the sense of reality. It makes it possible to prove an armament and resembles well-stocked archives from which the capacity of memory can extract the desired "act" at any time, whether it consists of images or words, figures or

scenes, lived events or spiritual or psychic upheavals. Starting school is undoubtedly a significant date, not only from the point of view of the adult, but also from that of the child. Here begins the domain of the spirit; each step forward must necessarily bring the new, the unknown, open perspectives, provide knowledge, make necessities and goals understood. The childish soul is caught in light laces that hurt it deeply and these first emotions are forever inscribed in its memory. From the first day, my mother had put a leather strap around my neck to which was attached a small raffia basket, intended to receive a slice of bread and an apple every morning. I was very proud, for this little basket seemed to me to be the badge of a new dignity; but when I realized that no other child had a similar object, the desire not to distinguish myself, instinctive in all little beings, awoke in me. The first day therefore ended in tears and with a series of worries since, with an obstinacy incomprehensible to my mother, I refused to carry the little basket in the future. The headmaster of the model school was called Mr. Walter. He was small and obese; his baldness was surrounded by a few white bumps. A day, he gathered in the middle of the course the teaching staff and the students in the village hall, to announce, with joyful emotion, that our magnificent and beloved Emperor was once again a grandfather. “Now,” he cried, “the duration of our dynasty era is assured for generations! The religion teacher was called Fries. I admired her very much because her pince-nez was attached to her left ear by a small gold chain. Among the students in my class there was one called Werner Richards who wore pants. I admired her very much because her pince-nez was attached to her left ear by a small gold chain. Among the students in my class there was one called Werner Richards who wore pants. I admired her very much because her pince-nez was attached to her left ear by a small gold chain. Among the students in my class there was one called Werner Richards who wore pants.

That's all. It is no use rummaging through the drawers of my memory: that's all. I went to class at the model school for three heavy decision-making years, and that was it. This does not mean that I do not remember meetings and events that took place at the same time. Much earlier things are still fresh in my memory. A host of pre-school details, starting with Rose in Hohenzollern Park in Kiel and the beach company in Laboe, spare me any embarrassment when I try to remember. I remember the train journey from Kiel to Frankfurt, not forgetting a short stop in Hamburg, when my father was transferred. We had eaten sausages with potato salad in the dining car; I almost felt bad when the train tilted sharply in a bend taken at excessive speed. Under the unbearable jokes of my brother Bruno, my eldest by two years, my father, in a very bad mood, had to lead me through the swaying of the corridors and the souets to the toilets of the train. Meanwhile, my mother, who remained in the compartment, held my brother Horst, my junior by two years, on her knees; very upright, she swayed slightly and her gaze was gentle when she explained to the other travelers with her maternal pride and her well-rolling rrrs: “This boy doesn't eat, he devours! On the first evening, in Moltke-Allee, in front of our new flat, my brother and I got into a violent fight with the other boys in the alley because we were still wearing our oilcloth Kiel hats and these coies made the boys of the home trade metropolis laugh. On this occasion my brother lost the upper quarter of his left ear; seeing us come home,

possession of our lumpy coies, my mother said to us: "It's a problem! » My first encounter with alcohol is just as unforgettable. I had climbed on one of the big piles of snow with blackish crusts that had been piled up in front of our house. Arrived at the top, I sank immediately and disappeared completely. I was only pulled out by passers-by after I had shouted for a long time. My mother immediately put me to bed and gave me a drink from a square bottle whose label showed a trained bear; my mother called this strong and aromatic liquid “Gilka”. This bottle was at the top left in the cupboard of the cozy and often still, it quenched my thirst in secret. At the back of the yard lived a valet. I was often found in his stable especially when his boy was burning the innumerable flies and mosquitoes on the dirty ceiling and the blind windows with a swab dipped in alcohol and fixed on a long pole. This carrier also had a fruit press to make a drink particularly popular in Frankfurt, "apple wine". I will never forget the mountains of apples which, in autumn, piled up in the storehouse of the courtyard, any more than the sour and musty smell of the fruits which were fermenting. On the street side, a bookbinder named Burkhardt had set up shop and workshop. I spent hours at his house, squatting on the floor, playing with the waste paper; or else I watched, holding back my sweat, how he mixed different liquids in a flat, black tub before carefully dipping the covers of the books into this opalizing mass to give them the ornaments, always in clear colors, which corresponded to the taste of the book. era. Mr. Burkhardt was a man of progress. He didn't just own a phonograph with a big funnel that pulled the

music on shiny brown rolls, he also played with a bass drum mounted on long spider legs, a camera he used to take portraits for a modest fee. He placed me on a chair in front of a canvas showing a sailboat en route to distant countries. Next to me he put a potted palm tree, very dusty, then disappeared behind a large black sheet. In a sudden manifestation of my aesthetic sense, I applied myself, despite my mother's protests, to remove the white edge of my woolen boxer shorts which showed between the panties and the stockings. I also remember the photograph: in front of a splendid background, a dreamy fat boy, dressed in a corduroy suit, sticks his round finger into the opening of his black stocking. Obviously, I wanted to become a bookbinder and even when we had long since moved to the Rothschildallee, in a "good" part of the city, I often ran to Mr. Burkhardt, driven by nostalgia for his studio. When the way back seemed too painful to me, I took the tram. As the receiver approached, I desperately reached into my empty pockets only to burst into tears as I declared that I had lost my pennies. There was always, yes, always, some charitable lady who paid for me. I desperately searched in my empty pockets to burst into tears by declaring that I had lost my pennies. There was always, yes, always, some charitable lady who paid for me. I desperately searched in my empty pockets to burst into tears by declaring that I had lost my pennies. There was always, yes, always, some charitable lady who paid for me.

I also remember all the events that took place parallel to the school. I could describe every house on the Allée Rothschild at the time, but I don't know which street the model school was on. I can think of the names of all the kids in the neighborhood, but apart from Werner Richards, whom I remember only because of his fancy pants, I don't remember any of my classmates. I could draw the pile of sand in the square de l'Allée, under the red beeches and the chestnut trees, with

around, the quadrant of the benches. I couldn't say whether the courtyard of the model school was round or square. Psychologists may deduce from this that a reaction of my memory is repressing all these memories; but for this to be so, school would have had to be disagreeable to me, even disgusting to me, and nothing permits this supposition. My report cards were satisfactory, even in conduct and application. Any reluctance would surely have left traces in my memory. The model school is simply an empty spot, recorded by the blind area of the eye. At Easter 1912, I entered the Lessing High School in Frankfurt am Main. The gray building with the appearance of a castle, but of fairly recent construction, bore above the entrance this motto carved in stone:Non scholae sed vitae discimus.The manager was Mr. Neubert, a thin, short man with tanned skin, sharp features and short graying hair. The head teacher was called Ankel. He too was rather short and skinny, with abundant white hair and a half-blonde, half-white mustache. He always wore a gray suit and yellow socks that fell over his shoes. He was teaching Latin where I must have been particularly bad, because one day I forged the signature that my mother had to put on the Latin theme decorated with a lot of red ink. This fact earned me, just during recess, a gesture from my mother applied in the presence of all the teachers and the pupils screaming with pleasure; it also earned me my father's decision to send me to the cadet corps.

But my memory retains from the same period the images of rather serious and bloody street fights which took place between the boys of the Rothschildallee and those of the nearby Egenolstrasse.

The Rothschildallee and the Güntersburgallee were well-kept public promenades behind the bushes, trees and sandy paths from which were the apartments of the “good people”. It was here that officials, senior clerks and a few shopkeepers lived in four-storey houses, topped with balconies and red sandstone carvings at the gables. In the little gardens in front of the houses, separated from the driveway by railings, one could see pansies and tulips as well as dwarfs, deer, toads and large mushrooms beside tufa fortresses. In summer, all the balconies, without exception, were protected from the sun by "awnings", striped red and white, and furnished with the splendor of flower boxes. Every year there was a competition for the prettiest balcony; the first prizes consisted of silver medals and a certificate in addition to a commendation in the newspapers. We often won the first prize thanks to a "protege", a gardener by profession, whom my father employed after his release from prison where he had sent him before. The other streets in the vicinity, on the other hand, were inhabited by petty bourgeois and workers. There, there were no balconies, no awnings, no ladies whose complexion couldn't stand the sun; at the blind windows the quilts were spread out in the morning. There were no little gardens adorned with dwarfs and deer, but dark and mysterious carriage entrances. And there were children, scores of children who filled the streets with their cries while the children of the two alleys, much less numerous, were playing quite calm and well behaved in the sand of the square. If during these pre-war years the tensions between social classes really influenced the world of children, their quarrels undoubtedly took place in a more authentic and more chivalrous atmosphere than in the world of adults, according to the testimonies of there

social literature. Moreover, it was not a question of envying or banning piles of sand, on the contrary; we "of the alleys" knew no more ardent desire than to play in the dark porte-cocheres, and we were hardly pushed away. Most of the time, there was no reason to start a war; but in some corner, here or there, it was decided and solemnly brought to the knowledge of the adversary by a delegation decorated in a barbarous fashion. Never has a kid in the driveway been attacked or molested while passing through Egenolstrasse, and vice versa, outside of the pre-fixed wartime hours. But when war was declared, the heaps tangled fiercely, armed with slats, stones, rubber hoses, slingshots and crossbows, so much so that the adults no longer dared to cross the battlefield. Then the baker, whose clientele was recruited from both camps, waited with his boys for the moment when he would have to intervene, and the local pharmacist prepared his case; then no policeman appeared; broken arms, concussions were not uncommon, not to mention bloody noses, ears and knees. The Egenolstrasse still had the upper hand; she felt so strong that she sometimes generously ceded her natural allies from the adjacent streets to her adversaries. no policeman appeared; broken arms, concussions were not uncommon, not to mention bloody noses, ears and knees. The Egenolstrasse still had the upper hand; she felt so strong that she sometimes generously ceded her natural allies from the adjacent streets to her adversaries. no policeman appeared; broken arms, concussions were not uncommon, not to mention bloody noses, ears and knees. The Egenolstrasse still had the upper hand; she felt so strong that she sometimes generously ceded her natural allies from the adjacent streets to her adversaries.

No, I don't remember the school. One would think that I was a rambunctious boy turned much more towards brute force than towards science, But it was not so. According to the testimony of my parents and the whole family, I was a rather calm and shy child; report cards from both schools and the cadet corps agreed that I "participated with satisfactory results and keen interest in teaching", that I remained "without seeking the company of classmates", and later that

I "devoted myself with commendable zeal to serious personal reading." Even at Lessing High School, I was a good student, except in Latin. I certainly didn't aspire to first place, I wasn't a model child, but no doubt I was above average. In the corps of cadets, I always shone in the top ten of my class. But I don't remember anything about the progress that was recorded, nor any spiritual event brought about by the school. I can't help but see it as an abnormal phenomenon. Psychologists will perhaps object that my case should be placed among those of children whose awakening to sexual life can repress spiritual events. Since seeing the first results of modern psychology, I have been able to repress everything except the feeling that psychoanalysis is, to use a harsh word, junk. Before the age of sixteen, I gave a kiss to three young girls: to Erna Weidemeier, who wore a red sweater and was the daughter of a policeman living in Egenolstrasse; to Toni Rathgeber, who had blonde braids down to her thighs and who lived opposite in Allée Rothschild, and to Liselotte Wölbert, a friend of Toni Rathgeber, who later became my first wife. Psychologists, break up! who later became my first wife. Psychologists, break up! who later became my first wife. Psychologists, break up! From the fall of 1913 until the fall of 1917 I was in the preparatory cadet corps in Karlsruhe, Baden-Baden, then until the end of the war in the main cadet corps in Berlin-Lichterfelde. Later, I wrote a book about those years in the cadets (see also the answer to question 118 of this questionnaire). Unfortunately, I cannot attach a copy of my bookCadetsto the questionnaire, for the simple reason that I no longer have a single one. But since approximately 80,000 copies were printed and there is at least one second reader per copy sold, there are surely 160,000 naive and irreproachable witnesses who

can confirm to the Allied Military Government that in this rather voluminous book, devoted to my experiences in the corps of cadets, the education received at school does not take up more than ten pages. This restricted number of pages was in no way intentional or planned in the construction of the book. I endeavored to expose in all the important details the structure of a very Prussian and very logical education. I strongly felt the need for it, because the literature was singularly meager with regard to such a strange pedagogy as that of the corps of cadets, and, when it disappeared, it became even more necessary to fill this gap. But none of the existing books really dealt with school education as such, which nevertheless had to be an integral part of the education of the cadets. The teaching was not classically oriented; it rather resembled that of a modern high school, that is to say, it was oriented towards a practical training which fit logically into the general plan of this institution. The bachelor asked the cadets what he asked of the pupils of the civil establishments, but what was essential for an ordinary pupil was much less so for the cadet. Apart from general education, the cadet was prepared for his trade by character education tending towards a certain type; the Prussian army had well-defined goals. The bachelor asked the cadets what he asked of the pupils of the civil establishments, but what was essential for an ordinary pupil was much less so for the cadet. Apart from general education, the cadet was prepared for his trade by character education tending towards a certain type; the Prussian army had well-defined goals. The bachelor asked the cadets what he asked of the pupils of the civil establishments, but what was essential for an ordinary pupil was much less so for the cadet. Apart from general education, the cadet was prepared for his trade by character education tending towards a certain type; the Prussian army had well-defined goals.

Among the crowd of young people who have passed the threshold of the corps of cadets, there are many who have known glory and honours. However, it would be dicult to cite a single man who shone outside the military field. All my classmates who stayed true to their profession and survived World War II are generals. A considerable percentage of former cadets died in the face of the enemy. And the picture of cadet education would remain incomplete if I only added the percentage

cadets involved in the tragic events of July 20, 1944, was particularly high. The events as they unfolded that day have an almost magical quality. They suddenly bring out the problematic character of all the notions that one might believe to be unshakeable. What appeared behind the curtain that had concealed the events of that day was not so much a moral crisis; this had taken place a long time before. It was indeed the climax of an education crisis. July 20, 1944 marked the end not only of the Prussian army but also of the education of theXIXcentury. It would be pushing open doors to want to prove that the process of the dissolution of education has been going on for a long time already. But, in our country, we persist in believing that the intellectual elite, which has become very small, still owes its influence to him. Thoughtfully moving the artificial owers placed on the desk, very respectable educational advisers meditate with reverence on the crisis in education. The specialized publications constantly complain that more and more students are studying for the sole purpose of earning a living. It is becoming evident everywhere that men who excel in their specialty do not have, moreover, the knowledge which was quite naturally required of every bachelor in theXIXcentury. Those who have a “university education” no longer meet with the esteem and admiration they could expect with certainty a few decades ago. On the contrary, the representatives of the real powers, the captains of the economy, the leaders of the parties, the presidents of the professional associations rather show contempt vis-à-vis beautiful minds, instead of making use of them. It therefore takes a great deal of courage to grant

education a concrete force vis-à-vis the things and movements of our time and to preach its postulates either from the top of the pulpit or from the editorial tables of those periodicals which, in striving to maintain the level, seem sterile from the fifth issue. The individual, neglected by the school, remaining outside the cultural currents, accidentally and on his own initiative gleans the scattered spiritual goods; the formation of his reason is done in disorder, haphazardly, and he will end up, in the best of cases, by obtaining a "general culture" which can only be at most a culture of crossword puzzles. The magnificent process of the education of theXIXcentury ended without leaving us the slightest "culture".On the contrary. It would be foolish to look for "guilt"; it begins only with voluntary illusion. General culture should not be underestimated. Going through the still of culture, things lose their magic and with it the fear that surrounds magic. But already, in the middle of the void, it seems justified by morality to deny the existence of the truth rather than to lie in its name. Already, outside the world of education, removed from its influence and hold, masses have been formed who, with the most absolute sincerity, place the profession of faith above truths. There can be no doubt that in doing so they lay claim to an integrality within which there is no longer any free decision of the individual will, except in the sense of a functional definition; the severe moral law of this integrality no longer serves the one who seeks his salvation but the one who wants to dominate things and their definitive order. From all sides, the Moors, as Ernst Jünger calls them, advance with their cruel demands; different hordes under different banners;

resist them. All that can be said is that this will not be the ideal of education. 25.List any German University Student Corps to which you have ever belonged.26.List (giving location and dates) any Adolf Hitler School, Nazi Leaders College or Military academy in which you have ever been a teacher.27.Have your children over attended any of such schools? Which ones, where and when?28.List (giving location and dates) any school in which you have ever been a Vertrauenslehrer (formerly Jugendwalter).

25. LIST ALL GERMAN STUDENT CORPORATIONS TO WHICH YOU BELONGED.

see Attachment. add 25:I owe to the wisdom of the old and venerable Professor Schücking, in Kiel, the indication that the traces of a spiritual change always show themselves first in the student youth. It was in 1928 and Professor Schücking complained loudly that the student youth of the time no longer wanted to know anything about the values that he, and other spiritual dignitaries of his generation, proposed to them. “This youth is not that of 1848! he exclaimed, and I fell silent. The great scientist was leaning against one of the shelves of his library; he swung his imposing square head and looked at me sadly with his dark eyes. The books that piled up to the ceiling provided a valuable frame. Books everywhere, on the large table and on the chairs, large and small, bound or paperback. I wanted one day to have such a rich and selected library. (I didn't succeed and I never will.)

"This youth is not like that of 1848!" cried the teacher.

Finally, I replied: "I'm surprised to hear you say that." I always imagined quite bearded these men of 1848. The teacher says: — Even if the student youth of the time never had much to say to the Parliament of Frankfurt, it is all the same his spirit which carried this magnificent movement! And its colors have become the symbol of those years, the colors of student corporations: black, red and gold! "Yes," I said, "those were the colors of the Lützow Free Corps." The professor gently nodded his head as he peered at me. I resumed: "If my meager historical knowledge does not deceive me, the student youth did not play a clearly defined political role before the wars of liberation. The students of Prague defended the city against the attacking Swedes; for centuries they lived in continual guerrilla warfare against Czech students, but perhaps this was a special case. I know of no other where the students would have adopted a common attitude in matters of politics. The schoolchildren of the Middle Ages doubtless did not take sides in the political quarrels of their time, at least not in common. I am full of envy reading that they were studying today in Salamanca, tomorrow in Paris and the next day in Bologna or Prague. I don't think it's fair to blame today's student youth for the lack of a well-defined view of the world when they don't have the opportunity to travel the world. But I beg your pardon, I'm starting to do a whole course...

"Please," said Professor Schücking.

— In any case, I said, the German students, following courses in the various German universities which were accessible to them, have only one kind of community, the “Landsmannschaften”! I believe that these were the very first student associations, formed for a social and in no way political purpose. Only the foundation of the corporations gave the German student youth a political face. But it was a consequence of the wars of liberation which doubtless had a decisive influence, at least politically, on the whole spiritual evolution of the greatXIXcentury. The pre-March student youth consisted of disgruntled soldiers criticizing the political results of the war, and the students I was associated with a few years ago were very much like them. "But you haven't been to university!" said the teacher, surprised.

- No. I would have liked to study, if time had allowed it. But so, everything was lacking for me, starting with the baccalaureate which I didn't present because I was already a soldier. Moreover, I did not meet the students in the halls of a university but in a company of students. - Oh! t nodding his head the professor, who was a member of the executive committee of the "League of Human Rights". "Yes," I said, "it was in Upper Silesia, in 1921. If it is permissible to put it bluntly, I would say that it is not fair to reproach today's student youth for what is credited to that of a hundred years ago! I remember some paintings like for exampleFichte addressing German youth, Or Professor Steens incites the crowd in Breslau to the uprising, Or Consecration of the volunteers of 1813. These are very admirable paintings, known to all, which still decorate today

very representative places. The student youth of those days ran to arms with "fiery enthusiasm," to use historical jargon, and they were sure of the enthusiastic approval of their professors. It is true that Goethe did not like all this. - Oh ! Goethe! said Professor Schücking smiling. Who therefore allow himself to measure with his measure?

On the last shelf of the library was the Cotta edition1 complete works of Goethe and Professor Schücking seemed to know them by heart from cover to cover. I say : — But Professor Fichte's German idealism lasted a century, it lasted until the day of Langemarck2. (He doesn't like it, I thought, he shakes his head again.) The students I met in this company had all been at Langemarck, if not really at least symbolically. They represented the fighting generation of German student youth. In 1914 they had run to arms with fiery enthusiasm and sure of the approval of their teachers. I will never forget a very impressive scene: We were near Leschna, a small village lost in the oak forests of Upper Silesia. It was hot in May of this year 1921; the locality was in a small clearing invaded by the sun; the thick forests stopped the wind and, in front of the shallow trenches we had dug to protect the village, we rested on the sandy earth, completely naked.

- Naked! exclaimed Professor Schücking.

— Yes, I said, it was hot and there was a sentry. There sentry, it was me. I was squatting, also very lightly dressed, behind a machine gun mounted in a slightly elevated place, sheltered from a collapsed wall. I too was tested by the

heat and dozed off, neglecting my duty. Suddenly the Poles were there. Under the cover of the forest they had formed up in line and were advancing through the wheat field which lay in front of our positions. The wheat was already high enough and if the insurgents had been better trained, our positions would have been taken without difficulty. But they started shooting as soon as they saw the men lying down. Gunshots seemed to come from all directions. I had not yet understood what was happening and, a fortiori, I had not yet found a goal to return fire to, that the naked men had already leaped at the guns. They wasted no time getting dressed; the infallible instinct of soldiers who had experience of the world war urged these students not to lie down in the trenches, but to go immediately and as they were to the counter-attack. I wasn't happy about it because their onslaught brought them into my range. I could not open fire without endangering my own comrades. So I stood idle and excited behind my machine gun, watching the attack. I saw the line of naked bodies rushing forward. From the various farms in the village, others emerged, also without clothes, carrying only rifles and cartridge pouches, to come to the aid of their comrades. It was there that I noticed what I had never been able to see: there was not one whose body was not torn with scars! No doubt I knew that the company had many war wounded and that one or the other was limping. But now, I saw these wounds, I saw the prosthetic arms or legs, the deep scars in the shoulders and backs; they were white, red or wrinkled, and in some, you could have put your arm through them. I saw them running, these students, and the last one hadn't had

the time to put the prosthesis on his leg; he used the butt of his rifle to spring forward, taking the momentum of his sound leg and immediately leaning on his weapon to spring forward again. Don't get me wrong, Professor, all these young people had survived Langemarck. Many of them had won their first wounds there, and badly healed, they were already returning to the front. These young students had left the halls of the University to go to war and, after having been soldiers for four years, they had returned to their studies. No sooner had they resumed their work than they set off again for war, this time to Upper Silesia. For me, things were easy; I felt like a soldier since I had received the education to do so, and it seemed natural to me to become a soldier again when needed. I had not experienced the Great War at the front, I was too young; she finished before I was allowed to carry the gun. What drove me to volunteer in a troop three years after the war was, apart from the youthful and patriotic enthusiasm, the pleasure I took in the life of a soldier. No doubt I was also driven by the desire to elude the oppressive attempt to live a bourgeois existence or at least to put off what was so disagreeably inevitable. I was young, so I had a lot of time and things ahead of me. But the others? There was no glory to be won in Upper Silesia; the battlefield was anonymous, so to speak prohibited, it did not exist in the ocial bulletins. It couldn't be love of country since Upper Silesia was a remote province for these students, all from the west of the country. The pleasure they took in the life of a soldier? These men had commanded companies and batteries during the Great War

; here they fell into line. The shine of the uniform? They were dressed in what they had worn when they arrived: battered civilian suits, badly shaved Canadian jackets, patched riding breeches, light and threadbare shoes. They were a ramshackle band distinguished only by the yellow-and-white armband from their Polish, red-and-white armband opponents, who also had student companies. Of course, I asked them what prompted them to come to Upper Silesia. Being much younger than them and without experience of the front, I was a little afraid to perceive in the answer the harsh tone of Langemarck's warriors. But my curiosity has always been shameless. Well, those I questioned did speak of Langemarck, but against my expectation very soberly and, it seemed to me, with a little bitterness. In their eyes, Langemarck had been foolish for tactical, strategic and military reasons. At Langemarck, German idealist philosophy had come up against things and givens that it could master only by perishing; at Langemarck, Fichte died, and a beautiful death. Later, during the war, the enthusiastic approval of the professors certainly became very doubtful. What about later? I didn't go there, so I have to rely on the testimony of the men who stood before the enemy until the last day. According to them, it was only about the will to preserve the existence of the terribly endangered nation; it didn't matter who was in charge. And if so, were they fighting for something else in Upper Silesia? The border was in Ammes and anyone who knows how to handle fire realizes that there is only one thing to do: snuff it out. I wish every people a youth who would do the same. It is not necessary to wish it on the Polish people, it already had it. it was only about the will to preserve the existence of the terribly endangered nation; it didn't matter who was in charge. And if so, were they fighting for something else in Upper Silesia? The border was in Ammes and anyone who knows how to handle fire realizes that there is only one thing to do: snuff it out. I wish every people a youth who would do the same. It is not necessary to wish it on the Polish people, it already had it. it was only about the will to preserve the existence of the terribly endangered nation; it didn't matter who was in charge. And if so, were they fighting for something else in Upper Silesia? The border was in Ammes and anyone who knows how to handle fire realizes that there is only one thing to do: snuff it out. I wish every people a youth who would do the same. It is not necessary to wish it on the Polish people, it already had it.

Professor Schücking nodded and said sadly: "Perhaps we really hadn't sufficiently lit these Young people. The question of Upper Silesia was a matter of political responsibility just like the other difficult questions which preoccupied us at the time. But when I spoke to the students of Marburg, they laughed at me! — Many of the students in our company came from Marburg. No doubt there were several who had heard you. Perhaps they had come to Upper Silesia precisely because they felt no political responsibility anywhere, or because they realized that those responsible did not know what to do. I do not know. We talked a lot, in the evening, gathered around the big campfires, but we did not allude to the things that ocially determined the politics of the time. The campfires weren't very romantic either. We turned them on to repel mosquitoes and because the nights were as cool as the days were hot. We argued bitterly; because if we ourselves had chosen our leaders, everyone knew all the same much better what had to be done. From time to time, the discussion that I called "meeting of the soldiers' council" ended in veritable riots. Leaders were replaced by others who acted exactly like the first. Our company was considered one of the most rebellious; the other volunteer formations that were not made up exclusively of students were much more disciplined. On several occasions senior leaders came to sound out the morale of the troop. Their task was difficult and the day when the Commander-in-Chief, General Hoefer, who was one-armed, came to see us, he suffered the same fate as you, Professor: he was laughed at, any hero of the Our company was considered one of the most rebellious; the other volunteer formations that were not made up exclusively of students were much more disciplined. On several occasions senior leaders came to sound out the morale of the troop. Their task was difficult and the day when the Commander-in-Chief, General Hoefer, who was one-armed, came to see us, he suffered the same fate as you, Professor: he was laughed at, any hero of the Our company was considered one of the most rebellious; the other volunteer formations that were not made up exclusively of students were much more disciplined. On several occasions senior leaders came to sound out the morale of the troop. Their task was difficult and the day when the Commander-in-Chief, General Hoefer, who was one-armed, came to see us, he suffered the same fate as you, Professor: he was laughed at, any hero of the

Kemmelberg that he was. I can assure you that there was no poet who came to delight us with enamored poems! No heroic song; our songs were sung by medical students and said what they meant. There was no talk of "honour, liberty and country," professor, not even among the members of the corporations whose motto it was. The students wanted to fight the Polish insurgents and keep the regions of Upper Silesia for the nation, in order to return to their studies as quickly as possible. If the student youth of this company which was certainly not the worst - spoke with much concern about something, it was neither about the distress of the fatherland nor about the political responsibility of the competent administrations, but because they had sacrificed so many years of their civilian existence to this stupid war, that they were behind those who during and after the Great War had stayed at home. All of them were already about twenty-five years old and they would have to be ready when positions as judges, engineers, pharmacists or dentists became available. But it was in the Haselbach brewery that I learned what still remained of the ideals of the student corporations of the past century. "The Haselbach brewery?" — Arriving at Namslau, a small town in Silesia where we were to rest, the rumor suddenly circulated that at the Haselbach brewery there was real beer. In 1921, that didn't exist anywhere, not even in Bavaria, I believe. Unfortunately, I had to stand guard at the stable, which prevented me from rushing in as I wished. When finally I entered the brewery, I had before my eyes a surprising and strange sight. Despite all the arguments, I had always believed that the company was a fairly tight-knit formation; no one was distinguished by

in dress—everywhere it was equally ragged—nor in tone—everyone had equally rough speech. But now the company had broken up into small groups. It was easy to tell them apart, because on the torn Canadians the students wore multi-colored ribbons. It was obvious that at the sight of the dark, foaming beer, the student corporations were joyfully reborn. The hierarchy of the company was upset, the commander had suddenly become the youngest foal of a corporation and was forced by the cook to empty demis. Some student celebrity banged on the table with a rapier unearthed God knows where, shouting:Silence!But that was only for his corporation. Elsewhere, a hoarse chant was sung:Mutating Tempora. O quae mutatio rerum! Everything was divided into Universities and Faculties, into Catholics and Protestants, into associations bearing colors and associations not bearing colors. Everyone, forgetting his name, became "Germain", "Teuton", "Borusse" or "Norman". The groups and fractions of groups no longer spoke of attack and defence, of supplies (this above all was always important) and of patrols, but of courses and state examinations, of duels and of elections. In the brewery room, there was no more an SSOS company3, but the disturbing image of the university and student entanglement of Germany, a very particular and very complicated area, overflowing with a drunken life. The more mugs and jugs the sweaty and drunken waitresses brought, the more intense the ruckus became. Joyfully, we called out to each other, we toastedad exercitium salamandris, knocking, shaking and rubbing the containers on the table; nally, cheerfulness

general communication was communicated from one table to another, from one corporation to another, between lawyers and social scientists, between philologists and technicians. Those who only yesterday had crossed the forests side by side, ready to fire if a nasty enemy should show themselves behind some bushes - and in these cases it is reassuring not to be alone - now addressed each other very correctly by "Sir". . In the room filled with clouds of alcohol, the jokes turned sour, the replies became brittle, we tensed, we challenged each other to a duel.

- It's awful! groaned Professor Schücking. And it's always The same. Even now, at our University! — I don't find it so awful that the habits of students remain alive, at least in the form emptied of its content. And at the time, that amused me enough. I was not a student and their antics seemed no stranger to me than those of some respectable guilds or those of enthusiastic sportsmen. The custom of opening one's cheeks from time to time with the aid of well-honed instruments did not seem to me more terrible than that other sport where, with the aid of felted gloves, one breaks one's nose and puts one's mashed ears, provided you observe very strict rules. The two pleasures are doubtless born of an atavistic impulse. But I fear very much that it is the same that drives eloquent men today to apply the ideals of a hundred years ago to our time and to claim that at bottom those ideals were innate to the male. This little game was worth the trouble of introducing more modern means into it. I had asked a classmate what he was studying and he had replied: “Maths. An answer was necessary: I told him that he looked like one. Three minutes later, a gentleman looking

solemn brought me the provocation of the mathematician so gravely oense. Having the choice of weapon, I choose the heavy mine thrower.

"But... is it a cannon?" wondered the professor. - Not quite. The principle is a bit different, as is the effect. When bursting, the mine does not produce countless shards like the grenade, it develops a strong pressure, capable of destroying the objectives even more completely. "And this... this murderous instrument, do you have it?" asked the bewildered professor.

— Yes, I said, I thought it was good for the occasion. in tone of the time. I received my instruction in the mine thrower, although I had never touched a sword. Because I had never had the right to touch the one that hung in my father's studio. The heavy mine is not very dangerous. We see it coming and, if we are agile enough, we can take shelter. - And then, you have ... really? - Of course not ! I wanted to prove the absurdity of morals students. But you see professor, this was quite remarkable: instead of laughing at my request as a good joke and leaving things at that, there was a council of honor which deliberated at length to decide Finally, this kind of duel should be allowed... - Admitted !

— Yes, but at the same time it had to be postponed. The joke thus became the cause of a kind of truce decreeing that all armed discussions inside the company were to take place only after the end of the fighting in Upper Silesia. But afterwards, I couldn't get hold of a mine thrower. To my great regret, the honor of my mathematician adversary has therefore still not been restored.

The professor nodded his head harder and harder. At that moment, I would not have liked to have him as an examiner in international law. He looked at me carefully, then he talked about something else.

I was in the south of France when I received a letter from Vienna whose address seemed to be written by a child gifted in calligraphy or by a retired court adviser. There letter was from Othmar Spann4, professor of economics at the University of Vienna. We only knew each other through our books. Wanting to know me personally, he asked me to come to Vienna, where he offered me a job at the sociological institute of the University. Usually I don't answer. This time, with a kind of black humor, I replied that I would come gladly, but that I couldn't see the way to buy the ticket and, a fortiori, to pay my debts in France. Professor Spann's reply was a money order for ten thousand francs. This sum was more than enough to pay for the trip and half of my debts. As I write these lines, I am very far from Vienna, on the island of Sylt. I have just returned from my friend Hans Zehrer who lives in a small house near the sea. "Do you remember," I asked him, "that one day you asked me to write a letter from Austria for your newspaper? - Of course. It must have happened in… in 1932.

— Yes, I came from France and I wanted to go to Vienna on the following day.

— Rowohlt5told me you were there and I wanted to protest the opportunity to talk to you. — Do you also remember the story where it was about push a little button? Zehrer gaped at me. - What, "push a little button"? — You then asked me for a report on the situation in Austria. When I promised you this letter from Austria, without the slightest scruple, you became skeptical and you gave me this little story as a viaticum. - Oh! yes, cried Zehrer, that's what you're thinking! And since he has the same bad habit as me, that is, he insists that his stories go around the spiritual spheres of humanity in his original version, he says: "Do you want to tell it?" It will have to be done properly! You know I am half Austrian; I really like the people there and I've always been proud to get on well with them. In 1930, Doctor Curtius, Minister of Foreign Aairs at the time, sent me to Vienna to test the waters with a view to the customs union between Austria and Germany. Since I was the foreign policy editor at theVossische Zeitung , it was indeed an ocious mission. When I arrived in Vienna, I immediately went to Chancellor Schober. This distinguished man pleased me very much. He received me cordially. " How ! Are you from Berlin? he asked me, immediately abandoning himself to a deep reverie. "You know, at the corner of Bleibtreustrasse, there was a bistro where we drank a magnificent beer..." Then he extolled life in Berlin, he asked me about countless people and Berlin seemed to me to be the city of his dreams. And then, exactly after one o'clock, he looked at his watch and exclaimed, “My God! We

we are forgotten! He got up quickly, shook my hand and told me how happy he had been to chat about the good old days; and before I could say “phew”, I had taken my leave and found myself in the street. And my customs union? Not a word ! Well, I said to myself, maybe the chancellor isn't the right man, but Seipel, ex-chancellor Seipel! I announce myself at Seipel. He received me immediately. He was of quite a different type, a truly imposing figure, tall, white-haired, very erect, reminiscent in his manners of a prince of the church; he was, moreover, a prelate. We had barely sat down when he asked me, "How did you come to journalism?" I explained it to him, adding that I had first studied. "What did you study?" I answered: "First medicine, then philosophy, theology..." I listed my professors and mentioned Troeltsch in Leipzig. " How ! he exclaimed, "you took Troeltsch's lessons!" But I'm interested! It is he who wroteSaint Augustine, Christian Antiquity and the Middle Ages! This is an excellent book, quite exceptional. But of course, he misses the facts! You see, such a book on Saint Augustine cannot be written by a Protestant! He then spoke with great intelligence of Saint Augustine, of Christian antiquity and of the Middle Ages. It was an absolutely perfect course. Exactly after one o'clock, he looked at his watch and said, “My God! We forgot ourselves! But I was very happy to talk about Saint Augustine with a pupil of Troeltsch! It is very rare for me to find such a precious opportunity. Thank you ! He held out his hand to me, shook it very cordially, and I was out. And my customs union?

I no longer knew who to contact without running the risk of "forgetting myself". It was then that I remembered a Vatican secretary whom I

knew very well and who was always perfectly up to date with everything that was going on in Austria. I went to see him in Grinzing, in his idyllic little house, determined to risk everything and not let myself be prevented from learning about the customs union. So I told him from the threshold the mission I had and my experiences with Schober and Seipel. My interlocutor gave a very amused smile and said: “Yes, my dear, as far as the customs union is concerned, I can't tell you anything more. Exactly what happened to you is happening to me. This is how it is in Austria. Lately I've seen a leader of the Heimwehr6and I took the opportunity to ask him a little what was the role of Captain Pabst, of the Prussian general staff, in the reorganization of the militia. The leader of the Heimwehr was thrilled with Pabst. He said that was a man! Absolutely extraordinary! How he had organized the Heimwehr! Absolutely amazing! “You have to be told,” he exclaimed, “that at the end Captain Pabst only had to push a little button for the Heimwehr to rise! Very cautiously, I said to him: “But remember, six weeks ago, when the Heimwehr putsch was supposed to start, Captain Pabst must have pressed the little button; why didn't it work? The head of the Heimwehr then said to me: "But think about it...it was not possible!" But it was serious and we are still not so stupid when it gets serious! »

"After this consoling story," Zehrer told me, "I stayed at Vienna, without knowing what to do. At the end, I got angry and wrote an article called “Spring in Vienna”. And I began with the sentence: "A sweet air blows in Vienna", and I described exactly the little crocuses blooming in the Prater, the aspect of Grinzing and the beauties of Schönbrunn, all with a lot of

lyricism and by putting at the end of each paragraph: “A soft air blows over Vienna. "I sent it all to theVossand I demanded by telephone that the article appear in an editorial. And it was there, on the front page, that it appeared, under the title “Spring in Vienna”. I sent two copies under tape to Schober and Seipel to show them that they were not the only ones with an eloquent silence. - Yes, I said, that's the story of the "little button." But to At the time, she hadn't impressed me that much. When I left your newspaper, I went into the first stationery shop to buy a big notebook on the label of which I wrote: "Letter from Austria." — I was very curious to know your opinion of Austria, Zehrer told me.

"Me too," I replied. I left the next morning. Rowohlt, who can be exuberantly cordial when it pleases him, had insisted on accompanying me to the station. On the quay, we walked up and down. Finally, I stopped in front of a kiosk to buy a travel reading. Rowohlt pointed to a yellow volume and asked me, "Do you know Brehm?" I told him laughing that I knew him in fact. I remembered an anecdote. Rowohlt had given his second wife, Hilda, the Russian,Animal Life, by Brehm. One evening, when he was at home with his wife and the actor Jakob Tiedke, and the conversation was dragging on a bit, he mechanically picked up a book as usual. He came across one of the ten volumes of Brehm, leafed through it, then exclaimed: “Listen to this! But it is unheard of! Old Brehm tells how he observed a lion with its female at Dresden Zoo and found that a lion can go up to thirty-six times in a single day! Whereupon Jakob Tiedke said curtly: "Yes, in Dresden!" and Hilda exclaimed, "Rrrowohlt, why aren't you a leon?" Usually, Rowohlt gets angry

a lot when I tell this story. He gets excited: “That's not true, it's still one of Solomon's typical inventions! I didn't give the Brehm to my wife, she gave it to me! » So I said, laughing, "Rrrowohlt, why aren't you a leon?" But he told me he meant another Brehm, named Bruno, a Viennese writer. He had praise for Brehm's book that I only heard from him when he spoke of certain unsaleable cobblestones of his own house. He told me that it was absolutely necessary to read this Brehm. But I hadn't read a single German book in France and I was totally unaware of what was going on in the German edition. Moreover, when I am advised to read so insistently, I always have a reaction of refusal. I say: “Then I prefer to abstain! and looked for something else, ostensibly dismissing the books edited by Rowohlt. But we started out and in a hurry, I bought the Brehm anyway. It was called:Apis and Este, and I did not read it, I devoured it. I went through Prague where I had to change trains. But I crossed the streets like a blind man and sat down in the Wilson station waiting room to continue reading.

In Vienna, one of Spann's sons greeted me at the station. Adalbert Spann was a very self-confident young man and magically removed from all literature. I don't know why I always associate this type of young man with a fancy car that doesn't belong to him. Adalbert was waiting for me with a luxury car that didn't belong to him. He asked me if I had had dinner. I told him no and he suggested: “The best thing would be to go directly to Kobenzl. I didn't know what it was; we had many questions to settle, so that I saw nothing of Vienna. Night was falling and I could only see that the car was climbing the

many turns of a fairly steep hill. Then we arrived at the Kobenzl or at Kobenzl; it was a very pleasant and apparently very quiet restaurant. No one was there except us. Young Spann went to talk to the head chef, for I had made sure to make him understand that despite my somewhat troubling past I liked to eat, and I liked to eat well, and that in this regard, I had learned a lot in France. Most people who know me only from hearsay or from my books, unfortunately believe that I belong to the ascetic and thin type, an idea which I cannot too strongly deny. While waiting for the meal, Spann advised me to go to the terrace, from where there was a splendid view of Vienna.

I obeyed and there was no need to go to the edge of the terrace to be enchanted by the incomparable spectacle which dawned on the eye. Below me, the city stretched out in a dark blue twilight haze. Like the index of God, the tower of the cathedral of Saint-Étienne rose above this landscape of houses framed on the horizon or by the glistening river. Now the lights came on, row after row, revealing the pattern of the streets. I exclaimed, "Like an onion!" » On the other side of the terrace, a shadow began to move and a voice said to me: "Very true, that proves the organic growth of the city!" » "Like Paris!" I said, adding with the modest pride of a globe-trotter: "I was there the day before yesterday!" » "But look at that," said the other. “Look at the city: it is withdrawing from the Danube. Contrary to Paris which seems to snuggle up in the arms of the Seine, Vienne is the only city in the world which does not advance towards the river, towards what connects to the world, but which flees towards the mountain. »

I wandered my gaze over this city now shrouded in darkness, but still plastic thanks to this sea of sparkling lights which were ordered like the crowns of foam of the waves on the coasts. "The mountain is always defensive," resumed the other. “Vienna has never been an aggressive city, it has always been at the heart of our world. Over there, you can see in the mist the beginning of the Armata plain. This is where aggression has always come from, always breaking here! » He then spoke to me of Vindobona, the stationary camp of the Romans on the northern frontier of their empire, of the migration of peoples and of Charlemagne who founded the eastern march here. He dwelt on the attack of the Hungarians, on the plague which ravaged the city five times, on the wars with the Turks and on Soliman II, the great sultan who came up against the little Count Nicolas de Salm, defender of Vienna. He spoke to me again of Count Rudiger von Starhemberg, second defender of Vienna against the grand-vizier Cara-Moustafa who nearly conquered the city.

"The hill to your left is the Kahlenberg, and this one the Leopoldsberg, where the Poles came from," said the voice in the darkness. She continued to speak, warm and eloquent, weaving a multicolored carpet that stretched before me like the city. This man knew a lot of things and he knew how to tell them. He seemed as steeped in Vienna and Austria as a drunkard on alcohol; he only needs a small glass to get drunk. A word from me was enough to make him talk. Finally, I told him how much everything he was telling me was new and how little was known "up there" in the Reich, of the tragic events here. I also told him how much Bruno Brehm's book had impressed me

who had shown me for the first time the dramatic history of Austria starting from its decadence. “Yes,” said the shadow, “it is a curious thing that the book. I always despaired when dealing with the incomprehensible events unfolding in the north. I didn't understand a thing, this aggressive and drunken atmosphere was foreign to me and seemed confused to me. It was then that I had in my hands a book which opened my eyes precisely because it was strange and confusing, because it showed all those things that are arduous and valiant, terrible and fruitful, the danger and the hope, all those things that distress and misery bring together. You may know it, it is by Ernst von Salomon and is calledThe city. »

I said simply: "I am Ernst von Salomon." "He said, 'I'm Bruno Brehm. » - This outcome, I saw it coming! said Zehrer. "But it makes sense," I said. Because who among us reads the books of the authors if not the other authors? I really feel relieved that for once I'm going to write for people who aren't in the business! - How then ? asked Zehrer. You want to use this story in your questionnaire? - Obviously. It must be there, in response to the question 25: “List all the German student corporations to which you have belonged. It is true that I belonged to none; I came into contact with student life three times for a very short time. But all three cases were so important to me that I have to report them or else the whole questionnaire is meaningless. - To the good yours, then! said Zehrer.

"Do you remember," I said, "the first speech that the Chancellor Dollfuss spoke in Geneva before the assembly of the League of Nations? He impressed me a lot, just by the first sentence which contained the whole problem of Austria. Dollfuss says: “Austria's situation is special! Nothing could be truer! She has always been special and she will always be. But it was never more so than in 1932 when I was in Vienna. My observations were confined to a tiny sector compared to the whole, but so to speak condensed: at the University of Vienna. I have been to Vienna without seeing the Prater and without drinking the new wine and without even going into a cafe! I visited the cathedral of Saint-Étienne with Bruno Brehm. I was very impressed, I believe that is the accepted expression. Brehm, who is basically an art historian, showed me the National Gallery; I am not very sensitive to art, but I admired as it should be the Breughels, the Rembrandts and the Rubens, the Vélasquez and the Tintorettos. I told poor Brehm, quite bewildered, that I hoped that in time, we hadn't forgotten to pay for all these pretty paintings. Brehm endeavored to make accessible to me the domains which seemed to him the most important and the most characteristic of Austria. His eorts touched me, but I had to disappoint him, because I have always been more sensitive to the present than to the past. This means that basically, my knowledge is limited to what I saw from the tramway platform on my way to the University. I lived in Döbling, in the XIX I told poor Brehm, quite bewildered, that I hoped that in time, we hadn't forgotten to pay for all these pretty paintings. Brehm endeavored to make accessible to me the domains which seemed to him the most important and the most characteristic of Austria. His eorts touched me, but I had to disappoint him, because I have always been more sensitive to the present than to the past. This means that basically, my knowledge is limited to what I saw from the tramway platform on my way to the University. I lived in Döbling, in the XIX I told poor Brehm, quite bewildered, that I hoped that in time, we hadn't forgotten to pay for all these pretty paintings. Brehm endeavored to make accessible to me the domains which seemed to him the most important and the most characteristic of Austria. His eorts touched me, but I had to disappoint him, because I have always been more sensitive to the present than to the past. This means that basically, my knowledge is limited to what I saw from the tramway platform on my way to the University. I lived in Döbling, in the XIX because I have always been more sensitive to the present than to the past. This means that basically, my knowledge is limited to what I saw from the tramway platform on my way to the University. I lived in Döbling, in the XIX because I have always been more sensitive to the present than to the past. This means that basically, my knowledge is limited to what I saw from the tramway platform on my way to the University. I lived in Döbling, in the XIXe

arrondissement, at the home of a charming old lady, very tell me that Alfred Polgar7occupied the same room as me. I found no trace of his spirit there. The old lady had a lot to do to chase away the street singers who were constantly playing very languid Viennese songs under my window. I saw that most of them were young people and at all

moment I heard the old lady shout: "Go away, M. le Baron has to work!" Monsieur le Baron, it was me, and it took me a long time to understand him. In Berlin, I had noticed from the first day the large number of unemployed people standing on street corners or playing cards on the benches. The unemployed in Vienna seemed to me to be even more numerous, but devoid of the resentment and deaf expectation of others: they rather resembled the somewhat ashamed poor who pretended to exercise a profession by making music. Vienna, like all Austria, was exceedingly poor. One day I changed a hundred schilling note in a tobacco shop. Surprised and with tenderness, the merchant looked at the note and said: “Hold on! God knows there's only one hundred note in Vienna, and now it ends up at my house! » The situation in Austria was special. If the Weimar Republic collapsed in 1932, because a plethora of parties fought for a piece of power, in Austria there were only two parties present. The evolution was different. Within the Reich, the possibilities between tiny, small, medium, large and very large coalitions were bound to run out one day, and they ran out like patience. In Austria, the game had been played since 1918 between the Red and the Black. Here, the situation had exhausted itself, but not the evolution, and one day the clash would become inevitable. There was no doubt that Vienna was close to civil war. I asked the sons of Spann, Raaël and Adalbert, what they had against the "Republikanische Schutzbund8".It appeared that they had absolutely nothing against him, any more than for or against the Heimwehr. They had contact with both. It wasn't easy

at all to find out what that meant, but I finally understood that they did not believe in a valid and fruitful solution, even in the event of the victory of one or the other. Rather, they tended towards a third possibility which had to be acceptable to the two opposing powers. The two young people were not studying, they seemed to already know everything their father could teach them. However, they had no well-defined profession. Finally, I asked, "Well, what are you doing?" They replied with a smile, "You can't understand it." We combine, what! » It took me a long time to vaguely understand what "combine" meant. To my insistent questions, they answered: “Well, it's getting better. Little by little, I discovered that "combining" signified a particular technique in negotiations, a kind of floating commitment where "no" did not absolutely mean "no", any more than "yes" was "yes". . Realities were easily accommodated by yielding just enough to their pressure so that they could be “arranged”. It was the high school of diplomatic conversation where nothing was so important as the very fact of the conversation. This art, cultivated for centuries in contact with other peoples and reluctant powers, had reached a degree of perfection that never gave visible results, except that, one way or another, everything could continue. The advantages of the process were obvious: nothing was too important to be considered and nothing was too unimportant to be overlooked. The end result therefore had to be a rather complex and tenacious network, a net strong enough to allow fishing.

So the two Spanns combined, they combined with God and the world, with Schutzbund and Heimwehr, with blacks and

the Reds, with ministers, prelates, Reich Germans and liberals, with right, left, front and rear, town and country; in short, they combined with everything that could lend itself to it. The whole of Austria looked like an open wound and people who didn't care were sticking their dirty fingers into it. The Spanns couldn't tell what it was really about; they were just the technicians who implemented the inspirations and conspiracies of mastermind Othmar Spann. I didn't know what had stung Othmar Spann to make me come to Vienna. What the hell did he expect of me? I didn't know and I told him right away. He advised me with a laugh not to worry, but to begin the work under his direction, to attend the lectures and the practical work, one student among the others. Othmar Spann was a skinny little man with an actor's face. This mixture of scientist detached from the world and clever politician really made me think, at first, of an actor. Beneath the gray hair, the clean-shaven face bore the wrinkles of a mime without giving the impression that he was "posing", if one does not want to consider the absence of a pose as proof of an accomplished theatrical art. He was very Catholic, but in the special way of the Austrians who don't care much about him, while they are marked by Catholic education. It is true that often the mixture of politician, scholar and actor suits clerics very well. Spann's theories have often been reproached with being an insidiously Catholic doctrine, but they were not so Catholic as that, and the reproach—if indeed it was one—was not entirely justified. To complete the picture, it may be necessary to add that his wife was descended from Martin Luther. I did follow Othmar Spann's lessons. In the field of economics, as indeed of all those

who do not know facts but only opinions, true research is impossible. I believe that the teaching method generally employed is then that we expose at length and with warm objectivity all the theories current and recognized by History, to then sink them quietly, one after the other. Othmar Spann was a past master in this art. I cannot deny that it gave me diabolical pleasure. No one will be able to deny that Spann knew the matter thoroughly and that he did justice to those who deserved it. But, although he never failed to demonstrate in detail the strange totalitarian claims of each theory, he enclosed life in all its manifestations under the bell of his own doctrine.

“My work was hard. In my life, I have only worked so much in Vienna. Spann was as at home in history, geography, philosophy, theology, literature, and law as in his own field; and he demanded of his pupils the same universality. The list of books he asked me to read at short notice included not only the works having to do with the science he taught, but almost all the documents of the German mind for two thousand years. Of course, Goethe, the Olympian from Weimar, was also there and he did not live in vain, since every sentence he said was, after all, the purest economic science. Night and day I was with Spann. Of all the men I knew, he was one of the most interesting and tiring. His tendency to squeeze everything into his system had become a mania. She made this man great and dangerous. His system presented a modern conception of the state and the economy based on the generally recognized fact of a corporate division of all social life, an organic division of the whole economic process into corporations which had

maintained from their flowering in the Middle Ages to the present day. I will not develop this doctrine here in all its logical perfection. For the first time, I had the intoxicating feeling that, as a student, I was participating in the living current, in the organic construction of a doctrine which, if it was right, gave valid meaning to everything I thought and to everything what I was doing. And I was not the only one to have this feeling. In Spann's classes, the room was always packed. At the University, the "Spannians" formed a special group, the largest and probably also the most lively. Each of Spann's students had to be aware that they were contributing through their work to a truth whose force was great enough to fill the world and to make the slightest void disappear,

It's easy to make fun of it today; but then everything seemed so clear, so simple and so close! Othmar Spann held in his system and in his concept the secret of the “third force”. How could it not be possible to find, beyond small-time solutions, a great solution? One that would break the vicious circle in which the two opposing forces were so inextricably grappling? Didn't Othmar Spann's system include in its perfection without certainty everything that the parties hoped for without being able to realize it because the opposing party opposed it? Wouldn't it be possible for the state to direct Christian and social elements simultaneously? Would it not be possible, in this way, to reconcile the State and the classes, the peasants and the workers, the economy and the politics, the culture and the civilization, power and freedom, the mass and the individual? Didn't the solution logically iron out all the diculties? Didn't she show a necessary gear

? Wasn't there in this system, the solution, the reconciliation, the power and the glory, Amen? And the Reign, the “Reich”? Wasn't he understood too? Of course, Spann was a supporter of the Anschluss. Didn't his system finally offer the possibility? He was so reasonable, so organic, the philosopher's stone that opened all doors. It was only necessary to think, to predict and to realize this solution in Austria and the Anschluss became certain; besides, it was not the possibility of the Anschluss of Austria to the Reich, minute! It was rather the possibility of the Reich's Anschluss to Austria! In October Raael and Adalbert traveled to Leitmeritz in Bohemia where a congress was being held. I gladly accepted their invitation which allowed me to see regions still unknown. Raaël and Adalbert had "combined" successfully; we were going to Leitmeritz to form the front of the Sudeten Germans which was to unite all special associations. Konrad Henlein9 was waiting for us. This slender, lean, bony man with a wooden face greeted us and shook my hand vigorously. “He looks like a gym teacher,” I thought, not yet knowing that he actually was. “Wooden Face” isn't entirely accurate either: in his hard flesh, the efforts of thought had dug runes. That was it; while ordinary people have wrinkles, this man only had runes. He was the president of all the gymnastic associations in the Sudetenland. Gymnastics is fundamentally different from sport. This one is made of passion, while that one is a conception of the world, the national metaphysics of the body. If the Sudeten Germans had their associations forming, so to speak, the guard of their threatened national belonging,

apart from national belonging, it was exactly the same thing. In the Sudetenland, the gymnastics associations with nationalist tendencies therefore represented the main fighting force of the Germans against the Czechs. At the congress, there were also representatives of the peasant orders of Moravia, wealthy men who represented the main force of the Germans in this rich country. The purpose of the congress was to closely coordinate the groupings of Germans in Bohemia and Moravia. The timing was important; for Henlein, taking on the air of a conspirator, told us that the National Socialists of the region had just been paralyzed at a single blow by the Czech authorities following an alleged coup d'etat; the apartments and offices of all the chiefs had been searched, and they were locked up. I expressed my sympathy with a few well-chosen words, but, after a moment of surprise, Henlein explained to me in a whisper that it was incredible luck. The National Socialists of the Sudetenland, receiving their instructions from the party in Germany, had always opposed the union of the Germans in Bohemia and Moravia under any leadership other than their own. "I see," I said; and smiling, Adalbert and Raaël gave me a look full of insinuations.

We entered the hall—the largest in the city—where the constituent assembly of the Germans of Bohemia and Moravia was to be held. On the tables, red checkered tablecloths; on the chairs, the gymnasts in dark gray tunics with high collars and the representatives of the Moravian peasants in discreet bourgeois suits. We spoke only in whispers, for on the platform a Czech police officer turned his round helmet in his hands and majestically surveyed the room. When Henlein opened the session, the policeman sat down and ostensibly took a notebook out of his pocket.

impressive and a pencil, the tip of which he licked knowingly. Then Walter Heinrich, the main speaker, stood up. He was in a way the Saint Peter among the apostles of Master Spann, his most intimate collaborator, his friend and his cousin. He was pale, thin, very learned, with a ferocious and deadly intellectualism. He was talking about economics, the corporate state, totality and Othmar Spann. It was a university class at its most academic, and the police officer, whom I observed from the start, cast menacing glances first around the room, then at the ceiling, then in his room. helmet ; Finally, he put his notebook back in his pocket, yawned into his helmet and began to dream of the emotions that the tarot gave him every evening. I wondered if he must not have been thinking: "These guys aren't as dangerous as the People's Sport guys!" (The investigation opened by the Czech State against the National Socialists of the Sudetenland had been given this designation, thus excluding them with such agreeable precaution.) I suppose that the police officer must have seen in sport a much more dangerous activity than in gymnastics and in its police sports association a much larger body than the Czech sokols.

Meanwhile, the Germans of the Sudetenland and Moravia listened, erect and silent, their gaze fixed on Walter Heinrich. I wondered what could move these good people to the point of not moving any more; I had neither enough imagination nor enough experience to understand that this must be the prophecy they were being offered under the arid crust of science, a promise of salvation like rain too long awaited in the desert. When Heinrich had finished his presentation, the audience stood up and sang a song. The police officer jumped, but he too stood up and listened. For me, singing consists of lyricism,

music and a bit of religion, three areas from which I am excluded. I have no memory for singing. But I know that, towards the end, there was an impressive crescendo and that the text expressed a languid hope, a cry from the soul like “When will this country be delivered? or "When will the man come who will save us?" I saw those staring gazes into the future, those brightening faces, and I felt ashamed to stay away, cold yet touched. I thought, “Ah! this is how. They speak to you of a doctrine and you claim a man! » A few minutes later, everything was settled. Henlein had spoken on behalf of the gymnasts, a representative of the provincial states on behalf of the Moravians; the merger had already been proclaimed and adopted by a show of hands, the office elected, and Walter Heinrich was one of them. Well combined was half won and the ls Spann exchanged a smile.

But I said to myself: "I knew very well that the Spanns had an intention in inviting me to come, that they needed me to 'combine' some secret." " What was happening ? It seemed dishonest to me to lend myself to their game. I like to be a good player, but here, it seemed dishonest to me. I knew I was incapable of justifying the hopes, whatever they might be, that might be placed in me, not by the Spanns, but by those Sudeten Germans, good-natured and credulous. I had come in an absolutely personal capacity, no power, nothing was behind me and my participation in the meeting could not be considered as a commitment or authorize the slightest hope. I was caught off guard and I had no possibility of correcting, on the one hand, because the meeting was closed, on the other hand,

But once we got together in a small committee in Henlein's hotel room, without the police officer, to prepare for the work of organization, I said where the shoe pinched. I was unhappy as if I was going to disappoint a confidence when my own confidence had been disappointed. My suspicions were confirmed. I learned that my presence gave the impression that I was an underground representative of the National Socialists, since I came from the Reich and that in the Reich, apart from the National Socialists, no one had ever cared about the Sudeten Germans. . The ls Spanns smiled casually, but Henlein was seriously pained by my refusal. Moreover, Henlein's ideas seemed to me simpler and more honest than I had thought. He intended to organize the Sudeten Germans according to the necessities of the time into a tribe capable of effectively resisting the native population and obtaining much greater autonomy. In the event of an attachment to the Reich, which could not yet be seriously considered, the unity of the Sudeten Germans must already have been sufficiently united to enable them to impose their will even against the political tendencies of National Socialism which Henlein knew and apprehended. I doubted that was possible. But, in reality, the fire was lit under the pot, everything was still simmering and no one knew if the soup would be good. There remained the painful fact that I had been wrongfully drawn into an area where other fine roles were already destined for me. Now,

We talked for a long time and it could have gone on until dawn if a young member of the gymnastics association hadn't suddenly burst into the room shouting: 'The police! The Czechs! The Czech police were there, in effect. On

the square in front of the hotel, between the parked cars, the helmets shone. Already we heard heavy footsteps hastening through the corridors. “We will still have had it on our backs! said Konrad Henlein and I didn't feel the slightest desire to get to know Czech prisons after seeing so many Prussian prisons. Eventually it got monotonous. The police officer entered with a triumphant look. "Whose black Mercedes is it?" he asked hoarsely. "Mine," said Adalbert Spann, turning pale. Then, the police officer, in a thunderous voice: "That's worth a fine fine for you!" The car is misplaced! » Things were starting to smell scorched between the Spanns and me, but nothing was said yet. I devoted myself to my studies, crying at most from time to time in Bruno Brehm's waistcoat, who consoled me as best he could, while strongly advising me not to put my feet in the Austrian dish. So far, he said, of all the Prussians, only Frederick the Great and Bismarck had succeeded, and then only through "brute force." When things, which I had always considered inevitable, seemed to have become fatal, at the beginning of 1933, I had a talk with Othmar Spann. He was very surprised to hear me say that I felt compelled to leave him. “But why? he asked in astonishment. With great difficulty, I explained to him that I had read all the books he had given me the list, that I had been around him night and day, discussing everything, that I had taken his courses and attended , even actively, in his practical work. I didn't think I was less gifted than average, but I was forced to admit that I still didn't know what the "corporate state" really was.

" " How then ! Spann exclaimed, flabbergasted. I loved her very much, and yet I had to tell her that I would always be convinced, even if I were to understand her one day, that her doctrine was very good, even exceptional, perfectly valid for Lower Austria, for example, but never for the Ruhr. Othmar Spann was perplexed. He had had the feeling, he told me, that he had done a good job with me and that I had helped him a lot. I was ashamed when he sadly added that he could understand that it was not possible for me to work and struggle when I no longer had faith. With that strange awkwardness that I always do when I try to console, I tell him that I was quite capable of fighting for a doctrine, even if it did not convince me in all the details, and that far worse doctrines that his had succeeded in the past in coming to fruition and in determining entire centuries. It wasn't about that, but I knew what he couldn't know, because he never cared about what was going on in the North: I knew that I could not believe in the political concept and the real consequences of its doctrine because it erred in the decisive field of political reality. “Whether your doctrine, whether the 'Corporate State' is a mistake or not, I say, it will fail, because of the existence of National Socialism! »

" " I beg you ! cried Spann. How can you fear the few National Socialists here, the Frauenfelds10and others ! They are sub-humans! » I tried to make him understand that even here everything had to fail because of National Socialism, everything that did not take this factor into account in the first place. Such was the case with Brüning's valid solution, because, beneath the surface, a movement had formed, strong enough, blind enough, narrow enough and

aggressive enough to prevent even the most reasonable of solutions. The same was true of Schleicher's and von Papen's solutions, because the National Socialists were there; There was no need for more. "Bullshit!" Spann exclaimed. They will never know how to govern. And show me a little of their scientific doctrines! There are none no! The writings of this Rosenberg11are stupid! » I say that Rosenberg's writings were indeed nonsense, but that would not bother the National Socialists in the least, any more than the absence of a scientific doctrine at all. And I thought I was playing my best trump in saying that once in power—which would not be long in coming—National Socialism, with its program of Greater Germany, would not hesitate for a second to proceed here with the Anschluss. . "Then we will have it at last!" Spann said. I was in despair. He didn't see what would inevitably follow and I was unable to make it clear to him. Neither he nor anyone in Austria knew what National Socialism was. The small groups of his supporters had not been active and had not changed the balance of forces so far. How could I, the Prussian, explain to the Austrian Spann that basically none of all the groups in Austria which hoped for the Anschluss, none except the National Socialists themselves, could happily accept precisely that Anschluss. "Let them come, those Prussians!" Spann said. We will know how to get on well with them since they have no scientific doctrine! » We left on good terms, as they say, but all the same sad and with the feeling that we had been hurt.

"All that I would have liked to read at the time," said Zehrer. All that you have just told about Austria. Why didn't you write it? "But I wrote it, Zehrer!" At home, I keep the notebook green which bears the inscription "Letter from Austria". I kept it because there are still a few blank sheets and paper is scarce. I wrote it, but it's illegible, unusable, a mass of remarks and repetitions, erasures and additions. It's as useless as the diary I once tried to write in prison: full of resentment; an impossible style. I couldn't get there, I saw everything too closely. I wanted to devour Austria like a pudding, I had to be so careful that Austria didn't devour me! Somewhere, in a corner, and almost illegible, I scribbled the words: "Totality is a plague!" Of course, that was badly said. But today I know what I meant then: all the great movements in the world: Christianity, humanism, Marxism, are subject to a kind of disease, a divine disease, the sublime plague of totalitarian aspiration. This is what makes things so simple for those who want to make a profession of faith and so difficult for those who want to observe. I am not one to choose the profession of faith, I am a passionately engaged observer. That's why I didn't become a National Socialist and that's why I had to part ways with Othmar Spann.

“You did it wrong,” Zehrer said. From the start, you looked at Austria with your Prussian eyes. - That's right. I did not go to Berlin to attend the solemn hours of the seizure of power by the National Socialists, but to discuss with Rowohlt my bookCadets. During all my stay in Vienna, I had worked there. I needed it,

I needed a Prussian counterbalance and even so I don't know how I could hold out. Leaning over my manuscript, in the evening, I heard the melancholy street singers, and when I went to bed at dawn, I was sure to hear them again. The songs were always about death, coffins and other unappetizing things and I needed theCadetsto detoxify this macabre atmosphere. On my way to Berlin, I had to change trains in Munich. On the platform, I came across an impressive escort of dark-haired guys headed by Ernst Roehm12. We last saw each other in August 1922, shortly before my arrest. He recognized me and we made the trip together. " Where are you from ? he cried as the din of the escort swayed respectfully. “From France, Spain and Austria,” I replied modestly. I had to accompany him to his compartment and I greatly admired his beautiful tunic, the brown silk shirt and the impeccable cut of his trousers. “Yes,” he said with evident satisfaction, “now we don't look like vagabonds anymore. Roehm and his men were drunk with victorious certainty. Soon they were drunk for good. At all times, eager hands held out bottles in the compartment for the "Chief of Staff." We gutted them by breaking their necks.

“Of course you come to us! said Roehm. " " WhoWe? »I asked. "You will come to my house!" I need men like you!

» " " To do what ? I asked. "I appoint you SA Standartenführer immediately!" » » « It's a nice job, I say, but I'm looking for a mission. " " " And then what ? You enter the general staff of the SA! »

It was absolutely useless to try to explain to Roehm the difference between a post and a mission. He was talking about reviews, pacing, taking over, and I gave up. Rigid and sullen, his assistant attended our conversation. His activity was limited to leaning back to put a bottle in his mouth, or forward to say: "Yes, chief." Now Roehm said angrily, "Look at that one!" The deputy leaned forward and said, "Yes, chief!" Nodding me with a nod, Roehm said, "He's an intellectual, they're impossible!" And turning to me, in the desire not to offend me, he added: "We cannot entirely do without intellectuals." You will be advised: as for the rest, you will close it! »

I leaned forward saying, "Yes, chief!" And then I leaned back and put a bottle in my mouth. It was hopeless, but I had, so to speak, returned to my country. "And Othmar Spann, what has become of him?" asked Zehrer.

— He came to Berlin shortly after the seizure of power. I met him

in the radio house where for the first and so far for the last time I had read some pages of my bookCadets. Spann had also just spoken on the microphone, about Austria, I believe, and about the Anschluss. Spann was enthusiastic about what he had seen in Germany and told me that I should not oppose the Anschluss, that all of Austria hoped so. Carefully, I said to him: "Would you really be happy to see your Gauleiter Frauenfeld in power?" Indignant, he retorted: “But I beg you! They are sub-humans! And I said: "Yes, and those here are supermen and even if they have nothing in common with the others, they resemble them on one point: you cannot 'combine' with them." Then silence fell, for our conversation was taking place

in the subway. As I said goodbye to Spann, it seemed like everything was even between us this time. We have all seen what happened in Austria. In 1934, militia leaders Fey and Starhemberg pressed the little button. Thereupon the artillery of the Federal army and the militia reduced to dust the Republican Schutzbund and the blocks of houses of the workers. Then the National Socialists pressed the little button. And Dollfuss was murdered. Then there was Schuschnigg who gave Austria its new face, its particular face. Austria was to have its own fascism. It was a fascism that the general "true" and "orthodox" super-fascism looked upon with suspicion. It was an Austro-fascism just like AustroMarxism, which general, “true” and “orthodox” super-Marxism also viewed with a dim view. Othmar Spann did not openly participate in Schuschnigg's Austrofascism, although he knew the chancellor personally. I don't know if he wasn't allowed to or if he couldn't. Be that as it may, Schuschnigg's Austro-Fascism followed Spann's doctrine. The corporate, Christian state that we as students had passionately discussed became a political reality under Schuschnigg. It failed simply because of the existence of National Socialism. Later, I learned that the day the German troops entered Vienna, Othmar Spann had called the whole family together and declared, while uncorking a bottle of champagne: "This is the best day of my life!" Two hours later he was already arrested and taken to prison. It seems that afterwards he retired "to the countryside," as they say in such cases. Zehrer says:

— I have always been of the opinion that the Anschluss was a grave error.

policy. The reasonable solution was so obvious! We had to pass the buck between Berlin and Vienna. “Yes, Zehrer, you are absolutely right. It would have been the reasonable solution. The world is rotten with reasonable solutions. Too bad we can't use them in politics, any more than ethical categories in history. "I don't agree with you!" said Zehrer. "What's surprising since you're a Christian, and an Austrian by moreover! I returned once again to Austria after the Anschluss. He absolutely wanted to do the Grossglockner pass. The journey was splendid and we admired the road. The Austrians obviously didn't need us to build highways. I wanted to go further, to Carinthia. You know I have a violin from Ingres: Postwar German History. To my great displeasure, I still lacked the Carinthian sector, that is to say an exact knowledge of the defensive battles of 1919. We went to Klagenfurth where I went to see Mr. Maier-Kaibisch, the regional high commissioner for the Slovenians. He was nice and fat, full of good nature, and I chatted openly with him about our latest conquests until I learned by the way that he had just been appointed SS brigade leader13. He accompanied me through this garden of God which is the country of Carinthia and showed me everything that could interest me. He himself had been commander of a Carinthian half-battalion during the defensive battles. Maier-Kaibisch showed us the most representative building of Klagenfurth, I believe it was called the Provincial States House, and in this house the highlight of the curiosities of which all Klagenfurth was extremely proud: a magnificent picture representing the sky, nor more no less. On fluffy clouds,

prettily painted with a kind of toothpaste, we saw the deceased walking around, men, women and children in large numbers, dressed in their simple bourgeois clothes, but all provided with the attributes of heaven: the wings. Soldiers who died on the field of honor climbed straight through the gaps in the clouds and were warmly welcomed. We stood in awe for a long time and Maier-Kaibisch asked: “Do you notice anything in particular? Apart from the format, I hadn't noticed anything, but Ille was surprised to see the children partly with and partly without wings. “That's exactly it! cried Maier-Kaibisch. “You must be told that those who have no wings are natural children. So count a little! Carinthia is in fact the country with the most illegitimate children in all of Europe! He was visibly er, dear man, and there was indeed a considerable majority of wingless children. “When the German troops came,” Maier-Kaibisch tells us, “there was also a young girl, one of the brown sisters. She was very cute, but surly, terribly surly, a real Nordic. I showed her the painting, she looked disgusted. So I asked her if she liked Carinthia and she replied: “I like the country, as for the men, I will have to know them a little better! She said that in a very Prussian sour way. I told him, “In that case, stay here for nine months. You will have a natural child and you will like it here! With that, she left, indignant. What else do you need to tell you? Now she lives there, nearby; she stayed here and she has her natural child.

"It's a great job!" I say full of admiration. Maier-Kaibisch blinked and asked me condentially: "Tell me, did you also come to bring us culture?" " - " Oh no ! I exclaimed warmly,

certainly not ! He then heaved a sigh of relief and continued thoughtfully: "You see, culture is curious." At the time when the Prussians still wet their beards when it was very cold to be able to break the frozen hairs instead of shaving, we already had an art gallery! » When we arrived in Vienna, we started looking for a garage. At the hotel, I chose a nice little bellhop who had to sit next to Ille to show him the way. As he passed the Cathedral of Saint-Etienne, he pointed to the Archbishop's Palace and exclaimed: “It is the Cardinal's house. We broke his windows, we of the HJ14! » «Why, then ? Ille inquired. “During his sermon at the cathedral, the cardinal said that the members of the HJ were barbarians! And, very proudly, he added: "But we have shown him that we are not!" Throughout the trip, Ille sang: “O you, my Austria! » — O thou my Austria, said Zehrer, oh thou my Austria! “You saw it coming, the end of this story, didn't you?

"The last two years of the Weimar Republic," said Zehrer, represent one of the most spiritual eras in our history. Never in Germany had there been such a sum of thoughts and projects. When the old forces of the Weimar regime finally began to abdicate, the parched surface suddenly erupted. From the mists of conventional jargon, one saw emerging everywhere men whose language expressed a new community. Narrow divisions, the idiocy of reserved camps on the right or on the left, borrowed from the arrangement of seats in parliament, were suddenly outdated, and, after an innation of ideologies, one could once again begin a discussion

objective. It was a kind of drunkenness. Everything seemed possible if only one knew how to do it, and everywhere forces were preparing for it. Nothing seemed more valid than what for years had been preached as definitive wisdom. Everything took on a new meaning. But then it appeared that in every discussion there was a mute host who most of the time did not even show up and who, nevertheless, dominated the discussion because he imposed the subjects, because he prescribed method and direction. This mute guest was called Adolf Hitler. As he did not speak, he worried. As he remained elusive in the discussions, these turned empty with their ideas and their projects, their worries and their anxieties; they emptied, dispersed to begin again the eternal conversation. Already before 1930, men of all backgrounds, "from right to left", met; there were even, to the great pleasure of the others, Communist intellectuals whose conversation was brilliant, but the National Socialists were never there! At first, everyone thought they would be fine coming to participate in these pleasantly lively discussions, when they counted intellectuals among them. But they never came, until today. While we talked animatedly while drinking tea and whiskey or waiting for the roast or the fish, the SA marched outside with a "firm and quiet" step. Of all these herbs that grew so cheerfully everywhere, none contained a remedy against the development of National Socialism were meeting; there were even, to the great pleasure of the others, Communist intellectuals whose conversation was brilliant, but the National Socialists were never there! At first, everyone thought they would be fine coming to participate in these pleasantly lively discussions, when they counted intellectuals among them. But they never came, until today. While we talked animatedly while drinking tea and whiskey or waiting for the roast or the fish, the SA marched outside with a "firm and quiet" step. Of all these herbs that grew so cheerfully everywhere, none contained a remedy against the development of National Socialism were meeting; there were even, to the great pleasure of the others, Communist intellectuals whose conversation was brilliant, but the National Socialists were never there! At first, everyone thought they would be fine coming to participate in these pleasantly lively discussions, when they counted intellectuals among them. But they never came, until today. While we talked animatedly while drinking tea and whiskey or waiting for the roast or the fish, the SA marched outside with a "firm and quiet" step. Of all these herbs that grew so cheerfully everywhere, none contained a remedy against the development of National Socialism Communist intellectuals whose conversation was brilliant, but the National Socialists were never there! At first, everyone thought they would be fine coming to participate in these pleasantly lively discussions, when they counted intellectuals among them. But they never came, until today. While we talked animatedly while drinking tea and whiskey or waiting for the roast or the fish, the SA marched outside with a "firm and quiet" step. Of all these herbs that grew so cheerfully everywhere, none contained a remedy against the development of National Socialism Communist intellectuals whose conversation was brilliant, but the National Socialists were never there! At first, everyone thought they would be fine coming to participate in these pleasantly lively discussions, when they counted intellectuals among them. But they never came, until today. While we talked animatedly while drinking tea and whiskey or waiting for the roast or the fish, the SA marched outside with a "firm and quiet" step. Of all these herbs that grew so cheerfully everywhere, none contained a remedy against the development of

National Socialism when they count intellectuals among them. But they never came, until today. While we talked animatedly while drinking tea and whiskey or waiting for the roast or the fish,

! Until the day when Schleicher15intervened. He had the concept!

"A general like many others, a chancellor like many others, who failed like all. “He had the concept,” Zehrer insisted. It was still possible in 1932 to cut the Gordian knot of the innie conversation and to

kick out the mute guest. "To continue the discussion?" - Why not ! if this discussion finally took place on a plan positive and if it were freed from the terrible and deadly threat of a shapeless power that was looming on the horizon? Schleicher did not want to grant any power to the National Socialists. He was for the fight, theultimate ratio. He told me that very clearly. He was already Reich Chancellor when one day I went to see him. In the courtyard, we proceeded to the changing of the guard preceded by drums and fres. Following tradition, Schleicher stood up and looked out the window. After a while, he turned around and said, "At the end of the day, that's all we have left!" The only real power! » - The concept ! Power for what? 'I was glad he didn't live any further. What should he to wait for ? Yet another new “conception of the world” that would have enabled him to rally the masses? Drive out one evil with another? He knew full well that he would have to rule by force for ten, fifteen, and perhaps even twenty years; but, one day, it was going to be great! Finally, the Reichswehr would have been able to force the National Socialist movement to capitulate. Obviously, the fight would have been hard. But Schleicher did not hesitate to use the utmost rigor. “He didn't use it. 'It wasn't his fault or that of the Reichswehr. THE commanders of the Reichswehr groups were won over to him. The generals of those days weren't bad. Far superior to the image that we want to make of it today. They came out of school Seeckt16and by the end of the First World War they had all been young officers of the general staff, skilful, intelligent, intact captains and majors. Perhaps their advancement had-

it was a little too fast, too easy too. Maybe one or the other was already full. But it is sure and certain that they would have fought for the Reichswehr since it was their Reichswehr, created and trained by them! If you weren't sure of the young oers, you could trust the generals. They were ready, they were even eager to shoot! — It is obvious that the military see war as the mother of all things. But I have not yet seen one who understood that civil war is the seed. “Schleicher understood that. This is precisely why he was tending to the concept. For he relied on forces whose true tendency had not yet come to fruition. In matters of foreign policy, a close liaison with Russia was, so to speak, a tradition in the Reichswehr, the tradition of Bismarck. In matters of domestic policy, a power had not yet been worn down by the parliamentary system. The parties were exhausted, but not the unions. Schleicher wanted socialism! Seriously and rigorously, he wanted to organize the German economy on the basis of poverty. He said it was the real economic base of Germany. His socialist concept was far more serious than that of the trade unions. Their president, M. Leipart, was genuinely afraid of his own courage. He was willing to get in on the action, but deep down he constantly wondered: “What will Bumke say? Bumke was the president of the Reich Court and of the State Court. Willing as he was, Leipart was afraid of the consequences Schleicher wished to draw in deciding to govern, even against the Constitution if need be. It is the tragedy of the Weimar Republic that it perished for having respected the law! This was precisely the characteristic of the situation in 1932. Schleicher wanted to revalorize the law, he wanted a new

constitution of the Reich, which was worthy of the name, which could not be claimed, for a long time, from the Weimar document. But, above all, he was the object of mistrust inspired by the idea of a "military dictatorship." Too often and with too much insistence this specter had been evoked before the good political philistines. This did not seriously threaten his concept; however, that was an obstacle, the legacy of seventy years: the evolution of the German constitution which had begun with the constitutional conflict of 1862 to 1866. The situation was almost the same. At the time, strong in the confidence of the king and the armies of Moltke and Roon, Bismarck was convinced that the only possibility of realizing the unity of the Reich was to govern against the Landtag and the majorities. In 1932,

Schleicher failed not because of the existence of National Socialism, but because of the only diculties that he could not foresee in his calculations, because they were impossible to foresee: personal diculties! He represented a type that had already become very rare: that of the cultivated soldier. He was very cultured, indeed, an open and intelligent mind, a sober and energetic Protestant, an agile brain. In a certain sense, he failed because of these qualities. His concept rested on a single apparently happy circumstance: the good relationship he had with old Hindenburg. He was a soldier, the marshal, and both had served in the same regiment, had fed on the same ideas. If ever the confidence that had linked Bismarck and William Ierhad to settle once again between a sovereign and his chancellor, it was indeed between Schleicher and Hindenburg. By the time Schleicher became Chancellor he was evidently sure of the old gentleman's confidence. But he is extremely difficult

to clarify what happened next in the Marshal's head. Schleicher himself saw things something like this: the old gentleman was increasingly repelled by Schleicher's socialism. He prized socialist ideas when they were developed by the competent men, so to speak by the professionals of socialism. This seemed normal to him and as for the rest, these people were not to be feared since there was the constitution which he knew by heart and which in no way corresponded to the fundamental idea of socialism. There was also the stubborn uprightness of these people and there were forces that represented a suffocating counterbalance. And now this Schleicher wanted to realize these ideas! A man of his own regiment! so to speak an apostate! And dangerous! Energetic, tireless, skilful and, in the event of a hard blow, visibly devoid of legal scruples; in short, a soldier! He no longer felt very reassured, rather embarrassed… Thus Schleicher, whatever he undertook, no longer found the necessary support from the old man, who hesitated at first to countersign what the chancellor sent him, then finally refused any signature. As soon as word got out, everyone with a nose dropped Schleicher. The intelligentsia first, soon followed by the bourgeoisie which, at first, seemed ready to lend its support. In the to finally refuse any signature. As soon as word got out, everyone with a nose dropped Schleicher. The intelligentsia first, soon followed by the bourgeoisie which, at first, seemed ready to lend its support. In the to finally refuse any signature. As soon as word got out, everyone with a nose dropped Schleicher. The intelligentsia first, soon followed by the bourgeoisie which, at first, seemed ready to lend its support. In the

upper layers, there were only Meissner17and the Papens who harked back to the old man with their spiel: "They come despite everything, the National Socialists." Their arrival is inevitable, it is even rather legal, it is high time to make them look better, to save the furniture, to prevent the worst…” It is these personal things that have made Schleicher fail, but the failure does not was not in the logic of things. "That's tragic," I said. This is undoubtedly tragic, but only for Schleicher. History does not take into account

possibilities that have failed.

“But the policy takes it into account. Today we are put in front of the nose the detailed debit. Today, we are all made responsible. Today, we are not only asked what we have done, but also what we have not done. Thus we had come to the end point of all conversation. Who would be responsible if not each one of us. The only President of the Reich with a handful of men from his entourage? A century has risen up against cabinet politics to end, not by abolishing it, but by carrying it to the last village, to the smallest municipal council. A century has made itself an idol of the people. But the people of 1932 were tired, worn out, and their seven million unemployed accepted all the solutions in advance. A century has made itself an idol of socialism. But no one actively believed in them because one cannot actively believe in idols; they subjugate men who give in to their constraints. The Germans of 1932 knew the idol of National Socialism and submitted to its constraints. Zehrer says:

— If I wanted to have political information in 1932, I would not I was not addressing politicians or ocial bodies. All of them were caught in the let. From one room to another, they whispered, drawing their wisdom from their servants, reading the coffee grounds from the breakfasts of the “Grands”. Nor did I speak to German journalists; they were even less informed than usual and those of them who were clued up did like me: they spoke to foreign correspondents. These knew everything. They had come from all over the world and delved into German politics like moths in cheese. They were doing wonderfully. They were desalted guys, ice cubes, everything

it did not concern them at all, all the doors opened in front of them and all tongues were untied. There was, for example, Knickerbocker, the smartest reporter in the world. He wrote a series of books on Germany:War in Europe?And Germany heads or tails;he wrote others about Russia:Red trade threatensAndRed trade attracts… "Everything at Rowohlt," I said. Very pretty books, very readable, where

the diagnosis was always right and the prognosis never.

"Where I was able to verify," said Zehrer, "the prognosis was also

just. When everything was over, after the takeover, I walked with him one day through the city. Anyone who didn't know him would never have believed that he was the only one who knew exactly what was going on, his appearance was so insignificant. He was walking around with me, small, sloppily dressed, thin, ginger, full of freckles. I believe he was of Irish descent, at least his jokes were macabre. As I passed the Old Chancellery, I nodded towards the window where Bismarck had once had his office and where Hitler now stood. “And the future? I asked him, "what do you think?" Knickerbocker replied, "It's very simple!" Either this man dies or Germany will lose the next war! I knew the alternative was correct. But I also saw myself in front of my own broken crockery and asked him: "And what will become of us?" And by "we" I meant myself, very personally. Knickerbocker understood this immediately and said: “It's very simple! You will hide! »

"That's what you did for twelve years," I said, "and with

hit. After hesitating for some time, Zehrer settled on the island of Sylt, that curious piece of land surrounded by the sea and banks of

sand. Near the water, he had built a tiny house covered with cane. It was a square mushroom that the art of the architect made appear larger from the inside than from the outside, big enough in any case to allow Zehrer to install his library there. Thus, Zehrer spent twelve years in the library, which, while shrinking, clearly showed the evolution of its owner. First of all the novels took the way of the second-hand bookseller, soon followed by the considerable shelves of war books and economic or political treatises. The classics disappeared in fewer numbers, as the philosophers left in series, starting with those of the Enlightenment and passing through the humanists and German idealism, en bloc, to Hegel, looking askance at a lame Nietzsche which left behind only a volume of aphorisms. At the end, we saw only Dostoyevsky, Kierkegaard and the fathers of the Church, in the company, it is true, of detective novels. A little skeptical, I realized that the decision to come to grips with the phenomena of the surrounding world in such a remarkable way had not been taken voluntarily and that it had not been hindered by one of the many temptations who pursue the children of the century in so many different forms. But Zehrer protested: - It is false, my dear, it could not be more false! THE Schleicher's concept was the last attempt; we stood up against the advent of the idol until the end. But then it turned out that it was he, the adversary, who had the mission. Besides, it was not just a mission from the people! One thing had been decided, which I had opposed until the last moment, and in the end, there are only individual decisions. This decision was not made against him, but

against us. We had to, I had to respect her if I didn't want to devalue her. I could no longer interpret it in a way that was favorable to me, but I could not oppose it either. So, all I had to do was hide. But temptation and danger had not less confronted me in my heart. Do you understand ? "You said 'mission,' Zehrer, and you said 'decision. ". These are expressions of the domain of metaphysics which remains closed to me. When telling Ernst Roehm that I was not asking for a job, but a mission, he didn't ask me which one. So much the better, because I wouldn't have known what to answer. “Mission” was also beginning to dissolve into the nebulous realm of metaphysics. But Roehm did not ask the question. Only one asked me a question during that month of January 1933 when so many "decisions" were made: Ernst Rowohlt. " And now ? he asked me. I replied, “We are going to live in a great era! What Rowohlt disputed. For a long time, we discussed the great eras only to finally realize that we had come up against a misunderstanding. For Rowohlt, a great era meant selling a lot of good books, for me, the opposite. January 30, Cadets. Rowohlt had a cold. This old hypochondriac had prepared an infusion of chamomile which he had poured into a large basin. A layer of his lette around his head, he leaned over the steam and listened to me. Sometimes the scarlet face, dripping with sweat, emerged with a grunt, and the whale eyes cast a melancholy look at me; I saw there a sign of approval and continued my reading while the head of

Rowohlt again disappeared noisily under the diaper. When I had finished, Rowohlt muttered to open the TSF station and we learned that we had just experienced a historic moment. But the pride, moreover justified, with which the National Socialists proclaimed that their "revolution" had taken place legally and without bloodshed, did not fail to produce a profound and beneficent eect. At first, I was by no means inclined to consider the seizure of power as a “revolution”, but rather as a demonstration similar to the harvest festivals of a society of amateur gardeners. However, I was quick to agree with Ernst Roehm saying that intellectuals as jaded as myself, who were so stubbornly wrong in their assessment of politics, could at most claim a position of adviser. But not counting my other objections,

I was therefore known in the area of my private life. The thesis that the seizure of power had really been a genuine revolution is perhaps best supported by the fact that the aspect of my private life almost immediately changed in aspect thanks to the intervention of public life. They took an interest in me. I have to admit that I can probably be called a “protector”. This terrible reproach which hits me so hard will perhaps be lessened if I insist that it was not the National Socialists who made me protest. During the first months after the seizure of power, the government and the party were fully occupied, during the brief intervals between victory celebrations, in rolling up their sleeves; they had no time to attend to the individual well-being of

Volksgenossen18except by passing very considerable orders, it is true, to the manufacturers of flags and embals. But one felt almost physically that the enormous apparatus of German literature—literature as well as the press—was, so to speak, plunged for a moment into the deepest meditation, and then cleared its throat and started up again. with renewed vigor and, of course, in a new direction. Until then, my dealings with this device had been rather intermittent. Rowohlt accepted my manuscripts complaining of the times when the publisher encountered difficulties everywhere. If he ever spoke to me about my books, he especially praised the cover. Reviews came to the publisher and not to me; generally, I only knew of the laudatory phrases that Rowohlt used in his leaflets. I had never had the idea of writing for newspapers or reviews other than these ephemeral sheets publishing exclusively young authors who, like me, combined the absence of practical knowledge with the unshakeable conviction that their political views and literature were final. No literary history spoke of my works, no illustrated weekly gave my portrait, and if I had to spend the night in Champamer, the local paper did not publish the slightest tidbit about the distinguished guest who honored the town.

Be that as it may, it would have been unseemly for me to want to introduce myself into an apparatus of this world that I had simply described on several occasions as rotten, fundamentally rotten and ripe for annihilation. The surprising and almost incomprehensible eagerness with which the literary people gave me paternal encouragement even seemed to me like a

condemnable characteristic of this rotten world. He awakened in me the feelings which can animate a st cuirassier when in the assault he suddenly finds himself on a damp clay ground. The apparatus of letters, this prayer wheel of our era, is a beneficent institution which allows a disproportionately large and relatively sterile part of human society to live in a certain ease. However, this device does not run on the oil of benevolence, but on the fuel of prot. No one will therefore be surprised if the machine, whose levers had largely remained, and would remain for quite a while yet, in the same hands, began on "D" day—January 30, 1933—with much of zeal in dusting the temple of glory. Damaged busts were removed from their plinths; Heads with marked features, covered with verdigris, were fetched from the attics, and after having given them the desirable shine, they were placed on the pedestals. Circumspect booksellers renewed their shop windows. Publishers pensively leafed through literary encyclopedias to unearth wrongly forgotten authors. Antique dealers remained in contemplation in front of well-polished landscapes which made really sensitive the beauties of the German fatherland. It even happened that an editor of a newspaper of world importance, meeting in the street a young fan of letters, did not limit himself to greeting him carelessly but stopped to speak to him. “Send us a paper! We are currently publishing a series of articles on epistolary art through the centuries..." Literary societies which, only yesterday, delighted their paying guests by making the Publishers pensively leafed through literary encyclopedias to unearth wrongly forgotten authors. Antique dealers remained in contemplation in front of well-polished landscapes which made really sensitive the beauties of the German fatherland. It even happened that an editor of a newspaper of world importance, meeting in the street a young fan of letters, did not limit himself to greeting him carelessly but stopped to speak to him. “Send us a paper! We are currently publishing a series of articles on epistolary art through the centuries..." Literary societies which, only yesterday, delighted their paying guests by making the Publishers pensively leafed through literary encyclopedias to unearth wrongly forgotten authors. Antique dealers remained in contemplation in front of well-polished landscapes which made really sensitive the beauties of the German fatherland. It even happened that an editor of a newspaper of world importance, meeting in the street a young fan of letters, did not limit himself to greeting him carelessly but stopped to speak to him. “Send us a paper! We are currently publishing a series of articles on epistolary art through the centuries..." Literary societies which, only yesterday, delighted their paying guests by making the It even happened that an editor of a newspaper of world importance, meeting in the street a young fan of letters, did not limit himself to greeting him carelessly but stopped to speak to him. “Send us a paper! We are currently publishing a series of articles on epistolary art through the centuries..." Literary societies which, only yesterday, delighted their paying guests by making the It even happened that an editor of a newspaper of world importance, meeting in the street a young fan of letters, did not limit himself to greeting him carelessly but stopped to speak to him. “Send us a paper! We are currently publishing a series of articles on epistolary art through the centuries..." Literary societies which, only yesterday, delighted their paying guests by making theSong of the Unemployed, pricked up their ears to the brass of stanzas like:We believe in the fields we sow, we believe in the sheaves we

reap...If someone would take the liberty of pointing out that we do not sow the fields but the

seed and that the sheaves are clearly the product of things already mowed down, he was considered an impertinent quibbler. The record industry substituted happy marches for the much-requested tunes of theThreepenny Opera. The broadcast entertained its listeners with talks about German castles on the German Rhine. Myself, I would have almost seen my dream come true of seeing my photo published in theBerliner Illustrated. I'm afraid I owe it to Rowohlt's gentle pressure that one day a young photojournalist showed up at my house. He told me that theBerliner Illustrated proposed to publish a page of photos entitled "German writers at home". I show myself pictures already taken of my happy colleagues. They were all there in their country houses all surrounded by roses, in Bavaria, in Westphalia, on the Rhine and by the sublime seaside. Their sunken foreheads leaned forward, without however preventing their gaze from freely embracing a landscape full of atmosphere; they were seen in shorts in an impressive library or in the barnyard tending their hens, while the smell of coffee prepared by the wife in regional costume perfumed the entire photo. They were all there, and my chest swelled with pride at the idea that they were going to welcome me into this solemn community. But my "home" was at Miss Antonie Uebel's in Eisenzahnstrasse. There was nothing important to see except the clock where I locked up Miss Uebel's Pekingese when he yelped too insistently. He was silent then, surprised, even if his mistress called him in a honeyed voice. I always took my coffee in a room near the Gedächtniskirche and the reporter stubbornly refused to accompany me there. My office, the room where the creative spirit visited me, was in Rowohlt's publishing house; it was the so-called "Berlin" room, a passage room where my pensive gazes the room where the creative spirit visited me was in Rowohlt's publishing house; it was the so-called "Berlin" room, a passage room where my pensive gazes the room where the creative spirit visited me was in Rowohlt's publishing house; it was the so-called "Berlin" room, a passage room where my pensive gazes

met either the false sleeves of Miss Siebert, a gray-haired lady without whom Rowohlt's house sank into catastrophic disorder, or the house at the end of the courtyard whose windows were lined with red valances which were often beaten with attendance. Whatever my proposals were, it was impossible for me to win the young man's assent. All I had to do was promise the desperate reporter to buy his pictures if theBerliner Illustratedhad to refuse them, which did not fail to happen. I probably wouldn't have mentioned this episode if it hadn't been so typical. At the time, the unprejudiced observer must have continued to see in German letters a single advancing block, a haughty, well-ordered phalanx in which each found his rank. But appearances were deceiving; everywhere, there was a lack of orientation, contacts and leaders; Considerable splits and cracks appeared. Basically, each was walking alone, and to one familiar with the multiple interests and desires of individuals, the picture was soon to appear somewhat unsettling. My unfortunate tendency to generalize, however, put me in a position to substantially concretize things by a simple division into two camps. I distinguished in the phalanx the writers with car and the writers with country house. Until now, the former had above all benefited from that beneficent perpetuum mobile which is public opinion; but now, and by means of the same apparatus, the nation remembered the modest ones who exercised their activity in their simple little houses. Of course, most didn't own a car or a country house, but their dreams leaned towards one or the other. If my blood made me incline rather towards the latter, my soul aspired rather to the former. This allowed me to watch impassively but their dreams tended towards one or the other. If my blood made me incline rather towards the latter, my soul aspired rather to the former. This allowed me to watch impassively but their dreams tended towards one or the other. If my blood made me incline rather towards the latter, my soul aspired rather to the former. This allowed me to watch impassively

a struggle which was soon to be unleashed almost everywhere in the literary societies, in the association for the protection of German authors and even in the Academy of German poetry. Each group waved its flags, and soon you could feel where the wind was blowing from. It was a wind that brought me letters in large format on handmade paper, artistically lithographed invitations to meetings organized by the beautiful world. Evening dress or uniform was desired. Possessing neither, I was denied the long-desired entry into good society. Only the American and Russian embassies had waived this embarrassing mention and that's where I was going. The Americans offered me little opalescent cocktails and little butter sandwiches mixed with chopped herbs, the Russians clear vodka, caviar and jellied trout. I can assure you that I have represented German literature with the restraint and modesty due to its productions. And unlike Rowohlt, I got very quietly drunk.

During all those months, all those years when the nation, what am I saying, when the world placed the laurel on my forehead, I felt like a crook and I lived in constant fear of seeing this error dissipate in some way. horrible. Undoubtedly, the world expected great things from me, words of Orphic wisdom, for example on the future of Germany, and from the next line that I wrote everyone would be disillusioned. Writers with cars soon had none left; they disappeared, emigrated or took refuge in other areas. Full fire was thrown on writers with country homes, they were torn from the rural solitude where they had, with quiet industry, cared for their little vegetable garden, the produce of which they sold in the markets of the provinces. A

healthy, fortifying and solid food for the people but which hardly suited the too stale palates of the gourmets of urban civilization. It must be said that I did not consider the products of these writers to be turnips at all. I was of the opinion that their profession was more respectable and their art greater than that of writers with cars. The latter saw the world, so to speak, through the Securit windows; they attacked fleeting phenomena with a technique that strongly resembled that of highly qualified photographers; quite often they succeeded in taking surprising shots, capturing social or psychological phenomena that were superficial, that is to say, of temporary importance. Country house writers, on the other hand, looked straight to eternal values. I couldn't join in the mockery of car writers who liked to wittily joke their heavyweight colleagues about loam literature. I had dealt sufficiently with the peasants, rediscovered expressly for the needs of the new literature, to know how dicult it must be to arrive at a more intimate understanding of the unfathomable soul of these good people. With me, they had only ever spoken of charges and taxes. Country house writers were certainly not content with fleeting snapshots; they painted pictures and no one who knows, as I do, the diculty of filling five hundred pages with legible prose, can refuse them esteem on seeing their large volumes with lofty language. they had never spoken of anything but charges and taxes. Country house writers were certainly not content with fleeting snapshots; they painted pictures and no one who knows, as I do, the diculty of filling five hundred pages with legible prose, can refuse them esteem on seeing their large volumes with lofty language. they had never spoken of anything but charges and taxes. Country house writers were certainly not content with fleeting snapshots; they painted pictures and no one who knows, as I do, the diculty of filling five hundred pages with legible prose, can refuse them esteem on seeing their large volumes with lofty language.

I had always admired Hans Grimm19, the author of the novel people without spaceand some short stories that all happened in Africa. I saw a particularly happy circumstance in the fact that this man expressed a universality which drew not only on the ambitions of the spirit but by a true

rootedness, to vast and distant spaces. I admired the great breadth of his novel, the very concrete knowledge of political and social things and the art shown in the construction of these voluntary sentences. Grimm was a man who certainly did not need to use the benevolent device to make his voice heard. The editions succeeded each other apparently without the slightest effort; his theses argued themselves, so to speak, they were not accounted for, they were disputed, they were upheld, and an author could ask for nothing better. Youth paid him homage and old age listened to him. But the fundamental convictions of Hans Grimm, concerning the elements of a political and social order, were a profession of faith in favor of the big bourgeoisie. So,

I was all the more surprised to receive one day an invitation from Grimm to a "meeting of writers", organized by himself in private. The tone of this short but pleasant missive did not allow me to interpret it in the sense of a whim full of mockery. I was therefore allowed to believe that they had no intention of bringing together illustrious minds to pronounce ostracism against me but that they rather intended to give me the hug by welcoming me to the round table of 'Arthus. Since there was no question of evening dress or uniform, I mustered up my courage and accepted the invitation. Let's say right away that Lippoldsberg, this peaceful place withdrawn from the world inhabited by Grimm, was animated by the spirit of conjuration. I would not have hesitated to mention this "meeting of writers" when answering question 110, if I had not, from the

first half hour of our friendly meeting, discovered the company's wacky trick. Hans Grimm, that stubborn man, thin and parched by the African sun, suddenly found himself trapped. He struggled in the nets carefully and generously stretched in the form of multiple honorary offices and multiple committees for German letters. He was struggling desperately and with his visor open at many round tables, including this "Academy of German Poetry" which was a dark farce. He couldn't believe that instead of grinding wheat, they were digging water in it. Spear at rest, he rushed on the revolving wings of the windmills of ocial activity. “I don't know what this Goebbels has against me! he exclaimed. He was all the more surprised because long before taking power, he had publicly taken the side of the national movement. He said that at the time he had read a few pages of his works before an audience enamored of German literature. This was at Königsberg in East Prussia; in the evening, while waiting for his train, he had seen a horde of frenzied policemen rushing upon a small group of absolutely innocuous and peaceful travellers. Afterwards, he had learned that this brutal and bloody spectacle had implicated Goebbels and Prince Auwi who had just spoken at a meeting. Brimming with indignation, Grimm had immediately drafted an open letter to Hindenburg, whom he knew personally, taking care to stigmatize the shameful fact that the victims had not only been defenseless but that, in addition, they had been a royal prince and a poor invalid. "And I really don't know what this Goebbels has against me!" » Nobody will blame me if I arm that just by this story, Hans Grimm became dear to me. I didn't have the strength to explain to him for what obscure reasons Goebbels could well have

something against him. However, I allowed myself the reflection, a little amused, I fear, that it was up to the writer to write books and not letters. But this honorable man did not have, on his side, the strength to take this advice into account. I was therefore not surprised to learn that after one of the plebiscites which had become commonplace in which the German people offered their Führer 99.7% of "yes", Hans Grimm had written to Minister of the Interior Frick a letter which had become famous ; he explained there that reasons which he was ready to defend in public had pushed him to refuse his vote to the Führer; but to his amazement he had seen that the results published for his constituency indicated a profession of faith one hundred percent favorable to the Führer. Something must have been wrong.

There were, indeed, a lot of things that were wrong. This experience prompted Grimm to bridle his Rocinante and scan the horizon for some Sancho Panza. This was precisely the purpose of this "meeting of writers!" » The idea was excellent and did honor to the clairvoyance of our author. Considering that such a crusade did not indeed require solid scholarship, acute intelligence, a respected name or great fortune, but simply and only courage, Hans Grimm was not addressing the impressive circle of minds sublime neither to the drunken heralds of the word, nor to the bards of primitive and mythical force; he addressed himself to those heroic natures who have only to plunge into the treasure of their own passionate experiences to strike the lyre, I have named the poets of war. They had to be the right men; every line of their books testified to the fact that they had come face to face with death more than once, that they had offered their breasts to the enemy and that he

there was nothing in the world that could shake them. Unfortunately, Hans Grimm had addressed himself to men who endeavored to analyze the experience of war with all realistic rigor, that is to say, to include not only the shocking phenomena of material events but also the significant eects of these phenomena on the soul; they therefore also included the strange modification undergone by the notion and the nature of heroism in the tearing of the battlefields of the world war. Because of reality, these men fought with an indomitable obstinacy against all the patriotic conceptions that had been current and that wanted to see again in the war a romantic adventure, full of sublime feelings, where the true hero would necessarily fall surrounded by gentle geniuses. of the fight, similar to the dying warrior on the monument erected in the main square of the hometown. In a word, they had come to the conclusion that one can very well seek shelter without ceasing to be courageous.

I myself understood them very well, these men who had gathered around the long table where they helped themselves to black coffee and oily cognac, occasionally uttering well-thought-out sentences like "We should really …” or “It really doesn't make much sense…” or “I've always thought that…” I understood them very well. They all had lived, one day, the agonizing second when the victorious advance, this supreme goal of our century so rich in warlike happiness, suddenly came to a standstill and when even the most courageous sought to hide quickly and deeply. . I thought I could measure the full depth of this psychological moment: subsequently, these men had seen so many things crumble whose value had seemed eternal to them.

that they should hesitate to want to dene henceforth the always moving frontiers where the superu separates from the essential.

So I understood them very well, but deep down, I was not one of them. No more than Hans Grimm. It is true that he had served in the war as a simple gunner—and involuntarily this thought always amused me—but he was the prisoner of an idea of Germany which in no way corresponded to that of the generation of the war. . This idea did not allow him to consider the least value as insignificant to the point of justifying his abandonment. For him, everything was inhabited by the essential and it seemed to him inconceivable that men who had fiercely defended every foot of French soil could suddenly and of their own free will let all of Germany fall into other hands on condition of see saved the image they carried in their hearts. In my heart, I carried little more than an indomitable joy of living. I had not experienced this psychological moment until much later and I was then neither on a battlefield nor in the community of what can be called a generation. This is perhaps why I did not see with as much anger and irritation as Hans Grimm did the act of destroying all the values that he defended so desperately: customs, dignity, decency and that curious thing that he called the prized possession of individual liberty. But I didn't share the veterans' impassiveness either. I was rather inclined to welcome this act of destruction insofar as it could apply to the committees of which Hans Grimm was a responsible representative. This did not mean, on my part, a lack of appreciation of the value of customs, of dignity, of decency and, if necessary, even of the prized possession of individual liberty; I rather doubted the existential reality of

these things as the defining forces of this world. It seemed to me more logical to see even their appearance disappear than to act in their name, that is to say, to create a vacuum rather than an aged and recognized false construction. I believed it was my duty to share my thoughts with others; but I aroused general hilarity when I declared that I had to fear, in these circumstances, that each of my sentences would necessarily be misinterpreted and that therefore I had decided to give up writing books henceforth. Everyone else had long had the same idea. The only result of this "meeting of writers" was therefore the unanimous horror of the so-called "writers' days" congresses, convened in sacred places of literature, Weimar for example, where the ès-Apollon colleagues with a rather dithyrambic temperament as critics, enjoying the loving tributes of the nation, gathered under the unfurled flags and greeted the photographers. (Uniform or evening dress.)

I ardently wanted to know how my colleagues managed to become owners of a country house; all the more so since none of them had published a notable book since 1933. They were no longer writing, they were reading. On rainy days, when working in the garden no longer gave pleasure, they took a geographical map of Germany and a railway timetable and worked out a protable journey. A few letters exchanged with the always eager presidents of the literary societies which existed in large numbers in the smallest town, and one fine day, we took the road to the station, laden only with a nightgown and some book written before 1933. was sure, then, of spending a few pleasant months, reading for an hour each evening in a different town, dining with the fat

hats of the place, warmly greeted by the mayor himself. The next morning, after looking at the timetable and comfortably fingering the gradually growing wallet, we set off again; we went from one end of the country to the other. The country was large, the towns numerous, and Bruno Brehm told me one day that this method had the incomparable advantage of making Germany as a whole known in the most pleasant way. This idea excited me, but I wondered if it wouldn't be even better to do these tours in close liaison with an establishment in Zwickau and to represent stockings instead of literature.

Unfortunately, this path was to remain closed to me. An ocial luminary devoid of common sense had suggested to the secret adviser Planck, a world-renowned scholar and president of the "Kaiser Wilhelm Society for the Development of Science", to insert a few poetic evenings into the series of scholarly lectures. Smiling, the secret adviser followed up on this proposal and I probably owed Hans Grimm the invitation to perform one evening in front of this distinguished assembly where there was no question of uniform or evening dress. But when a conference was not of special interest to their particular field, the learned members of the society used to distribute the invitations generously to their employees, suppliers and nonlearned friends. I was aware of this habit and hoped to find a pleasantly uncritical audience. I was going for the first time to confront the ferocious beast which is called the public. As I ascended the platform, the monster with a thousand heads seemed to me to have only one head, that of old Councilor Planck, the master of the house, who insisted on being present personally and in the front row at my conference. But as

I dared to raise my gaze, a grayness blurred my sight: from the third to the last row, the room was gray. Soldiers, young soldiers in gray Sunday clothes, lined up uniform to uniform, and each gray collar was topped by the same blond, youthful, scowling head. Confused, I read hastily and without concentrating; at the end, the shirt clung to my body, I had sweated so much. Having barely left the platform, I saw an elderly captain rushing towards me, with a congested and jovial face. Stretching out both his hands, he exclaimed: “So! my pal ! Don't you know me anymore? Muller, Captain Muller, from the military school in Döberitz! We were on the same bench at the O.IIP, among the cadets! I couldn't remember at all, but with a broad smile, I said, "Yes, of course, Muller!" It's nice of you to come! " - "You speak, it was a matter of honor! Muller exclaimed. "I read your name program of events. As theSchwarze Corps20had just published a ferocious attack on Planck, I telephoned to reserve seats. Then I called my flag bearers and told them: “Today, no holiday. But those who, by chance, do not want to hear a lecture from a former comrade of your captain, come forward! So everyone wanted to come! " - " Obviously ! I stammered: and I promised Captain Muller to join him at the bar to drink a pint with him. I went in search of secret adviser Planck to thank him and found him in a small room behind the dais, talking with SS-Sturmbannführer Rolf d'Alquen, brother of the editor of theSchwarze Corps. Leafing through this organ, one expected on the first page to see young, agile and slender fencers preparing for the fight, their weapons drawn, only to notice on the last page that the concierge at the back of the fourth courtyard had clapped. Rolf d'Alquen, a pale young man, had just

say: "Mr. President, I sincerely hope that you will not be angry with us for having had to attack you violently in the last issue of theSchwarze Corps! »Old Planck then put his hand on the shoulder of his interlocutor and said: "Of course not, my dear young friend, I laughed so heartily!" I had the rare good fortune to see the blood pouring out of the young man's ears, dyeing them purple. Then the secret adviser saw me, held out his hand to me and said, “My dear young friend…” — and my heart stopped beating — “I thank you very much for all the trouble you have gone through! I had the rare happiness of feeling what one feels when blood rushes to the ears, dyeing them purple. I barely had the strength to assure the counselor that I had decided never again to give a public reading of my own works, which seemed to delight him. I kept that promise. But let's go back to the “writers' meeting” at Hans Grimm's in Lippoldsberg. Everyone was so eager to do nothing that she basically lost her meaning. Nothing justified a new meeting, if not the fact that everyone got along wonderfully. It is true that the days were so pleasant! Grimm's hospitality was boundless; there were many attractions, even apart from meals. We admired the frescoes in the church of a former convent, we took baths in the impetuous streams of the Weser, we stood in admiration before the silent forests and we counted the villages forming, so to speak, the pearls of a necklace along the along the ribbon of the river. The narrow and tight houses showed how the notion of the “people without space” had been communicated to the writer. So we met every year. Hans Grimm was a fanatic of the organic growth of things and knew how to

protect all situations. He endowed the "meetings" with a new moral significance. Like wildfire, what am I saying, like electric waves, the news had spread that on certain days of the year, one did not only meet the revered writer Hans Grimm, but also other coryphees German letters who agreed to entertain a considerable audience, without entrance fee, by reading their writings, and then to mingle with the people. The "meeting of writers" took on the character of a pilgrimage. Little by little, we saw ourselves obliged to establish a real program to satisfy all tastes. The work department moved in serried ranks from its camp far enough away to set up, with the usual patriotic ceremonies, large tents that made people dream of adventure. Around noon, there was a small concert in the convent church where you could hear a chamber orchestra from the University of Göttingen. Between readings, charming first-grade students, dressed in little multicolored summer dresses, chirped around the moved authors. "Mr. Grimm, please, who is this fat, middle-aged gentleman wearing a Basque beret?" (That was me.) Even photographers were showing up, and it is certain that the "writers' meetings" were much more popular than the "poetic days" organized by the government and the party. All the more reason for Hans Grimm to rack his brains to explain the phenomenon that this Goebbels had something against him. Between readings, charming first-grade students, dressed in little multicolored summer dresses, chirped around the moved authors. "Mr. Grimm, please, who is this fat, middle-aged gentleman wearing a Basque beret?" (That was me.) Even photographers were showing up, and it is certain that the "writers' meetings" were much more popular than the "poetic days" organized by the government and the party. All the more reason for Hans Grimm to rack his brains to explain the phenomenon that this Goebbels had something against him. Between readings, charming first-grade students, dressed in little multicolored summer dresses, chirped around the moved authors. "Mr. Grimm, please, who is this fat, middle-aged gentleman wearing a Basque beret?" (That was me.) Even photographers were showing up, and it is certain that the "writers' meetings" were much more popular than the "poetic days" organized by the government and the party. All the more reason for Hans Grimm to rack his brains to explain the phenomenon that this Goebbels had something against him. ) Even photographers appeared and it is certain that the “writers' meetings” were much more popular than the “poetic days” organized by the government and the party. All the more reason for Hans Grimm to rack his brains to explain the phenomenon that this Goebbels had something against him. ) Even photographers appeared and it is certain that the “writers' meetings” were much more popular than the “poetic days” organized by the government and the party. All the more reason for Hans Grimm to rack his brains to explain the phenomenon that this Goebbels had something against him.

If the circle of listeners grew, that of writers also grew. To the representatives of the combatant generation were joined the already older literary glories, and this all the more readily since these meetings were not considered in high places with the enthusiasm to which one was

right to expect, since they provided ideal opportunities to create a living contact between the people and German literature. Among the dignitaries of the world of letters who came to Lippoldsberg, let us mention Rudolf G. Binding, author of a series of short stories with extremely noble feelings, whom at first I called impertinently and wrongly a mixture of grandma and good alive. Let us also mention Rudolf Alexander Schroeder, the venerable Nestor of German poetry; he was the representative not of Thomas Mann, with whom we did not feel especially connected, except that he had taught us to write insofar as we knew how to write - but rather of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, with whom we we all pretended to be very deeply connected without him having taught us anything.FaustAnd Zarathustra, in the bag of any self-respecting WW1 soldier, and in no WWII bag, because the bags followed by truck.

In addition, Hans Grimm invited English, British colleagues, authentic sons of the Albion era which was no longer and not yet lost. We wanted to give them the opportunity to learn through personal contact what their German colleagues had to say to the world. They came with joy and they left troubled. On the day I attended these meetings for the last time, everything went as usual. It was not the last meeting, there must have been a few more before, for obscure reasons, Minister Goebbels forbade Hans Grimm this kind of joke. But I had detached myself from literature to turn to the cinema. We were already about to separate when the dean of the house of mutual aid at the University of Göttingen came to ask Rudolf G. Binding, Joachim von der Goltz and myself

Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

to speak the same evening in front of the students of Göttingen. I cannot claim that the invitation surprised me, but I was proud. It seemed quite natural to me that I should have been chosen because I was the youngest of my colleagues—barely ten years older than the former among the students—and, therefore, the one who could best find the tone that should be adopted in conversation with young students. I was proud to think that next to Binding - whose works will still be read when I am known forever in a few lines of the encyclopedia - and Joachim von der Goltz - who knew how to make real rhyming poems and who found touching constructions of sentences—the healthy and natural instinct of youth would have chosen me to communicate to it a few good words of sublime and definitive wisdom. So we took the train to Göttingen. Along the way, the dean, a dashing young man with an intelligent face, informed me that the mutual aid house housed, so to speak, the cream of student youth, a super-choice of the best elements selected, not only according to racist criteria, of course, but according to the quality of their character and following an intelligence test based on the latest methods of science. This last remark seemed particularly close to his heart. Of all the other students and their corporations, the young man spoke with disdain. They were worthless, they were reactionaries, opposed to the spirit of the community of the people. Those of the house of mutual aid, on the other hand, were brought up in a spirit of freedom, animated by an intimate joy and destined to guarantee the future, to form the stratum of the leaders of the German people.

It was gratifying to see these students settle in the back room of a café in Göttingen, transformed for the occasion into a conference room. At Lippoldsberg already, I had noticed that the

type of student had completely changed. These young people with closed faces, yes, it must be said, who filled the ranks were all blond and dressed the same way. They were animated by such an intimate joy that anyone who erased by the slightest movement the impression of obstinate attention was noticed. I was extremely curious to finally get to know this student youth who for a century had posed their enigmas to each generation of benevolent bourgeois who were aware of their responsibilities. Binding having kindly and generally asked the students what they wanted to know, I was still startled when, after a visibly serious secret struggle, a student asked the following question: "What is it? is art? » Binding was extraordinarily skilled. He crossed his stork legs and while his icy blue eyes wandered over the heads of his audience, he recited, giving full weight to every word, Goethe's poem:"Ueber allen Wipfeln ist Ruh…” “Art is that,” he says. He pointed out that, in the whole poem, there was not a single adjective, that before and after the creation of this poem, the man had always felt an emotion while contemplating the calm on the peaks, but that Goethe having known expressing this feeling through his poem, the man experienced this reality in a new way. “Art,” Binding concludes exactly ten minutes after starting, “art is the creation of a new reality. This denial was of such simple and natural force that the applause of the students brutally tore me from the abyss of my reflections. This is so true, I thought to myself, especially when it comes to the art of war. »

Then Binding read the description of the funeral of Kaiser Wilhelm Ier, from his bookErlebtes Leben. It was the best he had written. All his listeners, who knew nothing of this

heroic emperor, if not that he was dead, will surely think of this story every time they hear his name mentioned. The impression was so deep that everyone nodded when the Dean proposed not to profane this solemn hour with further discussion, but rather to put off the sequel until the following morning, in the garden of the mutual aid house. This decision prompted me to get very quietly drunk during dinner, where I and Joachim von der Goltz occupied the lower end of the table over which Binding presided. I was mortally afraid to see, the next day, one of these young people, ask me the question: "What is murder?" » But I have the not very rare gift of sensing future misfortunes in the intoxication; it always happens to me when I drink for reasons other than voluptuousness. I knew well that, in these latitudes, a young author became a great master with his second book, which sheds a significant light on the state of German literature rather than on that of the people. But I imagined without difficulty that the youth of the country did not expect precisely literary enlightenment from me. I was therefore not surprised when, the next morning, in the garden of the mutual aid house, one of the young people, who formed picturesque groups around Binding, Goltz and myself, asked me, after a struggle visibly serious secret, to tell something about the time of the fighting in the Baltic provinces. I thought it prudent to refuse. I declared that they were outdated blue tales that I had mentioned enough in my bookThe Forsaken. Those who were seriously interested in it could buy it (Rowohlt edition, seven marks fifty the bound copy); this solution would be more protable for the listeners and for me. So I took a very familiar attitude and told them that the present

and the future were certainly much more interesting than the past. Skillfully hiding their overflowing intimate joy, the young people looked at me with closed faces.

Without being discouraged for so little, I told them that it had not been so long since I myself had been in a company of students in Upper Silesia; I remembered very well the visits of gentlemen of a certain age who came to give us advice for our future and our desire to put a small load of dynamite under their chairs. I wouldn't be surprised if in this learned assembly someone were to conceive the same desire... Nothing moved in the faces, except, perhaps, the reflection that, in this case, the object was probably not worth a material so precious. I tried every means; I fired salvos of anecdotes about their positions, I dug the saps and mine shafts of indirect questions, I anquai with the skirmishes of allusions, I tried to crush them with the barrage of daring armaments and I wasted enormous reserves in flares of good words, in shells of wit and cordiality. They were holding on. They stood there looking at me thoughtfully and very seriously. Beside me, Binding had crossed his stork legs and when our gazes met, his icy blue eyes wandered over the heads of the audience. Joachim von der Goltz had taken his place on the other side; silent and with a sunken brow, he armed himself inwardly to draw a well-felt sonnet from this rare event. Finally, I got angry. "All law students raise your right hand!" I exclaimed and finally they understood. These were things they were used to. I counted the raised hands and said that they were the guarantors of the future,

law and that the state was based on law, and how could it be otherwise? So what did they think of the state? Of this State which they were about to completely rebuild! How did they imagine it? They must have thought about it, because it was the kind of thing one did before cheerfully undertaking such a gigantic task. Then I saw the serious struggle begin in one of those closed faces; after terrible smiles, the features relaxed, the eye began to shine, the cheek to turn pink. The voice cleared and painfully pronounced this sentence: "We are against Carl Schmitt!" » This surprised me. I was not at all against Carl Schmitt. Although he had been a State Councilor in Prussia without ever having rendered the slightest service to the State, and although he was mistakenly considered the theoretician of National Socialism, he seemed to me to be the only professor of law modern public that had value. But only too happy to have made a breach in the fortress, I went on hastily: “And why so? » And a second face betrayed the secret struggle, the features relaxed, I met a look full of exalted sincerity and the young man exclaimed: "It's because we don't want a state at all!" » Hallelujah! What joy ! There he is, finally, the spirit of youth, conqueror of the earth, assailant of the sky! The revolution ! The anarchy ! Like a fanfare, my question rang out: "And what do you want?" Then the dashing Dean, his head bowed slightly and a cordial smile on his lips: “The community of the people, of course! » No one will blame me for not admitting defeat. I couldn't give up the fight so cheaply. No one will dispute that my next question obeyed more the laws of logic than my amazement. “But then, my children, why do you study

? And a third said without even much hesitation: "It's because our teachers are all still influenced by the pernicious spirit of the Jews and that teaches us what not to do." » This meeting with the student youth did not degenerate into a solemn hour. Once on the train, with Binding and Goltz, I gave free rein to my annoyance. I am afraid I have spoken for several hours, without hesitation, about German youth; they were stone-ready editorials, but no one will ever want to read them. Binding's icy blue eyes wandered over the net. Finally, Goltz shook himself and said, "My dear, those boys have been giving you a hard time!" » Rudolf G. Binding, on the other hand, says: “Every youth is exactly as its age desires it, and that is the best of both. Tired, he closed his eyes only to reopen them once more when he said: "Why do you ask the youth to live for the fatherland when they are ready to die for it?" » "That girl," Zehrer said as he woke up, "I saw her too. come !

21 26. IN WHICH NAPOLA, ADOLF-HITLER-NS-EXECUTIVE SCHOOLS OR MILITARY ACADEMIES DID YOU TEACH? GIVE DATES AND LOCATIONSNOT APPLICABLE.

27. HAVE YOUR CHILDREN TAKEN THE EDUCATION OF ANY OF THESE ESTABLISHMENTS?

not applicable.

WHICH, WHEN AND WHERE?

not applicable.

28. INDICATE (GIVING LOCATIONS AND DATES) ALL THE SCHOOLS WHERE YOU HAVE BEEN A TRUSTED TEACHER (FORMERLY JUDGENDWALTER).

without

object.

1. First publisher of Goethe, Schiller and most of the German classics. 2. Battle of the First World War, very famous in Germany, where its memory is particularly exalted by the right. It is said that the German students went on the attack singing theDeutschland über alles. 3. Volunteer Corps for the Defense of Upper Silesia. 4. Austrian economist, with fascistic tendencies. Schuschnigg government theorist. 5. One of the most important German publishers.

6. Paramilitary organization of the Austrian right. 7. Famous German satirical writer. 8. Advocacy organization of the Austrian Socialist Party. 9. Leader of the Sudeten Germans. Led the campaign against Benes, before the Munich Agreement. 10. Leader of the Austrian Nazis.

11. National Socialism's most important theorist. HerMyth of the XXecenturywas the ideological basis of the regime. Rosenberg was executed at Nuremberg as a war criminal. 12. Chief of the SA Executed by personal order of Hitler on June 30, 1934.

13. SS = Schutz-Stael, protection detachment. 14. Hitler-Jugend = Hitler Youth. 15. Last Chancellor of the Weimar Republic. Was assassinated on Hitler's orders on June 30, 1934. 16. Organizer of the Reichswehr after the Treaty of Versailles. 17. Secretary to the Presidency of the German Republic. Held this position under Ebert (Social Democrat) as well as Hindenburg and Hitler. 18. To avoid confusion with the word comrade (genosse) of the Communists, the Nazis created the wordVolksgenosse(Volks=people).

19. Nationalist author. HerVolk ohne Raumwas one of the great successes of German literature of the interwar period. 20. The central organ of the SS

21. Napoleon =Nationalpolitische Erziehungsanstalt:National Institute of Political Education.

C. PROFESSIONAL OR TRADE EXAMINATIONS C. PROFESSIONAL EXAMINATIONS

see Attachment.

add C:The more I get bogged down in this questionnaire, the more I am forced to reluctantly make unpleasant confessions. This section, which does not even have the rank of a numbered question, obliges me to recognize that, at times, I have led a double life. I can, however, and Heaven be praised! indicate two important extenuating circumstances: firstly, it happened to me at a time when I felt an impetuous need to live not one, not two, but if possible a hundred lives at a time, so that a modest double life must be considered as a proof of moderation; secondo, I fell into bad company, into the company of men whom, until that day, I was inclined to regard as my friends, but whom

such revealing questions unmask, to my horrified surprise, as declared enemies. With the exception of civil servants of administration penitentiary, it is generally believed that criminals leave prisons better men. And indeed, my multiple experiences have taught me that criminals return to bourgeois life with the best intentions; usually they are neither particularly drained nor broken by sourances, but on the contrary attack life with a certain excess of energy. This fact is a credit to the modern prison system. Arrived at this point, I cannot prevent myself from accusing the wickedness of our time. Modern civilization has created orders and protections so subtle that anyone with a slightly exuberant will to good is necessarily obliged to tear a few meshes of the complicated net. It is very rare for a former criminal to reoffend driven by misery; he is brought there rather by an excess of energy, an excessive virtue, so to speak, — he must prove to himself what he is still capable of. In this regard, my situation was even more difficult than that of many others. I was still very young and intact when in 1928 I saw myself returned to the world; and this world, at least that of my homeland, was completely different from the one I had left and also from the one I had imagined from the place where I had taken my best resolutions. On the day of my release, I passed suddenly from the Middle Ages to the American century. It is true that this step was not particularly painful for me. No doubt a man coming out of the Middle Ages will oppose, after a few moments of confusion, a calm coolness to the American world, because he knows he is in possession of inner certainties which are obviously lacking in this world. Instead of proclaiming his

amazement, this man will feel the need to reduce things to their true proportions. I believed in being certain of the criteria by which to judge. As soon as I arrived in Berlin, I went to the Königsallee, near the tree which had become for me and for many of my friends the symbol of fate. Strengthened by the remembrance of good resolutions, I went up the Kurfürstendamm, seated on the first bench on the first floor of a number one bus. But the Kurfürstendamm is a street that only reveals the true character of its architects at dawn. Because dawn reveals much more than it hides. Then the houses rise like mountains on both sides of the narrow gorge; their peaks threaten the sky, their roofs are loaded with cornices and gables, cupolas and round or slender turrets; carved in sandstone, huge allegorical figures stand guard at galleries and projections, while caryatids, muscular heroes, hercules and titans carry entire floors on their shoulders, witnesses of a wealth that once seemed established for eternity . When I had seen this street for the last time, in 1922, the magnificence had been enveloped in a veil of mourning; the sandstone breathed sadness and soot, the stucco had peeled off and the dawn revealed in its nudity the disintegrated power of an era which was never so ashamed of its poverty as by seeing it spread over witnesses of the splendor of yesteryear. That era was also over. Now, the gaze was captured from the bottom of the houses by concrete facades clad on the sandstone, by large windows crudely lit, by the green ramage, blue and red neon tubes, by the display of a new wealth that sought odd shapes to demonstrate its value. Only the raised finger of the church consecrated to the memory of the Emperor William recalled the

fragility of earthly things. This street, with its shops, its men and its business, once again testified to wealth, as did the torrent of automobiles which, like a herd of wild animals fleeing before a steppe fire, entered pressed against the old in the curve around the church, while the reflections of the luminous signs sparkled like tongues of fire on the wet macadam with the rain. However, I had grown up in a family of civil servants and I remembered very well the continual discomfort caused by the disproportion between a modest income and the obligation to live according to one's condition. I also remembered some very angry remarks from my father, who had been a man of great moral stability and who hated nothing so much as the ever more sensitive obligation to live beyond one's means, an obligation that pushed people necessarily to deceive themselves and easily to deceive others. So I learned early on to despise what my father bitterly called "the bourgeois facade," and later "the bourgeois order" in general, when I thought I recognized that its only effects were henceforth produced by the facade. The spectacle of these cars circling around the church therefore did not particularly upset me. Instead, I began to assess the fortune that was circulating so briskly, I reconsidered to whom this fortune could in fact belong, and when I had deducted the capital gain, the monthly installments not yet paid, the corresponding part of the late repair payments , as well as interest for American credits, I was quite willing to disbelieve my eyes and hold the church as the only reality. Not that I hadn't felt the desire to own one of those cars which, according to my calculations, were morally non-existent! But my respect for the American miracle of prosperity was clearly

decreasing. The thought imposed itself that it would be more worthy of a man to try to get off its hinges in this world made of illusions than to settle down comfortably in it. Admittedly, the task was not easy, especially if I remembered that with the fifteen pfennigs that the bus ticket cost, I was supporting a transport company whose financial bases were probably not much stronger than those of this distinguished gentleman who had just descended with nonchalant assurance from his convertible, a black car with a red leather interior and a chrome face. And yet, I was not as sure of my fact as of my criteria. I don't know if there are many men who know, like me, periods that I call periods of "precisely", where one meaningful chance is added to another to bring about a series of very important. The sight of the black car with its chrome mouth, precisely, occupied me so much during this decisive day that during my visit to Commander Ehrhardt's office and the conversation with my friend Hartmut Plaas (please remember the answer to question 24), I had the very strong impression that my later life was going to be determined in one way or another by the considerations that had crossed my mind during my ride on the bus . I didn't know how, but I had enough confidence in the ways of fate. As I took my leave of Plaas expressing the somewhat illfounded promise that in ten years I would also find myself in possession of a car with a chrome mouth (intimately and unwaveringly convinced that I would have paid for it honestly), I just met a young man on the stairs. He was the first of a whole series of men who were to have a decisive influence on my life and whom until now I had considered my friends; seized with a superior intuition, I I just met a young man on the stairs. He was the first of a whole series of men who were to have a decisive influence on my life and whom until now I had considered my friends; seized with a superior intuition, I I just met a young man on the stairs. He was the first of a whole series of men who were to have a decisive influence on my life and whom until now I had considered my friends; seized with a superior intuition, I

deliver today as enemies to the public prosecutor. He was a young man of my age whose appearance did not immediately suggest that he was one of the commander's rather rare supporters. His widebrimmed hat, his tortoiseshell glasses and his rather intellectual face was more reminiscent of the Roman café1 than the offices of a man who, for ten years, had been constantly on the point of shortly taking the destiny of Germany into his own hands. Deeply interested, I therefore turned around and saw that Plaas greeted him by calling him Bogoumil, a name that seemed to suit him perfectly. The two men immediately engaged in a conversation which revolved around this article on Christianity and the State which the captain had, for rather maritime reasons, refused to sign. Bogoumil's opinion on Christianity was unequivocal. He was against. There was no doubt about it. In fierce rage, oddly contrasting with a somewhat sloppy way of speaking, he uttered aphorisms. I heard a few isolated sentences like: "Loyalty requires not believing in God" or: "Morality belongs to the world of appearances", or again: "The Church is a kind of State, and the most hypocritical kind." All of these sentences sounded like they had already been heard, but I couldn't place them because the young man adorned them with rhetorical phrases such as: "As the saying goes already the old Nitschke2. However, when the word "will to power" was uttered, I finally realized that it was the well-known Polish philosopher, Frederic Nietzsche, whoseZarathustra. The only result of this reading had been my attempt to express myself for some time in a rave way, which greatly upset my comrades in the corps of cadets.

While I was going down the stairs, Hartmut Plaas must have told this Bogoumil who I was. I had not yet arrived at the door of the house when the intellectual Saint George joined me and asked me what he could do for me. Thinking of Nietzsche, I overcame the warm wave of pity that overwhelmed me at the idea that I didn't know where to sleep in this rather large city; as I did not believe I needed metaphysical consolation from Bogoumil, I asked him what really interested me, that is to say the exact figures of German debts (particularly with regard to the automobile industry ). Without hesitating for a second, Bogoumil answered: “Salinger! and as I looked at him with a bewildered air, he continued eagerly: —Hans Dieter Salinger,Journal of Commerce and Industry, my economic expert; he knows these things, let's go see him! And we went to see him immediately. Sitting on the first bench on the first floor of a number two bus, my enemy number one showed up. His name was Frederic Hielscher3, was a doctor of law and immediately began to spout me a lot of bizarre information. He said, for example, that he used to classify all men according to their color units: I was yellow; I replied that, as for him, I rather took him for blue, which he took with a quivering little laugh. When I asked him why he was called Bogoumil, he explained to me that he also classified men according to their animal units and obviously animals according to their human units; one day when he was out walking with a friend, he said of a basset hound that looked like his name was Bogoumil. At the same time, his friend had exclaimed: "This basset hound is your spitting image!" In this way, Bogoumil's name stuck with him.

It goes without saying that Bogoumil's manners seemed to me extremely foolish. I smiled full of indulgence that he began to mingle my conception of the world and to prove to me in detail that at bottom I had a completely different opinion, that is to say his; in a masterful way, he let it be understood that he was not one of those reformers and prophets one met at that time on every street corner. He brought a new way of thinking, something he called "heroic realism" (as old Nitschke said), in support of which he quoted Goethe, whom he called "a not unintelligent guy." Full of curiosity, I contemplated this strange man who did not hesitate to call Plato a coward, this Bogoumil in his worn brown suit, with his old lumpy briefcase, who employed an "economic expert" for his own use, who, for "reasons of cleanliness" refused to earn enough money to be able to buy a good soap; and I thought I understood that his familiar attitude towards the coryphees of the spirit was not due to a lack of respect, but on the contrary to that excess of timid admiration which compels a man to mask his sacred feelings by the veil of a showy jargon. This attitude is only bearable if it includes a good dose of self-irony; I was therefore very relieved when Bogoumil, in the process of saying: "The body is a political organism, an aristocracy, as old Nitschke says",

Arrived at the apartment of the economic expert, Bogoumil, greeted by everyone with a cordiality mixed with esteem, immediately began to empty his briefcase which until then I had looked at full of respect, believing it to be stuffed with books. extremely learned. But he drew from it a long briar pipe, an enormous lighter, a large

pouch filled with dark tobacco, wires, hooks and clips; Carefully, he put everything on the table, took out a nightcap with which he covered his pointed and shimmering skull, grabbed a tomato sandwich and said at once: — The ancient Auricaans were already in the habit of considering meals as a ritual act! This sentence was immediately challenged. A gentleman claimed that the Auricaans were justly known to be a particularly ascetic Indian tribe from Tierra del Fuego. This typically Berlin way of immediately taking everything seriously (thus creating the impression of not taking anything seriously), was unknown to me; I therefore had time to look around me. I inquired of the master of the house—who had welcomed me as a very dear friend—who were the various gentlemen eating sandwiches and discussing the ritual habits of ancient Auricaans.

It was, so to speak, the golden youth of the spirit of Berlin at the time. These young people, all about my age, had already attained their possibilities in bourgeois life. They all had positions which they considered important and, although they were not yet real leadership positions, they considered themselves much more worthy of these positions than those who had no other qualification than that of occupying them. (obviously committing fault after fault). The young man with the pessimistic wrinkles in the beaming face was a certain Hans Zehrer. On the fourth page of the famous newspaperVossische Zeitung, he was writing the foreign policy overview where his point of view was diametrically opposed to that of the editorial written by the editor. The boy who during the discussion could only make confused remarks,

but who was always the only one to quote exact figures, was a certain Erwin Topf, agricultural expert at theBerliner Tageblatt4, whom I thought could be interested in many things, but not in agricultural matters. The very distinguished gentleman with the pleasant voice was Albrecht Haushofer, ls of the editor of the Geopolitics Review. The man who quarreled with Bogoumil over the ancient Auricaans was Ernst Samhaber, professor of Assyriology at the University of Santiago in Chile; his presence in this circle allowed the painful assumption that the Chileans were much less interested in this exciting subject than the Germans. In addition, there was Franz Joseph Furtwängler, the right arm of trade unionist leader Leipart, while Salinger himself was the left arm of one of those countless ministers of the time whose names have blown away. But all these gentlemen, and a few others of the same ilk, had, with the exception of Bogoumil, this in common: the future seemed bleak to them! I was still naïve enough to ignore the transformations that take place under the guise of official jargon and to believe in current classications; I therefore assumed with some astonishment that my Bogoumil, who seemed a little confused to me but undoubtedly a supporter of the extreme right, had approached a group of men who were tending clearly to the left, at least towards the center left. The opposite was true. Today, I see clearly: the law of the time of “precisely” has fallen me, with all my good resolutions, precisely into a nest of conspirators. Seen in the retrospective, it was a nest of very modern conspirators. The resistance around the tea table, this is where it was invented. Here was undertaken for the first time the brilliant attempt to shake the foundations of power through aesthetic conversations.

It is true, I suspected it as little as all the others who met every Friday evening in the house of Salinger-Mirabeau. Certainly it was not we who wanted something, but something wanted in us (as old Nitschke says). Everything was so wondrously vague until, gritting its teeth, power slammed its fist down. And that happened exactly a year and a half later, in September 1929. Then the whole ugly truth was laid bare. A day came when the columns of the newspapers were as full of articles about "Salinger's Salon" as the cells of the Moabit prison were with its regulars. Unanimously, our tea table was called the "home of the revolution." We had tried to shake the foundations of the state. We had raised a criminal hand against the foundations of civilization. And we were extremely surprised to learn it. I am ready to solemnly acknowledge that, without me, this serious crime would not have happened. But I may plead in my defense that a discussion beginning so innocently with the ritual habits of the ancient Auricaans could not reveal to the most vigilant conscience the seeds of future crimes. So, hardly had we finished with the Auricaans, I asked the modest question about German debts, driven by this obstinacy which has always involved me in the most complicated undertakings (for example, in filling out this questionnaire). But the eect of this question was staggering. It must have touched the heart of the German situation. I was immediately overwhelmed with figures (all wrong except those indicated by Dr. Topf), and I was informed even in the most obscure details of the transformation of our situation. Summarized in a few sentences, the result of this discussion which lasted until four o'clock in the morning and which took place every Friday was more or less the following:

The German economy, bled white by the obligation to pay continual and practically unlimited reparations, was supported by generous American credits. Thus flourished in our country a truly American prosperity which was quite fallacious, for the Americans evidently had the presumptuous but justified desire to return to their funds, augmented by considerable interest. In practice, therefore, reparations had to be increased by interest; in practice, the German economy thus sustained was to flood the world market with its products; consequently, the expected income from interest was compensated, in America, by a certain loss of prosperity. It was therefore logical to ask what were the goals of the Americans. I purposely refrained from suggesting that they were perhaps acting out of sheer philanthropy; I wanted to prevent one of these gentlemen from rising to give me a gentle kiss on the forehead. Basically, there were only two possibilities to consider this phenomenon. Either the Americans were acting according to a diabolical plan with the aim of seizing all of Germany's economic substance and then disposing of it as they saw fit, or they were acting with immeasurable stupidity. Automatically, I was inclined to believe the first possibility. Forgive me, but I was supported by a reliable witness. I knew my Rathenau whose writings lined up in Salinger's library. There was a page... “If of two nations, one produces itself all the goods it needs while the other depends on the goods of the first, curious relations end up being established. The debtor nation will first try to pay in goods. But since the creditor nation does not need it, it will seek other means. It will pay in loans, but the interest on the loans must be paid by

new titles, and the needs of the State are limited. It will pay in industrial goods, in mortgages, in shares. But the concrete values represented by these securities will always have to remain in the debtor country, because the creditor country does not know what to do with them. Everything therefore remains unchanged in the debtor country; agriculture, railways, industries, navigation, all prosper and produce; but the owners of the land, of the factories, of the means of transport are in the creditor country. It is to them that we owe the accounts, they are the ones who dispose of the positions of the employees, the income is credited to them and they make the investments as they wish. It is true that these revenues will remain in the country itself because they cannot find a way to export them, but each new asset increases the influence. “We can deny this phenomenon in the following way: the weaker nation pays in power. The stronger nation takes the position of owner and lessor. This power is all the more terrible in that almost every inhabitant manages to live personally in dependence on foreigners. » Perhaps I had really planted the seed of the crime when I couldn't help quoting aloud the following sentence from Rathenau, a sentence which now makes me cringe: “Armed revolt is the only remedy against this peaceful subjugation! » (Given the analogous events of today, I hasten to arm that my opinion has changed. I hold Rathenau's denial to be false. I am now in favor of the other possibility. Stupidity is what is normal No force in the world can make me say that Americans aren't normal.) But none of the gentlemen gathered around Doctor Salinger's tea table had a car, probably for reasons

of cleanliness. None of these gentlemen, except perhaps Mr. Samhaber, had been to the United States. We probably knew as little about life in America as Americans knew about life in China when they decided to support the Chinese against the Japanese. It was therefore out of pure moderation that I considered the problem from the strictly German point of view. What bothered me was the fact that my dear countrymen cheerfully and with official approval pocketed the windfall of credits, pointing out with forceful winks that it was quite impossible to ever return these pleasing sums. A certain bourgeois atavism in me rose up against this method; I found that this attitude of my compatriots was not honest, I would have liked it to be different. To put it straight away:

But my new friends didn't even seem ready for that. Here appeared the curious role played by Bogoumil. The other members of the circle had, like all their compatriots except me, who was just absent, experienced the great wave of material corruption, political and financial scandals, and they had concluded that material corruption must have been preceded by a spiritual corruption. They had, for example, become acquainted with the ideas of Oswald Spengler on the decadence of the West, they had experienced the fragility and the void of ocial ideologies in daily life. They must therefore have felt the irresistible urge to become aware of their own

value, to discover pleasant perspectives and an optimistic explanation of the repugnant phenomena of their time. And Bogoumil spoke all this, with verve and a warm and apodictic certainty drawn from the fountain of metaphysics. His bizarre way of stating theses and defending them might be amusing, but it still demanded attention. He had a dazzling way of attributing all disagreeable phenomena to "preponderant foreign influences"; he did not a priori despise nonGerman cultures, but their influence which distorted the German “substance”. This substance was close to his heart. It was a seemingly spiritual thing that continually demanded material manifestation.

Bogoumil was quite close to the revelation of the mystery in the sense that he fixed the whole process by a name and thereby made it comprehensible. He called it "the Reich", the definitive and eternal manifestation of "being German". And if it could not be disputed that his violent dialectic encountered, even in this intimate circle, a cautious reserve, it was obvious that the passionate discussion was less concerned with the problem of the existence of such a "German being" ( which Goethe already mentions on occasion), but of the question of what this being consisted of.

When I learned by chance that Frédéric Hielscher (Bogoumil Ier) was born in Guben, a small town east of the Lusatian Neisse, I thought I had the deepest reason for his ardent adherence to the particularities of our people. People in border regions easily tend to judge the rest of the world by their own tough rules. But a glance at the map convinced me that our dear homeland was so small that, with a few rare exceptions, there were only inhabitants of border regions. If Bogoumil really wanted to eliminate all these "influences

foreign”, he was forced to reduce “being German” to a miniscule phenomenon. There was 'the West', the real antagonist of 'being German' since humanism—let's get rid of it! There was "the Orient", the real threat of the future, with all its barbarous pretensions to give a valid order to the world—let's get rid of it! There was 'Rome', the main danger of the past which was still current and whose cultural manifestations had forced the 'German being' to crystallize by its resistance—let's get rid of it! Finally, it was allowed to think that alas! our "Reich" was not of this world either. But that was not enough to shake Bogoumil. We were left with brilliant ancestors, ranging from Master Eckart to Goethe, to Frederic Nietzsche and Frederic Hielscher. Once arrived at such a spiritual conception, it was not inadmissible to add some other illustrious names. Bogoumil, far from rejecting such consequences, cheerfully appealed to Cervantes, Dante, Michelangelo, Shakespeare and Dostoevsky, whom he thus incorporated without delay into the "German being." The unfair way of dealing with these things ironically cannot hide the fact that for a long time I swam in the sparkling waters of Bogoumil's philosophy. It is always disloyal to speak ironically of benevolent philosophical doctrines. But the lack of space in this questionnaire unfortunately forces me to renounce the complete presentation of this philosophy before applying the probe of doubt to it. Furthermore, the Bogoumil boat belonged to a large group of similar vehicles and represents many others. At the time, countless small boats of this species crisscrossed the German sea before a huge cruiser began to maneuver in our duck pond and swept away all the philosophical pleasure boats.

So I willingly admit that I remember today with very vivid pleasure the tonic effect my Bogoumil's theories had on me. I sincerely regret that, however, I did not leave this turbulent water to see myself floating off by myself. The road to Bogoumil led at most to the obligation to surround oneself with good useful books. And in the end, every logical spiritual effort aimed at “being German” leads to the unique and very laudable discovery that “to be a good German means to become de-Germanic”, as old Nitschke said. I doubtless owe it to my spirit, gnawed by the stress of the long detention, for having seized, that first evening in Mr. Salinger's house, another possibility of devoting myself to my good resolutions. When at four o'clock in the morning I was forced to confess to my host that I did not know where to spend the rest of the night, he immediately prepared a bed. While the guests were taking their leave, I just heard Mr. Topf remark in passing that the consequences of the American credit policy must first manifest themselves among the peasants. They did not receive credits, and yet peasant property was above all called upon, through taxes and duties, to pay the interest on foreign capital. He said that in Schleswig-Holstein, where the west coast was grassland,

By chance of my birth, I was a Schleswig-Holsteiner. In my province, therefore, the evolution of things appeared most clearly. I obeyed my best resolutions by trying to seize without delay a piece of God's mantle that seemed to point me in this direction. The next day I was going to Kiel.

Half the day I was busy drinking spirits; I spent the other half learning about living conditions and structural transformations among the peasants of Schleswig-Holstein. But my real activity only began when Miss Doctor Querfeldt intended me, by medical prescription, for the profession of writer. The publication of the first article I prepared (remember that I was describing the "first day" of freedom) had unexpected eects. I received by return mail a letter from Bogoumil which, in addition to congratulations on my style, preventing very long sentences from decomposing, contained the announcement that he intended to publish, with Ernst Jünger, a magazine for which he asked for my collaboration. And, at the same time, I received a letter from my brother Bruno. Not only me, but all the Germans obliged to fill in an Allied Military Government questionnaire will have been struck by the fact that the inventors of this subtle instrument have simply evaded a point of the utmost importance, that is to say the question concerning family. On our old continent, the family constitutes such a demanding domain that almost all the actions of the individual can only be fully understood if one considers at the same time his ties with his wife and children, parents and brothers and sisters. My parents gave birth to four sons who, listed according to their ages, are called Bruno, Ernst, Horst and Günther. By careful reckoning, the four have so far spent twenty years of their lives in prison or behind barbed wire. I may add that in each case, the cause of the deprivation of liberty was nothing but an urgent need for freedom, which sheds a meaningful light not so much on the state of mind of our family as on our times in general. Anyone who wants to gain freedom must expect to lose it first many

time. There is nothing extraordinary about this in Germany, but it cannot be attributed to a peculiarity of the German national character; in addition to the German reformatories, prisons and concentration camps, our name was also registered in the lists of French and Belgian prisons, in the files of concentration camps of the French popular front and Vichy, as well as in those of six camps American internment camps and two British camps. I don't dare say that it is also in the files of the Russian camps, because I don't know exactly if any files exist there. Be that as it may, our mother learned little by little to see the incidents in the lives of her children come with some coolness. Only once did she get seriously angry; it was September 1929, when all four were simultaneously in prison. You would think that the four of us had the same convictions. This is not the case. I am persuaded, it is true, that we have nearly the same opinion on the duties of a man in this world, but our paths have, to this day, remained rather different. My brother Bruno declared himself a partisan of the blood-red flag of the revolution; but beneath that st emblem winds a thing called the general line, and I'm not quite sure that hasn't changed rather than my brother Bruno. On the other hand, my brother Günther struggled from the beginning under the sign of the cross. Unshakable, he stands in the violent turmoil of the times under this simple and upright symbol; but he is the only one of us to have been a member of the party, I must say it bluntly, especially because he is also the only one to have been in a German concentration camp. As for my brother Horst, I suppose he even today has a certain pleasure in the idea that the cross can have hooks; he, on the other hand, was not in the party and his questionnaire is a fine sight. As far as I'm concerned, the flag doesn't matter to me if we arrive at a result that

allow each of my compatriots to travel from Saarbrücken to Tilsit without a sullen young man from Oklahoma or Swjerinogolowskaja, Dumbarton or Tarascon trying to prevent him. To return to a question that is not missing in the questionnaire, for many years, I had not heard from my brother Bruno. He had, so to speak, disappeared. He had learned nothing except how to lead a company in serried ranks across the street, as he put it, and he made many attempts to live an honest bourgeois life. Questions of social decadence did not concern him. Eventually he lived for a long time as a carder in Hamburg, until he realized that he would succeed in transforming the world rather than himself. He remembered that no German will quite perish as long as he can use the knowledge learned in elementary school. He succeeded in persuading the owner of a small printing press in Blankenese, publisher of a lame patriotic weekly, that under his direction, the number of subscribers would double. The weekly had the pompous title:The German Front.

My brother didn't even think of changing that title. It satisfied a deep need. The time had come when everywhere and almost suddenly, everyone remembered the prowess he had accomplished during the war. The sense of self-worth had been buried under the rubble of the debacle, and everyone had enough to do in forcing their way through the ruins of bourgeois existence. But with the end of physical and psychic exhaustion, began the vogue of war books where one tried to retrace on paper the experience once so valuable. It did not matter whether the war itself was judged positively or negatively; the strength of experience was undeniable, and more than one who had boasted

hitherto of carrying the gun only with painful torments of the soul, protested now to have always been a good soldier. In short, of all the male virtues, the quality of warrior suddenly demanded general esteem. Even the political organizations that since 1918 had been known for their gentle and peaceful views were now trying their hand at the bugle and seeking to rally the country's youth under their flag. Duly, Ernst Jünger called his new reviewThe Vormarsch(The Advance), Ernst Niekisch5baptized his The Widerstand(Resistance). No new publication appeared without emphatically suggesting that she was bent on some struggle. Even Hans Zehrer dreamed of intervening with a firm hand, and instead of calling his monthlyFaith, LoveOrHope, he gave it the titleTat(Stock). In principle, therefore, my brother had no objection, when the collaborators of theGerman Frontturned out to be retired generals, majors and captains. Because he believed that warrior habits would also work wonders in the field of spiritual combat. But he must have realized that the only fight was over questions of pensions and wellearned rights. He then wrote an article in which he demanded the suppression of all the pensions of the still valid soldiers, which earned him the collective resignation of all the collaborators and a voluminous letter from readers wounded in the depths of their souls. It is therefore natural that my brother would have been very pleased with my article which appeared in theDAZand publish it in turn. At the same time, he asked me to "take a stand on current questions." His interest in the fragment entitled "The duties of the writer in our time" (see the answer to question 1), was so minimal that the mere mention of the project which will occupy me until the end of my life seemed to chill our relationships. But when I offered him the

report of my investigations concerning the situation of the peasants of SchleswigHolstein, he accepted it without hesitation.

I was just in my writing room, a small partition next to the composing room, when a tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed in a black suit, wearing a bowler hat, came in, walked over to the table, left the latest issue of our newspaper there, pointed to my article with a heavy finger and asked: "Who wrote that?" I saw the visitor's particularly large fists and I withdrew a little to leaf through some proofs at the back of the room. My brother also has those hands that were now resting on the table; He glanced at me quickly, then he collected himself and answered with the resolution of fraternal aection: - Me ! The man's clenched fist then slammed down on the table. With barely contained excitement, he exclaimed: "It's the only reasonable thing that's been written so far." present on our peasant struggle! This man was Claus Heim, a peasant from Dietmarschen, who was soon to be called "the peasant general." He proposed to my brother to take the direction of a peasant newspaper, a daily which would belong to the peasants and would defend their interests. And my brother accepted.

What was the situation? The beautiful province of Schleswig-Holstein is made up of three very different regions. There is the east coast where large property dominates. Even at the best times, it did not arrive at a profitability higher than three per cent. But, by the multiplication of its possibilities of production, by extensive credits, and by the skilful combination of its interests with industry and politics,

it had always known how to get by, very often to the detriment of other farms. Then there is the Geest. Throughout its length, from north to south, the country is separated by a sandy ridge of moorland which, covered with heather and scrub, interrupted by pine forests and swamps, hardly provides meager subsistence to the poor peasant. But when times are bad, poverty knows how to adapt best. The Geest peasant will always be able to feed his family, even if he cannot support the souring economy in any way. Finally, there is the Marsch. The west coast, made up of alluvial deposits from the North Sea and rivers, is covered with rich meadows. Horses and oxen, sheep and pigs peacefully graze on the pastures criss-crossed with gullies—the most important stock-breeding in all of Germany. The peasants of the west coast are rich if in autumn one counts the money brought in by the cattle sold and the oxen which delight in the marshy meadows. But in times of crisis, the farmers of the Marsch are the most exposed. Their economy is a speculative onebranch economy; it is most easily affected by fluctuations in rates and prices, it depends on the state of fodder and the favor or disfavor of the country's commercial treaties. And, in times when the wisdom of governments depends on parliamentary majorities, this particular branch of agriculture can never bring the weight of the many into play. It was there, on the west coast of Schleswig-Holstein, that men like Claus Heim and Hamkens had to rise up to save their farm, since no one else wanted to. "The fact is," said Claus Heim, "that the state, the government, the parties, peasant organizations, agricultural chambers and cooperatives have been useless. The fact is that, for years, the peasant has been paying his contributions everywhere and that he has been told for

years everything we've done for him and he sees that it's going from bad to worse. For a long time, we no longer pay our taxes, duties, contributions and contributions from our income, but from capital. But we don't want to dent the capital. It's a madness that concerns us all, because who kills his golden egg hen? The fact was that when estimating a farm, the basis was the 1912 value, but the same peasant who before the war had paid about one hundred and eighty marks in taxes was paying then, in spite of loss of capital, five thousand six hundred marks. The annual charges for agriculture were the sum of the reparations which the Reich had to pay. The West Coast peasant could calculate exactly how long he would still be able to keep his farm. He therefore lost all desire to work with his family from morning to night, so as not to advance but to retreat, to be forced to take out ever new loans at ever higher rates, to sell ever larger parts of his possessions, in order to save the rest. The conclusion that Claus Heim drew from these simple facts was just as simple. He demanded that every peasant do what is the right of every man and every peasant, that is, try to save his farm. He demanded that everyone refuse to encroach on the capital of his farm and that he show solidarity with all the neighbors for whom there was also a stake in their farm. To deliberate on these proposals, sixty thousand peasants assembled one day at Rendsburg, a small town in the middle of the province. The peasant newspaper, appearing in Itzehoe, had the task of maintaining contact between these peasants when, their cane in hand, they had returned to their homes. My brother would have liked to call the newspaperThe Green Front, while I advocated the name ofTocsinuntil Claus Heim, with a big punch, declared:

- His name isThe Peasant Population. And that's all ! When we arrived at Itzehoe, we found a bankrupt printing house in a rickety old house. All that remained was a destroyed linotype, an intact hand press and a pile of boxes where the characters were piled up in furious disorder. Although my brother was no more technically gifted than I, he immediately got to work. The first issue of our journal was distinguished by innumerable typos and by language which the emancipated population had hitherto been accustomed to hearing only from the mouths of their representatives in the Chamber. There were six times the name of Gresczinsky, the Minister of the Interior of Prussia, always written in a different way, so that at the end only the consonants remained. After a few short weeks, the newspaper had on its back about twenty lawsuits for diamation and press offences; Claus Heim stubbornly refused to pay the fines and my brother demanded that I go to jail in his place. He said that I was already used to it and that we couldn't do without him writing theGerman Front. But it appeared that I, too, was indispensable; more and more often, I filled in the diary all by myself. We then had the idea of winning some idiot from the village to the post of "editor in jail"; however, none were found strong enough to endure the lack of fresh air. We therefore brought from Berlin a hardened old agitator, a man tenderly attached to his various prisons; when he came to see us at the editorial office, we had great difficulty in dissuading him from excesses more conspicuous than press offences: so great was his desire for a well-ordered and meaningful life. Of course, in addition to justice, politics soon interfered with our journalistic activity and troubled it. The President of

Schleswig-Holstein, a certain Kürbis6, prohibited the sheet which reappeared immediately under the name ofThe West Coast. ButThe West Coastwas banned in turn; my brother barely had time to call the newspaperThe Green Front, that I already witnessed the joyful birth of myTocsin. Finally, the President forbids us once and for all the publication of a newspaper which dealt with anything other than purely agricultural questions. So we baptized the newspaperThe pumpkinand the editorial gave itself the joy of all the encyclopedic variations on this fruit: that the pumpkin succeeds best on the manure, that its owers give off a bad smell, etc. Then we stayed at the Peasant population. Day after day, my brother and I were forced to do the newspaper almost alone, and I learned the trade thoroughly. I became an expert in hand composition and pork price uctuations; I studied the layout as well as the German-Yugoslav commercial treaty. I regained the naivety of writing, less because I was forced to dictate my articles, my comments and my aphorisms directly to the linotypist than in consideration of the insignia of the association of combatants of the red front that this one wore in the buttonhole. It was a typeface that didn't care much for fancy turns of phrase and conditional sentences. "People don't care," he would shout; he favored more direct methods and helped me out with a host of current, original and tough expressions. He was indispensable; Also, in order to obtain overtime from him, it was necessary to allow him, from time to time, to express his views on problems which were particularly close to his heart; our readers could not know, even if they were able to notice them, that the purely Marxist ideas of their paper paid for the urgent repair of an electrical installation or the radio station

In his excellent bookPeasants, Monks and Bombs, Hans Fallada described the somewhat original activity, I am afraid, that characterized our peasant newspaper. In this book, the character of Padberg represents my brother Bruno. Even today, I am trying to persuade my publisher, Ernst Rowohlt, to republish Fallada's book. Nowhere else has the sense and nonsense of the peasant movement been better exposed; on this subject, however, I want to mention my own book The city. I no longer have a single copy, but I think I can assume with certainty that it too contains a lot of information essential to anyone who wants to understand the underlying reasons for this movement with all that it included in order and disorder. When I had told him about the reissue of Fallada's book, Rowohlt had already nodded concernedly, but he shook it with some sourness when I offered the same to him.The citythe circulation of which was limited to three thousand copies. (See also answer to question 118.) I too was convinced that the misery of the peasants was intimately linked to the payments made for reparations. The more capital ran out, the clearer it became that the struggle for the essentials had to be coordinated with that of the German national economy as a whole. This was bound to lead to the demand for a reparations strike. However, this claim was not new. No one sighed more under the shoe of reparations than the government; the Minister of Foreign Aairs, M. Stresemann, flew from conference to conference to obtain the remission of these political debts. The novelty consisted in the fact that part of the population was called upon to undertake this strike; and this was precisely the most important and hardest hit part, the peasants. We thought that Mr. Stresemann could

we are confident to use this claim – formulated a little less crudely – to support its reports. My brother saw to it that he received the peasant newspaper regularly. But, pressed for business, Mr. Stresemann apparently omitted to read it. The peasants, on the other hand, read it. The circulation of the newspaper was increasing and at the same time, the echo grew louder; soon the clamor was rising from every farm in Schleswig-Holstein. But the question: how to carry out this strike? came back like a leitmotif. We were trapped. For a long time I struggled with myself. But I was full of the best resolutions and determined to follow the coldest logic rather than my passionate desire to tangle myself in the jumble of criminal feelings of a rather romantic kind. So I finally had to

The eect of this conclusion was overwhelming. The idea must have been in the air, like a storm whose first flash was now tearing the clouds. To judge from the exuberant reception given to its proclamation, this slogan had gone straight to the German heart. And it was obvious that the administrative services of the Weimar Republic had to prepare themselves to stifle resolutely and by all the coercive means at the disposal of the State, the first demonstration which could respond to such a revolting call. The case occurred in Beideneth, a small town with scattered houses in the Wilstermarsch. Two peasants, Kock and Kühl, owed contributions respectively three hundred and five hundred marks. Never before had they neglected to pay their taxes, but now they simply ran out of money. We seize them; they rushed to the mayor and to the tax office to ask for a delay. But apparently, they wanted their case to serve as a lesson. After five days, a

An employee of the commune and two unemployed men presented themselves at their farms to seize an ox from each of them. The peasants did not stop them. But they rang the bell, and they lit a straw fire on the road, which has always meant that you have to run to help. On all sides, the peasants will have. The oxen, however, seemed to know nothing of the customs of the country. They got angry in front of the fire, tore themselves away from their leaders and returned at full speed to the warm darkness of their stables, to their place in the rack where the intact seal shone in all its brilliance.

It was the revolt of Beideneth, disturbance of public peace, embezzlement of seized property and resistance to public force. Fiftyseven peasants were brought to justice. But two or three hundred peasants had come to the fire and they were not accused. I too was not accused, not having been to Beideneth, and yet I was convinced that I had also lit a fire in the pan. I therefore made contact with the peasants who, to their great astonishment, had not been disturbed, and asked to be handed over, with them and in their name, to the executioners of the regime. The prosecutor, on the other hand, could see no offense or fault in my action. He was Rhenish and was ignorant of the customs of the country, just like the oxen. We were still not satisfied. Peasants arrived who had not been able to watch the fire because their houses were too far away. But they had set off after hearing the alarm. They accused each other of attempting to disturb the public peace; Heim and Hamkens, beating their breasts, declared that they were leaders; it was like a contagious fever. The peasants came from afar to accuse each other with violence. The prosecutor could hardly go down the streets of Itzehoe, where the trial was taking place, without seeing himself immediately surrounded by men

vigorous and serious who implored him to relieve them of their heavy fault and to accuse them to restore peace to their souls.

The trial of the oxen of Beideneth turned into a great popular festival. Young girls' hands rubbed the chests of the accused and this honor was envied; a company of gendarmes sent expressly from Altona enlivened the decor with their stylish uniforms. From all sides came representatives of large and very large newspapers, eager to witness the spectacle of German justice in exercise; came the judges accompanied by their assistants, came the jurors and the witnesses who were crossing with dignity and under the astonished gaze of the population the streets of the little town; came last Me Luetgebrune.

MeLuetgebrune, wrapped in a vast light camel's hair coat, was accompanied by a briefcase and a writing desk, both plump and impressive. It exuded an exquisite cigar scent and a soothing confidence. Thoughtfully, he contemplated the place where the straw fire had ignited, he gave friendly pats first to the oxen in the stable, then to the peasants in the common room; he inquired from one about the health of his estimable family, from another about the price of pork, and from me about preparations for the trial. With pride, I told him about the new rotary press, the beautiful telephone installation in the courtroom and the special trains that the railways had planned and by which I waited for the thousands of peasants who, with their families, their servants , their valet and baskets well stocked with food, would have to confess their guilt and to confront their earthly judge. MeLuetgebrune then said to me: - Yeah, let the extravagance! I am not a boon of comedy! I felt my ears burn and I clicked my heels.

“Agreed, Master! And MeLuetgebrune asked me: "Where can one drink a decent Pilsen beer?" In the whole little town, there was only one place for which the Pilsen provided all the guarantees; it was an "old German beer hall," where all the bigwigs of the place met and now, of course, all those whom the trial had drawn to the town. The brasserie was packed every night. In the small, comfortable rooms, the tables almost touched; the members of the municipal council jostled the accused, and the peasants the functionaries; the provincial councilor was next to me and, pell-mell, the jurors, the prosecutor, the judges, the journalists, the gendarmes, the witnesses were doing honor to the beer; blue smoke rose from pipes, cigars and cigarettes; we toasted, we freely exposed our opinions. The captain of the garrison artillery detachment fraternized with the main defendants. The Provincial Councilor sought to persuade my brother that his outrageous attacks on him were misdirected since he was merely following government instructions. Claus Heim was philosophizing with the presiding judge. Our editor in prison, for the moment free from his professional obligations, invited some police officers to drink with him a "pumpkin", an infernal beverage composed of strong alcohol and pepper, invented by him for the occasion, without Elsewhere the consequences he had hoped for occurred. Soon joyful songs were being sung: the national anthem of Schleswig-Holstein and, in honor of the Socialist deputies, The Provincial Councilor sought to persuade my brother that his outrageous attacks on him were misdirected since he was merely following government instructions. Claus Heim was philosophizing with the presiding judge. Our editor in prison, for the moment free from his professional obligations, invited some police officers to drink with him a "pumpkin", an infernal beverage composed of strong alcohol and pepper, invented by him for the occasion, without Elsewhere the consequences he had hoped for occurred. Soon joyful songs were being sung: the national anthem of Schleswig-Holstein and, in honor of the Socialist deputies, The Provincial Councilor sought to persuade my brother that his outrageous attacks on him were misdirected since he was merely following government instructions. Claus Heim was philosophizing with the presiding judge. Our editor in prison, for the moment free from his professional obligations, invited some police officers to drink with him a "pumpkin", an infernal beverage composed of strong alcohol and pepper, invented by him for the occasion, without Elsewhere the consequences he had hoped for occurred. Soon joyful songs were being sung: the national anthem of Schleswig-Holstein and, in honor of the Socialist deputies, for the moment free from his professional obligations, invited some police officers to drink with him a "pumpkin", an infernal beverage composed of strong alcohol and pepper, invented by him for the occasion, without, moreover, the consequences that he had hoped would happen. Soon joyful songs were being sung: the national anthem of SchleswigHolstein and, in honor of the Socialist deputies, for the moment free from his professional obligations, invited some police officers to drink with him a "pumpkin", an infernal beverage composed of strong alcohol and pepper, invented by him for the occasion, without, moreover, the consequences that he had hoped would happen. Soon joyful songs were being sung: the national anthem of Schleswig-Holstein and, in honor of the Socialist deputies,Arise, the damned of the earth!

And MeLuetgebrune strolled from table to table, stroking his white goatee after each half, exchanging professional memories with the judge, saluting with exclamations of joy

thundering the representatives of the press whom he knew from having seen them at many trials, paying a round to the accused — fifty-seven men — whispering suggestively with the captain of the artillery detachment, forgetting themselves in the heights of a legal controversy with the prosecutor, a young man who looks excessively concerned. With dignity, he avoided the jurors. He was unquestionably the guest of honour, and long after everyone had gone to bed he remained at the largest table, stroked his beard, mixed the champagne with the beer, ignoring his secretary's discreet reproaches and asked: "So tell me, what will there be tomorrow?" The trial of the oxen of Beideneth! I love trials, they always fascinate me. The smallest contains a piece of the Comédie Humaine. For the first time, I was not in the dock, but at the press table. However, the dock seemed to me more fertile in emotions. Shifting in their chairs and yawning, my press colleagues watched amusedly as I dazedly filled in sheet after sheet. When, full of zeal, I tried to excite them a little for the good cause, they gave me benevolent pats saying that I was a good boy but that they were not going to take bladders for lanterns. When I showed my irritation at our communist typeface, he spouted a bunch of vigorous expressions that I couldn't even remember all of them,

In fact, the presiding judge appeared to be in on the plot. With an irritating calm he heard the defendants, all the fifty-seven defendants, one after the other. In my account of the first three depositions, I had written down fierce screams at the thought of mountains of debt and feelings of gloomy

despair that reigned in smiling agriculture; I had put a forest of exclamation points behind each small accounts receivable. But listening to the fourth defendant, even I started to get a little tired. On the twenty-third deposition I changed tack, on the thirty-fifth I began to sweat, on the forty-eighth I stammered, and treated the rest in a summary fashion. Unfortunately, my idea of this trial was also somewhat different from that of Ms.eLuetgebrune. Men had never appeared to me as interesting as circumstances. I knew you could never change humanity; it was therefore a man's duty to change the circumstances. But to my amazement, Mr.eLuetgebrune, himself of peasant origin, really sought to help each of the fifty-seven accused. When I maintained that the judgment could not upset anyone since it must be a real pleasure to see oneself martyred in the good cause, I noticed that, for a peasant, the prospect of remaining inactive between four walls just at the moment of the harvest was nothing to be happy about. He unhesitatingly violated the sacred principle of freedom of the press by forbidding me to complacently enumerate the debts of each peasant: could I not imagine how prejudicial this was to the poor remnants of their personal credit? So I focused my zeal on the prosecutor. Behind the table in the communal hall of Itzehoe stood a wooden statue of Charlemagne, entirely covered with black, silver or gold nails. During the First World War, in many German towns, citizens keen on sacrifices had been able to drive nails into a symbolic figure; the price of pleasure varied with the color of the nail. (In Berlin, for example, you could tap old Hindenburg on the nose.) Charlemagne shone

so magnificently in the half-light of the room; the inhabitants of Itzehoe must have paid the price for it: the crown, the scepter and the imperial globe sparkled with gold while the beard was silver. Charlemagne had founded the town of Itzehoe. Charlemagne was from Aix-la-Chapelle. The prosecutor also came from Aix-la-Chapelle. What could be more natural then than to launch into historical and geographical considerations, to oppose Aix-la-Chapelle to Itzehoe, the gloomy and inhospitable regions of the Rhine to the lush and green fields of the Wilstermarsch, the lean oxen there to the fat oxen here, and to make a discreet allusion to analogous events of the time when, departing from the steppes and the Rhine forests, barbarian hordes of pitiless Franks had invaded countries where they had lost nothing, to slaughter the peaceful and cultured Saxons who lived quietly apart, to conquer the country and bleed it white; in short, criminal aggressors who could not help but reoffend...

MeLuetgebrune, however, spoiled by his intervention the marvelous course of this historical and geographical imagination. At the beginning of his argument, he asked with gentle politeness that the windows of the room be opened. Then he began his extensive lecture. It sounded like the first movement of the pastoral symphony, accompanying the life of the cheerful plowman to the point where it becomes pain and torment, making the storm and the cuckoo's song heard, so to speak, to arrive there skillfully and by a carefully nuanced crescendo to the real political significance of the peasant struggle and of this trial. But just when, first in an uncertain voice, then with firmness, he began to demonstrate that on this occasion, the peasant did not only represent his state and his land, but that by his struggle, he opposed a

policy of impoverishment, the cause and methods of which were in the opinion of all insane, that he had therefore risen for the whole people, more so, for the state itself, for the state and not against him, for Germany and for Prussia, according to the old Prussian tradition… just then, I say, the first bars of a still muffled march were heard outside. The trumpets, the triangles and the timpani sounded louder and louder, the blare of the brass bands, the tearing of the clarinets and the thunder of the bass drum filled the air, — fiery, victorious, of an irresistible power, the march de Hohenfriedberg entered through the open windows, like a stormy battle, drowning everything.

Just at this hour, just at this minute, for an exercise that had suddenly become urgent, the artillery detachment came out, preceded by the captain on horseback, saber drawn, his eyes raised sardonically towards the windows of the courthouse in a quick look.

MeLuetgebrune was silent. His tall erect figure, he caressed his goatee. And the peasants, fifty-seven accused and hundreds of witnesses, straightened their chests, their eyes sparkling, and all their feet began to beat time. The gendarmes rectified the position. Without losing their smile, these gentlemen of the press suddenly began to write assiduously, as if at a Prussian command. The judges, dreamers, relaxed, and even the prosecutor, no, I was not mistaken, did not a tear slip into his eyes, a farewell sacrifice for the great Charlemagne, homage to the no less great Frederic ? I alone thought with anguish of the effect of my report and I fervently hoped that no one would remember the fact that Aix-la-Chapelle was part of Prussia a few years before Beideneth.

And then, eight months in prison were imposed on the two main defendants, six months on twenty-three others.

However, it cannot be said that Mr. Kürbis simply invented a pretext to initiate this trial. In the meantime, many things had happened which could incite the State to set an example. Everywhere there had been embezzlement of pledges (oxen always recoil before the fire); forced sales were prevented (when the young peasants appeared with the brass band and danced the quadrille mounted on their horses, no one participated in the auction); the carters did not like to fetch seized oxen, even under the protection of the police, for they had to expect to lose their peasant clientele; even at the slaughterhouses of Hamburg, three peasants presented themselves one day, declaring that if the oxen seized did not disappear from the box, these gentlemen would receive no more oxen from SchleswigHolstein. Brief,

- solidarity ! Peasant solidarity was something unheard of, because it struck the "vital nerve" more than any other. In the event of conflict, the peasants on their farms could hold out longer than the townspeople, including the authorities, who depended on agricultural products. The case of Neumünster proved it. During a demonstration in favor of some peasants imprisoned in this small industrial town located in the middle of an agricultural region, some peasants had been injured. They demanded satisfaction and compensation. City pride refused. The peasants declared a boycott. No peasant entered the town any longer, none delivered their produce. For almost nine months, the city resisted. Then his pride was shattered — the peasants obtained satisfaction.

Then, however, things happened that the most magnanimous citizen could no longer subscribe to. It started again in Beideneth. Shortly after the seizure of the oxen at Kock and Kühl, the head of the district was awakened one night by a deafening explosion and the bursting of several panes. In his shed, a device had exploded, a bomb, as the police statement said. A search was undertaken, and soon the eorts of the authorities could be described as "strenuous", because bombs began to explode almost everywhere. The police recovered the scattered remains of the devices, experts reconstructed the bomb, and the press received, with instructions to assist the police, several photos of the shrapnel and of a reconstructed bomb as well as detailed explanations of its manufacture. . The police had done an excellent job. Even my brother and I, who lacked technical skills, were able to understand how the criminals had proceeded. A heap of quite ordinary black powder, such as was used in hunting cartridges, was wrapped in plaster; a thin cable with a fuse, such as grenades contained in the Great War, ran from the explosive charge to a flashlight battery such as one could buy in a grocery store, and from there to the ringing of an alarm clock, a quite ordinary kitchen alarm clock, at two eighty marks. Everything was put away in a soapbox, a simple soapbox like it was piled up in the attic of every farm, because we know that SchleswigHolsteiners are clean people. not technically gifted, we were able to understand how the criminals had proceeded. A heap of quite ordinary black powder, such as was used in hunting cartridges, was wrapped in plaster; a thin cable with a fuse, such as grenades contained in the Great War, ran from the explosive charge to a flashlight battery such as one could buy in a grocery store, and from there to the ringing of an alarm clock, a quite ordinary kitchen alarm clock, at two eighty marks. Everything was put away in a soapbox, a simple soapbox like it was piled up in the attic of every farm, because we know that Schleswig-Holsteiners are clean people. not technically gifted, we were able to understand how the criminals had proceeded. A heap of quite ordinary black powder, such as was used in hunting cartridges, was wrapped in plaster; a thin cable with a fuse, such as grenades contained in the Great War, ran from the explosive charge to a flashlight battery such as one could buy in a grocery store, and from there to the ringing of an alarm clock, a quite ordinary kitchen alarm clock, at two eighty marks. Everything was put away in a soapbox, a simple soapbox like it was piled up in the attic of every farm, because we know that Schleswig-Holsteiners are clean people. A heap of quite ordinary black powder, such as was used in hunting cartridges, was wrapped in plaster; a thin cable with a fuse, such as grenades contained in the Great War, ran from the explosive charge to a flashlight battery such as one could buy in a grocery store, and from there to the ringing of an alarm clock, a quite ordinary kitchen alarm clock, at two eighty marks. Everything was put away in a soapbox, a simple soapbox like it was piled up in the attic of every farm, because we know that Schleswig-Holsteiners are clean people. A heap of quite ordinary black powder, such as was used in hunting cartridges, was wrapped in plaster; a thin cable with a fuse, such as grenades contained in the Great War, ran from the explosive charge to a flashlight battery such as one could buy in a grocery store, and from there to the ringing of an alarm clock, a quite ordinary kitchen alarm clock, at two eighty marks. Everything was put away in a soapbox, a simple soapbox like it was piled up in the attic of every farm, because we know that Schleswig-Holsteiners are clean people. ranged from the explosive charge to a battery of flashlights such as one could buy in a grocery store, and from there to the ringing of an alarm clock, a quite ordinary kitchen alarm clock, at

two marks eighty. Everything was put away in a soapbox, a simple soapbox like it was piled up in the attic of every farm, because we know that Schleswig-Holsteiners are clean people. ranged

It goes without saying that my brother does his duty as a journalist. He published the photos and the police instructions on the front page. It is not due to its merit that the circulation of the journal had to rise so exceptionally that copies of the

weeks later. Modesty compels us to attribute the merit to the police alone. She had done her best so that during the long winter evenings the peasants of Schleswig-Holstein would not think bad thoughts and that instead of doing crossword puzzles or meeting to listen to rebellious speeches, they go silently and eagerly in search of soapboxes, kitchen alarm clocks and batteries of flashlights. And then, we heard the sound of explosions here and there. I must admit that the fact of not having agreed with the evolution that the peasant movement was taking surprises me myself. No one will believe me if I try to deny that with each explosion I was happy like a barracks builder who hears a declaration of war. But in the meantime we had discovered, at Itzehoe, the principle of revolutionary legality. However, it soon became apparent that we were to share this discovery with a man from Berlin and a man from Berchtesgaden. We found the Reich Constitution to be an excellent document. It was so excellent that even on the day of President Hindenburg's death it was open on his table and the man from Berchtesgaden did not find it useful to abolish it ocially, although for many years he had the possibility. I do not know what consequence the man from Berlin drew from the fact that the constitution of the Reich only mentioned the parties once, and again with the negative intention of curbing their power. The man from Berchtesgaden was apparently encouraged to replace the multitude of parties with a single party. And we at Itzehoe had the hope that it was very possible, that it was even in the true intentions of the constitution, to break through some kind of new center of crystallization, to borrow therefore from the parties the element of political will and to proceed with the foundation and again with the negative intention of curbing their power. The man from Berchtesgaden was apparently encouraged to replace the multitude of parties with a single party. And we at Itzehoe had the hope that it was very possible, that it was even in the true intentions of the constitution, to break through some kind of new center of crystallization, to borrow therefore from the parties the element of political will and to proceed with the foundation and again with the negative intention of curbing their power. The man from Berchtesgaden was apparently encouraged to replace the multitude of parties with a single party. And we at Itzehoe had the hope that it was very possible, that it was even in the true intentions of the constitution, to break through some kind of new center of crystallization, to borrow therefore from the parties the element of political will and to proceed with the foundation

of an autonomous peasant administration. We were sure that other interest groups would quickly see the advantages of this new political structure and that they would follow our example. The National Socialist Party, after having abandoned its original intention of obtaining power by force, thanks to a "hard minority", tried to defeat all the other parties by ever larger majorities, acquired "legally" by propaganda. and persuasion, and to conquer the whole state. He therefore had to consider as an enemy any other attempt to establish a new order. The importance which the party attached precisely to the peasant movement of Schleswig-Holstein and the danger which it saw in it found expression in the fact that the party's only daily newspaper, theVolkische Beobachterapart, was founded at that time in our province. The party's unscrupulous propaganda was in real danger of shaking peasant solidarity to its foundations. In fact, Heim and Hamkens would have hardly defended themselves against the unexpected support of the party if they had been able to learn what were its ideas on the struggle and the reorganization of the peasant states. But they did not learn it. And the party not only demanded all surages during the elections, it did not only demand absolute obedience, it also demanded to be informed about all the acts of solidarity and about all the decisions of the peasant leaders. And everything needed his permission. It was enough for Claus Heim to bang on the table and cry out: "I don't want to know anything about it!" And that's all.

And now bombs were bursting! The peasant movement suddenly seemed to abandon legality! Suddenly, the party had the upper hand! For a long time the authorities and the press had proclaimed that the National Socialist Party was hiding behind the peasant movement. The time had come when the party could

achieve two goals at once: he could eliminate an inconvenient competitor and he could wrap himself like a cloak in the innocence of his new principle of legality. The Führer promised ten thousand marks to party members able to prove that the illegal attacks were not the work of the National Socialists. They were party functionaries who did not disdain to communicate to the authorities the names of some perpetrators of attacks. Each movement reaches its critical point when it is large enough that the most active party no longer understands the "stop" pronounced by the leaders. Public statements by Heim and Hamkens condemning the attacks were useless. There were always new explosions, in the prefectures, the subprefectures and especially in the perceptions. My articles in which I sought to demonstrate that the civil servants of the Ministry of Finance were good, badly paid people who were only doing their duty, were of no use. (I had no idea yet that the formula "just their duty" favored a completely pernicious attitude. Today, I obviously know that the excuse of having only done one's duty is not accepted. is still hanged. ) It was useless to beg the bold-looking young men who visited me at the newspaper to abstain, since they only disturbed our plan; the guys would wink, pat me on the shoulder, and walk away saying the mysterious words, "It's still fun!" When one day I saw the eye of our communist typo fixed dreamily on an old alarm clock, I questioned him point-blank. But he argued that his party headquarters forbade individual acts of terror. (I learned later that he was a sought-after expert in the mass production of explosives, his plant having enabled collective acts of terror.) The authorities tapped me on the shoulder and left, pronouncing the mysterious words: "It's still a pleasure! When one day I saw the eye of our communist typo fixed dreamily on an old alarm clock, I questioned him pointblank. But he argued that his party headquarters forbade individual acts of terror. (I learned later that he was a sought-after expert in the mass production of explosives, his plant having enabled collective acts of terror.) The authorities tapped me on the shoulder and left, pronouncing the mysterious words: "It's still a pleasure! When one day I saw the eye of our communist typo fixed dreamily on an old alarm clock, I questioned him point-blank. But he argued that his party headquarters forbade individual acts of terror. (I learned later that he was a sought-after expert in the mass production of explosives, his plant having enabled collective acts of terror.) The authorities

started sifting through all the non-peasant elements of the movement, the vagabonds, the marauders — but that again was useless. The first they arrested was our "editor in jail." But the police were out of luck; this "culprit" had the most unshakable alibis. With each attack, he had been in prison! Nothing was useless, the bombs burst! Trial after trial was brought, Mr.eLuetgebrune came back each time. He came and said: "Enough now!" I still have other things to do than to clear your house! And again, you pay me a fixed price! Ten years later, in 1939, when the peasant movement had long been a legend, I traveled through Schleswig-Holstein. I passed through Heide where, a year later, the first bomb was to fall on German soil. It's a small country town and I walked into an inn on the market square to eat a slice of Holstein ham. In the room there was a photo representing the defendants of the Neumünster trial. Me Luetgebrune was in the middle of the group. When I looked at the photo, the innkeeper approached, saying: “It was taken during an excursion by our corporation. Fire my husband is also there. "And what did he get?" I asked. "A year and a half," replied the woman.

When I had told him my name, I no longer had to pay for my ham, nor the brandy. The woman wanted to know where I had been. She says : "Have you seen in Meldorf the big new brick building

red? I had seen it in eet, but I didn't know what it was. "It's the new perception," said the dreamy woman.

Then his eyes lit up. "If he had already existed in our time!" she cried in me giving a friendly pat. In the evening, I met in the same inn two men whom I would certainly not have recognized if one had not worn a black band over one eye and if the other had not had a mutilated hand. We drank a toddy and the one with the eye patch said: 'Our sub-prefect was a fairly reasonable man. Often we were gathered in our usual bistro and he was saying: "But understand me, gentlemen!" I'm just a poor little jerk. I would love to help the peasants, but I have my instructions! In each report, I appeal to the wisdom of my superiors, but they don't want to hear anything! Well, we thought, in that case, we need to raise our voices a bit. The next time my boyfriend came in, put a package on the table and sat down next to us. Referring to the package, the sub-prefect remarked that it was very good policy to always bring something for his wife. And he answered: “Yes, it's a surprise! And I, I pushed the package down the end of the table, because if you put your ear closer, you could hear the ticking. We whined a bit and ordered a round, and then another. My boyfriend said he had to go somewhere fast and he disappeared taking the package. The sub-prefect didn't even notice because I was having a drink with him. Some time passed before the other returned, but he no longer had his package. When the time came, I paid for the drinks, including those of the sub-prefect. Since we had the same path and he didn't want to be alone in the cafe, we left together. But the way to the sub-prefecture was terribly short; we stopped at any time to return to our grievances and the sub-prefect tirelessly armed: “ but he no longer had his package. When the time came, I paid for the drinks, including those of the sub-prefect. Since we had the same path and he didn't want to be alone in the cafe, we left together. But the way to the subprefecture was terribly short; we stopped at any time to return to our grievances and the subprefect tirelessly armed: “ but he no longer had his package. When the time came, I paid for the drinks, including those of the sub-prefect. Since we had the same path and he didn't want to be alone in the cafe, we left together. But the way to the sub-prefecture was terribly short; we stopped at any time to return to our grievances and the sub-prefect tirelessly armed: “

With force, you won't get anything, gentlemen, not with force. Believe me ! And we said we wanted to believe it, but what other ways was there? When he arrived at the sub-prefecture, he wanted to take his leave and go home, but we knew it was not yet time. So we started again while going back. But the sub-prefect wanted to go to bed. We had to retrace our steps, stopping at every moment. I held him by the button of his jacket and spoke to him insistently, and my boyfriend, all annoyed, was still looking at his watch. And it still wasn't time. And we were again very close to the sub-prefecture and the sub-prefect was saying: “I know, gentlemen, you two are reasonable men…” Pan! It was there. A sound of thunder. A piece of the facade was torn off and all the tiles shattered. At first the subprefect was scared to death, then he began to fidget, shouting: “Do you see, gentlemen, do you see where this is leading! You no longer have your irresponsible elements in hand! He couldn't calm down. “How lucky,” he repeated, “how lucky that my wife is traveling! But we obviously knew very well that his wife was gone. Later, during the Altona trial, the sub-prefect didn't want to understand why the two of us were also among the defendants. On several occasions, he shouted: “It's absolutely impossible, I was with these two gentlemen all the time! The judge had incredible trouble explaining the story of the package to him! And we went to jail. the sub-prefect was terrified, then he began to fidget, shouting: "Do you see, gentlemen, do you see where this is leading!" You no longer have your irresponsible elements in hand! He couldn't calm down. “How lucky,” he repeated, “how lucky that my wife is traveling! But we obviously knew very well that his wife was gone. Later, during the Altona trial, the sub-prefect didn't want to understand why the two of us were also among the defendants. On several occasions, he shouted: “It's absolutely impossible, I was with these two gentlemen all the time! The judge had incredible trouble explaining the story of the package to him! And we went to jail. the sub-prefect was terrified, then he began to fidget, shouting: "Do you see, gentlemen, do you see where this is leading!" You no longer have your irresponsible elements in hand! He couldn't calm down. “How lucky,” he repeated, “how lucky that my wife is traveling! But we obviously knew very well that his wife was gone. Later, during the Altona trial, the sub-prefect didn't want to understand why the two of us were also among the defendants. On several occasions, he shouted: “It's absolutely impossible, I was with these two gentlemen all the time! The judge had incredible trouble explaining the story of the package to him! And we went to jail. You no longer have your irresponsible elements in hand! He couldn't calm down. “How lucky,” he repeated, “how lucky that my wife is traveling! But we obviously knew very well that his wife was gone. Later, during the Altona trial, the sub-prefect didn't want to understand why the two of us were also among the defendants. On several occasions, he shouted: “It's absolutely impossible, I was with these two gentlemen all the time! The judge had incredible trouble explaining the story of the package to him! And we went to jail. You no longer have your irresponsible elements in hand! He couldn't calm down. “How lucky,” he repeated, “how lucky that my wife is traveling! But we obviously knew very well that his wife was gone. Later, during the Altona trial, the subprefect didn't want to understand why the two of us were also among the defendants. On several occasions, he shouted: “It's absolutely impossible, I was with these two gentlemen all the time! The judge had incredible trouble explaining the story of the package to him! And we went to jail. the sub-prefect did not want to

understand why we two were also among the accused. On several occasions, he shouted: “It's absolutely impossible, I was with these two gentlemen all the time! The judge had incredible trou

The one with the mutilated hand says:

'He escaped unscathed, the sub-prefect; all got away unscathed. No injuries, even slight, in more than a hundred attacks! We were awfully careful about it, because it was only a demonstration. Only once would it have almost gone wrong, the

day when we attacked the prefecture. It was a mighty edice, and therefore we had built a mighty bomb. We needed the best alarm clock and we had filled the box in such a way that it barely fit in the case, the dimensions of which were nevertheless impressive. It was a Sunday afternoon, because that day the offices were deserted. The prefect was in Berlin to report on the wicked peasants. Only her cleaning lady remained at home. But since she was still very appetizing, we thought it would be the devil if she didn't come out on Sunday afternoons. And indeed, we hadn't been waiting long for a sergeant from the garrison to appear and pace in front of the War Memorial. And the housekeeper, in her Sunday best, arrived shortly.

I carried the crate alone, because with its black stripe, my friend would have been easily spotted. It was damn hard to get my crate in through a window. Once in the building, I placed it in the large hall, directly under the landing. “It will make a nice noise, in an entrance like that! I thought. When I came out, my boyfriend gave me big signs. "It's raining," he shouted at me. And me, I thought he could still scream and that this little rain... But he said: "They'll surely come back, the girl didn't have an umbrella!" And in effect, the other two came back and we had just time to hide behind the monument. And then the rain poured down. The two lovers disappeared into the house and we were there wondering how it was all going to end. And it was raining and raining. And we were looking at the watch. Finally, I approached the window to take a look inside. They were quietly seated on the crate, well entwined. What to do ? It was high time! Suddenly, my boyfriend started to

screaming, “Help! Help ! And I started breaking windows. It was a pretty gossip. A pistol shot was even fired in the air. Then we quickly hid behind the monument. For the sergeant ran out of the prefecture. What a soldier! He was drawing the sword. Behind him, the daughter cried incessantly: "Leave them alone, Henri!" So leave them! But he didn't stop. He dragged her behind him and glared, yelling, “What the hell is going on here, damn it! And boom!… that was it! Dude, it was noisy! - A Cheers ! I said. Madame, another round! But the innkeeper did not move. Dreamily, she remarked: - Oh! yes, those were the good times!

Then she brought the glasses and said, leaning towards us:

— The one who is now in government, he is of the same species! - Hush! we said, thoughtfully stirring the spoon in our toddy.

It goes without saying that it was not repugnance against such abominable excesses that prevented me from participating, but rather, among other reasons, lack of time. My deep sympathy with the misery of the peasants expressed itself in the fact that I also smiled at a lack of capital. Claus Heim was very economical with peasant money. For all my activity at the peasant newspaper, I received a lump sum of seventy-five marks. And like theGerman Front didn't pay more than five pfennigs a line, even the peasants' eggs and bacon couldn't save me. I was therefore forced to divide my time between Itzehoe and Berlin. No one, seeing the rich and fertile fields of Schleswig-Holstein, could have guessed that the low-ceilinged rooms in the peaceful thatched farmhouses were overflowing with anger and

of bitterness. And in Berlin, no one could escape the charm of this infinitely lively city, the splendor of the shops, the elegance of the women, the bustle of commerce; the spectacle of vigorous young men occupying the benches in the well-maintained squares in increasing numbers, basking themselves idly in the sun, could at best make one believe that a comfortable life was led there. I certainly didn't want to go and analyze the true state of this city in the labor oces; I knew that one day it would be necessary, but for the moment, the smell of scorch rising from the city reached me from other houses. There were many small salons there, at their head Salinger's salon where, in the evening,

Never, during the years of my detention, had I imagined that so soon after my release I would again be received in society. But on the one hand, a man coming out of prison seemed to bathe in a more distant and more interesting atmosphere than that of the Congo, for example, and on the other hand Berlin was an extremely hospitable city, ready to welcome any exotic guest. . At Salinger's salon, which was representative of countless other salons, I met men of all races and walks of life. Greeted with cordiality, they were ready to inform others about their problems. The host only had to be careful not to invite too hostile brothers, Chinese from the north and south, Hindus and Muslims, at the same time, not because they would start quarreling, but because they were obstinately silent. The Chinese saw in their interlocutor a Bolshevik agent, the Hindus suspected their compatriots of being British spies. But if a member of

the Russian embassy was present, he could be sure of the passionate and general interest, for there was never a member of the National Socialist party. Bogoumil was inspired precisely by the mixture of peoples he encountered in the political salons of Berlin. Having discovered, during his studies on “being German”, that the political will draws most of its energies from nationalism, he was convinced that this phenomenon was the only force capable of counterbalancing imperialism. He therefore sought to draw similar conclusions from similar situations. For him, there were relations between East Prussia and Manchuria. The united front of the oppressed peoples was the front of nationalism rising up against the imperialist powers. And if he was very sad to see Russia sometimes in one camp, sometimes in the other, his spite was even greater when he tried to unite the Arab States,Vomarsch, the new magazine he edited with Ernst Jünger and where I then joined as a collaborator.

Naturally, the name Ernst Jünger was already known to me. During my detention, I had read his bookIn Stahlgewittern7. Even today, I who took no active part in either the first or the second world war, I cannot imagine a better description of the war. So I was very curious to meet Ernst Jünger, and very excited when Bogoumil took me to his house. He lived quite to the east of the city, in a workingclass neighborhood. His room overlooked the tangle of railroad tracks; the house was full of noisy children and smelled of cabbage. The room was not very bright, it was overflowing with books and was decorated with masks and curious wooden figures; on the desk was a microscope, while collections of

Beetles and jars full of some curiously twisted pale green substance sat on the shelves. Ernst Jünger was wrapped in a dressing gown and wearing a multicolored beret; on his feet he wore felt slippers. He was smoking a long briar pipe with a porcelain head. I had plenty of time to watch him, because at first he didn't pay attention to me. The cartoonist A.-Paul Weber was showing him a sheet which was to appear in the next issue of theVomarsch. This magazine had been founded thanks to the energy of Major Ehrhardt and its subscribers were recruited mainly from Ehrhardt's brigade. However, at this time precisely, the commander had abruptly broken with the "Steel Helmet", this somewhat numb association of veterans. The president of the "Steel Helmet" immediately welcomed this break and declared that his association was not a gathering of excited young men. The designer alluded to this remark; in his cartoon, a large number of potbellied men sat on long benches, their bald heads bowed, their hands clasped over their bellies, while under each seat was a pint of beer. Thoughtful, Ernst Jünger looked at this drawing for a long time; then he said in a drawling tone, and with the accent of Lower Saxony:

— Yes, but Nazi decorations and insignia are missing Again ! These first words seemed to me to reveal a man with whom one could get along. So I tried, already during our first interview, to interest him in my work with the peasants. Ernst Jünger listened attentively to my enthusiastic presentation, then he was surprised that I seemed to believe that he was delighted with our “night fireworks”.

Obviously, that would have been astonishing. I understood that this man, a fighter in the Great War, a knight of the Order for Merit, several times wounded, could not allow himself to be impressed by explosives which, contrary to their real purpose, were limited noise and smoke. But unfortunately, my activity in the journal was fixed unequivocally and definitively during this first interview. I could deal with the affairs of the peasant movement only in insidiously slipped glimpses and had to content myself with occasionally publishing a few articles by Major Ehrhardt, despite Jünger's and Bogoumil's gray looks. It was undoubtedly Ernst Jünger who gave the journal its importance by articles so witty and in such a crystalline style that our readers, filled with deep respect, had the impression that he was already very beautiful if Ernst Jünger himself was sure to understand them. Bogoumil's views on foreign policy, on the other hand, aroused enthusiasm among the members of Ehrhardt's brigade, among the Arabs, Hindus, Chinese, negroes of Béchuana and among General von Seeckt who, at the opposed to the others, even sent a postcard to thank us for sending this interesting periodical free of charge. This first interview with Ernst Jünger, however, had great significance for me, not only practical, but also personal. The few minutes that this conversation lasted, as well as the room in which it took place, entirely contained this curious man, the only member of all those numerous circles of that time who, in time, obtained a certain worldwide reputation. The secret of Jünger's style seemed to me to be based on his double quality of warrior and naturalist, if one can put it so simply. I thought I understood that this man, who had become

aware of the world amid the steel storms and able, by virtual force of mind, to rise above that world, would soon have come to the point where he looked upon the battlefield, upon which he played a role himself, as an aviator might consider. Seen from above, these bloody events must have appeared as an array of tiny dots, of small microscopic beings, which formed columns, sought to advance on all sides and paid little heed to those whom some higher force compelled. to stay put now. The comparison with an anthill had to be imposed, especially on someone who had grown up in a pharmacy and who, very early on, was already interested in the phenomena of nature. But Ernst Jünger had enough experience and imagination to live, with a kind of very attentive compassion, the destiny of warriors and that of ants. At the time he was writingTotal Mobilizationand I understood from reading this essay that he had already achieved a result, while I, like all those who felt drawn to him, still wandered wide-eyed through the landscape of our century, seeking to orient myself at each signpost.

I was already wondering then why Ernst Jünger could be interested in me; he was certainly too intelligent to believe that all my life I would strive, my face in ecstasy, to pierce brave ministers with bullets or to throw bombs, to still plant, ardent old man, some banners on some barricades. In any case, he seemed to see in my activity in the peasant movement the inevitable result of the need to put myself forward and the lack of occupation. His real encouragement was limited to my efforts to understand clearly the nature of war; my starting point was the

fights of the post-war free corps, while he started from the experiences of the battle of material. He did not seem at all surprised that my results were very different from those he arrived at in his Total mobilization. I thought I saw the evolution moving towards the use of small units of technicians, such as General von Seeckt had foreseen; in my opinion, large militia armies were outdated and too expensive, in short my predictions were almost all different from those of Jünger. He accepted my views as logical, while pointing out that he placed little value on the existential force of logic. Deep down, I always had the feeling that he cared much less about the magnitude and direction of my eorts than about the extent of the destruction I caused, and that he was ready to classify me at any time. accordingly, sometimes as a red ant, sometimes as a white ant, sometimes with, sometimes without wings, mostly without wings.

Exactly twenty years later, Ernst Jünger spoke briefly about this time of 1929 in a volume of hisLog, meanwhile published; in conclusion, he noted that then, we were living in the idea. This expression is very accurate, especially because it also says that we do not live from the idea. Quite against the will of Jünger, who always felt an instinctive reluctance to be classified or labelled, the small circle of collaborators in theVomarschhad been called "national revolutionary" and its political orientation "new nationalism". In reality, a large number of other circles and other groupings were also designated by this name. All of these groups, none of which had many supporters, agreed with the name "national revolutionaries" in the sense that they did not wish to be considered "national reactionaries". The name "new

nationalism” was for them an obligation to deviate unequivocally from the vocabulary and sentiments of the old nationalism. Within the National Socialist movement, which was rising like a tidal wave, this tendency manifested itself above all around by Otto Strasser8who, impelled rather by temperament than by talent, could be sure of a greater number of partisans and of a certain influence over the masses. Very quickly, and consciously opposing his party, he sought contact with “national revolutionary” groups. But Otto Strasser, the only one who was able to engage in concrete politics thanks to the number of his supporters and his particular position within the party, nevertheless remained on the margins of the intellectual movement; nothing speaks better for Ernst Jünger than the fact that he remained the dominant spirit of this movement, the only one also to whom the very dicult intellectual elite of the adversaries of all camps paid attention. Ernst Jünger's books puzzled me. If I was disappointed at first because I stubbornly expected from him a political idea that would direct or justify my action, I soon had to recognize that this demand remained foreign to Jünger's mission. From the start, I was unable to struggle with his books. The magic organ and the metaphysical organ failed me. I certainly admired the way in which Jünger arrived at the old eternal wisdom of the Bible, passing through dreams, magic, education, scientific research and metaphysics; but I had to limit myself to admiration, for I could follow neither the ordinary path of religious need nor one of Ernst Jünger's particular paths. I was therefore almost automatically excluded from the community that soon formed around him, this group of disciples who seemed to naturally possess what I was so sorely lacking; they squatted at the master's feet and stared in fascination

the philosopher's stone he held in his hands, not to use it, but to weigh it, calibrate it, analyze it and sublimate it. After many years, I met him one day in Berlin; it was in 1937, at the time when the foundations of the party were sitting in Nuremberg. I saw him right in front of a cinema from which the crowds were coming out. I tried to lead him aside, noticing: “Terrible, this crowd; it feels like Nuremberg! "Don't despise 'demos,'" he said. He is indeed a power, though not appetizing! To my question about his activities, he replied: — I have chosen a high vantage point from which I can watch how bedbugs eat each other. With a little irritation, I realized that he had always liked to retire to another star; he answered without hesitation: “Yes, a relatively decent star, Mars or Venus; not Saturn has mists and Spengler is already there! But basically, it was Jünger himself who did not want to see his system considered the only valid one; he put a resounding end to the political aspirations of the followers of the "new nationalism" by pronouncing the now famous phrase that one could not work for Germany in society, that one had to be alone like the man who makes his way through the virgin forest and who, thanks to the thud of the axes, can simply guess that others are doing the same work. It cannot be overemphasized that the spiritual emotions of the “New Nationalism” team were shrouded in silence. Apart from the small number of subscribers to the various journals, nobody paid attention to it and we were very excited if, from time to time, a daily newspaper mentioned in a few lines one of our articles. It was therefore quite natural for us to consider with

contempt for contemporary literature. But then it happened that a real writer, a man belonging to the only, true and authentic German literature, in all innocence took as the subject of his new novel the events which had occurred in 1921 in Upper Silesia. Arnolt Bronnen9treated this subject with his usual mastery, without taking sides and giving everyone, the Poles and the Germans, the French and the English, the nationalists and the Communists, the soldiers and the civilians, the men and the women, the same character unsympathetic. The novel was calledBONEand he was excellent. But suddenly, the pack went wild. Arnolt Bronnen, scratched, could wipe his monocle all he wanted, people wrote everywhere that he was a traitor, a fascist! Bronnen carefully considered everything he had written so far, and he had to agree: "If that's fascism, I'm a fascist!" And since he had to continually hear and read that he belonged to this obscure group gathered around this Jünger, he went to this Jünger. I saw him one day very briefly and had no lasting impression of this meeting. But then I read his book. His way of seeing was not mine. Unlike him, I myself had been in Upper Silesia, and I found the Poles and the Germans, the French and the English, the nationalists and the communists, the soldiers and the civilians, the men and the women, equally sympathetic. But after reading, I was curious to know Arnolt Bronnen and I was delighted to meet him, in the last days of August 1929, in Bogoumil's apartment. The Bronnen phenomenon had attracted a large number of friends. Hans Dieter Salinger was sitting on the divan, his legs crossed as usual. Hans Zehrer gave an air of distinction to the small room; Otto Strasser, dressed in tuxedo pants and a black silk shirt, had come with Herbert Blank10.

There was Samhaber, Friedrich Georg Jünger, Ernst's brother, and obviously many of Ernst's disciples. All eyes were fixed on Arnold Bronnen's monocle. Shortly before, a shrill voice had joined the chorus of others. It belonged to a well-known literary man from Vienna, by the name of Anton Kuh, who claimed to have been a pupil of an estimable but Jewish teacher, named Bronner. He allowed himself to ask if this man had not been, by chance, the father of the fascist Arnolt Bronnen. This suggestion had everywhere been welcomed with joy, and I knew Ernst Jünger well enough to know what his intentions were when he drawled: — I find that it is starting, so to speak, to become unpleasant, you would almost have to take a stand.

Then Bronnen got up and began to explain the case in all detail. He wiped his monocle several times and his voice, which a neck injury had made hoarse, almost broke as the audience stared at him without moving. Only Salinger distinctly moved his ears, which he always did when listening to Gojim-Naches; this gave his marked features a particularly oriental note. When Bronnen assured him that his real name was Bronnen and that nothing in this insinuation could prove his Jewish origin, he was silent, exhausted. Everyone looked at him in silence. Nervously, Bronnen manipulated his monocle. Finally, Salinger untied his legs, got up, walked over to Bronnen, tapped him on the shoulder and said:

- My dear Bronner ... and then what! We talked a lot again that night, only Bronnen was silent. Only towards morning did he open his mouth. A book had just appeared which had had great literary success. It was the novelClass 22, by Ernst Glaeser. The author,

apparently belonging to this incriminated year, exposed by means of an individual destiny the tragedy of this youth frustrated with the beauties of the world, all the spiritual, psychic and material hunger, the desperate loves in the shadow of war and the collapse of bourgeois order. Hans Zehrer told me that I had to oppose my point of view to him one day since I was also of this class. With the same nonchalance with which this proposal had been made, I replied that I was not at all a typical representative of this year. But Zehrer insisted: — Glaeser is also an individual case, just as typical that you ! And Junger says:

— Types are mass-produced. Uncomfortable, I tried to end the discussion by saying, as if bored: — I would then have to find a publisher who would allow me to live

for a year, and no one will do such a stupidity! Then Bronnen, looking at me attentively, said: - Maybe so! When we left, the first morning papers were being sold in the street. “Bombs in the Reichstag…”! “Here, here,” I thought. I bought a newspaper and read that in the evening a bomb had exploded at Gate 4 of the Reichstag. The damage was considerable, but there were no injuries. A senior interior official was in charge of the investigation. I went home to have my breakfast. At that time, a sleepless night did not bother me. But I hadn't had my coffee yet when my landlady called me on the phone. " Hello? Hello ! shouted a booming voice, "Here Rowohlt!" " - " Pardon ? » — « Rowohlt, from the publishing house Ernst Rowohlt! He asked me

to come to his house at five o'clock in the afternoon. I promised, confused, hung up and immediately called Bronnen. Yes, he immediately got in touch with Rowohlt. I wanted to know how he was, this Rowohlt, and Bronnen said he was his editor and had had good experiences. "Thank you very much, my dear Bronner," I said. " Whether

you call me Bronner, I'll call you Schlome11»Bronnen said, and hung up. But when at five o'clock I found myself in front of the door of the publishing house, I had more or less decided to take my hat after a few polite phrases and leave. In the course of the afternoon, I had learned a little about the production of the house and my naivety visà-vis literature showed itself in the fact that I had read most of the books without having paid attention to the name of the publisher. I had even read them with pleasure, much as one reads documents from an era about which one seeks information. In these books, I found an exact image of what I looked at every day with a new astonishment, a world that had to be changed as quickly as possible. Certainly, I only knew a few small sectors, but these were representative of all and it was enough to live in time, wherever it was, to feel very distinctly the tremors that betrayed future events. It seemed safe to tear down the facades to uncover the true face of events. (I could not yet know anything about the cruel tendency of History to allow facades to subsist precisely when it begins to destroy.) It seemed to me fairer, in such an era, to concentrate all efforts on a single point. The double life that I had led until then did not allow me to control either the validity of the ideas of the "new nationalism" nor the eects of my activity in the peasant movement. My role among the peasants might seem

burlesque, and even more burlesque the one I played in the circle around Jünger. The question was simply which attitude was more “clean”, where my activity was more honest here or there. The struggle of the peasants for their existence was a real attempt to overthrow the idling system of responsibilities. The discussions of the "new nationalism" were bound to lead to literature, a literature similar to that which made the production of the Rowohlt editions. It was period literature, the mere careful and slick presentation of which betrayed the world in which it had established itself: that of unreality, of false prosperity, of shiny facades behind which, in the best of cases, the he anxiety of those years manifested itself in individual destinies. I thought that literature was never committed. For a hundred years, it had lost its creative force, its capacity to be the expression of the century. Should I force myself to add some current arabesques to the great works of the ancestors? Should I practice the art of rhetorical gures? I preferred to visit one of those peasants whose farm had belonged to the family for seven centuries and who was preparing to receive with axes, scythes and guns the executioners of the regime when they came to chase him from his house. Should I force myself to add some current arabesques to the great works of the ancestors? Should I practice the art of rhetorical gures? I preferred to visit one of those peasants whose farm had belonged to the family for seven centuries and who was preparing to receive with axes, scythes and guns the executioners of the regime when they came to chase him from his house. Should I force myself to add some current arabesques to the great works of the ancestors? Should I practice the art of rhetorical gures? I preferred to visit one of those peasants whose farm had belonged to the family for seven centuries and who was preparing to receive with axes, scythes and guns the executioners of the regime when they came to chase him from his house.

And then this! Me who was constantly concerned with things as big as “time” and “the world”, me who thought in “orders” and who was firmly persuaded that only things and ideas concerned me, not men; I had to meet this man! This Rowohlt opened his door to me and shouted in his booming voice: "Come in, master!"

This red-haired giant took my hand with a gesture that had the grace of an elephant and pulled me

his home. It was love at first sight. I felt immediately and with certainty that I could no longer escape this radiance that delighted me. - Do not bump! At home, everything is a bit small, says this man leading me through a room where there were many white wooden tables, covered with papers and typewriters. But nothing was small. Only, next to this man, everything seemed cramped. He led me into his office, the walls of which were lined with books. He sat me down in a low armchair and I watched him lower the curtains, light a lamp which shone brightly on me, and take two glasses, a bottle and something to smoke out of a small cupboard. I knew our marriage was inevitable, that I would be the man, but I also knew that I would be under his control. So I turned the lamp on him and watched with amusement as he filled the glasses and drank, pouting like a fish and then throwing back his round seal head with a little jerk. I was home ; those books were my books, and on the desk where Rowohlt was rummaging through the papers was my manuscript, a copy of that unfortunate "First Day" which I had given to Bogoumil and which he must have passed to Bronnen. Rowohlt took the manuscript, rolled it up, gave me a sly smile and said: "I haven't read it, I never read the manuscripts of my authors. I slap them against my occiput and I know what's inside! And he slapped the roller against his occiput. I didn't believe a word of it, but I've always been a good player; Convinced that he was reading them all the same, but quite secretly, I congratulated him. The best thing about books, I say, and especially those in his house, was the cover. In a hurry, he went to get a volume. It wasBONEof

Bronnen, he placed it in front of him and gazed at it with loving eyes. - How do you find him ? He explained to me that this cover was made according to his own idea. It was simply the General Staff map of Upper Silesia with the letters OS superimposed in red! I found this idea excellent, but I advised him to further intensify the red of the letters and to let the color drip, like blood. He rocked his chest, drank another glass and said with an amused wink: “We can do that for your book. What's the name does he?

But I didn't know. I had thought about it as little as about the content. Suddenly, I found myself in the greatest test of my life. I wanted to join this publishing house; I had come to a turning point; suddenly, everything had to change for me because of this man I had come to by chance. I was jealous of the authors that Rowohlt edited. This man had conquered me by telling me nothing but lies; Well, I was going to tell him the truth. And I tell him that I had come to tell him that I would not write this book; I tell him everything while he pours us drinks, swaying gently. I exalted the peasants and despised Rowohlt's books. I begged Rowohlt not to run the risk of publishing a book in which nothing, absolutely nothing, corresponded to the world as its editions a book that would even be hostile to this world. I told him everything and, when I had finished, he poured us a drink, a fishy pout, jerked his head back and said:

- Well, come tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, we will sign the CONTRACT !

But the next morning at six o'clock, there was a knock on my door and a rough voice called out:

- Open! Police !

1. Berlin's Café de Flore. 2. Pronunciation of Nietzsche, in Berlin dialect. 3. Far-right theorist. 4. Democratic newspaper.

5. Nationalist theoretician, with very advanced socialist views. Was locked up by Hitler in a concentration camp, where he became blind. Currently lives in eastern Germany. It was he who, around 1930, made the word national-Bolshevik famous. 6. Kürbis = pumpkin (N. d. T.). 7. In French under the title:The steel storm.

8. National Socialist dissident, one of the representatives of the "left" of the party. Currently lives in Canada. 9. Began his literary career in the expressionist movement, and was politically cataloged on the left. Published, around 1930, a novel on the Free Corps, and approached the Nazis. Currently communist. 10. Belonged to the group of "national-Bolsheviks". 11. Jewish deformation of Solomon.

D. CHRONOLOGICAL RECORD OF FULL TIME EMPLOYMENT AND MILITARY SERVICE

D. CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF ALL PRINCIPAL JOBS AND MILITARY SERVICE

29.Give a chronological history of your employment and military

service beginning with 1st of January 1931, accounting for all promotions or demotions, transfers, periods of unemployment, attendance at educational institutions (other those covered in section B) or training schools and full-time service with para military organizations. (Part time employment is to be recorded in section F.) Use a separate line for each change in your position or rank or to indicate periods of unemployment or attendance at training schools or transfers from one military or para military organization to another.

29. List your occupations chronologically and the periods military service since 1erJanuary 1931, by motivating any advancement, degradation, transfer, unemployment, schools (not yet mentioned under B) or professional courses and any service in paramilitary organizations. (Indicate secondary employment under F.) Reserve a new line for each change in position or grade, for the indication of periods of unemployment or education

employment or transfer from one military or paramilitary organization to another.

ad 29a:I raise my right hand and swear, "That wasn't me!" Of all political movements, the most dangerous has always been that of a crazy bureaucracy struggling. The excitement of civil servants in shirtsleeves at the police headquarters, the fury of day and night interrogations, the frenzied comings and goings of civil servants carrying suspiciously thin files under their arms, the nervousness of telephones for which we isolated ourselves, all this revealed to the informed observer that the police were very well aware of the illegality of their measures. But even more telling were the nights at the depot. While the layers

superiors in the bureaucracy had come to ignore all that was going on in the great masses, the junior employees, particularly the worst-paid prison guards, refrained from any unfavorable bureaucratic bias. They provided me with newspapers—whose political leanings differed from those of the government—and they gave me the opportunity to learn everything I wanted to know, which was not a little thing. Suddenly, the police had arrested everything that could be closely or remotely related to me. In Berlin alone, the sleep of more than two hundred people had been cut short. A whole wing of the prison was occupied by the “politicians”. Simultaneously, the police had taken strong measures in Schleswig-Holstein. All those who had been active during the events, apart from the oxen, found themselves behind bars. Of course, my brother Bruno was also arrested; even my two brothers living in Berlin were a few cells away from me. They were left speechless; but understanding only dimly what it was all about, they were careful not to protest indignantly. They only amused themselves by embarrassing the doctor with the armament they were accustomed to a daily bath, and they succeeded in enforcing this habit. Soon everyone who was new to life in prison was meeting in the showers. But Dieter Salinger was not up to the habits and customs of the house. With haggard eyes, he gazed with disgust at the bedbugs that had settled in the mop; seriously indignant, he murmured: “Wait! and proposed to talk at length to "his" minister about this scandal. Hastily, Zehrer made all suspicious documents disappear: he had to flush the toilet seven times in a row. Apart from him, all the regulars of "Salinger's salon" had been disturbed and were now expiating by a great moral martyrdom the resistance around the But Dieter Salinger was not up to the habits and customs of the house. With haggard eyes, he gazed with disgust at the bedbugs that had settled in the mop; seriously indignant, he murmured: “Wait! and proposed to talk at length to "his" minister about this scandal. Hastily, Zehrer made all suspicious documents disappear: he had to flush the toilet seven times in a row. Apart from him, all the regulars of "Salinger's salon" had been disturbed and were now expiating by a great moral martyrdom the resistance around the But Dieter Salinger was not up to the habits and customs of the house. With haggard eyes, he gazed with disgust at the bedbugs that had settled in the mop; seriously indignant, he murmured: “Wait! and proposed to talk at length to "his" minister about this scandal. Hastily, Zehrer made all suspicious documents disappear: he had to flush the toilet seven times in a row. Apart from him, all the regulars of "Salinger's salon" had been disturbed and were now expiating by a great moral martyrdom the resistance around the and proposed to talk at length to "his" minister about this scandal. Hastily, Zehrer made all suspicious documents disappear: he had to flush the toilet seven times in a row. Apart from him, all the regulars of "Salinger's salon" had been disturbed and were now expiating by a great moral martyrdom the resistance around the and proposed to talk at length to "his" minister about this scandal. Hastily, Zehrer made all suspicious documents disappear: he had to flush the toilet seven times in a row. Apart from him, all the regulars of "Salinger's salon" had been disturbed and were now expiating by a great moral martyrdom the resistance around the

tea table. I considered these circumstances with regrets mixed with a good dose of pleasure. The more the police put themselves in the wrong, the more our position vis-à-vis the judiciary had to be strengthened, because the latter seemed to me much less politically corrupt than the police. Full of a beautiful impassivity, I was therefore waiting for my transfer to

Moabit Jail1, focusing my eorts on nurturing relationships with the part of the outside world that interested me most. I told Moabit what had happened at Rowohlt. Obviously word had spread that he intended to edit me. At all times, the phone would ring and a malicious voice would ask, “So, Rowohlt, what is your attacker doing? “A thunder advertisement! Yelled Rowohlt, hanging up violently. As soon as I arrived in Moabit, I received the contract already signed by Rowohlt, an exclusive contract, a general contract, the first contract of my life. It was truly a magnificent contract, and all connoisseurs of the subject immediately assured me that it was the most unfavorable contract that an author had ever signed with his publisher. That didn't stop me from signing it, and I never balked.

I send myself by Rowohlt several pounds of Dutch tobacco, a few reams of paper and my typewriter. I was very upset to see M.e Luetgebrune who wanted to talk to me about my defence. He gave off the scent of exquisite cigars and laughed heartily when I told him insistently that I only wanted to be left in peace; he could transfer his eorts to all the other prisoners; when I finished my book, I would let him know in good time when I wanted to be released. I no longer needed to worry about food, clothing and a roof over my head. I had in front of me

pleasant and calm weeks that allowed me to work; moreover, I had the pleasure of relaxing with interviews with the magistrate, Mr. Masur, a polite and neat judge. I was accused of having planted the bomb in the Reichstag. Just that. And no one but me. The Prussian government must have long harbored a desire to remove the police and legal complex of Schleswig-Holstein affairs from the provincial atmosphere that was too favorable to the peasant movement. Finally, the Reichstag bomb gave the long-desired legal pretext: this attack removed all the accused from their ordinary judges and the government of Prussia seemed very proud of this exploit. Driven by the praiseworthy desire to verify each of my possible alibis, Mr. Masur did not shrink from any obstacle. Each time he came to tell me the result of his investigations, he was alternately very dejected or happy; the fact that I always seemed to share his mood troubled him. But after several months when the mood of the examining magistrate seemed very inconstant, I began to torment myself. Was Mr. Masur abandoning the race? And I, who was still only in the fifteenth chapter! At this moment, a new witness came forward. A primary, primary witness, having seen it all. His name was Luc. Out of the brushwood of the big city emerged a puny, sour-looking man with a rat's face; I suppose that respect for the property of the people prompted him to make the statement that half an hour before the deaeration, he had observed a young man carrying a package in the vespasienne which was on the roundabout in front of the Reichstag . The witness Luck described the young man with precision: small blond mustache and a gold crown at the bottom left. There was confrontation. The witness Luck recognized me without hesitation: " It's him ! he says. Let us add to the glory of the examining magistrate and the

Prussian court that Mr. Masur immediately questioned this assertion. He harassed the witness with questions, but the latter wouldn't budge, even when the examining magistrate pointed out to him that I had neither a little blond mustache nor a gold crown. I hastened to reassure him. I certainly used to shave, but not every day; and where the gold crown should have shone, I had a fairly recent date mark. The investigation stopped at these facts, as if in awe. Obviously, the arbitrary arrest of two hundred Berliners could not be maintained. They had to be released one after the other. On the other hand, there were other defendants. Thanks to a National Socialist official who obeyed "the order of his Führer", the police had succeeded in discovering the explosives factory from which most of the powder used in the bombs came. However, it soon became apparent that members of the peasant movement were not the only customers of this utility company. The Moabit prison was thus filled with National Socialist defendants, — belonging to the Stennes groups2and Strasser—Communists, absolutely apolitical intermediaries, and a gatekeeper who had wanted to use explosives to make a hutch in a bridge. If it was already difficult for me to distinguish between the different political orientations, this cluster of heterogeneous interests was to irritate the examining magistrate even more. He did not understand why I proposed to him to be locked up himself; he saw in this advice an impertinent quip which confirmed him in the idea he had formed of my character. But the fact was that, among political prisoners, the sorting was done in the simplest way in the world during the walk. As soon as a "new" person entered the yard by the small door, the prisoners, walking in a le

twisted Indian girl, threw all sorts of salutes at her. " Heil Hitler ! cried some; “Red front! " others ; according to the response of the new, it was classified. I will never forget the disconcerted faces of our peasants who arrived little by little and who ended up getting out of business by simply wishing "Good morning" and then standing aside. Hartmut Plaas, also surprised by these greetings, hesitated for a moment before launching an "Ahoi!" vigorous, that almost forgotten salute of Ehrhardt's brigade; then he headed for me. But in the evening, after the curfew, the building resounded with the most diverse songs.The Internationalopposed the battle songs of the National Socialists and a practical joker from the peasant movement succeeded in uniting in a song all the tendencies represented in the heap of police accusations. The song was a big hit, even among supporters of other bands and even the guards who hummed it as they passed me my soup. The Moabit prison provided another example of the change that had taken place in the lower stratum of officials. They openly sympathized with the enemies of the state they served, and even more easily with communists than with, for example, pillars of the Weimar system who had committed some common law crime. We had placed the defendants of the "Sklarek scandal" in our wing. The Sklarek brothers, owners of a clothing factory, were blamed for obtaining substantial orders from the city by crowning their generous hospitality towards responsible officials and councilors with gifts in the form of coats and of suits. Now the councillors, usually so eloquent, stood very quiet and sheepish in the midst of the 'politicians'.

youngest of the Sklarek brothers, a nice man, very polite, a little obese and pale, could not manage to get used to life in prison. Neither he nor the city councilors could pass a co-prisoner or even a guard without being grabbed by the sleeve while being asked if the fabric of the suit was of good quality. My chief guard, formerly sergeant-major in the hunters of the guard, seemed to be interested only in his office of master of pleasures which he occupied in the association of the "Savers of Spandau." During their big annual dinner (where the savings of the year were spent), he shone with the recitation of a poem of twenty-five stanzas (which I had made for him), and I could hope to be in his good papers. He said that my political opinions were perfectly correct. Of course, he firmly believed that I had indeed planted the bomb in the Reichstag. He considered the fact "excellent", he only regretted - while lecturing me on the right way to handle explosives - that the "blah-blah-blah box" hadn't really been blown up with its occupants. But, more than me, Claus Heim impressed him. He remained motionless in his cell. He did not take part in the walk and only ate dry bread. For him, even the head guard was one of the "representatives of the regime" to whom he did not speak. This the head warden understood and approved of. I told him that in our country we called Claus Heim "the peasant general" and since then he showed him even more esteem. He stood to attention as he entered the cell and respectfully insisted that Heim eat the soup; he even wanted to “fish the big ones” from the bottom of the bucket! in our country, we called Claus Heim "the peasant general" and since then he showed him even more esteem. He stood to attention as he entered the cell and respectfully insisted that Heim eat the soup; he even wanted to “fish the big ones” from the bottom of the bucket! in our country, we called Claus Heim "the peasant general" and since then he showed him even more esteem. He stood to attention as he entered the cell and respectfully insisted that Heim eat the soup; he even wanted to “fish the big ones” from the bottom of the bucket!

However, one day, I heard the youngest of the Sklareks operate the valve and I was afraid. Between noon and two o'clock, this facility was never used, allowing prisoners to call the guard

on duty. At lunchtime, there was only one guard in the building. He then had to leave his observation post, downstairs, in the center, and climb the stairs - in this case, four — which, as everyone knew, made him very angry. I knocked against the wall, I tried to warn Sklarek, using the heating pipe. But the unfortunate man was so hopelessly clumsy that he was incapable of using any of these means of communication. Suddenly, the door to my cell opened and the head guard entered. With a bound, I moved away from the heating pipe and I hoped that he would be mistaken, confusing the two valves which were very close to each other. I was sure I could calm him down. “Forgive me, great and reverend master,” said I; but he interrupted me and whispered:

- I know, it was the other! Come, I want to show you a beautiful session !

On tiptoe, he went to the next door, readying the key which, with prestigious rapidity, opened the door with a crash. Sklarek stood in the middle of the cell and said whining: "Dear Mr. Keeper (he was head keeper!), I tell you beg, could you open the window, I don't have enough air! So the head warden took a lung-busting penny. His face flushed, then he went wild. He shook the heavy key and his saliva gushed out like a fountain. For five minutes he cried with all his might; the whole house seemed to be holding its breath and Sklarek, this unfortunate little one, performed a desperate dance around this raging human mountain, raising his hands and crying: "Monsieur le Gardien, monsieur le Gardien, be a little human… ! As loudly as he had unleashed, the head warden broke off. The door slammed. He turned to me and, as his

red face relaxed as if by magic, showing a kind and ardent smile, he said: - I sounded good, huh! I was of the opinion that having flipped the valve at the wrong time proved that Sklarek was not a hardened criminal. "Not a criminal, that one!" exclaimed the head warden. To my surprise, he added: He has money not knowing what to do with it!

The only answer that came to my mind was that with all his money he couldn't eat more than one beefsteak at each meal, but the head warden scored a point by saying: — Of course… but I too would like to eat chicken every days ! This idea completely discouraged me. All day I wrote and got angry when I was disturbed with meals. The head warden knew it; he entered on tiptoe and placed my bowl on a corner of the table (not without having "fished the big one"). I was very proud to have taught him respect for intellectual work. Thanks to these favorable circumstances, my book was progressing well. Yet my business was not easy. I intended to pull out of the fog of public discussion the events in which I had been involved eight years previously. But I was myself in the fog. The true meaning of my act was in danger of slipping away between so many contradictory lights and intentions accumulated since I had begun to think about it. In any case, the task of the chronicler was difficult. If I renounced interpretation and explanation, I was left with only superficial phenomena to deal with; however, interpretation and explanation had been added later to the events and it would have required a mind little suited to action to analyze them consciously from the outset. Whether,

on the other hand, I did not give up, I ran the almost inevitable danger of considering as true only what obtained its relief by an anecdote. The fault of the bookThe Forsaken, which I wrote to Moabit, is perhaps to have tried to reconcile the two procedures. Thus, the result was neither a chronicle in the usual sense nor a book of memoirs. Rowohlt called it a "document" that bore witness to the events described and, somewhat awkwardly, to the man who wrote it. (This book, with which I am not very happy, is the weakest of all that I have written, although it was the most successful.) During the work, the material was divided into three parts. The third was to describe my detention. But soon I realized that it is impossible to write about prison in prison. The order of the prison inevitably mirrors the order of the outside world; this had changed and I couldn't manage to fix the order then, as long as I lived in an environment whose birds, although different, seemed to me to be of the same nature. The day I finished the second part, I did not close the machine until I had written to Mr.eLuetgebrune, asking him to come and see me. He came without delay. I told him what I had learned about Witness Luck. MeLuetgebrune laughed heartily, stroked his goatee and dictated to me a request for provisional release. Three days later, the case was called before the indictment chamber. The session was extremely short. Me Luetgebrune spread an exquisite perfume of cigars and confined himself to a few sentences. So to speak, he was dropping the evidence from the wide sleeve of his black silk robe, with a contemptuous air, as if he did not want to soil himself with such filth. He specified the profession of the witness Luck. The witness Luck had the profession of

witness. He lived on it. MeLuetgebrune was not the man who could have uttered the word "indicator." But, by way of conclusion, he says that after all this the high court would certainly have no difficulty in proving that the witness Luck knew much more about this attack than the accused and, in any case, much less also than… the political police of Berlin. When MeLuetgebrune sat down, the tribunal rose as one man. During the five minutes that the deliberations lasted, Ms.e Luetgebrune invited me to dinner that evening.

It was a particularly rich dinner. Then we drank champagne with Pilsen beer until dawn, despite the secretary's gentle reproaches. It was M's farewell dinner.e Luetgebrune. Immediately after obtaining my release, he requested that the proceedings be handed over to the ordinary judges of Altona. However, he advised me not to return to Schleswig-Holstein. The peasant movement was dead, the political police of Berlin had had at least that success. All flags unfurled, the National Socialist German Workers' Party seized the void. Where the peasant general Claus Heim had commanded, commanded the Gauleiter Lohse. The first aid committees of the peasant movement had been replaced by the regional leaders of the party. Berlin's political police had had at least that success. “To your health,” said Mr.eLuetgebrune explaining to me that the release was not dismissed. The lawsuit against me, he said — "to your health," — would never be arrested.

(He was never arrested. He still remains unresolved. The attack on the Reichstag has still not been atoned for. Even today, there are moments when the desire to see justice satisfied overwhelms me. is true that the building no longer exists, at least not in a state where

it can be useful, but my fundamental book on the duties of the writer in our time is still not written. Considering the importance of the subject, it is absolutely essential to live in the most complete calm and not to have the slightest concern for food, clothing and lodging.) Rowohlt received me with thunderous vivacity. He immediately pulled me into his office and gulped me down a number of alcohols. Then he handed me a bunch of proofs and asked: - And when is the third part? Very surprised, I inquired which third part he meant. Rowohlt thought he remembered me mentioning a third party, which I disputed. "Where's the contract?" Yelled Rowohlt.

There were a few minutes of awkward silence until Miss Siebert came with a meager file. "Where was the contract?" Yelled Rowohlt.

- In its place ! replied Miss Siebert, frowning. Rowohlt leafed through the contract and said, looking at me slyly: "As a matter of fact, Miss Siebert must have forgotten…!"

Miss Siebert frowned again and walked away. I decided to stand firm. But, as I was forced to worry about my livelihood again, I gently reminded Rowohlt that there was a paragraph about advances. "Advance?" asked Rowohlt, glancing in astonishment at the CONTRACT. In fact!

There came the attorney, a kind and gentle gentleman, whose face seemed covered with cobwebs of worries. In hints and hints, the two men deliberated on my case and I had the distinct impression that the attorney wanted to honor the contract, but not Rowohlt, and that Rowohlt wanted

suggest otherwise. Finally, he burst into thunderous cordiality: “You will have your money; and when is the third part? Next, Rowohlt took me on a loud, blustering tour through the house to introduce me to the employees. He showed me as a particularly precious jewel of which the world would still talk a lot thanks to him. The snickering of the employees allowed me to foresee after how long I would be waiting in the waiting room like so many others. According to him, his collaborators were all phenomena, up to the apprentice who was the most gifted of apprentices and who would be talked about one day. Miss Ploschitzky, a shy, slightly stunted old girl with tender black eyes, was the only one who knew the publishing house down to its most subtle ramifications. Rowohlt passed without stopping in front of a modest and thin young man whose slightly slanted eyes sheltered behind discreet glasses. But, under the door, he turned as if he had forgotten something. 'That's Mr. Ledig. (And to Ledig:) Try not to dawdle, Mr Ledig! With a resigned air, Ledig replied:

“Yes, Mr. Rowohlt. One day he asked me to introduce myself also to his main reader, Paul Mayer. I tell him that I was delighted. This seemed to surprise him; cautiously, he added: "Because, incidentally, he's a very honest man!" I tried to find out the meaning of these "parentheses" and replied that I had no doubts. Then Rowohlt shook himself, leaned towards me and whispered, laying his hand friendly on my shoulder: "I must tell you that he is the author of theSong of Ahasverus!

Now my curiosity was aroused. I knew this song well. It was mainly propagated by anti-Semitic newspapers of the lowest category, which published it with horror. I had always seen in it an excellent poem, a proud and triumphant song of the wandering Jew hunted down and degraded; it ended with a mocking verse that rose above all persecution and ignominy: And in jubilation, your ancestors turn towards me, the scum of a foreign desert…!

Wow ! I exclaimed, quoting this verse, I must know this man! Rowohlt pushed open a door and yelled:

— Allow me to introduce: the famous bomb thrower, my friend Popaul Mayer!

Mayer was a tiny man who, next to Rowohlt, looked like a vole. Embarrassed, his head tilted slightly, he rubbed his delicate little hands and looked at me with his nimble eyes. I was so surprised that I exclaimed very cordially: "But, my dear Monsieur Mayer, how do you manage with all your years? It always costs me an arm and a leg, think of those champagne orgies! — Rowohlt pays for everything! t the booming voice of Rowohlt. Paul Mayer gave him a dull look, squirmed a bit, and said with a smile: - Oh ! it's not so bad. I offer them coffee and cakes. Then I read them a few pages of the novelBONEby Arnold Bronnen! Thereupon Rowohlt departed, for it was insupportable to him to hear ill of an author of his house. The literary face of the house was arguably determined by Rowohlt. Besides, it was not one face, but a hundred. Level

literary, on the other hand, was determined by the two readers Paul Mayer and Franz Hessel. They were writers themselves; and if they did not give great impulses to the house, they could prevent the departure of many colts which Rowohlt, obeying the exuberance of the moment, wanted to bring into the race. They knew how to distinguish better than Rowohlt between noble thoroughbreds and carousel horses harnessed for the occasion. It is true that the great winners of the Derby entered the stable thanks to the master, but Rowohlt had to be absolutely sure of his air when he decided to ignore the unfavorable opinion of his readers. In any case, he never admitted being wrong. (Both readers were very unhappy because of my manuscript. It had nothing to do with "literature",

Authors used to call Rowohlt "little father", as Hans Fallada did. I never gave him that name, but that of "master", which he used with me. This did not commit to anything, while adding, to mutual respect, the indispensable pinch of irony. Perhaps it was because he himself was so vulnerable that Rowohlt took so much pleasure in testing the weakness and vulnerability of others. When, leaning on Popaul Mayer and Franz Hessel, like Alcibiades on the two ute players, Rowohlt pitched through the house, he did not accompany this comically exaggerated gesture of friendship with kind words, on the contrary. He used the crudest expressions, which he knew his tender readers, living only for the true, the beautiful and the good, abhorred. One day, Rowohlt no longer knew what to answer to the well-founded objections of Paul Mayer. He thundered: - I'll tell you one thing, Popaul: lick my ass!

Paul Mayer swallowed his saliva and squirmed a little; then he raised his pale face and said, erect like a cock in combat: - Little ass is quickly licked!

This didn't elicit a liberating laugh from Rowohlt, but a lively discussion to decide, with the help of a mirror, if he was really that small. At the time, Rowohlt organized fortnightly authors' evenings which brought together, in addition to the authors of the house, other publishers and their authors, the directors of newspapers and reviews, painters, sculptors, booksellers and other businessmen who might be of some use to the house. But if I thought I could learn literature during these evenings, I was quickly undeceived. We weren't talking literature, but politics. Now the impression was imposed that, since the end of the Great War, German literature had taken up residence in a well-defined space of the political and spiritual domain. But I saw the army desperately in flight and demoralized, ready to throw down their arms as soon as one of the sentries announced the enemy and to flee somewhere in the darkness crying: “Save who can! I had every reason to believe that Rowohlt had whispered to each of the guests that I always carried a bomb under my coat, but that apart from that I was a very good boy. For they greeted me with that politeness mingled with respect which one uses vis-à-vis the delegates of half-savage tribes, but of a suddenly threatening power. I was very surprised to see how zealously everyone strove to wrest from me the secrets secretly hatched in Berchtesgaden. When I expressed my astonishment, I was soon left alone in a corner, I was no more than an intellectual who had strayed on the wrong side. (I could also see, in a way

general, which I lost in respectability as my bourgeois life normalized.) Of all the circles I knew, the circle around Rowohlt was probably the smartest. He had been the first to sense what was coming and had announced it aloud. On the other hand, it was he who knew the least what to do to oppose it. I was surely a terrible disappointment for Arnolt Bronnen, much more convinced than I of the inevitable advent of the National Socialists. He was bravely trying to demonstrate that legally they had a right to it. He had to look elsewhere for brothers in arms and showed up arm in arm with Otto Strasser and Herbert Blank, who were about to quit the party with tremendous brilliance. They tried at great expense to explain letters to the coryphees, listening avidly, to the artists, becoming thoughtful, to the publishers, wearing a sovereign smile, and to journalists, shooting pointed questions, the unbreakable secret of the coupling of nationalism and socialism. When, towards early morning, it was time for the innumerable bottles of Moselle wine and the tender fraternization, they gave everyone the friendly condescension that very probably he would one day end up on the gallows. Like a playful angel, Rowohlt hovered above the tobacconist, brandishing bottles and singing obscene tunes. At dawn, he tore the guests from the armchairs, from the nooks, from the toilets which were almost always closed at the wrong time, and finally from his own bed, and I helped him transport them in the carefully called taxis. accustomed to drink,

To my astonishment, October 23, 1929, did not seem to have made much impression either on Rowohlt or on my new friends. I spent in prison that memorable day when bankers threw themselves in series from the top floors of New York skyscrapers. Released, I thought I would find a completely changed situation. But, in the city, life did not seem to be affected by this event, it continued as if nothing had happened. Perhaps one saw a little more often marching detachments of brownshirts which had become a little more numerous; perhaps one saw more vigorous young people in the sun on the benches in the squares. But one seemed to attribute these symptoms to reasons other than those which pushed honorable American businessmen to put an end to their lives and to the era of “prosperity”. I, too, was far from seeing anything other than the symptoms of an impending personal catastrophe in the fact that the attorney sadly showed me the empty till when I came to receive an advance. My book had appeared (with the third part) and the attorney assured me, lowering his eyes, that the sale was far from covering the advances paid. Rowohlt had a charming way of consoling me. He said that it was the fault of the high price, that people could no longer put such sums in a book; he said that it was really not easy for a poor editor and that it was a crisis… (He actually used the term “global economic crisis”, looking extremely dignified as if it meant something to him.) He said again that I shouldn't be discouraged;

Ah! that's where he was coming from! I say I was no contract coolie; as Rowohlt did not seem to understand me, I explained to him, taking care to mention the

Negroes of the Congo and the Indians in the Brazilian rubber plantations and the habits and customs prevailing in the trade there. Rowohlt listened attentively, rocking his chest, and seemed greatly impressed by the logical rigor of these methods of exploitation. - You are an asshole, he concludes. It seemed to him that I could only work in prison, and, without advising me precisely to return there, he suggested that I retire to another quiet place, a pretty and deserted region, for example abroad. He was ready to grant me a new advance, although obviously of a more modest amount than for my first book, because, of course, nothing should be exaggerated; and what was already the title of my next book? I say that I had no intention of mass-producing manuscripts; besides, he knew very well that I desperately lacked imagination, that I could only tell what I had experienced; and what had I experienced in the meantime? I had participated in the senseless and delirious life of Berlin, I had seen the political and literary decomposition of the city, this unique process of dissolution, this cacophony of the spirit, this hustle and bustle of crumbling values. What could be written about the city? The citywas a good title, said Rowohlt. He even already had an idea for the cover, the chimneys, the towers and the luminous signs in the twilight sky, photographed from the roof of his house... And he gave me an appointment for the next morning, at ten o'clock, to sign the contract. Now I had just received the news that I was very probably going to be called as a witness in the great trial of the peasant movement which was to take place in Altona. I was

tormented by the thought that I would then have to testify under oath to the activity of a number of good friends.

When the next day, at half past ten, with the signed contract in my pocket, I took my hat, I did not have the usual feeling of performing a symbolic act. I rather felt the impassivity which had made me say, a moment before: "Good evening, master!" I'll be back in eight weeks! When I returned after two and a half years (see answers to questions 25, part two, and 125), Rowohlt was living in a small house at Grünheide, on Lake Peetz. But he was only going there for the weekend, spending the week in a tiny room in the publishing house that had moved to a less posh street. He advised me to move to Grünheide and quietly finish my bookCadets. Sales ofThe citywas far from having covered the advances paid; Rowohlt told me that it was really not easy for a poor publisher and that, right, nothing should be exaggerated and that he owed consideration to his co-members (following October 23, 1929 , he had to transform the house into an LLC). Then he took out of his closet a black suit, enormous but well preserved and easy to have transformed by the cheap tailor of Grünheide. "What will happen?" Rowohlt asked me, and I answered: “We are going to live in a great era, Rowohlt, a great era ! Before deciding to release a book whose manuscript tapped against the occiput gave no clear resonance, Rowohlt asked everyone's opinion. The sum of the opinions obtained allowed him to get an idea identical to the one he had had from the start. When he came to Grünheide, he was full of political predictions due to the wellfounded convictions of the tobacconist,

by publisher Peter Suhrkamp, taxi driver, author Hans Fallada, from the butler at Schlichter3and Hitler's last speech. - What are you going to do ? I asked, and he answered:

"Miss Siebert also said, 'We're going on!' » However, at that time, everyone said: “Let them do it! They will wear like all the others! In Prague, we gave againThe brave soldier Schweijk, that donkey kick legend. Alfred Polgar (writing his swansong) began his review of the play somewhat with these words: can last a long time! "and, in fact, barely six short centuries had passed..."

Rowohlt continued as Miss Siebert had advised him. It is true that there was no longer any question of cheerful authors' evenings. But, on weekdays, Rowohlt sat at his desk making publishing projects. - What do you think ? he sometimes asked me when he came to Grünheide. One day he said:

— I am offered a collection of Jewish tales, extremely interesting, can we do that? Cautiously, I inquired: "Tales of atrocity?" He gave me a reproachful look. - I'm still not going to dig my own grave! No, they are real old tales, exclusively folkloric, and folklore is fashionable! I advised him against this business; the house had never concerned itself with folklore.

Rowohlt was not a man to drink out of despair; he drank for the joy of living. He hardly drank anymore. I did not augur well for his state of mind when one day, absolutely sober and staring at the lake beyond the little garden, he said: "If I were sure of having one hundred and fifty marks a month, I would

spend on raising chickens! Some event must have

THE to touch

deeply.

Information taken from Franz Hessel, I learned that, in the morning, he had been near the door when the bell rang. He opened and saw two

dark-eyed gentlemen who said:Geheime Staatspolizei4!» Hessel was scared to death to enter these gentlemen and rushed to Rowohlt's, rubber knees. "Rowohlt was magnificent," said Hessel. With his usual With thunderous cordiality, he admitted the two functionaries, offered them a cigar—which they refused—and an armchair. Then he asked, "What fair wind brings you?" — "We come to consquer the Baby!»said one while pronouncing this difficult word "Baaabiit". Rowohlt poured himself an alcohol, without offering it to them, leaned back, put his fingertips together and said dreamily: "A publishing house is not a business where books are written, composed, printed, bound, stored and sold; it merely administers this process of production. If you want to consquer theBaaa-biit, you will have to go to where it is, to the printer, the bookbinder, the commission agent or the bookseller, but not to me. Moreover, the Baaabiitis not published by me, but by Transmare editions, and this house ceased to exist several years ago. Besides, you don't want the Baaa-biit, because it's by Sinclair Lewis, and it's not Sinclair Lewis you mean, but Upton Sinclair, who isn't with me either and hasn't been published in Germany for a long time! With that, the officials stood up and said with a

rusty voice: “In that case, we have to call first! " - " You are welcome ! says Rowohlt. They phoned from the next room. Then they left and we did not see them again. "Yet Sinclair Lewis is at Rowohlt's!" I say, and Hessel replied: "Of course, but not theBabbitt, which he only wants to publish next year. When appearedCadets, the sale was far from covering the advances paid and Rowohlt asked: - What is the title of your next book? I just shook my head. He called me pissed off and I pointed out to him that three books in three years was really the height of the soul. Rowohlt rocked his bust chewing his end of cigar. Finally, he drawled: - Above all, do not think that I need you! Popaul Mayer and Franz Hessel suffocate under the manuscripts… Now the names of all the readers must be communicated to the Ministry of Propaganda. All the same ! I cannot declare Mayer and Hessel! I am silent. He looked at me in disgust and said:

- It's your name that I will give, kind of emmard! The ash from his cigar fell on his pants; he did not remove it. He said : — I received a circular. The association for the protection of the German writer is brought to heel. Non-Aryan members must nominate two referees. Obviously, I answer for my authors. (He continued furiously:) Are you Aryan? - No ! I said. Stunned, Rowohlt looked at me. Suddenly, sweat began to bead on his forehead which usually only happened when he

ate large amounts of carrots with salt pork or baked beans. I resumed: — I looked in the encyclopedia. Aryan is a term of linguistic. Am I a word? Rowohlt heaved a sigh of relief and said: - Con is also a word, and yet you are! At first, everything seemed innocent. The opening bars were so silly and naive that anyone could easily outwit them. But, day after day, new stitches were knotted. And if, to begin with, it was easy to tear the ls from it, the moment soon came when all movement collided with the let. Our guarantee was useless. In the beginning, certain isolated books were prohibited, the proscription of which was understandable. Anyway, Herbert Blank's book:Aldolf Hitler, Wilhelm III, edited by Rowohlt, was out of print and the author, a former National Socialist who had left the party, was already in a concentration camp. Konrad Heiden's book on the beginnings of the Hitler movement only existed in a few copies, and the author immediately emigrated. Then, “nonAryan” authors were banned. At first, Rowohlt and I were going to “intervene personally” to protest against these measures. We explained that the very fact of having acted as guarantor, fully aware of our responsibility, gave us the right to be consulted beforehand. Or else the whole bond system was redundant and meaningless. These gentlemen listened to us with a very serious air to finally invite us, with exquisite kindness, to advise us henceforth in the choice of authors. So we didn't go back there again.

The manuscripts continued to auer as before, but, strangely enough, there were hardly any that had been of literary interest. However, the list of banned authors was constantly growing; new instructions were received almost daily. Rowohlt counted them to the seventieth, then he gave up. In the evening, in Grünheide, when he turned the buttons on his post, sweat beaded on his brow. He had a mania for listening to all the speeches. If I tried to console him by philosophizing about the best breed of laying hens, for example, he would throw a curse at me and leave, disgusted. But one evening he came home very late and in an excellent mood. He had intended to return to Grünheide early since business was stagnating. But, near the station, a sign announcing a conference by General Kratzert had attracted him. During the Great War General Kratzert had been its commander. Rowohlt therefore attended the conference. — He spoke about the problems of artillery during the war world, saying that relations with the infantry had been one of the most delicate tasks, but that he had been fortunate to have at his disposal one of the best officers of the war, a quite exceptional liaison officer, the current editor Rowohlt…! Obviously, I went to greet him after the conference. We drank a cannon and he asked me how I was. Rowohlt gave me a shrewd look. “At first, I was on my guard, of course. I didn't know his opinions, with a general, you never know… But finally, I told him that I had political and professional concerns. Then Kratzert: “My dear Rowohlt! An old military principle: better not to be lying than to be lying askew! (Rowohlt burst out laughing.) This Kratzert was a first-rate gunner.

class. And can you imagine that, speaking of our life during the war, he said to me: "I must tell you, Rowohlt, that your successor was worth nothing at all." No common measure between you and him! He was cowardly, he was scared! And then, that didn't prevent him from dying all the same in 1924. So tell me, what good was it to him? » It did seem to me like a succinct summary of the military conception of the meaning of life and death. Laughing, I asked Rowohlt: - And then ?

"And then," said Rowohlt, turning the knobs of his set, we talked about this and that... But already two days later Rowohlt resumed reigning in the house. "I would really like to know what fly stung it," said Hessel. Today, he asked me: "What will tomorrow's war look like?" As I confessed that I knew nothing about it, he gave me a book by an Italian general whose title was that! - It's good ? I asked, and Hessel answered: "I have to translate it first." And God knows I don't don't understand this military stuff! By some strange whim, Rowohlt henceforth gave all such manuscripts to Paul Mayer and Franz Hessel, giving me the more literary texts. But, little by little, a lot of books came out from Rowohlt that I would have looked for rather from an old military publishing house, likeSwarms of planes over the ocean, by Italo Balbo, orThe bomb war, by Rougeron, and other works by Rocco Moretta Drouet and General Fuller. "We'll see," said Rowohlt, "if the Ministry of Propaganda forbids me books that are recommended to me by the OKW!

These books were written by military leaders, all foreigners, who gave an idea of what a modern war promised to bring us. "What do you think of Ledig?" Rowohlt asked me. I say : — In matters of literature and publishing, he knows more in his little finger than your entire big carcass! Rowohlt loudly cleared his throat and said: - Tatata! "Why do you treat him so badly?" "It's a pain," Rowohlt said, clearing his face again. voice.

"The other day," I continued, laughing, "I was reading when I heard someone open the door and clear their throat very deeply, with a lot of noise. Without looking back, I said, "I'll be finished in a moment, Rowohlt!" Then Ledig approached and said, "It's me, Ledig!" » Rowohlt's face turned scarlet. He says : “I'll tell you something I haven't told anyone yet. But first you must swear that you won't hear a word of it! I swore and Rowohlt resumed:

"Ledig is my son!" What to say ? I say : - Attractive ! And nice to have called it Ledig5!

"It's not me," Rowohlt protested. It really is called that. When I realized the talents of this boy, I had him trained as a bookseller and sent him to England. I thought it might come in handy one day! He remained absorbed in thought for a moment. 'Of course he doesn't suspect that he is my son! Swear to me not to say a word of it!

I swore. One day I went to see Ledig in his small apartment and noticed a picture of Rowohlt on the table. I asked: "Tell me, why does the old man treat you so badly?" Ledig stopped in front of the photo, xed it and said, clenching his fists

: - I hate him ! - Tatata! I said. So Ledig: “I'll tell you something I haven't told anyone yet. But first you must swear that you won't hear a word of it! I swore and Ledig continued:

— Rowohlt is my father! - Attractive ! I said. And nice to call you Ledig! "It's not me," said Ledig. I really call myself that. It's necessary to tell you also that when I entered the house, I knew nothing about it; I discovered it little by little. He remained absorbed in thought for a moment. “Of course he doesn't suspect that he is my father. Swear to me not to say a word of it! I swore. "Did you know," Hans Fallada asked me, "that Ledig is the from Rowohlt?

- Not possible ! I said. - It is a fact. Rowohlt told me. He believes that Ledig does not do not know. Then Ledig told me. He thinks Rowohlt doesn't know. I had to take all the oaths. But the whole house knows it. And the whole house is having fun with the idea that the two of them don't know that the whole house knows it!

It was easy to guess what Rowohlt meant when he said that knowing English might one day be useful to Ledig.

At all times, part of the production had been devoted to foreign literature. By his very advanced knowledge of Anglo-Saxon literature, Ledig had in fact a great utility. American literature, which had reawakened after the Great War, now came to fill the German literary void. Ledig brought more than Rowohlt, barely knowing a word of English, could digest: Sinclair Lewis, Hergesheimer, Faulkner, Hemingway, Nathan Asch and many, many others. In the meantime, the cultural chambers had been established and the "Reichsschrifttumskammer" took definitively and strictly in hand the organization of German literature. I had always asked the question of the general concept. Here, there was one, and it was bad luck that it was not to my liking. Popaul Mayer, whom we had seen more and more rarely, one day pulled out from under his stacks of books and came with his wife, slender like him, with the same slightly tilted head and the same dark, nimble eyes, to take vacation. He emigrated like most of our Jewish authors. Franz Hessel, on the other hand, could not and did not want to emigrate. He lived in Paris and Berlin as one lives with two lungs, that's where he felt at home. This already elderly man remained, with unwavering modesty, devoted to his world, which was that of the silky mist on the Seine and that of the dead leaves of the chestnut trees on the Landwehrkanal. A violent nostalgia made him leave Berlin for Paris and a no less violent nostalgia made him return to Berlin. In Paris, there was the famous French author Jules Romains, former founder of a new literary school called "unanimism" (and in Paris, no one became a famous author unless he founded one). He was writing an immense work:Good men

will, which was to comprise twenty-eight volumes; Rowohlt bought the German rights. - You realize, he said, it's pure madness! It's never going to sell, but I think it's great; The devil take me if I no longer have the courage of madness! What's more (he gave me a shrewd look), Jules Romains is the president of a company that does propaganda for Franco-German understanding. In Foreign Affairs, we lie down on our stomachs in front of him. It's on the eighth volume, so there are twenty more to come. I estimate that it will be finished in twenty years. Do you believe that in twenty years we will still have a Schrifttumskammer? — According to the new calendar, I said, it will even last nine one hundred and eighty years older.

"Do you think our little Franz will live another twenty years?"

"What a rude and absurd question!" I exclaimed. Rowohlt smiled. — Someone made Jules Romains believe that Franz Hessel was the only one who knows how to translate his novel. So he insists that it be him. We will see if the Schrifttumskammer prohibits a translator recommended by Foreign Affairs! Franz Hessel therefore translated the books of Jules Romains and his existence seemed assured. Driven by a violent nostalgia, he went to Paris in 1939. He was there when the war broke out. His son was serving in the French army. But neither this fact nor the indignant protestations of Jules Romains could prevent Minister Mandel from having him sent, after May 10, 1940, to a concentration camp. He was released and died in occupied Paris. I am of the opinion that politics and literature are domains exclusively controlled by taste. We must therefore admit that everyone understands a little something about it. Rowohlt knew

Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

this thesis and, to counterbalance my judgments dictated by my taste alone, he replaced Paul Mayer with Friedo Lampe, a young author who leaned more towards lyricism. Thus, everything seemed to be back to normal and Rowohlt was back on track. He had been one of the founders of the "Society of Friends of the USSR" (which at that time had long since been banned and dissolved). It was doubtless due to this circumstance that he was invited every year to commemorate the Russian Revolution, on November 7, at the Embassy. (Without evening dress or uniform.) Me, on the other hand, I believe that I was invited because I had belonged to the "Vormarsch" group, which died as a result of October 23, 1929. This group had acquired the reputation not to sympathize with Eastern philosophy, but to treat Western philosophy with unvarnished contempt. At first, I thought Rowohlt rushed to these receptions at the Soviet Embassy because of the clear, ice-cold vodka they served in large quantities, and on closer inspection, this impression could even be confirmed. Because he had no hope of obtaining Russian copyrights. (And if the Russians wanted to print German authors, they did so happily without concern for any rights.) But while greeting countless people right and left with a cordiality just a tad too thunderous to be true, Rowohlt invariably referred to Doctor Homann, the press attache of the Czechoslovak legation; with him, and a large bottle of vodka, he would flee to a quiet little corner just under Lenin's bust. Rowohlt was not used to chatting with his staff about internal business matters. I respected that attitude. I refrained from asking him how it came about that manuscripts that I had vehemently refused because I

didn't want to see this piece of flesh so well formed rotting in a concentration camp, suddenly seemed to Maehrisch-Ostrau, at the successor of Julius Kittl6—a nice little print shop that had sometimes worked for Rowohlt. Let's go! Around the long table set up in the largest hall of the embassy, hundreds of illustrious guests crowded under the ironic gaze of a smiling Lenin. Diplomats of all ranks and countries, businessmen interested in Russian trade, professors of all faculties except theologians, half of the German generals (there seemed to be no party members ), everyone was in a hurry like sardines and jostled to arrive, jostling and over their heads, at the large cups of caviar arranged on blocks of ice, the oval dishes of trout in jelly, the smoked sturgeons, the sandwiches more varied and bottles of vodka or Crimean red wine. However, officers of the Red Army, in their sober, dark gray tunics, adorned only with simple red cords, stood along the walls, watching the fray with patient impassiveness. I was with Ernst Jünger, who had come for the first time. After reviewing the raging crowd for a long time, he exclaimed:

— Indeed, the lemures are at work! Real sub faces men. The big one over there, with the chain around his neck, is a particularly chosen specimen! - Hush! I say, it's Sahm, the president of the municipal council of Berlin! The last invitation to these receptions came to me in 1937; a few days before November 7, Dr. Goebbels had launched his bloodthirsty war cry against the Soviet Union and “the Jewish and Bolshevik world danger”. It is all in honor of

Rowohlt that, turning the invitation in his hands, he said "shit" and went anyway. Unaware of abstraction, Rowohlt's imagination was exclusively sensual; so he was scratched when he entered the salon with the bust of Lenin. Apart from Ernst Niekisch and a pale, distracted young man whose name was von Harnack7, apart from Rowohlt and me, there were no Germans. The generals had evaporated; neither the university professors, nor the businessmen, nor the magistrates, nor the German diplomats crowded around the table. Without jostling, we could help ourselves to exquisite dishes that were even more copious than usual. A few diplomats from southeastern Europe were whispering in small eared groups and glancing around furtively. We received no further invitations from the Russians. It wasn't until 1940 that Germans again attended the reception, but aside from the generals, they were quite different people who reveled in caviar. At the time, Doctor Homann had already perished in a "Protectorate" concentration camp and Ernst Niekisch was becoming almost blind in a German prison. Rowohlt had emigrated to Brazil and Mr. Harnack did not yet suspect that he would be hanged two years later. Meanwhile, Ledig had also joined Rowohlt's diplomatic service, and was very well received at the US Embassy. The American ambassador, Mr. Dodd, had been a university professor. One of his diplomatic collaborators told me: 'Mr. Dodd is considered the best expert there. German history, until 1870! Ledig did not have the same conceptions of diplomatic activity as I did. While I thought he was busy chasing some very fat larvae in a molehill, he was hovering around Martha Dodd, the ambassador's daughter, like a butterfly around

with a fresh apple blossom. Martha Dodd presided over her father's household and discharged her representative duties with much grace. I feared that one day, when the delicate eur had become fruit, she would replace the natural wax of her cheeks with the most precious blush, thus provoking and justifying Ernst Jünger's comparison between California apples and American women. . He said in effect that both were magnificently beautiful to look at and bland in taste. But I didn't taste it. Martha Dodd invited me to her receptions and "parties"; on these occasions, very dignified servants, gloved in white, ordained sweet opalizing cocktails and small sandwiches with pale herbs. But at these "parties", the golden youth of the capital met. They were well-made young people, with perfect manners and imperfect knowledge of languages. They were dressed in the becoming Foreign Affairs uniforms which so desperately resembled the black uniforms of the SS. Foreign women don't feel foolish. In short, the salons swarmed with young German heroes; their features were marked and their smiles engaging, and in their company Martha Dodd often let out her silvery laugh. Myself, I remained a little on the sidelines, chagrin at the thought that all this youth had undoubtedly much worse temper than me but undeniably a much more beautiful figure.

Ledig, however, was proving brilliant. There was no doubt that he was sucking honey from the flower. When he and Martha Dodd spoke to each other, their faces, bent toward each other, took on a delighted expression. They were talking about some Tommy who seemed like a beloved childhood friend. I took a long time to understand

that they meant by that Thomas Wolfe, the famous American author whom they did not yet know personally but whose Rowohlt had publishedLook homeward, Angel. It was known that Wolfe intended to visit the capital shortly. I had read his books with passionate interest. In this man the great wave of American literature seemed to culminate. It was as if a giant, rising from the Rocky Mountains, had swallowed the entire American continent and then vomited it up. And more than any other American narrator, Wolfe awakened in me an unconditional admiration for his art and a desire never to be forced to live in the USA. Thomas Wolfe is a moving impression. This broad-shouldered man who was always a bit bent over, aware of his uncannily tall stature, had a large head abounding with unruly hair, and a broad, prominent chin. His eyes were dark and his gaze piercing; he strolled through the city as if he were in the western steppes. He complained that the beds were always too short and immediately asked Rowohlt why he had based the calculation of his fee on the sale price of the paperback copy. He had made inquiries in several bookshops to learn that no paperback copy had been put on sale. Ledig translated and to my intimate satisfaction Rowohlt had to try, sweating blood and water, to explain to a stranger the complicated mechanism of his calculations.

I thought Rowohlt and Wolfe would hit it off right away. But one felt that in trying to devour America, Wolfe must have swallowed too many indigestible pebbles, and the business principles of

Rowohlt. Only, the American editors arrived at something, Rowohlt never. Wolfe was full of a profoundly peasant mistrust, the mistrust of an absolute-loving man who didn't even like what he himself wrote. These two representatives of their respective continents took a long time to understand that they could be friends. I believe I lived this moment: Rowohlt having tried in vain to slander Wolfe for obscene chants, the latter thoughtfully raised his glass and said: Life is strange and world is bad!»In a mad outburst of sympathy, Rowohlt made it the motto of his life. Martha Dodd was overjoyed. Her Tommy, a flesh-and-blood writer, was her host. She was the one representing the great and era America and presenting her Tommy. One “party” drove out the other. Even Martha's "dad," America's Dodd, attended, visibly uncomfortable. He would ask Wolfe how he was, listen sympathetically to his complaints about the short beds, and disappear again. Thomas Wolfe, he stood in the middle of the crush like a rock against which the waves come to break. Her gaze, wandering over the waters, seemed to be searching for a distant lighthouse. One fine day, he no longer came, he had disappeared, he had gone and no one knew where. Martha telephoned everywhere, mobilizing literary and political Berlin. It was only after having received from the police, reputed to be effective,

When he returned, he appeared singularly changed, more human. He seemed to want to devour Berlin like America, especially at night. But Martha Dodd was far from resigned. Very aware of her duty to America, she continued to

call for him. One had the impression that this charming but not devoid of practicality young girl was trying to subdue a volcano by throwing nice little cocktails into its crater. One evening the telephone roused Ledig from sleep. Desperate, Martha besought him to come immediately to the Embassy. Tommy was "crazy, awfully crazy!" When Ledig arrived, he found himself in the presence of a defeated, weeping Martha, gazing at her Tommy who was standing in the middle of the room, staring with his red eyes at the poor petal of eur Martha and slowly and voluptuously tearing up a copy. from the American edition ofOf Time and the Riverwhich he had given her the day before with a friendly dedication. Finally, he exclaimed: “Life is not a cocktail party! » Poor Martha! It was not at all easy to represent America when it showed itself in the face of the Wild West. No sooner had Thomas Wolfe returned to America than Martha called, again in despair. Ledig had to come, something bad had just happened, Rowohlt had to come, me too, we all had to come, no, she couldn't say on the phone… We met late at night. Eyes clouded with tears, Martha sat in front of a few issues of a major American magazine. Thomas Wolfe had given his new book on Germany in pre-publication. There was a chapter called, "I have a thing or tell you," it was a "word" that Ledig always used when he wanted to tell Wolfe something, and Wolfe told everything in turn, every conversation. With the great incorruptible art of which he was a past master, he had described each of his interlocutors so minutely that they all seemed to be reborn in a mirror. It was impossible not to recognize them. Already a faithful portrait had been given of Ledig, with all his little peculiarities and with all that he had told Wolfe. And the

layout of the book left no doubt about what was to come: in the following issues, it was going to be about Martha Dodd, Rowohlt, and me too, with absolutely everything we had said, and God knows how much we had said. things that you had to wish now had never been said. We looked at each other, trying each for himself to recapitulate; from time to time Martha sobbed, gripped by memories each more terrible than the next. Ledig was wiping his glasses, I was considering a retreat to the countryside, and on Rowohlt's forehead the sweat beaded. "Maybe," said Ledig, "maybe they don't read those magazines here ?

"They read them," I said. Don't worry, they read them! For a long time Rowohlt had swayed like a white bear. Suddenly, his face lit up and in a thunderous voice, which betrayed infinite relief, he exclaimed: - Ha! ha! Me, I risk nothing! I never said anything except "to your health " ! Rowohlt's boat therefore seemed to sail without having to fear mines. As for me, I have no hesitation in asserting that my activity as a reader has not been of great literary use to Rowohlt. I modestly watered the meager flowerbeds of his garden where I hoped to see a new generation germinate. Nothing was sprouting. And I understood only too well the young people who, faced with the choice of being airmen or sailors in the submarine fleet, or of waiting in Rowohlt's antechamber clutching in their sweaty hands the smeared paper in a furnished room, decided on an activity apparently more suited to the tastes of youth. There remained to me only the sweet consolation of obtaining through seriousness and a conscious zeal of his

responsibilities what Rowohlt got by tapping the manuscripts against his occiput. So I tried to be helpful by writing flyers and inserts though their virtue was impossible to control. Rowohlt was happy with it. Alas, Rowohlt had changed. The spell had struck his manuscript against the occiput and already, the two mines had been wet which were to sink his boat. Since I had read, in prison, hisNachsommer8, I had a lot of admiration and respect for Adalbert Stifter. A certain Urban Roedl offered us a biography of the writer which was excellent. Rowohlt accepted it. The publishing house had to register each new author with the Reichsschrifttumskammer. The first question from the Reichsschrifttumskammer was: "Why isn't Adalbert Stifter a member of the chamber?" » Rowohlt gave the clarifications with a gentleness that gave me a bad omen of his state of mind. The second question from the Reichsschrifttumskammer was: "Why isn't Urban Roedl a member of the chamber?" » Rowohlt explained that the chamber had ordered that foreign authors should not be asked if they were Aryans since they could not be members of the chamber. Urban Roedl lived in Aussig and was of Czechoslovak nationality. The chamber fell silent and Rowohlt published the book. He was received with great esteem.

When the German armies occupied the Sudetenland, soon learned that Urban Roedl was actually called Bruno Adler9.

Rowohlt told the Reichsschrifttumskammer that he had no reason to be more Catholic than the pope, but the chamber

did not accept this comment. She asked Rowohlt when he was finally going to make up his mind to fire Miss Ploschitzky.

Rowohlt replied that Miss Ploschitzky had worked for eighteen years in her house to her complete satisfaction. Ms. Ploschitzky had absolutely nothing to do with the preservation or dissemination of "Germany's cultural assets." Miss Ploschitzky needed her salary. Finally, there was no law, not even among those of Nuremberg, which could compel him to dismiss Miss Ploschitzky. The Reichsschrifttumskammer gave Rowohlt the choice between Miss Ploschitzky's dismissal and his own exclusion from the chamber. Miss Ploschitzky was not dismissed. Rowohlt was expelled from the Reichsschrifttumskammer.

The captain of the boat ran aground on the Brazilian coast. On the rescued craft, Ledig cautiously set sail for Stuttgart. There, in a back room of theDeutsche Verlagsanstalt, the publishing house continued its activity. Always circumspect, and finally according to commercial criteria, Ledig discarded books that promised neither fame nor money. Always circumspect, he maintained good relations with the old authors who remained loyal to the house even in these circumstances. Always circumspect, he became attached to new authors. Business therefore followed its course, in slow motion but in complete safety, to such an extent that instead of serving the word, Ledig could, from time to time, serve the action. This man, fundamentally foreign to all things military, accomplished an act of which no warrior, or almost, can boast: he saluted his sergeant by removing his military headgear, and he survived!

I am proud to have contributed to keeping the house alive during the hardest years. Rowohlt hadn't wanted to take care of my books for a long time. After painstakingly selling the popular edition of Forsaken, he had therefore decided to grant a license for theForsaken and theCadetsBertelsmann editions, a very active house that made inexpensive editions. From time to time, Ledig received a pleasant check every year which he sent to me after retaining a third for the house. With the rest, I regularly paid my taxes. The Ministry of Propaganda took the precaution of prohibiting a republication of the City, but neither Ledig nor I had thought of it. Friedo Lampe remained in Berlin. During the conquest of the city, a Russian soldier asked him for his passport. The passport photo showed him in his roundness of yesteryear, but since then he had lived through the difficult times in Berlin. The Russian soldier looked at the photo, then at Friedo Lampe. He said: “Passport not good, you SS! And shot him down.

In the middle of the war, I learned that Rowohlt had returned to the country. I met him in Berlin. He had come as a sailor on a breaker

blockade. Walter Kiaulehn10and Erich Kastner11dispute the paternity of the good word: “The rats reach the sinking boat! I understood the old man. He couldn't sell books in Brazil. He gave me a sly look and said: — We'll see if the Minister of Propaganda can exclude of the Schrifttumskammer a Luftwae captain! He could !

ad 29b:One day, shortly after January 30, 1933, I met, on returning to Grünheide, a man whom I had not seen since 1921, in Upper Silesia. This man, Heinz Oskar Hauenstein, barely more

older than me, had made a name for himself at the time by organizing, with the secret agreement of the Prussian government, a kind of "special police" in the disputed territories between Poland and Germany. This police was to provide the protection that the state was unable to provide. It brought together men who were thus forced to work, if not on their own account, at least on their risks and perils. One of the members was Albert Leo Schlageter12. Hauenstein was distinguished by his incredible courage and coolness and by a great talent for organization. During the third Polish revolt in Upper Silesia, following the plebiscite, he organized a “shock regiment” within the framework of the protection of Upper Silesia; and if the final decision was rather favorable to the Reich, much of the credit went to him. In 1923, his organization was the core of the "passive resistance" in the Ruhr. Later, Hauenstein founded the first large groups of the "Voluntary Labor Service" which consisted almost exclusively of former members of the Freikorps. Then he became a broker in a bookshop. At many of the Vehme trials he appeared as a witness. With quiet simplicity, he produced the embarrassing proofs that a considerable number of acts of the Vehme had been, if not ordered, at least known by high official personalities. He thus saved the lives of many convicts. During all these years, he had, with great air and circumspection, collected all the documents that were directly or indirectly related to the troubled events that had taken place in post-war Germany. For obvious reasons, he was therefore committed to keeping in touch with all those who had participated in any form in these events. After the death of Albert Leo Schlageter, shot by the French following an act of sabotage in the Ruhr, he had He thus saved the lives of many convicts. During all these years, he had, with great air and circumspection, collected all the documents that were directly or indirectly related to the troubled events that had taken place in post-war Germany. For obvious reasons, he was therefore committed to keeping in touch with all those who had participated in any form in these events. After the death of Albert Leo Schlageter, shot by the French following an act of sabotage in the Ruhr, he had He thus saved the lives of many convicts. During all these years, he had, with great air and circumspection, collected all the documents that were directly or indirectly related to the troubled events that had taken place in post-war Germany. For obvious reasons, he was therefore committed to keeping in touch with all those who had participated in any form in these events. After the death of Albert Leo Schlageter, shot by the French following an act of sabotage in the Ruhr, he had he had therefore made a point of keeping in touch with all those who had taken part in these events in any form. After the death of Albert Leo Schlageter, shot by the French following an act of sabotage in the Ruhr, he had he had therefore made a point of keeping in touch with all those who had taken part in these events in any form. After the death of Albert Leo Schlageter, shot by the French following an act of sabotage in the Ruhr, he had

set up a small museum in his memory in his Berlin apartment. This museum, combined with archives and a small periodical entitledDer Reiter gen Osten, centralized contacts between former members of the Freikorps. Already very early, in 1922, he had joined the National Socialist Party, and very early already, in 1927, he had left it again after settling a political dispute with a senior party official by brutal force. When I met him, he had just been banned from working as editor-in-chief of this puny paper that could hardly be considered the organ of an association without members. He asked me to take his post. For my part, I had come to the conclusion, particularly inThe Forsakenand in a few publications within the circle of 'new nationalism', that the German post-war period could only be understood as a detached historical period, situated between epochs and endowed with its own historical aspect. It had to be seen as an attempt to arrive at particular political and military conceptions from a unique political and military situation. The only accessible documents, concerning the German post-war period, were in the possession of the commands of the districts of the Reichswehr which had succeeded to the general command of the imperial army. Their point of view had to be opposed to that of the Freikorps, which had been the real post-war formations. It therefore only remained to undertake the task of reconstructing the history of the years 1918 to 1923 ourselves, insofar as it involved the Freikorps. I declared myself ready to accept the direction of the publication on condition that it served the exclusive purpose of procuring the materials indispensable to the establishment of historical facts. Hauenstein had to retain a right of inspection

on the last page of the publication, dedicated to the news of the association. Because maintaining contact with former members of the Freikorps and their organizations offered the only chance of obtaining documents held by individuals. The new purpose of the publication was explained to each subscriber and to all affiliated companies by asking to send not only accessible documents but also personal testimonies. The hope of being printed proved to be a powerful attraction. In less than two years, the editorial staff received nearly one hundred thousand file documents, witness accounts, diary pages, souvenirs, photos and addresses. Thus, the “museum” really became an archive. In keeping with the character of post-war Germany, each piece of the file had to be registered several times. Newly created formations had again been disbanded or placed under other commands; they disappeared, reappeared, made their appearance simultaneously in several sectors distant from each other, changed their name and merged into the most diverse organizations. Everything that had been improvised in the German post-war period was thus manifested with rare clarity. An extremely laborious task of compiling finally reveals a "chronological order" of the dierent combat sectors. The "struggle for the Reich" included the fights and actions undertaken in the name and for the benefit of the so-called "people's delegate" government against the power exercised by the "workers' and soldiers' councils" during the months of December 1918 and from January 1919 until the session of the National Assembly where party rule supplanted revolutionary organizations. A paragraph

particular was devoted to the disturbances of March 1919 in Berlin. The "protection of the eastern border" grouped the battles that took place in 1919 in Posnania and West Prussia when the social revolution turned into the Polish national revolution. They only came to an end with the Treaty of Versailles where a large part of these formerly German provinces was assigned to Poland. The "battles in the Baltic Provinces" included the campaign waged by German, Baltic, Latvian and Lithuanian volunteer corps against the advancing Red Army and the second campaign of German corps reinforced by White Russian volunteers, waged against formations of Latvians and Estonians who, supported by England, obtained towards the end of the year 1919 the sovereignty of the States located on the Baltic and formerly subject to Russia. The “battles in Upper Silesia” during the three Polish revolts in 1910, 1920 and 1921. The “Kapp putsch” in 1920. The “fight for the Ruhr” in 1920. The "fight for central Germany" from 1920 to 1923. The "resistance to the Ruhr and the Rhine" in 1923. And finally the "fight for Carinthia" in 1919, which constitutes a similar event. It sufficed to cast a glance at the chronological table to understand that the history of about eighty-five Freikorps would have to be written, if one wanted to do justice to the documents. But for each sector, we also needed the adversary's documents. We were trying to get in touch with some Polish insurgent leaders whom we had discovered

names, but this was only possible in a few rare cases. Things were easier with the French. One day, a book by Benoist-Méchin appeared: From the Imperial Army to the Reichswehr. The author retraced the history of the German army at the time which precisely concerned us. Benoist-Méchin was barely older than me. As a young steelworker, he had taken part in the occupation in Germany. His work, of great precision, was based on the documents preserved in the Library of Versailles and in the archives of the newly constituted army in Potsdam. We made available to each other the materials we had.

A careful assessment showed that a complete history of post-war Germany would require about six volumes of five hundred pages each and at least six years of work. It was therefore necessary to provide for a remuneration of about sixty thousand marks. Based on these precise calculations, I s to Rowohlt a contract proposal. He rocked his chest. Then, in the absence of a manuscript he could have slapped against his occiput, he looked at me with the eyes of a deer beaten to death. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, but before he could say a word, I silently walked away. However, towards the end of 1935, our work was sufficiently advanced to enable us to bring together in one volume the best and most striking documents and accounts, with some thousand photos. In my preface, I set out the characteristics of the preliminary historiography, and the whole thing appeared under the title:The Book of the German Combatant of the Freikorps, with Wilhelm Limpert, in Berlin. To our great regret, the documents of the Bavarian Freikorps had to remain inaccessible to us. I went to Munich, but the

General von Epp was as intractable, for fear of seeing his glory as a savior tarnished, as any other particular collector who owned several important pieces and who armed me with extreme suspicion that he and his collection were placed under the personal protection of the Führer. Hauenstein had always endeavored to discard any document concerning the beginnings of the party, even if they had any connection with the German post-war period. Nevertheless, I was tempted to delve a bit into the party's national archives. We possessed few documents of historical value, but among them were a few letters from Schlageter—whom the National Socialists now celebrated as a national hero—in which he complained bitterly of the role played by the party in the Ruhr. We also kept the report that the former Freikorps officer Rickmer, mortally wounded, had dictated to his nurse shortly before his death; this report cast a singular light on the attitude of the National Socialist leaders during an armed attack by the police. There was finally, dated 1922, an invitation card in the name of "Mr. Hitler"; on the back of this card, Hitler had noted some general ideas for the speech he made to the leaders of the Freikorps then assembled; these were very general ideas, such as "our way" and "everything is to be ready", but the document interested me because Hitler had absently drawn, probably during the speeches of the others, a few lines and sketches which could at a pinch represent the prole and route of a highway. Hauenstein kept these things under lock and key and only very reluctantly promised to lend them to me when the post-war history was finalized. these were very general ideas, such as "our way" and "everything is to be ready", but the document interested me because Hitler had absently drawn, probably during the speeches of the others, a few lines and sketches which could at a pinch represent the prole and route of a highway. Hauenstein kept these things under lock and key and only very reluctantly promised to lend them to me when the post-war history was finalized. these were very general ideas, such as "our way" and "everything is to be ready", but the document interested me because Hitler had absently drawn, probably during the speeches of the others, a few lines and sketches which could at a pinch represent the prole and route of a highway. Hauenstein kept these things under lock and key and only very reluctantly promised to lend them to me when the post-war history was finalized.

In Munich, I learned that the chairman of the national party archives had only joined the party in March 1933, when recruiting had resumed. Previously, this man had been commercial director of a sheet which at the time was in close contact with Foreign Minister Stresemann. So I assumed he would be more approachable than some narrow-minded civil servant. And I was not mistaken. The president was a slender man, with perfect manners and protected by those mirrored glasses which never let the eyes see well. He entered me immediately and showed me with great pride the immense building and all the riches it housed. In the cellars, there was in particular, piled up in bundles, the whole library of the German trade unions, of inestimable value,

He seemed to know me only vaguely, by hearsay. When I asked him for permission to consult post-war documents on occasion, he lightly agreed; then he said, still with the same carelessness, that he would very much like to take a look at Schlageter's letters. I swallowed my saliva and began to explain to him my conception of historiography. He declared himself happy to see himself in agreement with me in thinking that historiography was only possible for closed periods; in his case, he hoped to be able to do so in nine hundred and ninety-eight years, and as far as he was concerned, he was going to do everything so that it could then be undertaken with perfect objectivity and historical accuracy. As I asked him on what principles he classified documents, he got up and led me through corridors and stairs into a room where he opened a filing cabinet adorned with an S; without hesitating for a second he took out a voluminous file and slammed it on the table, saying:

- So. It was my file. I leafed through it. We hadn't forgotten anything. My whole life was there, summarized in stenograms, newspaper articles, photos, photocopies of identity documents, letters, requests and reports. We had worked on it, annotating it with exclamation points and red pencil marks. The president, next to me, watched me, motionless. I make an effort to speak slowly and thoughtfully. I told him that deep down, I admired him and that I paid him my compliments. At a time when I had cared only for my personal existence and my family, he had apparently shrunk from no sacrifice to serve the great cause which had now rewarded him with such an important position. He looked at me without blinking. Then, in a slightly tense voice, he said:

- You are an idiot ! With your past you could occupy my job ! But no doubt it is not worthy of you! You heard yourself being prayed for. But no one is asked! You should have shouted, shouted! (He suddenly shouted: "Shout!" but immediately recovered himself.) Me, I shouted! That's why I'm here. And it's up to you to come and ask me! It could have been otherwise, but thank God it is not! I took the folder and carefully put it in its place. And I say: - Yes, thank God, it is not! I returned to Berlin by the first train and immediately went to Hauenstein's. He listened to me in silence, then a taxi came. We had ourselves driven to Potsdam, where we woke up the curator of the national archives of the army, Counselor Rogge, with whom we had been in contact for certain loans of documents. Hauenstein gave all our documents to the archives, as a gift, since there were no credits for the

buy. Councilor Rogge testified with the greatest pleasure that the national archives of the army received all our present and future documents and that thus our archives became the property of the Reich. Already the next day, Hauenstein telephoned me. At six o'clock in the morning, three trucks had stopped in front of his house. Gestapo officials had broken into his home and demanded that he hand over the archives to them. Extremely eager to serve these gentlemen, Hauenstein had exhibited the certificate. Dazed, the officials said they had to make a phone call first, which they heard from the next room. Then they left, without the archives. Hauenstein immediately telephoned Councilman Rogge, who promised to have everything removed the same day. - And now ? I asked. Hauenstein declared that he was going on vacation and that he strongly advised me to do the same. I took a map to look for a very lonely island. For lack of more isolated, I went to Kampen, in the island of Sylt, and I wrote there according to my memory an outline on the German post-war period, an essay which appeared at Rowohlt under the title:Nahe Geschichte.

ad 29c:At the time when I began to no longer see any meaning in my activity as a historiographer of the German post-war period, this same

work qualified me for an entirely different occupation. UFA13 hired me as an expert on free corps issues. Although I had followed with great zeal the cinematographic works at the various stages of the evolution of this art, I shared this slight contempt shown later by my colleagues in the

letters, who only wanted to see in the cinema an art sometimes amusing, certainly, but of secondary importance and basically harmful.

On the way to the gates of UFA, I still felt myself in those mocking dispositions that fill modern man with the idea that he is going to be admitted to heaven or, for that matter, to a realm inhabited by deities. and stars, by angelic beings freed from the low needs of the world; it is a kingdom of which one learns with displeasure that one works hard there and that one leaves in a whirlwind of pure snowflakes which are transformed only in contact with the coarse earth into dirty banknotes. But hardly had I undergone, at the gate, a ceremony reminiscent of a meticulous customs inspection, when a new notion took hold, confirmed from year to year: the wonderland of cinema was a neutral foreign country! Each time I crossed the threshold, I had the impression of crossing a border. Suddenly, everything became different, unreal. It was in keeping with the idea that a belligerent nation likes to have of a neutral country: you could still find everything there! We did learn from time to time that regrettable things were happening in the outside world that had gone crazy, but deep down we weren't involved in it. If it was necessary to impose restrictions, the currency remained no less stable; there was enough money and, above all, production continued undisturbed. German cinema was neutral. It was vitally important. The abandonment of neutrality would have corresponded to the abandonment of its existence. This young art, not yet very robust, needed all its strength. This strange branch, the youngest shoot on the tree of art, still betrayed no obedience to the laws of growth. Here and there, limits were imposed by the most severe censorship and

more dangerous, that of the taste of the German public, but that could not prevent this growth from following the evolutions and the most surprising and voluntary directions. Dramaturgical rules drawn from ephemeral experiences were only ever valid for a day. Those who claimed that the cinema did not support a trend held up the best. There were indeed directors and actors who, solely absorbed by these problems, seriously tried to express through film the way of greeting with an outstretched arm; the authors of this "German salute" had seen in it from the start a tendentious means of expression; the lm set out to portray in it a natural act performed daily by millions of quite ordinary people. The attempt failed. The presentation of the first meters shot on trial had already, as the only eect, a success of hilarity. Cinema can do a lot. He knows how to be magical, he knows how to tell fairy tales, he knows how to be realistic and surreal, but he cannot represent an expression that is false in itself without revealing its falseness in an excessive way. The German cinema could not make use of the German salute;

That German cinema could not express a trend was not the fault of the cinema, but of the trend. The most striking example was provided by a scene whose tendency was borrowed from a Russian avant-garde film. (In a concentration camp of the Boer War, the camp doctor declares that a piece of meat swarming with worms is good enough for the prisoners.) The scene produced the same effect as all the other tendencies with which the German cinema: she was ridiculous. As any German lm whose action was located abroad seemed ridiculous in the country in question, the lms

foreigners whose action was in Germany became ridiculous in Germany. The fact that all German lms, even devoid of any political tendency, produced a ridiculous effect abroad, was probably due on the one hand to the fact that the foreigner saw German political reality as a barbaric and fundamentally bad reality, and on the other hand to the fact that the German cinema also considered, in spite of its eorts of “realism”, the German political reality as barbaric and fundamentally bad. It's because German cinema was a neutral country. One of the peculiarities of this little wonderland was its morals; she was broad, cordial and good-natured and only began to get emotional if the integrity of the branch was questioned. Whatever pleased was permitted, but it was forbidden to take personal advantage of this permission. Obviously, nothing that is human was foreign to this people, but since a film could not be the work of an individual but of a working community of about two thousand men, it had to be governed by the law of camaraderie; and it was endangering the common bond of cinema to break this law. Thus, it could well happen that a charming young actress, politely asked to accept the main role in a new film, curled up voluptuously on a divan and said, tilting her head: “Oh! I don't know… I would like to, but is it really a role for me? The Minister told me that he reserved the right to assign me my next role! So this word, once thrown around, flew from workshop to workshop, from one production group to another, and the actress got neither the role in question nor any other ore. If she complained to the Minister, and if the Minister made an inquiry to find out why this charming young woman adored by the public was no longer occupied, it would appear that there was no film project in which the shade of charm of this and the actress did not obtain the role in question or any other ore. If she complained to the Minister, and if the Minister made an inquiry to find out why this charming young woman adored by the public was no longer occupied, it would appear that there was no film project in which the shade of charm of this and the actress did not obtain the role in question or any other ore. If she complained to the Minister, and if the Minister made an inquiry to find out why this charming young woman adored by the public was no longer occupied, it would appear that there was no film project in which the shade of charm of this

great German artist could have found the place that was due to him. If the minister gave orders, chose a film and the producing company, everyone who could afford it said, “No. So we were looking for a director who couldn't afford to say no, and that director had to choose a team that couldn't afford to say no. But then all the screenwriters, all the camera and sound technicians, all the architects and all the assistant directors turned away with the signs of the deepest despair. So the script was weak, the troupe badly run, the action silly, the dialogue far-fetched, the cinematography dull, the sound squeaky, in a word, the film became bad. Then, the lm was projected in front of the minister who exclaimed: “What horror! So the production manager would say, "I don't know what's wrong with this young actress." Usually, she wasn't so bad. I do believe she is getting old. Then the Minister thoughtfully contemplated the wrinkles in the face of the great artist, those wrinkles which had cost the make-up artist and the electrician so much trouble, and compared this great artist with another great artist who for some time had taken the best place in his great heart. Finally, the minister said: "Give him a chance anyway, maybe in a small role..." And then the young actress could start again. She was no longer curled up on a couch. Modest and cheerful, she took her place in the antechamber. And everyone was nice to her again. she wasn't that bad. I do believe she is getting old. Then the Minister thoughtfully contemplated the wrinkles in the face of the great artist, those wrinkles which had cost the make-up artist and the electrician so much trouble, and compared this great artist with another great artist who for some time had taken the best place in his great heart. Finally, the minister said: "Give him a chance anyway, maybe in a small role..." And then the young actress could start again. She was no longer curled up on a couch. Modest and cheerful, she took her place in the antechamber. And everyone was nice to her again. she wasn't that bad. I do believe she is getting old. Then the Minister thoughtfully contemplated the wrinkles in the face of the great artist, those wrinkles which had cost the make-up artist and the electrician so much trouble, and compared this great artist with another great artist who for some time had taken the best place in his great heart. Finally, the minister said: "Give him a chance anyway, maybe in a small role..." And then the young actress could start again. She was no longer curled up on a couch. Modest and cheerful, she took her place in the antechamber. And everyone was nice to her again. those wrinkles which had cost the make-up artist and the electrician so much trouble, and compared this great artist with another great artist who for some time had taken the best place in her great heart. Finally, the minister said: "Give him a chance anyway, maybe in a small role..." And then the young actress could start again. She was no longer curled up on a couch. Modest and cheerful, she took her place in the antechamber. And everyone was nice to her again. those wrinkles which had cost the make-up artist and the electrician so much trouble, and compared this great artist with another great artist who for some time had taken the best place in her great heart. Finally, the minister said: "Give him a chance anyway, maybe in a small role..." And then the young actress could start again. She was no longer curled up on a couch. Modest and cheerful, she took her place in the antechamber. And everyone was nice to her again. She was no longer curled up on a couch. Modest and cheerful, she took her place in the antechamber. And everyone was nice to her again. She was no longer curled up on a couch. Modest and cheerful, she took her place in the antechamber. And everyone was nice to her again.

That's how things were. "Life is strange and world is bad»,said Thomas Wolfe. It is true that, for him, men were only a pretext to represent the circumstances of life and of the world. This is exactly what I am being asked to do in this questionnaire. But I must admit that this is me

difficult when it comes to answering for my activity in German cinema. If I mean all that is essential, an estimate makes me foresee that I will need a great deal of leisure and about two thousand pages. I am obviously quite prepared to provide them later on request. It is not in the habits of these gentlemen of the Allied Military Government, armed with the lightning bolt of soul-searching, to prove their accusations. It is obviously easier to ask in all naivety: "What did you do between 1936 and 1945?" » I believe it is permissible for me then to do like my old master Rowohlt, to sway like a white bear and to cry out, beaming and completely reassured: — Haha! Me, I risk nothing! I made movies! 30.Were you deferred from Military Service? —31.If so, explain circumstances completely. —32.Have you ever been a member of the General Sta Corps? —33.When? —34.Have you ever been a Nazi Military Leadership Ocer? —35.When and in what unit? —36.Did you serve as part of the Military Government or Wehrkreis-Administration in any country occupied by Germany including Austria and Sudetenland? —37.If so, give particulars of oces held, duties performed, location and period of service. —38.Do you have any military orders or military honors? —39.If so, state what was awarded you, the date, reasons and occasion fort its bestowal.

30. HAVE YOU BEEN DEFERRED FOR MILITARY SERVICE?

31. IF YES, INDICATE THE EXACT CIRCUMSTANCES.

Yes.

see Attachment.

to 30/31:From the beginning of the war, Hauenstein had presented himself as a volunteer, but he had been rather rudely refused. In this war, there seemed to be no interest in volunteers. However, a few days later, Hauenstein was mobilized as a sergeant in a heavy artillery regiment. Having left the army in 1920 as a second lieutenant in the reserve, I expected to be called up immediately and in any case before Hauenstein, since he was a little older than me. But everything related to this strange war seemed somewhat incalculable. Hauenstein's regiment consisted exclusively of fighters from the First World War, "old bones". Hauenstein told me with an amused air that on the first day, having asked his men who were loading boxes of ammunition to "quicken" a little, he had received the indignant answer: "An old man is not an express!" » After the Polish campaign, Hauenstein came on leave. Meanwhile, half of his regiment had been sent to garrison in the rear. Hauenstein complained of the onset of rheumatism. He had to go west again and, as I told him of my worries because of the Maginot Line, he laughed heartily and explained to me (betraying a little military secret) how the artillery "welded" fortifications: He was surprised not to see me in uniform. But no military authority had yet taken an interest in me. After the campaign in France, Hauenstein came on leave. In his regiment, the commander and himself were henceforth the only veterans of the first war. The Champagne sun had made his rheumatism disappear and Hauenstein sang to me of the joys of military service. His chest was already adorned with several decorations. He inquired condescendingly about my cinematographic activity and my health. He had long since set out with his battery to conquer the vast plains of Russia—no

without taking the precaution of having a fur-lined jacket sent to me —when at last I received the order to present myself to the board of review in a room in Charlottenburg. Ille got me some clean clothes and began to prepare a small suitcase with my pajamas. She thought they were going to keep me. I told him that a review board was not yet a mobilization order and I tried to explain to him that, very probably, I would be considered worthy at most of being commander of the Sosnowice station, responsible for leave, with siet, the trains of leave. He seemed reassured. "No matter what," she said, "they'll send you back after three weeks. Who do you want to put up with your snoring every night? When the review board returned, Ille waited for me on the threshold, a glass of cognac in each hand. She quenched my thirst and said:

"Now tell me, how was it?" But this question had to be answered according to a complicated rite dating from Ille's childhood. Just like his mother, in time, Ille began without delay with the formula: "So, when I arrived, everyone was already there..." 'Yes,' I said, 'there were many gentlemen; not people, but very distinguished gentlemen, provided with large glasses and imposing briefcases. Seeing these gentlemen of a certain age, I first thought I had fallen into an important conference. But soon a sergeant major appeared. He was very convenient, not at all fiery. He reviewed us with a little surprise, then he said, laughing: “That's it! Class 22! Motorists! Rest assured, we will succeed in making you lose that little bit of bad fat! Of course, everyone laughs heartily. The sergeant major pulled out a slip of paper and very quickly read something that was uninteresting, roughly that we were placed

under martial law and two or three times there was talk of the death penalty, small things, what, he treated as trifles. Then he led us into a large room where we had to undress, each in front of his little chair. Several gentlemen in uniforms were seated at a long table; in the middle, a lieutenant colonel with gray hair and an amused look. The doctor was seated at a smaller table. He wore a white coat which prevented his rank from being seen. I decided to call him “Herr Oberstabsarzt”. Apart from them, there was only the sergeant-major and an orderly who stood with a measuring rod, a seesaw and a piece of cardboard used to check his sight. It was very disagreeable to mourn in so many company; I hurried and was ready first. We were called in alphabetical order, which gave me plenty of time. I sat down stark naked on my little chair and looked at the others. And I was scared: never before had I seen so many accumulated injuries! Not to mention varicose veins and hanging fat! The doctor was perfectly amiable, speaking to these gentlemen as to little sick children. "So what's wrong?" he would ask everyone. And he listened with infinite patience to the long stories of illnesses. He was shaking his head, taking a long, careful look, saying, “Does that hurt…? and: "Cough, please!" and: "Since when have you had these nasty pains?" Most were smiling heartily, but there were also a lot of stomachs, lungs, livers and kidneys that were out of whack. Ashamed, I looked at my body. It felt pretty smooth to me. The skin was sticking to it even where the belly begins to crease. I pinched them a little, but the skin remained taut and elastic on the fat. The arms seemed a little white and bland to me, but the legs, and especially the thighs, were muscular and vigorous. After each examination, the doctor murmured a few figures and

letters always greeted by a religious silence, each trying to understand the meaning of the murmur. When the examination was over, each gentleman was kindly asked to approach the lieutenantcolonel, who inquired about his private life, his profession, his military training; then he dictated a few figures and letters and dismissed the visibly relieved interlocutor with an amiable nod. I felt the process was very human. In any case, everyone had ample opportunity to say everything that weighed on him and, in general, it was not little. My turn finally came. I got into position in front of the doctor who was already a little tired. He looked up from the list and asked, "So what's wrong?" I said, "Nothing, Herr Oberstabsarzt!" With a slight impatience, the doctor continued: "I mean, what are you smiling at?" I said, "I'm not sick, Herr Oberstabsarzt!" — "But," he said, "you have indeed been ill!" "No, Herr Oberstabsarzt," I said. In my life, I have never been sick! » Then I felt that nothing moved in the room. The doctor stood up and said, "Do ten exions of the legs!" I pulled away ten times and the doctor placed a curious little box on my chest and back. He listened, then: "Fifteen more!" I complied, a little uncomfortable, because I had no pants. The doctor was dancing around me, listening to me, examining me. His fatigue had disappeared. " Wow ! he said and suddenly yelled, "Turn around!" Bend over! I handed him my bottom and his gaze dipped in there long and intently. Then he exclaimed, "Not even hemorrhoids!" He lunged at me with furious zeal, controlling my reexes, exploring my throat, tossing and turning me; from second to second his delighted astonishment seemed to increase. At the end, he circled around me one last time,

happiness and I expected at any moment that he would give me an enthusiastic pat on the behind. He turned to Lieutenantcolonel and exclaimed in a triumphant voice:KA VAU14!»The tension of the atmosphere seemed to dissolve in movement. The doctor added with fanfare a few numbers that could only signify the best results. “But it's very good, it's fun! babbled the lieutenant colonel. Come a little closer! You were a soldier, huh? "Yes, sir," I said, placing my hands on my thighs. "What weapon?" I said, "Submachine gun, sir!" — "In that case," resumed the lieutenant-colonel, "no doubt you want to go back there?" » "At your orders, Colonel!" " I said. The lieutenant-colonel was over the moon. " It's good. Machine Gun Battalion! » One of the gentlemen leaned over to him in a whisper and indicated a sheet of paper. The lieutenant-colonel pushed her towards me and asked, "Have you signed this yet?" I read the flyer and said no. “How is this done? the lieutenant-colonel wondered. “Were you not summoned to your police station before the review board? "No, sir," I said. I often travel. "I see," said the lieutenantcolonel. So sign me this! » I reread the form which asked me to swear that I was not a Jew and that I had never been sentenced to imprisonment. “I can't sign this, sir. The lieutenant colonel gave me a surprised look. He frowned, peered at me carefully, leaned over to me and whispered, "Are you… Jewish?" I said forcefully: “No, Colonel! I was sentenced to a term of imprisonment! The lieutenant-colonel started. Absolute silence reigned. The lieutenant-colonel cleared his throat and tried to speak.

softly: “And why so? With all my strength I shouted, "For assassination!" » “Now I was sure everyone was staring at me. The lieutenantcolonel stared at me with the greatest amazement. I xai it in my turn. Finally, the gentleman next to him started moving again. No doubt he belonged to the most intelligent category of the military species, that of the adjutants. He leaned over and whispered something in the lieutenant-colonel's ear. The latter revived, dissolving, so to speak, in benevolence, and said: “Ah yes! He winked and said, "You're good… aren't you… the writer…?" — "In effect," I said. "Then everything is in order," said the lieutenant-colonel comfortably, "no need to do your hair!" The sentence has been wiped off the record, hasn't it? Well, then…” And he resumed dictating: “Battalion of machine-gunners, conscript…” “Ocier,” I said. - " Pardon ? asked the lieutenant-colonel. "I was discharged as a second lieutenant," I said amiably. “I am not a conscript, I am entitled to the rank of mobilized officer. » "No, it's not okay," said the lieutenant-colonel. Since you have been sentenced to imprisonment! He xed me, I xed him. Everyone was watching intently. I thought, "I'm not going to speak first!" The lieutenant-colonel looked at the file. He leafed through it. Finally he looked up and said, "You know, you too are one of those files that we would like to put at the very bottom of the pile in the hope that the replacement will take care of it while we are in leave ! » “I remained silent. The gentleman next to the lieutenant-colonel whispered something; he looked at me and attempted an amicable arrangement. “If we made you ocier-treasurer…? Respectfully, but firmly, I replied, "No, sir!" »

“The Lieutenant-Colonel lowered his head. Finally, he said, “You are a writer. May your Ministry of Propaganda have fun with your file! Next ! » - That's all. - And now ? Ille asked. — Now, I said, I would like another brandy. Three days later, I received my military booklet, supplemented by a red sheet. The booklet said that I was “mobilizable”, and the red sheet that, for the duration of the war, I was attached to the film production company “Bavaria”. Some time later I asked a senior officer what he thought of it. He told me that had been the only reasonable and possible solution. 'Realize,' he said. You even wrote a book about your life in prison. Obviously, we know how to distinguish. But if you are an ocier, your men will soon know the fact; only, you can't ask them to know how to make the difference, they will simply consider you as a former convict! And that is unacceptable. You will therefore never be mobilized! I was never mobilized. One day, after a violent argument with the High Commissioner for Cinema, I lost patience and exclaimed: - Besides, I'm tired of all this salad! There, we beats, and we argue over trifles! I've always loved the life of a soldier, I'm going to the front, if only as a simple soldier! The High Commissioner said with a smile:

— It's up to you. We will send you immediately to the service army cinema where you can do exactly what you do here, for a mark fifty a day!

In Munich I met Hauenstein. He was in a captain's uniform and loaded with decorations. When I said hello to him, he had to lean back so he could shake my hand. "What's the matter with you?" I asked.

"Rheumatism," he replied. It was a long story of sourances. His regiment no longer had a single combatant from the First World War. Hauenstein was costing the taxpayers a lot of money, but no cure or teacher could relieve him. He was discharged, but nevertheless prepared for any service at the back. He had been attached to General von Unruh, retired because of illness and charged at the time with "supervising" the industries where reformers were employed. He was called "the fisherman of heroes" and countless tales were told of his initially successful activity, which soon became the work of Sisyphus. Hauenstein was ordered to oversee the printing industry. He said that, to begin with, he had gone to a National Socialist art publishing house. This house produced nothing but the “weekly motto of the NSDAP”; they were rented, well framed and under glass, in subscriptions at a considerable price, and they were exchanged every week. Everyone knew these mottos which were made up of steely nonsense, very profound truths from La Palice, phrases uttered by party heroes. Hauenstein said that in this enterprise alone he had supervised two hundred and sixty vigorous young men. " Two hundred and sixty ! He seemed to taste the chire on the tip of his tongue. Then his eyes grew small, he looked me up and down and said: Everyone knew these mottos which were made up of steely nonsense, very profound truths from La Palice, phrases uttered by party heroes. Hauenstein said that in this enterprise alone he had supervised two hundred and sixty vigorous young men. " Two hundred and sixty ! He seemed to taste the chire on the tip of his tongue. Then his eyes grew small, he looked me up and down and said: Everyone knew these mottos which were made up of steely nonsense, very profound truths from La Palice, phrases uttered by party heroes. Hauenstein said that in this enterprise alone he had supervised two hundred and sixty vigorous young men. " Two hundred and sixty ! He seemed to taste the chire on the tip of his tongue. Then his eyes grew small, he looked me up and down and said:

- You too, you are still very crispy! - And how ! I cried, thumping against my chest. Nothing What firm flesh! Take this back to Unruh with my

compliments! But, in reality, I felt uncomfortable. Once I had written about the nature of war, and now I had lost the right to have done so or to do so again. In the past, I had assigned a positive value to war as an elementary event, and now I did not participate in it, just as I had attributed a positive value to the national revolution without participating in it. It was absurd to say that it was not "my" war, any more than "my" revolution, but this absurdity was the only thing that remained for me to say. Nor could I call what I had written romantic nonsense, because I still believed in it; only, I had no right to say it or act on it. I understood then the terrible and truly tragic situation of these numerous patriots who were obliged not to wish for our victory. I wanted German victory, despite everything, and I could contribute nothing to it. During the whole war, I couldn't overcome these things. It would have been foolish to talk about it since, in my situation, I was inevitably going to be misunderstood. But I saw in each second class a better example than mine, without worrying whether it was or not. One day when we met a company that was going to leave for the front, I tried to talk about it: "In front of each of these soldiers," I said, "I'm ashamed!" But I say no more, because Ille intervened immediately:

"I can understand that!" Be ashamed, it doesn't matter! But I beg you to stick to each thirteenth, because the twelve others are composed according to the statistics of soldiers of the stage and generals!

32. WERE YOU PART OF THE GENERAL STAFF?

No.

33. WHEN?

not applicable.

34. HAVE YOU BEEN AN OFFICER OF THE NATIONAL-SOCIALIST FRAMES?

35. WHEN AND IN WHICH UNIT?

No.

not applicable.

36. HAVE YOU SERVED IN THE SERVICE OF THE MILITARY GOVERNMENT OR THE ADMINISTRATION OF MILITARY DISTRICTS OF A COUNTRY OCCUPIED BY GERMANY, INCLUDING AUSTRIA AND THE COUNTRY SUDETAN?

No.

37. IF YES, LIST DETAILS OF YOUR CHARGES AND OBLIGATIONS, AS WELL AS LOCATION AND DURATION OF SERVICE.

not applicable.

38. ARE YOU AUTHORIZED TO WEAR MILITARY OR OTHER DECORATIONS ARMY HONORARY BADGES?

I do not know.

39. IF YES, LIST THE DECORATIONS YOU HAVE RECEIVED, IN INDICATING THE DATE, PLACE AND REASON FOR THEIR GRANTING.

see Attachment.

ad 38/(39?):As far as I remember, the jurisdiction before the First World War, in the time of the Empire, linked to any prison sentence the loss of civic rights and, therefore, automatically and logically, the loss of the right to wear decorations and other honorary insignia. I do not know if the constitution of the Weimar Republic repeated any paragraph containing this decision, since the Weimar Republic did not award decorations, apart from a facetious ersatz,

the so-called "Adler-Schild" decoration, which could not be exhibited on the chest, but at most on the buet, at home. The verdict of the State Court for the Protection of the Republic did not mention the question of decorations and, until now, that has not bothered me at all; since this month of October 1922, I have never found myself in the embarrassing situation of not knowing whether or not I should wear my decorations and other honorary insignia. If I remember correctly, I owned nine, all acquired in the German post-war period, at a time when one could already question the legitimacy of the authorities who awarded them. But I remember very well that I was awarded the highest of these decorations because in 1919 in the Baltic Provinces, after a reconnaissance mission lasting several days behind enemy lines, I had brought my commander a jar of fresh cream. He wanted so badly to eat chicken with cream! The fact that, in spite of the difficulties of the terrain, I had brought the open jar without spilling a drop was as positive an influence on the importance of decoration as was the negative influence of the regrettable fact that the cream had turned. I recognize that every time I see a man who wears the Knight's Cross, I feel a pang in my heart, a sense of respect and a little envy. To this feeling was added the logical reection that these men represented a novum, a more advanced type than the one to which I belonged, a figure formed by things other than those which had formed me. Because of my age, I was closer to the men of the First World War; they had matured in the battles for equipment and I understood them well when I was told that, during the campaign in France, in 1940, they had trouble keeping up with the rapid pace of the advance; suddenly, at the edge of a forest or near a farm, they would stop,

watching with troubled astonishment the regiments which continued to roll as if nothing had happened and which disappeared far away, behind the fields where the German soldiers had once stood in the trenches, for four years, without being able to gain a meter of ground. Each of these men had had the opportunity to realize that the forms of the material battles had to correspond to the meaning of this First World War. If, now, I met a man belonging to the exemplary type of the Second World War, like a bearer of the Knight's Cross, I saw in him a man who must be qualified to understand the meaning of this war since he dominated it. shapes. That thought was easily able to make me seek out his company with a feeling of envy mixed with respect.

I had the chance to become the friend of a man who, already by his very way of living and acting, represented a type which I hope will remain forever linked to the image that generations future will be of the Second World War. I met him for the first time in the summer of 1939, when the earth seemed to have transmitted, once again, to the blood of man all that it could orir in precious gifts. With Matthias Wieman, I was working in Kampen, on the island of Sylt, on a lm about the life of Captain Berthold. I had known and seen this fighter pilot of the First World War die. Wieman was to play the role of Berthold. From time to time, we took a rest on the beach which seemed to us deserved. But if the work did not want to advance, the fault lay much less with these interruptions than with the feeling of the vanity of our undertaking, a feeling which gripped us as soon as we turned the button on the wireless set. in the contemplation of the Fokker planes of the

First World War, our attention was often diverted by Messerschmitts who were doing shooting exercises above the island, chasing the red balloon dragged by an airplane. They broke the calm of summer with the roar of engines and the dry crackle of automatic weapons. Most of the time they were shooting out to sea, but sometimes stray bullets would lodge in the sand with a dull thud. Ille was outraged, considered herself personally offended, and lazily expressed her desire to end this "war against Ille." One day we met in the country, near the airfield, a young Luftwae officer. Ille noticed it because of her blond hair and pale blue eyes, and I because of a curious star-shaped decoration. He stopped and asked the young oier: "Aren't you, by any chance, one of those people who shoot me all the time without even reaching me? The lieutenant bowed politely, introduced himself and said slowly:

- Well, it could be! Aggressively, Ille continued:

"And what can we do about it?" Redlich stared at her for a moment in astonishment, then said:

- Well, as I know us, there is only one thing to do: we buy ! "And how can we buy you?" "With a thunderous party!" "And how do you imagine such a party?" "For each pilot in the squadron," Redlich said smiling, "a rump steak with eggs and lots of onions and French fries. And two bottles of beer for each! he added hastily

Carried away by a wave of sympathy, I intervened to ask how many pilots they were. - Eighteen ! he said. And the nineteenth is the commander of the squadron that must also be bought, because it is he who decides! Matthias Wieman, who himself had his pilot's certificate, was delighted by the idea and prepared "the party of thunder". As we entered the restaurant, whose owner was a master in the art of preparing rump steaks, the commandant, Captain Kaschka, greeted us. He directed his pilots with great skill, all very young, only a few of whom were already oers. He kissed Erika Wieman and Ille's hand, greeted Wieman with a cheerful smile and obviously didn't know what to do with me. On the long table were dishes with the biggest rump steaks I had ever seen. In front of each seat were two bottles of beer, but no glass. Ille, placed between Redlich and Kaschka, seemed perfectly at ease. Erika had found a young Austrian with whom she could chat to her heart's content in Viennese dialect, and Wieman, seated between the two youngest children, was telling them about his own beginnings in aviation. The deputy commander took care of me, the deputies always have the most thankless tasks. He explained to me that all airmen in the world had a curious habit which was said to have been invented by English pilots of the First World War; she prescribed a bizarre and complicated ritual for drinking beer straight from the bottle (which was why there were no glasses). You had to tap with a finger with one hand, then with the other hand, then with one foot, then with the other foot, then nod your head while taking the first sip. Then we repeated the whole thing, but knocking and shaking twice, and finally three times, and the bottle had to be empty.

was good for a tour. I failed at the first nod, Ille came much further, Wieman gave up halfway and no one succeeded except Kaschka and Erika. Soon the bottles were covering the table. The party was off to a good start and, remembering my own twenties, I only regretted that the youth felt a little embarrassed by the presence of an older gentleman. Only late at night, when in the midst of a gaiety that had become noisy, Kaschka suddenly asked me if I believed in war, did I feel in my element again. The silence fell as I displayed the riches of my political experience. I said that a war was impossible. Calmly, I listed the declarations of principle of British politicians, from Lloyd George to Winston Churchill, who all considered the “Polish corridor” as something artificial, senseless and condemnable; I demonstrated in detail that it was inconceivable that the Chancellor of the German Reich should seriously seek a solution by force when a logical solution could be obtained with a little patience and minimal diplomatic eorts.

I don't know what fly had stung me to make me believe that young warriors would hear me with satisfaction denying the possibility of war. Be that as it may, I am simply stating my opinion, which was greeted with respectful silence. Only Wieman toasted cheerfully with me; he had always said that he understood nothing of politics; he trusted my reassuring predictions. He broke the silence by casually asking what was that "curious thing" that Redlich wore on his chest. Redlich blushed and said it was "a Spaniard." Kaschka explained to us that Redlich was the only one of his pilots who had already participated in actions

warriors. In Spain, he had killed four opponents. At Ille's insistent request, he tells us the story. It was really a successful party and, towards the end, there was even thunder. In the early morning, Kaschka wanted to send his men "to the sack", but a delegation which still had "a good outfit" begged him: "One more hour, Captain!" And tomorrow we we will all fly like an I! Kaschka sent them back to Redlich who thundered. The party was denied. The next day, Kaschka came to see us at the beach. He was lying on his back in the sand and watching the chasers chasing the red ball. "To think that guys call it flying like an I!" he said, furious. Wait, my chickens! If Kaschka didn't join us, it was Redlich. He was going to bathe with Ille. I was interested in him. He was born in 1914 in Hamburg. His father had been killed during the Great War. Her mother had pulled off the feat of raising her three sons on the only pension she received. The eldest had become an architect, the younger a lawyer and a steelworker. Wolf Redlich had started in the navy, but had been transferred to the air force as soon as it was trained and sent to Spain as soon as his training was completed. I liked him; I liked his calm and simple nature. His men found him a little too “regulatory”; Kaschka was more severe and at the same time broader, he was considered the best aviator after Udet, while Redlich was called a "correct" aviator. On the night before his departure, Redlich's squadron gave us a "thunder party." German troops had invaded Poland. We emptied bottles of beer knocking, stomping and nodding, to the health of the English pilots, that

everyone supposedly occupied, at the moment, with the same customs. I felt very bad. At one point Wieman, upset, said to me: "My God, I see around each of these young heads a clear glow; none, none will survive... - How can you say that! cried Ille. All these boys though friendly !

I say : “They must be prepared for it, and I believe they are. He rushed outside, his face in tears. Later, she took turns dancing with all the pilots. Wieman toasted and fraternized with everyone. Kaschka sat in a corner and received a kiss from Erika. But it was not Erika, but Mrs. Nann, the innkeeper's wife, who wept bitterly. Erika was talking with the deputy who had just said: - We don't care about all that, we only ask to fly, fly… ! At the end, it thundered and we rode on the chairs across the room. The next morning, the squadron made a lap of honor above the "white house" where we lived, then it disappeared to the south, in the mist. The squadron left Wilhemshaven to go into action during the first major air battle. Four pilots, including the assistant, were not to return to their base. We kept in touch with the pilots of the squadron. Ille exchanged letters with them and collected donations from all his acquaintances for the “Ille squadron”. Wolf Redlich came to see us on every leave. His squadron flew over France, then over England. Redlich says:

"Action on England?" It's very simple: one hour and half of fear. I would really like to survive this war, just to read after the Memoirs of the English Hunters. These guys must be even more afraid than us, they are so fierce on the attack! He explained to me that it always lasted about twenty minutes until the bombardment squadrons were formed to be able to fly towards their goal. Those twenty minutes were enough, over there, to sound the alarm; the English pilots took to the air and suspended themselves in the clouds. When the squadrons arrived, they rushed at them from all sides. If one of them had gone down, he parachuted out, climbed into another machine and left. At first a group of fighters accompanied the squadrons of bombers, but after three weeks the squadrons of fighters accompanied a group of bombers. The losses were terrible, the squadron had lost half of its pilots on England. He asked if he had had anything. 'No,' said Redlich, 'not a single bullet. One day I stole everything gently, when I happened to see another behind me, who was spitting from all his buttonholes. Then, for the first time, I had the impression of being personally targeted and I got angry. - And then ? Ille asked. - I cleared out! But he had downed eight opponents on England. One day, he arrived from Africa and took the opportunity to come and see us in Mittenwald, where I was shooting a film. During a walk, Ille insisted a lot on knowing how, basically, an aerial combat was going on. "How many birds do you see up there?" asked Redlich. He lifted his head and said:

- Five. "Already dead!" he said. You didn't see the sixth, there, behind! This joke was certainly current in the schools of aviation, but Ille was deeply impressed by it. Redlich, having become captain, was directed to Africa with his squadron. The pilots went there individually, and as soon as three had landed, Redlich reported to Rommel. The commander-in-chief said to him: "Thank God you're here!" We can no longer defend against the Hurricanes. How much you're ? When Redlich replied, “Three! the general left his tent, swearing. But, the same day, seven Hurricanes, greatly surprised, were shot down. Then the squadron was formed; it was the only one on the African front. I asked Redlich his opinion on the military situation. He says with a laugh: "Four days ago I was still in bed when they gave the alert. I put on my jumpsuit over the pajamas and took off. I choose an adversary, a formidable pilot; we were chasing each other low to the ground and I couldn't pick him up, but I could work out roughly how much juice he had left. Finally, I was able to force him to land. I landed in my turn and immediately went to greet him, apologizing for still being in my pajamas. So he opened his zipper a little: he too was only wearing pajamas. He was a very famous fighter pilot and I invited him to lunch with me and shave in my tent. As we spread the soap, I said to him:At Christmas, we hope to be in Cairo!» and he says : "Oh, I see, at Christmas we hope to be at Tripolis!»So much for the military situation! Later we learned that he had been decorated with the Knight's Cross. He often came to Germany. sound drivers

squadron, only four were still alive. Kaschka was dead, too. On May 1, 1940, he had been in Moscow for an aeronautical exhibition. Then he came to see us in Munich and brought us a big box of caviar. The winter campaign between Russia and Finland had just ended and no one seemed to care much about the Red Army. I asked Kaschka what his impressions had been and he said: 'I saw the grand parade of a million soldiers. They all had fresh cut hair. For a soldier, that means something. Then Kaschka left for Africa with a squadron of Me 110s. Redlich said: — During the flight, I met a group of German planes and I went with them for a bit. Suddenly I recognized Kaschka in the first machine; I signed to him and he also recognized me. For a moment we flew wing to wing smiling at each other. Then I walked away, as Kaschka attacked from an anti-aircraft position. Ten minutes after we met, he was dead. I's still a lap of honor. Redlich's older brother, the architect, was also dead. "He made no sense for military life," Redlich was saying. And of his part, I understood that very well. He was much smarter than me. We lived in Munich in a hotel where the little inconveniences of the war did not affect us. We had hot meals, unlimited baths, fresh sheets. Wolf Redlich "enjoyed" it and only left the hotel reluctantly, as long as he was with us. He liked people from the cinema and he promised to convince his comrade Marseille to shoot with us. Marseille was a handsome young man from Redlich's squadron and one of the fighter pilots

the most prominent; thanks to one hundred and fifty planes shot down, he was awarded the Knight's Cross with brilliants. Redlich had only shot down twenty-two planes when he was decorated; he was displeased, not that it was too little, but the figure seemed to him on the contrary too high in relation to the average of the squadron.

— Above all, the commander must properly guide his tactical squadron to get a high average, he said. I am a bad commander. Marseille, on the other hand, was the champion of individual achievement. All of this knowledge and insight was new to me, and I struggled to understand this strange world in which Redlich lived. But I had never felt him so far from me than when he demonstrated with all his seriousness the gestures he was making in his plane. Since he had the Knight's Cross, Ille was very keen on going out with him. She demanded that he put on all the splendor of his decorations. Redlich knew next to nothing of the good things of this land. He stared in amazement at Ille's dressing table; he had never eaten lobster and oysters were repugnant to him. We taught him to distinguish between red wines and not to see a manicure as a characteristic of degeneration. He wanted at all costs to make him recognize that the good things in life were perhaps condemnable, but not contemptible. He surprised us by noting that it was a sign of serious marriage intentions when one kissed a woman. Very upset, Ille asked him: "But have you ever slept with a girl?" He says blushing: "How would I have done it?" At naval school? In Spain ? There we were in action and I never saw Spanish women

than with Spaniards. On the airfields, there are no women. Those from Africa are very pretty, but you can hardly marry them. "Have you ever loved a woman?" - Whether.

- Who ? Wolf was silent, offended. We didn't ask for those things. "Then," said Ille, "I'm going to choose a nice girl for you, attractive and

light… But he vigorously defended himself against it. Much to Ille's hilarity, he persisted in wanting “to enter into marriage with the same purity that he would demand of his wife”. Ille told a gruesome joke that was circulating at the time. To the question: "Which is the greater evil: we win the war and keep the Nazis or we lose the war and the Nazis disappear?" they answered: "We are losing the war and keeping the Nazis." Redlich doesn't laugh. He looked at me and asked what I thought. Painfully, I said there was a fourth possibility: "we had to win the war and then wipe out the Nazis." Redlich says simply: — That is also my opinion. And he begged Ille not to touch these things again.

During his next visit, we were going to go to attend the premiere of a film. Going down the stairs of the hotel, Ille suddenly said: "But it's Wolf!" We would have given up the reception to which we were invited, but Redlich insisted on accompanying us. The party in the "Artist's House" consisted of a very modest meal for which an immodest number of tickets was requested. As a drink, there was only one Italian red wine which seemed to have been transported in refrigerated cars; there was no atmosphere. I knew the house had a bar and I

decided to try to get some drinks there. But, upstairs, everything was dark and the bar closed. I was about to go back to the big room when a middle-aged man came out of the bar. He asked : "You wanted to go to the bar?"

I explained to him in a moving way my desire and he said: - Yes, I too, I wanted to drink something more. Climb so there's a lady there waiting too. I know the bartender's address and I'll try to get something from him. I thanked him and asked his permission to bring another lady and gentleman, decorated with the Knight's Cross, as I did not fail to point out. "Okay, but don't tell anyone else, except everyone." world will come! I left Ille and Redlich and we went to the bar. A lady was waiting in the dark and I told her about my conversation with the gentleman. She assured me with a laugh that if anyone was able to find drinks, it was the teacher. The professor came back after a while, but the bartender hadn't wanted to hear anything. 'In that case,' he said, 'let's go to my house!' My wife has usual, you can very well accompany us! Wolf Redlich was thrilled and we got into a big limo. In the hall, I could recognize that the lady was exceptionally pretty and that the professor had gray hair and was overweight. I wondered who it could be, with such a car… Their house was located in a small garden. Going through the gate, Ille grabbed my arm, scratched; suddenly, two men with a huge dog appeared in front of us. But the lady says:

- It's good, you can have! And the two men were engulfed in darkness. We entered the house. Because of the blackout, the professor only turned on the light after closing the door. We were on the threshold of a large room divided inside by a step. My gaze was drawn to a canvas: it was a Breughel. I passed in reviewed the entire room where I counted fourteen Spitzweg15. While the teacher was turning on the lights, I whispered to Ille:

“I know where we are. Just look at the Spitzweg! We are at Heinrich Homann16! He understood immediately and said in a whisper:

"So that lady is Eva Braun!" "Who is Eva Braun?" I asked. - Hush! Ille said. After ! Meanwhile, the professor had poured a huge domed bottle of cognac into huge domed glasses. Eva Braun returned with an agile, chubby lady who had just put on a dressing gown and who greeted us in a high, cordial voice, without betraying the slightest sign of astonishment. We drank and I expressed my admiration for the Spitzwegs. The professor passed with me from one to the other, enlightening each in particular. Then he asked me if I wanted to see the Führer's watercolors and drawings. Of course I wanted to, and Redlich too; alone, Ille headed straight for Eva Braun. I begged her to keep her bad language; she signs me not to bother her. Hitler's drawings were in a cabinet next to the large room. They were, moreover, pinned pell-mell, without much care. Redlich and I watched as the professor went to get something to drink. The drawings were characteristic of a gifted amateur. The perspective was right, but everything was

meticulously represented. The artist had never heard the word by Max Lieberman17: “To draw is to omit. The drawings remained singularly on the surface; houses, courtyards, pretty little corners very lightly colored. Deep down, I thought, they could be executed by a woman. Wolf said nothing. A still life, a boot in a corner, seemed to interest him. When I went to join the others, he followed me. The ladies were in a smaller room where a low red leather armchair was placed in front of a small fireplace. Of course, Ille had taken her place in the armchair. As I entered, I heard the mistress of the house say: "It is in this chair that the Führer sits whenever he come to us! It was clear that she meant by this that this piece of furniture was a kind of sacred seat that no one else should use. But Ille said, skipping a little: — I understand that, it is really very pretty and very comfortable

! Eva Braun was smiling; she had taken her place on a small antique chest of drawers and was explaining to me the various antiques that were in the room, revealing legs that Wolf had every reason to xer, eyes widening. Then the professor returned from the cellar, laden with bottles. But when he learned that Wolf had arrived that same evening directly from Tobruk, he hastily disappeared to fetch some French champagne. He hardly had time to breathe, for Redlich, who had all the same neither learned to know the good things and who was not talkative by nature, only declared after having drunk the champagne that he had to leave again. at six o'clock in the morning, for Tobruk. And the professor reappeared in the cellar.

After chatting for some time in the large room, the professor and the two ladies went again to the cellar; they wanted to look there for some "travel supplies" for Wolf. So Ille finally tells us who Eva Braun was. I decided to take a closer look, but didn't get the chance, as time was running out for Wolf. The ladies handed him a huge basket from which bottles emerged and which contained many good things, ham, goose breasts, liver pates. He wasn't sure he could fit the basket in the cramped cabin of his machine. He thanked the hosts and added:

— In the evening, in our tents, we listen to the song ofLili Marlene, and then the power is turned off. But the men can't sleep yet, so they always ask me to tell them a story. Tonight, I'm going to unpack the basket and tell them: “I didn't know we could have such a good evening at Les Huiles! » This remark triggered general hilarity. The professor's car took us first to the airfield, then to the hotel. Because of the driver, we couldn't immediately indulge in our favorite vice of slander. But, from the threshold of our room, Ille overflowed. I had to interrupt her several times to ask her insistently if she hadn't been talking nonsense. She says : - But no ! Have you seen her dress! Of a ransom! With a cut very simple, but... Top quality fabric and only one jewel, but this one!... You saw the bracelet!... In any case, I now know what to say when a guy wants to quibble with me in the tram because of my red lips! I will say: “Beware! My Führer likes it! » She couldn't calm down. She says :

"I think she's an ice cube!" But she said that of all the women who impressed her. She says : — I think she's smart enough — once only, she said something she shouldn't have said: I had remarked that the man who invented the textile card by planning only six pairs of stockings a year, was surely married to a woman who wears hand knitted stockings! "He!" I said ; but she went on: "Then she said, 'Ah! do you have trouble with stockings? I bring them from Lisbon! Well, she shouldn't have said that! "He!" I said. - And then what ? she asked, and continued: I asked him if you could turn to her when you discovered a mess that the Führer could fix with a gesture... "He!" I cried, terrified. She says : — Just imagine, she said, “No! She said she tried it several times, but that he was getting so terribly angry that she didn't have the heart to ask such things of him in these difficult times, that being a woman, I had to understand her. I had a lot of trouble convincing Ille that it was better not to try to renew contacts with the professor's house, and eventually she understood that. During Wolf Redlich's next visit, the African campaign had come to an end. He wasn't well at all, he couldn't stand the climate and was smiling with jaundice. His convalescence was long; he was being treated at the hospital by great doctors who only let him go when he understood that he could no longer serve at the front.

I tried to get him to give up the idea that aviation was a profession; I told him that after a few years, he would only be good for being the "office pilot". He listened thoughtfully and said he was afraid I was right. He had already found that his reactions were a tenth of a second slower than those of his underlings, and a tenth of a second was a lot, since dogfights were happening at such crazy speed. I advised him to apply for the general staff of the Luftwae, which he did. He was given the rank of major and accepted into the general staff. But his letters betrayed disarray. His younger brother was also dead and he was the sole survivor of the primitive squadron. Moreover, he knew that the war was lost. He was drowning in paperwork and felt very unhappy. Shortly before Pentecost in 1944, while I was living on a farm in Bavaria, I received a telegram from him. He told me that he was leaving for Vienna and that his train was stopping for two minutes at Traunstein. Of course, I found myself on the quay. When the train pulled into the station, he leaned out of the window so that I saw him immediately. He looked very good. I really liked seeing him like this in front of me, slender and with a matured face. Without the slightest embarrassment, he told me not to scold him; he had asked to go back to the front. The invasion was undoubtedly imminent and, in this case, all the airmen had to be at their posts. He was going to Vienna to learn to fly a new machine. The train started off, he jumped on the running board and leaned over to wave goodbye to me. I saw him for a few more seconds. He had leaned over so much that his Knight's Cross was swaying. Then he had disappeared. As soon as we arrived in Vienna, the sirens sounded. He went straight to the airfield. Vienna was under massive attack. He climbed

in a machine he did not know. The airfield staff observed the flight of this officer unknown to the general staff. He shot down two fourengined aircraft. Then he lands. As he did not leave his machine, the men came running. The machine had received only one bullet. She had entered through the window to lodge in his heart. It is said that a bullet in the heart leaves consciousness intact until the blood has ceased to flow. He had had time to put down his machine. His mother had thus lost her third son. The news of Wolf's death was brought to him by a party functionary who saw at the same time that it freed up a room. And he requisitioned it immediately.

1. Berlin Jail. 2. One of the leaders of the Berlin SA. Also left the Nazi Party because of his "leftist" views. 3. Berlin's most luxurious restaurant. 4. The Gestapo.

5. Ledig: Single (N. d. T.). 6. German-language publisher, based in Maehrisch-Ostrau (Czechoslovakia) who published, after the advent of Hitler, many authors banned in Germany. 7. Son of the great Protestant theologian, one of the brains of the opposition against Hitler. 8. Later Summer (1857). 9. Jewish name.

10. German journalist. 11. German poet, particularly hated by the Nazis. Author ofEmile and the Detectives, Fabian, etc… 12. One of the leaders of the nationalist resistance during the occupation of the Ruhr in 1923. The Nazis made him a national hero.

13. The largest German film production rm. 14. Good for active duty. 15. German romantic painter. 16. Hitler's photographer. 17. German impressionist painter, of Jewish origin.

E. MEMBERSHIP IN ORGANIZATIONS

E. MEMBERSHIP OF ORGANIZATIONS

40.Indicate on the following chart whether or not you were a member of and any oces you have held in the organizations listed below. Use lines 96 to 98 to specify any other associations, society, fraternity, union, syndicate, chamber, institute, group, corporation, club or other organization of any kind, whether social, political, professional, educational, cultural, industrial, commercial or honorary, with which you have ever been connected or associated. Column 1: Insert either “yes” or “no” on each line to indicate whether or not you have ever been a member of the organizations listed. If you were a candidate, disregard the columns and write in the word “candidate” followed by the date of your application for membership. — Column 2: Insert date on which you joined. — Column 3: Insert date your membership ceased if you are no longer a member. Insert the word “date” if you are still a member. — Column 4: Insert your membership number in the organization. — Column 5: Insert the highest oce, rank or other post of authority which you have held at any time. If you have never held an oce, rank or post of authority, insert the word “none” in Columns 5 and 6. — Column 6: Insert date of your appointment to the oce, rank or post of authority listed in Column 5.

40.Indicate on the following list if you have been a member of one of the

organizations mentioned opposite and what functions you performed there. Indicate on lines 96-98 other corporations, commercial companies, student corporations, unions, cooperatives, chambers, institutes, groups, associations, leagues, clubs, lodges or other organizations of a social, political, professional, sporting, educational, cultural, industrial, commercial or honorary with which you have been connected or of which you have been a member. Column 1: Indicate with “yes” or “no” next to each organization if you have been a member. If you were a candidate, enter without taking into account the columns, "candidate", as well as the date on which you applied. — Column 2: Date of your membership. — Column 3: Date you left the organization; if you are still a member, write “present”. — Column 4: Indicate the member number. — Column 5: State the highest office or rank or other influential position you have held. If the question is not applicable, write “none” in columns 5 and 6. — Column 6: Date on which you assumed the duties mentioned in column 5.

ad 41-98:That November evening in 1938, Ille and I had stayed late at our friend Axel's house to play dice. At that time, I had a lot of work; I was simultaneously writing a screenplay and a film project; in addition, I was preparing a large book with extremely rich documentation, dealing with the role of civil servants in the German post-war period, which was one of the most interesting and important subjects of contemporary history. (The book never appeared.) I had asked the Minister of State, Doctor Meissner, for an interview and had written down the main questions I wanted to ask him about his activity in 1919. The dice game at Axel's was therefore a pleasant distraction, especially since I was winning, which greatly excited Axel who brings a certain passion to everything he does. Axel lived in Wilmersdorf1, and me in Charlottenburg1, in Clausewitzstrasse, about ten minutes from his home. The shortest route took us through Olivaerplatz, a pretty little square just off Kurfürstendamm. In the shops and boutiques of this square, we did our daily shopping. On the corner, there was a small wine merchant where we occasionally went to buy a few bottles when guests arrived unexpectedly. Passing with Ille in front of this store, I walked on broken glass. Looking closer, I saw that the window in the storefront was broken and the bottles were within easy reach.

"A drunkard must have gotten in there," I said to Ille, who stopped.

inspected the damage and noticed that we had to notify the owners; but we did not know if they lived in the house.

At that moment, we heard a clear noise and the crash of broken glass. We turned around. A few seemingly young men in civilian clothes and boots stood across the square near a cafe. One of them was gathering momentum to throw, using a rag like a slingshot, a stone against one of the large windows. There was a sonic vibration, a snap, and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces. At the corner of Konstanzerstrasse, opposite Kurfürstendamm, there was a taxi. I rushed there while Ille, holding my sleeve, ran after me. - What is happening ? I asked the driver, a man old man who, instead of a cockade, wore a small honorary insignia on his cap. He looked at me and said in his Berlin accent: "Go home and don't ask questions!" I don't charge no one left, I'm going home as soon as possible! It started and disappeared. Ille hugged me and we walked very quickly along the Kurfürstendamm to the Clausewitzstrasse. I felt that Ille was shaking and said: - So do not get angry! There is no reason ! A few young people maroues break windows! He didn't answer. The street was deserted. From a distance, we could still hear the sound of broken windows. We lived in a small two-room apartment in the house at the end of the courtyard. Apart from the janitor, Mr. Celaler, the owner of a small creamery located next to the gate and a retired Foreign Affairs official, there were only Jewish tenants in the building. I double-locked the front door, we rushed into our apartment and Ille, without taking off her coat, ran like a madwoman through the kitchen, the corridor and the two rooms as if to convince herself that everything was fine.

in order. She even examined the bathroom and the closet where the brooms were kept. Then she came towards me and asked, trembling:

- And now ? As gruffly as possible, I say: - Nothing at all. Go to bed and sleep! But she cried: "Your name is on the door!" Do you think you can still give long explanations when they come to the house? "That's silly," I said. Celer will have to let them in, but he won't. won't fail to inform them—he's a brave fellow! - There are no good guys! Ille shouted. "Don't shout like that!" I said. In a low voice, Ille continued: "But something must be done!" We can not merely… “I'll call Axel and let him know,” I suggested. I called Axel and told him what I had seen. He immediately asked if I had informed the police. This idea had not yet occurred to me. Axel said he was going to do it and call me back later. In the meantime, Ille had summoned Mr. Celaler. He wasn't in bed yet and was wearing his mechanic's overalls. He knew about it and consoled Ille: "Don't get upset, ma'am. They have exact lists. He ... not nothing will happen to you! And for the rest, I will accompany them, I will see to it myself!

"So they're going to come?" Ille asked.

"They'll come," he said, "maybe not today or tomorrow, but they will come.

- But it will also warn the other tenants! cried Ille.

- Yes, but yes ... but what do you want me to do? Of on the other side there's an old woman who's been a little crazy for years. So they took his nurse, because of the Nuremberg Laws; she was not yet forty-five… The old woman no longer understands anything, she is slowly molding, and what do you want me to do about it? As for the Jewish tenants, they don't care about each other anymore, you see, they all have their own troubles... At the door he turned once more, saying: - Dude, we missed it! Then he rang the doorbell and we heard him shout: "It's me, Celaler, don't be afraid!..." Axel called. Excitedly, he said: “At the police station, they didn't let me finish my sentence. The man on the phone said he knew about it but there was absolutely nothing the police could do…” He added emphatically: “But at least I had the impression that he was ashamed! » Getting a little ceremonious, he said he wanted to drop by, but friends had arrived, “Friends, you know? who wanted to spend the night at his place. “Okay,” I said. And now tell your sales pitch! Convinced that all telephone communications were monitored, Axel ended each conversation with a few political commonplaces, convinced that in the event of difficulty, that would speak in his favor. Now he says quietly: “Yes, the Jews are our misfortune! Then he cried as if seized with hysteria: "Immeasurable misfortune!" Our misfortune, you understand, ours! » "Yes, yes, I understand," I said. Hang up now. I will call you tomorrow.

And I hung up.

Ille, wrapped in a blanket, sat down in an armchair. She watched my every move. I felt the radiator, it was still hot. - Go to bed, you'll warm up better. - I can not sleep. Do you think I can now close one eye in Berlin? It was very unpleasant to me. My office was disappearing under the papers. It was impossible for me to be absent.

"You'll have to wait a few more days," I said. As soon as I'm done, we'll go to Kampen. (Kampen was always my refuge when things were going badly.) But first I have to see Meissner, then hand in my script and sign the contract for the new film. Everything else I will do in Kampen. He didn't answer. I paced back and forth, then took a bottle of gin from the cooler and two glasses from the cabinet.

- Do not get drunk, this is not the time! Ille said. Suddenly she sat down and asked in a pitiful little voice: "Whose fault is it all?" I stopped and looking at Ille, I answered: "To me, perhaps?" Yes, to me too! To all of us! "Not mine," said Ille. "You too," I replied. This is the secret of their art: they make everyone guilty. They have always accomplished the mission entrusted to them by the people. The people, it's you, it's me. But, devil, I didn't charge anyone with anything! When I believed something had to be done, I did it myself. "Yes," said Ille, "just now, for example, you didn't hesitate to fight the maroues who break the tiles of others. I looked at Ille. She recovered immediately.

“It doesn't make sense, I know. Forgive me. She knew it didn't make sense and there was no point in talking about it. We had talked about it too often already. But wounded in the depths of herself, Ille wanted to wound in her turn; it was his character, mine too, and everyone else's. She says : - But tell me, tell me, how did we come to this? How is it possible ? You know it, you must know it, you were there from the start!… I take a sip and say, sullenly: - I was not there, I only attended as a spectator! But Ille got carried away. - It's white cap, white cap! "I haven't been there," I cried. Do you want to put that in your head! Ille told me later that my face had turned gray while I yelled at him like that. After a while, I say: - Well, you're right, of course, I was there. how many people, do you think, stand today in the most remote room, the curtains drawn, like you and me, and discuss like you and me? And how many party members do you think are doing and saying the same thing as you and me, honest and loyal party members? Today we are living one of those days that will never pass, that will keep coming back, that will always claim their place in history, one of those days that are doomed never to be forgotten. The day of the fire Reichstag is one, and on June 30, 19342, — it is such days that mark, not those that see something reasonable, a constructive renewal, a positive turning point. We will remember that today we are standing in the furthest room with the curtains drawn, because it concerns us;

we will still remember it when we have forgotten everything about the olympics except that they took place. And believe me, one day we will be driving on the highway and we will have completely forgotten that it was Adolf Hitler who had it built! And it is good that there are days when we retreat to the remote parts. Above all, do not believe that before, such days did not exist. I've been through it before, yes, I was there and stood in the most remote room, and I'm glad it was! Desperate, Ille says:

— I don't understand any of this, I never have anything Understood. I was too young when it all started. And when I was able to vote for the first time, I gave my vote to the National Socialists! In front of the polling station, there was a nice SA who slipped me a ballot in my hand, saying that I had to vote for this list. When I asked him why, he laughed and advised me to watch the other men handing out leaflets. And I looked at them, and then I voted for the National Socialists, because the SA was so nice! Ille had curled up like a child, and as always when she didn't find herself in the world, she had taken refuge in her childhood, a wonderful, carefree and protected childhood. I say with a laugh: — Yes, and then you read the newspaper, and there were only accounts

parliamentary proceedings, press releases and editorials relating to any conference; there was only good and positive news that you didn't understand and that will be long forgotten when we still talk about the day today. And the National Socialists were this laughable little club that no one really took seriously. And if, later, a historian studies the newspapers to write the history of our

time, he will extract from it, at best, facts which will prove only that the period between 1920 and 1932 was characterized in Germany by the decline of social democracy and the simultaneous rise of national socialism. As if a real correlation had existed between these two things! And I would think that, everywhere, History is written in this way. I was really scratching my head because the papers on my table concerned contemporary history, the post-war years to which I was devoting my book; They were documents, photos, press clippings, witness accounts. It was the materials relating to those years that I collected, sorted and transmitted to the archives of the army. "There is not, within an epoch, a point of view which allows one to embrace the history of that epoch", wrote Goethe. In fact, there were only personal points of view, and only the sum of these points of view could provide useful material for historiography, because “everything contains a grain of truth”. The history of the National Socialist German Workers' Party had not been written. My interest in this party was purely historical, but as such, keen. This was one more reason to constantly clarify my position vis-à-vis this phenomenon.

Only once was I consciously and wholeheartedly linked to the history of my country, and that moment was to cast its shadows over my whole life. But as fateful as that moment was, it determined my path. It would be absurd to suppose that at this very youthful age I obeyed anything other than a very youthful impulse. But of course, I was “thinking it over”, and the youthful character of these reflections was manifested in their absolute and unconditional requirement. But the curious fact that I blindly obeyed these impulses without ever considering other

possibilities, was to force me to reflect on the probable origin of this exclusivity of thought and feeling. Until the revolution of 1918, I had no doubt lived in a world mapped out in advance. I came from a family of civil servants and steelworkers and, destined for a military career, I had been brought up in the royal corps of Prussian cadets. So I grew up in a generally accepted state of mind and in an environment where the only interest one took in the state consisted in the obligation to serve it. I knew very well that almost all other domains of public life, the world of merchants, of the liberal professions, of farmers, of workers, had to take a different interest from the State. But in this fact resided precisely the privilege of "our" position. The state seemed to rest on solid foundations. In its ideal form, it was to appear more or less as an instrument which supported the king in his desire to serve the general good through justice. The constitutional changes that the state underwent in the course of evolution probably did not find unreserved support everywhere, but in the milieu to which I belonged, they were considered as a given that no one consciously disavowed. No doubt I felt very bitterly at the disappearance of my privileged position following the 1918 revolution. But I was too young to have taken root there, and young enough to stand a chance everywhere. Entering immediately and without a second's hesitation into a free corps was not an attempt to simply follow the old path. Nor was this decision dictated by a simple taste for adventure, which, moreover, I have never despised. No, it was definitely the desire to serve the state without deriving any personal benefit from it. In these troubled times, the Freikorps had the mission of restoring calm and order within the Reich and, moreover, of protecting and consolidating the

borders become shifting. They therefore had a genuine public mission and, at least at the beginning, their leaders understood their homework as well. Even the Kapp putsch3, the first real revolt of soldiers against the state, was in the eyes of the participants an attempt to ensure the pre-eminence of a conception of the state against the claims of interest groups. The program of the Kapp government, which was short-lived, did not include any point that would have wanted anything other than the strengthening of the structure of the state. The point which incited Captain Ehrhardt, the military leader of the unit executing the putsch, to march with his brigade, demanded the formation of ministries of technicians and elections confirming this measure. That day, I had marched in line, a soldier among soldiers. The putsch failed: because of the general strike of the unionized workers, because of the bourgeoisie which refused above all its civil servants to the new government, and finally because of this new government itself, which had lost its mind. All the factors that could make it fail were therefore well and truly met. I think it was very typical of my mentality at the time that I immediately rallied the only man who understood that this failure was an opportunity, Commander Ehrhardt. This man was not a revolutionary, he had never been; he hated the revolution and must curse the day when he allowed himself to be persuaded to put an end to the revolution by a counterrevolution, therefore by an act of the same kind. Following this coup, he was pushed into illegality, which was quite contrary to his nature. He retired to Bavaria, the only country where the Kapp putsch seemed to have produced the projected changes in a lasting way. The desire to create "a cell of order" within the framework of the Reich undoubtedly stemmed from the desire to create the state. It was quite amazing in

a country that had hitherto regarded as foreign, as "Prussian" any initiative tending to strengthen the state. For any political thought, this act had to be welcome, because here, the movement towards the State seemed to be born from the will of the people, it was therefore organic and no longer abstract. During those years after the revolution, which had succeeded only in its most outward manifestations, and after the troubles arising from the attempt to carry this revolution forward, everything in Bavaria tended towards a concentration of forces which wanted the state authority. It might seem surprising that a man still quite young, who had only the reputation of being a particularly circumspect and energetic officer, but whose first political decision had been a failure, should have such a great influence in Bavaria. But the commander had a sort of retinue, which soon became legendary, the OC; it was whispered that this “Consul Organization” pursued particular goals and tasks. In reality, the OC did not exist as an organization; it was an extremely free association of former soldiers and officers of the marine brigade who, after the dissolution of the military unit, had dispersed throughout the Reich. But they had retained the close ties of camaraderie and, on occasion, out of devotion to the old "chief", they carried out missions assigned to them by the commander's headquarters in Munich. For, threatened with an arrest warrant, the commander himself had to act in secret. These missions were accomplished voluntarily; but I know of no case where they were refused. These were almost always tasks that had to be carried out in secret, acts which, while not openly contrary to the official laws of the Weimar Republic, did not accord with the principles of official policy or the views of public opinion. But the meaning and purpose of these These were almost always tasks that had to be carried out in secret, acts which, while not openly contrary to the official laws of the Weimar Republic, did not accord with the principles of official policy or the views of public opinion. But the meaning and purpose of these These were almost always tasks that had to be carried out in secret, acts which, while not openly contrary to the official laws of the Weimar Republic, did not accord with the principles of official policy or the views of public opinion. But the meaning and purpose of these

missions were obvious: it was a question of setting up clandestine arms depots or launching brief and carefully planned operations against the Entente powers in the occupied territories of the Rhineland. This atmosphere of clandestine activity gave a particular impetus to dierent undertakings, but it blurred the boundaries between what was really wanted and ordered and what could result from individual initiative. It was an extremely dangerous atmosphere of which I have not lost my taste. After the attempt on Minister Rathenau, I hastened to Munich to meet the captain. It was not easy to get in touch with him; we only knew the address of one of his assistants. When I explained to him the reasons for my coming, he immediately told me that the commandant was furious with us. We had no idea what the Commandant was really doing in Munich. He lived there under a false name, as authorized representative of a house of optical articles. The deputy explained to me that the commander was trying to bring together in a single large organization all the parties, associations, circles and groupings of the right-wing bourgeoisie. This block which was to be called the "Patriotic Block" acted in concert with the President of the Bavarian Council and his ministry to create the Bavarian "cell of order", that is to say an orderly and united bourgeois state, capable of counterbalance the precarious balance of the other Länder of the Reich, torn apart by party struggles. And we had just committed this insane act! The deputy warned me that the commander would be forced to disown us if he didn't want to ruin his own policy. We fixed an appointment. I would hardly have recognized the major; I had only seen him in photos, and always in uniform. Now he was wearing civilian clothes and a straw hat; he

had shaved off his sea bass goatee. The first few minutes were terrible. He "smeared" me, he "ruined me to pieces", and I only stuttered "yes, sir" and asked him to shoot me in the head until he thundered, furious: "Don't always say 'commander!' Call me " Mr. Consul” or “Mr. Professor”! I clicked my heels and stammered: "Yes, Commander!" Irritated, he ordered me to follow him, and almost collided with a cyclist. "Quick, follow me!" he shouted.

He quickened his pace when the cyclist got off and a police officer approached. - It missed only this ! he growled looking at me bias. Just get pinched when I'm with you! He chuckled and led me to a nearby building. - How did it happen ? he asked. I told him. He shook his head, saying: — First they go down Gareis, — Thank God they weren't my men… (Gareis was an independent socialist from Munich who had been found one day, in 1921, shot near his home)… and then Erzberger, a man who had long been politically deprived! A Catholic! And me, I should play politics here, in this Catholic country! "Whoever killed him was also a Catholic," I said with deance. "Exactly," said the commandant. Do not understand. Is it that are you also catholic? "Yes, Commander!"

He looked at me shaking his head.

"Me, I am only Protestant ("only," he said), my father was a pastor in Basle, but name of a name, before pressing the trigger, I resounded three times, and afterwards I did not press, at least in most cases! Suddenly he looked at me very carefully. "Helerich, what part did he play?" he asked. German National Deputy Helerich once violently attacked Erzberger in a major political diamation trial. Soon after, Erzberger was shot. Then Helerich had, in a grand speech to the Reichstag, attacked Minister Rathenau. And Rathenau was shot. On this, the Reichstag, during a tumultuous session, accused Helerich of having organized these attacks. I replied: 'Helerich had absolutely nothing to do with it, sir. "Are you telling the truth?"

“Yes, Commander. I know the newspapers claim that he was the one who financed the attacks. But this is not true. None of us know him. The commander gave me a questioning look, then he said: - Good. I had a hard time believing it. But where did you get you the money?

"I stole it!" I say blushing. - How ? he asked, amazed. — I was employed in a currency exchange office in Frankfurt am Main.

Hand… "So you speculated?" I persisted. - No, I stole it. Here's how it went: The office exchange was at the central station, at the exit of the platforms. A

football match between Switzerland and Germany took place in Frankfurt. The Swiss sportsmen and their friends arrived by a special train. Everybody wanted to change the francs at my place. There was a big queue. I looked at the exchange table, but I must have confused the rate of the Swiss franc with that of the French franc. However, no one protested. I obviously couldn't enter the transactions in the register, people were in too much of a hurry. Afterwards, when I did my accounts, I had a lot of money left, a lot more than I should have had. In addition, my boss had recommended me to divide the large operations, because the taxes only come into play from a certain sum. So I only recorded a bunch of little recipes; it ends up making a big sum, because it goes without saying that I had automatically added taxes for large sums. And... there... I was thinking, I added hastily, that the bank that owns the bureau de change makes such profits... — Fraud and embezzlement, said the commander. "Commander," I said pleadingly, "and they still wanted steal the sc, the scoundrels… Thoughtfully, the commandant murmured:

— So it was my dear compatriots who financed the assassination of Rathenau!… If this becomes known, you will never be able to visit beautiful Switzerland again!

I swallowed my saliva and said piteously:

- If only I was already there! The commander looked at me.

- There, there, no sentimentality! You put yourself in a bad situation.

In an angry tone, he added: 'Have you followed the course of the dollar, you expert banker?' He's soaring! If I lose my small fortune now, I will.

owe it to you too! ("The major," I said later to the deputy, "the major is a little grocer, he fears for his money!") "What am I going to do with you?" asked the commander. I didn't know. He asked : - How old are you ? "Nineteen," I said. His hand fell on the table. “If we were still in the Imperial Navy, I would tell you give the big wedge three times! He began to meditate and I thought, relieved, that he was now imagining how he would run me fifty times through the rigging in a nice little storm. He lifted his head and said: "Obviously I'm not going to let you down, bunch of young idiots, though… Well, I'll have to go see the President of the Council and get down on my stomach in front of him. The deputy will lodge you until you can set out to find Kern and Fischer. If you get caught at that time, that's your business. He looked at me for a moment longer, shaking his head, then he asked: - Are you free, I mean until noon? I nodded eagerly. “I have to get to work. Settle into antechamber and let me know who will show up. But always ask you the exact name, and if one of the visitors looks like a Prussian or a policeman, say I'm not there! "Yes, sir," I said and settled into the antechamber, a room as bare as the commandant's office.

He was alone in his office and I alone in the antechamber. After a while, I heard someone coming up the stairs. I sat down behind a table. A man entered; despite the stifling heat outside, he wore a raincoat and a gray-green velvet hat; under his nose he had a weird mustache. In a guttural voice, he asked: "Is the commander there?" He didn't look like a Prussian, but he could very well have been a criminal police officer. I replied: - No ! 'But I must speak to him immediately,' said the man. You do not know me ? I am Adolf Hitler. I obviously knew him, although I had never seen him before. Kern had held him in high esteem; he was of the opinion that apart from the commander, Hitler was the only one with the courage to take action. I stood up, saying: - I will see. I announced to the commander: "Commander, Adolf Hitler wants to talk to you!" The commander slammed his hand down on the table and exclaimed: - Good God ! What else does this idiot want from me?

Then he shook his head abruptly and ordered: “Tell him to come in. I went back into the antechamber, jerked my head a little, and repeated: "He tells you to come in." Shortly after, the commander came out with him and said to me:

- It's good. You can dispose. In the street, I lost sight of them. It was the one and only time that I met Adolf Hitler in person.

The deputy advised me not to go to the hotel, because every night the police carried out checks there. I didn't understand this Munich atmosphere, half-legal, half-illegal. The confusion, rivalries and alliances of political groups troubled me deeply. But during the few weeks that I spent in Munich, I learned about what at first I contemptuously called "the Munich assignment." The commander answered almost all of my questions, either feeling some kind of responsibility for my mess or being touched by my clumsy attempts to find myself in the disturbing mysteries of the wicked world. In my eorts to justify also, and especially, before him the attack against Rathenau, I took the liberty of explaining to him some of the ideas which had preoccupied us. In his taunting and curt tone, he could then say: "Did you want to save Germany once more?" Neither more nor less, eh? Patent your idea! But he showed me where we had gone wrong and he briefly revealed to me the true character of the legendary OC. The secret of the Consul Organization was very simple. The Treaty of Versailles had limited the German army to one hundred thousand men. At the same time, it was strictly forbidden to reconstitute a general staff. Since the organic form had been so stupidly destroyed, it was necessary to incorporate in some other way the services without which an army, however small, would have been absolutely worthless. The tasks of the operations section could, if necessary, be taken over by the high command; organization and transport were assigned to the Ministry of the Reichswehr which had taken the place of the Ministry of War. There remained the military intelligence section, the “Abwehr”; she couldn't be placed anywhere, there was no budget for her. The Reich Navy

then took charge of this sector. She was particularly well prepared for such a task. The corps of officers of the old imperial navy was extremely homogeneous; it consisted mostly of men who knew the world and who had once again scattered to the four winds. They could be counted on when it came to fulfilling a patriotic duty, and it went without saying that they worked without any remuneration. The active members of the former imperial navy who had remained in the country had organized themselves into naval brigades. They were available to this sector. The OC was neither more nor less than a sector of the Abwehr which was being reconstituted. It was clear that the tasks of the army were limited solely to the service of the state. But it had to fulfill them within a regime which, if it did not challenge the State by its spirit, its will and its origin, nevertheless sought to remain foreign to it. He was, moreover, himself terribly hampered in fulfilling his duties as a true State by the enemy coalition and the provisions of the Treaty of Versailles. The gap between the regime's idea of the state and that of the army could at most be reduced, never bridged. The creator of the new Reichswehr prohibits all political activity in the army. He thus obtained that the army be reorganized calmly to be up to the tasks which could fall to him; and she kept herself out of all political discussions, except for the chief of the army. For General von Seeckt was himself involved in politics; he obeyed not so much his inclinations as the need to go well beyond his own domain in the event of a conict, whether it was a civil war or just a war. The general could make a personal policy by close contact with those among the leaders of the Reich who understood the necessities of the state, and by

the use of the Abwehr apparatus, and thereby of the OC services The commandant, with his realistic and sober way of thinking and acting, understood immediately after the failure of the Kapp putsch where the error lay; and he immediately set to work to make it impossible to repeat it. At the time of this putsch, General von Seeckt had violently risen up against the commander whom he called a rebel. But, with his realistic and sober way of thinking and acting, he secured their services again, as soon as he saw that Ehrhardt had understood what it was really about. It was simply a question of filling in a constructive way the hollows of power over which the commander had tried to build. That was what the Commandant worked for in Bavaria. When I learned of it, my illusions were shattered. I had seen in the commandant a sort of savior of the country, a heroic rebel; I learned that he was a man on commission, a pawn in the struggle of the powers. In exchange, I knew a clear plan, nothing less than romantic, although it had, by force of circumstances, to be pursued in secret. And the constructive possibilities of this plan jumped out at me; what was serious for me was to have visibly acted against this plan. I had to admit that, by my action, I had made any future participation impossible. The general and the commander could cover with their authority many things that happened in the course of carrying out the necessary tasks, but not what I had done.

But in Munich the commander was hardly in sight. The man all Munich was talking about was Adolf Hitler. I asked the commandant why he took this man for an idiot.

"This guy is crazy," he said. He is convinced that he makes policy. It seemed to me that the commander had the same conviction on his own account. I did not take Adolf Hitler for an idiot. In fact, at that time already, he was the only real opponent of the plan. Originally, this man represented the smallest group of all those who participated in the "Working Community" organized by the commander. He was admitted only on the recommendation of his former military superior, Captain Roehm, who insisted on his talent as an orator. Indeed, he knew how to speak. Private First Class Hitler had attracted the attention of his captain because he had made a few speeches in front of his comrades at the barracks of the second infantry regiment; these speeches had certainly had a favorable influence on the soldiers who saw everything tottering, even their very existence. Captain Roehm was using this capable man because he had reason to believe that the soldiers would be more accessible to the words of one of their comrades than to those of someone who did not necessarily speak their rough but cordial jargon. “This man knew how to talk”… he was able to speak convincingly in front of “simple people”, workers and soldiers. Major Ehrhardt could not speak. His longest speech had lasted only six minutes, he recounted not without pride. But he had esteem for all knowledge and ability. He was interested in Hitler because he knew how to talk, not because he was the representative of those good working people who had founded the tiny National Socialist German Workers' Party. The “Labour Community” sponsored a few meetings with the “Führer” of this party, but very quickly, these

meetings were self-financing. And the moment came very quickly when the commander, like the sorcerer's apprentice, was no longer master of the spirits he had summoned.

At that time, in the summer of 1922, Munich was teeming with foreigners who had come for the Passion Plays in Oberammergau; nor did the people of Munich have time to attend large political meetings. Thus, I did not have the opportunity to hear Hitler speak, and I will die without ever having attended a meeting where this man, the most curious of the first half of the twentieth century, had spoken.

- What is he saying ? I asked the deputy commander. "He said, for example," replied the deputy, mimicking the orator, he said calmly: "I have been objected that one cannot attack tanks with canes..." then, his voice trailing off: "but I am telling you..." and at the height of passion: "he who will not have the courage to attack tanks with canes will not achieve anything! And the crowd was delirious. "Well," said the major, "I don't know much about it." tank material. But anyone who wants to ram a battleship with a fishing cutter is not a hero but simply an idiot! I don't know if Hitler's methods of influencing crowds were as repugnant to the commander as to me, but I assumed so. I dimly felt that any attempt to let myself be carried away by a mass movement had to be dirty, at least according to the commander's political ideas. For him, policy could only be determined "from above", never "from below". The state should think for the people, not by the people. I felt that every compromise had to skew this fundamental design. But it was precisely the effect produced on the crowds that ensured Hitler's success in Munich. He employed new methods of propaganda which attacked every reluctance. Everywhere we

saw the flags of his party, everywhere the salute with which his partisans recognized themselves, this gesture which immediately suggested a profession of faith by the manifest effort which he demanded; everywhere, one heard the interpellation accompanying the gesture; never before had a man dared to link his name to that personal relationship of all, salvation. It demanded a renunciation of the individual personality which could have a symptomatic value with regard to the general state of mind. The individual was apparently no longer capable of direct contact with his neighbour; he seemed to need the mediation of a third party.

The real basis of this man's success seemed indeed to be this general state of mind. Its means of propaganda dismissed with extreme simplicity all individual scruple. They consciously tended towards the annihilation of the sphere of individuality, with its traditions, habits, respect, decency and good taste. Recognizing the outward signs that characterized the party meant abandoning the most personal sphere. And that could represent the great temptation. The temptation to imagine oneself as a “victim” has always replaced the obligation to engage in personal action. But by applying less severe criteria than those of my youthful intransigence, all of this could have been accepted if, at least, these methods had served an acceptable purpose. But that goal was not easy to deny. Everything Hitler demanded or extolled was not entirely new, but only formulated in a more radical way, that is, with excesses of language. Its attacks were directed against everything the bourgeoisie had hitherto fought against: “Marxism” and the “dictat of Versailles”, the “lie of German guilt” and the “stabbing”. And likewise, he attacked everything that social democracy had fought until then.

: "capitalism" and "social injustice", the "bankruptcy of the monarchy" and "the abuse of religion". But what was surprising was the vehemence with which Hitler placed the “race question” at the center of all his speeches, and, in close connection with it, the struggle against the Jews. Major Ehrhardt was not anti-Semitic. I knew this from having often heard him rise up immediately and instinctively against an unfair discussion of the Jewish question, which undoubtedly existed. The large number of small "nationalist" associations within the national organizations irritated him; he called them the "madmen of the movement", the "kings of the runes" and the "sweepers of the race"; he succeeded in restraining their influence within the “Community of Labour”; he did not take them seriously. Their ways were as repugnant to his soldier's soul as to mine. But it is apparently also for this reason that the commander did not suspect from the beginning the scope of Hitler's eloquence. Since I couldn't stay in a hotel or boarding house, the commander put me up with a citrus fruit merchant. I had brought with me a number ofviking, a little publication that my host saw with a dim view; cautiously, he asked me if it was an anti-Semitic newspaper. But there was no question of anti-Semitism. My host seemed relieved and told me his worries. Everywhere, the Jews had suddenly become the main culprits. However, the city of Munich had never known anti-Semitism. Besides, there had never been many Jews: a few antique dealers, a few lawyers, shopkeepers and doctors - and all of them had always been good Munich residents, like himself, liberals of course, how could it have been otherwise in this city so catholic? They had never put themselves forward,

Apart from a few exceptional men, like Councilor Rosenthal with his beautiful porcelain, and now this ferocious, erenated anti-Semitism! In each bookshop, pamphlets were exhibited like International Freemasonry, International Judaism, World Revolution, by National Councilor Wichtl. AfterThe foundations of the nineteenth centuryby Houston Stewart Chamberlain, this was the most requested book. However, I, too, had read these books and I cannot say that they did not impress me. If this reading did not manage to disturb me beyond measure, it was because the importance of the danger described was determined by the force or the weakness which opposed it, and, with a youthful arrogance, I found the problem despicable. entire. I tried to console my host, who was ostensibly wearing the Iron Cross ribbon in his buttonhole, by explaining to him that this wave of anti-Semitism was nothing more than a phenomenon accompanying the birth of the national revolution. But my fruit seller, sad and ingenuous, asked why the commandant did not once and for all forbid this Hitler from inciting people in such a way against the Jews. In fact, the commander's attitude in this matter surprised me less than Hitler's. We knew that this man, emerging so suddenly from the darkness, had always found the harshest words precisely for the false prophets, the sectarians, the disinherited philosophers, the worshipers of the sun or of the water, in short all those who without able to settle in politics were eager to rally around each innovator. It was known that Hitler thundered in almost every meeting against those false Germans who believed they could fight, in our ruthless age, with javelins and pikes. But my host remained very preoccupied.

'Don't forget,' he said to me, 'this man is Austrian! It struck me that in Germany anti-Semitism had always been a surface phenomenon, while in Austria it had the resonance of a grassroots movement. In Germany, where the people had never been threatened by the nationalism of other tribes, an attempt had therefore been made to explain the foreign character of the Jewish fellow-citizens by the difference of religion. In Austria, on the other hand, the ideology of the “Great Germans” had turned against the Slavs, threatening the German character; the Jews, however, had refused such a "nationalist" policy and were therefore considered first as "traitors" and then as the real enemies. Their aspirations had to obey a world conspiracy, a new International, since the Jews were scattered all over the world; and since, everywhere,

"If this man," said my orange seller, looking at me knowingly, if this man comes here, where the situation is quite different, and he brings the error here from there, do you know what will happen? A flip of logic! Because he will be forced to create a "racial" consciousness here, where the German race has never been threatened! He will found a new religion, the religion of the race, the most intolerant of all, because it will not be the profession of faith that will count, but the biological chance of birth. Freedom of speech will no longer have meaning, because this religion will not allow you to change your opinion. When I hear the word “conception of the world”, I already know what to expect. This is what replaces religion; it is the ersatz religion where the devil is no longer the adversary of God in everyone's conscience, but where he walks in the street, in view of everyone. And so what more

logical than the appearance on the scene of the good Lord himself, in human form, amid flags and clouds of incense? He gave me a sly look and said: “If I were a Christian, I would know that he is the Antichrist; it appears

like Christ, he speaks like Christ, he works miracles like Christ; and everything is wrong! "Why don't you get up in one of his meetings to tell him all that? I asked. My orange seller looked at me, earé. "They'd club me right away!" "Marxists are also bludgeoned," I said, "and yet they rise up and speak against him!

- Yes, he gently, that's right. And there is also a Red International, even three, and millions of men are part of it. But us Jews? There is not a single Jew who acknowledges belonging to the international Jewish conspiracy. Because it doesn't exist. How easy it would be for us! We cannot do anything but deny, and everyone says: "They deny, therefore they lie!" » Looking lost, he says again: "And if it comes, this 'nationalist' state?" We will only be left with us Jews, but to pack up and go. We've been used to it for two thousand years. But we would be sorry, because we are Germans, we love Germany and Germans. And we would know: They have committed the worst crime against themselves. They began to change their own destiny. They have unnecessarily placed the source of our misfortune, the race, at the center of their own destiny. They have made the Jewish question a German question!

When I asked the commander why he didn't just exclude Hitler from the community of patriotic organizations, he growled: "So that I no longer have any control over him?" And with a kind of dark humour, he added: - I'm already happy if he does not exclude me! For a long time already, Hitler gave himself the airs of a leader in the “Community of Labour”; he made himself independent, he dealt, despite formal commitments, with the authorities and representatives of the State, he surprised other organizations with arbitrary actions, proclamations and decisions, he began to make propaganda for his party among the members of the army, which was contrary to the agreements reached. The stormy discussions between him and the leaders of other organizations continued. But his power could no longer be neglected, it was growing day by day. The commander said: — The path of the national movement is paved with words of honor which Mr. Hitler failed. This is what was happening behind the scenes at the Munich theatre. It was disgusting and disappointing. It was better not to put his nose there. But it was, at the time already, impossible to judge where the eorts of the “Community of Labor” would have ended up, without this strange, determined and unscrupulous man. Success was his. The whole town echoed. Each seemed to carry within him at least a corner where his voice found a resonance. At a time when the party numbered at most ten thousand members, the face of Munich was determined by the phenomenon of this man. I left the city the very day that the "national" Munich was preparing to protest with a demonstration against the law for the

Protection of the Republic, issued by the Reich government following the attack on Rathenau. Hitler spoke in front of sixty thousand people and exalted the murderers, martyrs who had sacrificed themselves for the future of Germany. The commander had given me a mission to put me in touch with all the groups of the OC dispersed in the Reich and to transmit to them the order to abstain from any action possibly envisaged. He told me laconically: "Try not to get caught, poor martyr!" Person won't lift a finger for you! I pinch myself. In prison, the stay in Munich appeared to me like a nightmare. Nowhere in Germany had our act had a pleasant resonance, but in Munich the most strident discords had been heard. There, a torrent that was scratching me had methodically flowed into the void. The empty envelope of our act suddenly seemed to loosen up, like a pneumatic cushion where no pressure leaves a mark. And, at the thought that, all my life, I would have to sit on this cushion, I was afraid. No prison is strong enough to be able to really prevent the outside world from penetrating to the prisoners. It was dicult to get an approximate picture of what was going on outside, but it was possible. What I learned allowed me to assume that I would not have to serve my entire sentence. It is true that the commander was arrested because of the arrest warrant issued against him during the Kapp putsch; the Weimar regime had therefore not changed in its lack of instinct. And that was also good news. Also, I knew the OC was going to work in a different way when it came to the commander. It was necessary to wait six months, but then he was released from the Leipzig prison by

a bold and resounding coup de main which seemed to do honor to the intelligence and energy of the OC. But in the meantime, the French had occupied the Ruhr; a new government, which was no longer social-democratic, had proclaimed "passive resistance" there which was very quickly intensified by men whom I assumed to be agents of the OC. separatism had begun; a red army was forming in Saxony; the devaluation of silver made the whole people doubt the capacities of their government; all of Bavaria seemed to be preparing for a "march on Berlin." It will therefore be understood that it was rather irrelevant to me to know under what banner the gate of the prison would be opened to me, provided that it were open. November 9, 19234, the prisoner who worked in the office slipped a newspaper into my cell. He didn't ask for chewing tobacco as usual; he only whispered to me that I would soon be going out and that I should not forget him, since he too was in prison because of the Jews; he was convicted of perjury committed in a lawsuit against his partner. I leafed through the newspaper, my hands shaking. I looked for the commander's name, without finding it. Kahr, Hitler, Ludendor… nothing on Ehrhardt… Lossow, Seisser, the Reichswehr and the police were involved so… I searched and searched. Finally, I found a small note in the text: Major Ehrhardt was in Cobourg and was transforming his brigade there into auxiliary police. So everything was in order. The news had spread throughout the entire building. No prisoner passed my door without knocking. Even my cellmate, a communist master rooster who had carried out an attack on a Reichswehr transport, congratulated me by drumming against the wall. The official distributing the food smiled and said, “Are you okay? and with my scissors

tailor, I carved a swastika and the date into the wall of the cell. Towards evening, the head warden came to my house. He saw the sign on the wall but said nothing. Smiling, he asked me if I didn't want to have my winter business sent to me since I had entered summer. I begged him to give me a sheet of paper instead, which he promised. The director remained invisible.

Only two days later he came to my cell. As always, he wore his bowler hat and the black coat with the too-small velvet collar. As always, the head warden accompanied him. But that day he was not smiling. The director ordered: "Give me the newspaper!" The newspaper was on my table, I no longer thought it necessary to hide it. I passed it to him, he put it in his coat pocket. His little pig eyes stared at me through his little steel glasses and he said: "If the office assistant loses his job, he'll owe it to you!" I'll deprive you of tobacco for three months! And I'll make sure you can't get any more newspapers! He nods to the wall and says to the guard: - Switch to whitewash! and went away.

We switched to lime. No prisoner knocked at my door anymore. No goalkeeper would say "it's okay" anymore. The head guard had completely forgotten the sheet of paper.

Strangely, with the hope, I had also lost all worry. Everything is back to normal. Resistance in the Ruhr ceased, the separatist movement in the Rhineland evaporated, the currency stabilized and, for the Bavarians, Hitler was no more than a nightmare of the past. I learned that the commander had disarmed groups of SA en route to Munich. Seeckt remained at his post.

I was serving my sentence without "respiriting", the whole sentence and a little more, because other sins had asked for expiation. But from the day I was free, I sought to learn what had actually happened. The Commandant now lived at his estate in Klessen, near Friesack, an hour by train from Berlin. He still had an office in Berlin where my old friend Hartmut Plaas had the sad duty of unraveling little by little the numerous engagements which the commander had contracted during his very complicated political enterprises (and probably of preparing new ones). In addition, he had to maintain contact between the members of the former marine brigade. The commandant had never had more than four thousand followers, and never less. Most of his men had won civil and political positions which allowed them greater undertakings than the little soldier's game offered, but the commander always united them. This fact probably gave this man a much greater influence than that which should normally have accrued to him, to him, a small landowner with a dubious political past. But with the authorities with whom he kept close contact, he had the reputation of being able to keep what he promised. They were, of course, authorities responsible for overcoming situations created by the obligations of the peace treaty and by other commitments; their activity therefore had to be exercised on the margins of official politics. "The commandant," said Plaas sarcastically, "is always one of the fourteen holy auxiliaries of the state!" He was therefore always involved in those sorts of affairs which the most modern State apparently could not renounce: experience had proved that abolishing the secret policy of the cabinets was quite simply a joke and that, on the contrary, it made it possible to work even better under cover. All this was characteristic of the commander, and it was also characteristic

that he wouldn't let me stick my nose in any of his affairs. I went to see him often and even allowed myself to be persuaded to go hunting with him sometimes. But he never allowed me to release my inner tension in any action. In the meantime, I had readMein Kampf, the book that Hitler had written during his detention at Landsberg Fortress. He interested me: only those who had participated in one form or another in the events leading up to the putsch of 1923 could understand his allusions. Almost all his obscure polemics were basically directed exclusively against the commandant. I asked the commander about it and he said: "Never again will I shake hands with that animal!" When I noticed that nothing more was needed to crush Hitler, the commandant said good-naturedly: - You are insolent, for a change! Now, for a long time, my respect for the commander was no longer absolute. I noticed that, in his book, Hitler passed carelessly over the events of November 8, 1923, noting that he did not find it useful to talk about them. The major, furious, said he believed him very willingly, for Hitler would have been obliged either to lie—but there were too many witnesses for that—or else to tell the truth—but the truth was his. extremely unfavorable. I thought the commander would have a great interest in bringing this truth to light. He looked at me. "You can't understand!" he said. Do I go work for others? Undoubtedly, he meant by "the others" the powers of the Weimar Republic. He reconsiders, then he resumes: 'Damn it if I wash the dirty linen of the Reichswehr!' And he became absorbed in hunting problems.

So that was where we had to start. The great adversary Hitler then seemed to me out of the game, but the policy of the army continued. I had immediately started to collect documents, because I had a good bit of contemporary history to catch up on. Newspapers were as always of minimal use. General von Seeckt did not want to receive me, although he had left his service. Mr. von Kahr referred me to the records of the Hitler-Ludendor trial; but these files all gave the painful impression that the accuser, the judges, the accused and the witnesses had been unanimous in not touching on the essentials. But there was my old MeLuetgebrune, Ludendor's defender in this trial, there was Rickmer's report, there were Schlageter's reports and letters. Thus one could learn enough details to be able to form an idea. And nally, the commander only had to say yes or no.

Everything had happened according to a rigorous logic. Circumstances had been so critical that the only power which still possessed real authority, the army, had to risk the blow. General von Seeckt would not have been equal to his task if he had not put himself in touch with the only official power still more or less stable, the High Commissioner General of Bavaria, M. von Kahr. National extremist associations advocated a coup, but Seeckt refused. He did not want under any pretext to act without the agreement of the constitutional powers. But if things continued to move so obviously towards the collapse of the Reich, he could expect to obtain this agreement, he could hope that the President of the Reich would not refuse the last chance to save this Reich. We obviously cannot know to what extent Hitler guessed the distribution of the cards. But whatever the outcome, it

saw duped. In the circumstances, there was no more room for him, he had no trumps in hand. Each coup d'etat of this kind, semi-legal, was to signify the end of his movement. If he had other ambitions than those of a propagandist, he was forced to participate in the game, he had to take control. "I can very well imagine his triumph," I said to the commander, when at the Bürgerbräukeller he thought he had taken Kahr and Lossow by surprise by putting forward the authority of Ludendor. Hurriedly, the commandant exclaimed:

"Damn if we gave him that pleasure!" Rather see the last dashed hope than to risk this experience with him! "It was an l," I said, "and Hitler had cut it!" - Yes ! cried the commandant, banging on the table, after us to have solemnly promised not to undertake anything! Suddenly the commander changed his mind.

'I heard you're starting to write. I'm blushing. Irritated, I say: "Yes, Commander!" "Then I urge you to conceal everything you you write about these events and hide the package well! The commander's wife added with a laugh: - Do as my husband! He hid his diary so well that he failed to find him. So that was it. The first major serious attempt by the national movement to transform the German situation starting from the state had failed because of the existence of one man, Hitler. It had not failed because of the resistance of the official powers of the Weimar regime. Nothing, no indication allowed this supposition. She had failed because the

General von Seeckt, representative of an authentic conception of the state, preferred to leave the Reich in the weak hands of the bureaucracy, this ersatz state, of the parliamentary parties, rather than handing it over to those obscure forces which, coming from an upset people, rushed to power.

- And now ? I asked, now what? "We will always be on the side of the soldiers!" said the commander. I was no more successful than anyone else in unraveling the mystery of General von Seeckt, the general with the stone face and enigmatic demeanor who had been a friend of Rathenau. Many people believed that he was silent because he had nothing to say. Hans Zehrer, however, told me one day that Seeckt belonged to that category of personalities, quite numerous in German politics and the army, who, having arrived at the Rubicon, sit down on the shore to fish with their line. It seemed that those politicians of the national right who felt dependent on a rigorous conception of the state, and especially the political generals of the Reichswehr, had created bogeymen who wandered the nocturnal alleys of their dreams. Two things seemed to worry them, two things they didn't know what to do with, but whose existence and considerable demands had to be acknowledged. None of these men understood a thing about economics. It seemed to them a sort of secret science, a modern alchemy which succeeded, thanks to economic elixirs, in transforming mud into gold. “But what are we going to do with the economy? they would ask, worried; they did not even allow themselves to be consoled by benevolent economists who declared that the economy knew enough to manage on its own and that a "collapse" of the economy did not exist, because it was indissolubly linked to the vital needs of each individual. And

the fact that these men were afraid to tackle areas whose nature remained closed to them is probably characteristic of their sense of responsibility. The other thing for which the national movement had no organ and which, in its eyes, led a particularly disturbing life was culture. "Money and mind," those two all-important powers, the pillars upon which modern Western states claimed to rest, seemed foreign and sinister. And these powers must indeed produce an extremely ghostly impression when they presented in the person of the secret adviser Hugenberg5. Hitler, of course, knew no such scruples. Money and wit were not powers he feared, he despised them. At this point, he undoubtedly had the upper hand over the national competition. And he was not the man to fish on the banks of the Rubicon either. I had been detained long enough to know that deprivation of liberty cannot shake a man's inner convictions; but it forces him henceforth to consider the world with more objectivity. The brief detention at Landsberg may not have changed Hitler, but it did change his tactics. No more "drums", nothing but the "Führer", no more movement, nothing but the party, no more illegal struggle, nothing but legality, no more allies, nothing but adversaries, no more theses, nothing but the program . Everything else was unchanged: the force of the attack, the great organ of the speech, the almost superhuman zeal, the rigor of the organization, the terror in the meetings and all the "tralala": the flags and the standards, the salute and the interpellation, the belt and the boots and, in addition, the brown shirt. I have only ever used the word "democracy" reluctantly. I don't know what it is and I've never met anyone who

could explain it to me convincingly. But I fear it is difficult to refute Hitler's statement that his ideological conception was the conception of democracy. The explanation of the world seen from a central point, the conquest of the masses by persuasion, the legitimization of access to power by elections, the legitimization of power itself by the people — I am afraid it is It is difficult to dispute that these are democratic characteristics, indicating perhaps very late forms of democracy, but nevertheless forms of democracy. I am furthermore afraid that the contrary armament, saying that the totalitarian system wanted by Hitler was not democratic, is difficult to prove. The totalitarian state is the exact opposite of the authoritarian state, whose characteristics, it is true, are not democratic but hierarchical. In this sense, those who believe that progressive developments dene the dierent forms of states may regard totalitarianism as more modern than the authoritarian state.

It is true that these problems existing within the national movement were very little discussed at the time. With the Vomarsch, the journals of Ernst Niekisch and Hans Zehrer tried seriously to analyze the two currents; a similar eort was undertaken in the National-Sozialistische Monatshefteby Otto Strasser and Herbert Blank. All these publications appeared in Berlin and a wider public would have had the opportunity to learn. But the possibility of talking about these things, if only in the modest measure of these sheets, seemed to the major newspapers a kind of betrayal, an admission that the discussion had shifted to the right. And, in the situation then, this was considered an immediate advantage for Hitler, while today we judge differently.

In the summer of 1930, October 23, 1929 was barely felt in Berlin. I went for a few weeks to Calw, a small town in southern Germany, to visit the painter Rudolf Schlichter. I had read my Hermann Hesse, who was born in this town, and the precision of his descriptions made me recognize many details with delight. The happiest country in the Reich, Württemberg, the most stable and active, was reunited in miniature in its good town of Calw. The most assured balance seemed to me to reign in this town where there was a little industry and a little timber trade, a little artisanal agriculture, where there were a few militant Catholics and a multitude of Protestant sects, where there were good communications to the prettiest points of the Black Forest and the important localities of the region. Here, economic and social conditions had to develop in an atmosphere that was not conducive to the desire for revolutionary change. Here, everyone could secure a comfortable life if they were hardworking and circumspect. When in the evening, the important men of the city met to drink a glass of good wine, their friendship was sincere, even if their political leanings differed. Multiple economic and family relationships limited the extent of these differences. their friendship was sincere, even if their political leanings differed. Multiple economic and family relationships limited the extent of these differences. their friendship was sincere, even if their political leanings differed. Multiple economic and family relationships limited the extent of these differences.

In the market square, a particularly appetizing food store ensured that products from distant lands and a very active food industry entered households. The owner, still dressed in a very white blouse, stood among his sacks of Damask grapes and mountains of tin cans; his red, robust face radiated confidence and politeness. I complimented him a lot and he said, “You know, I worked my ass off to get here! But you know, I'd still need ten thousand marks…' But I didn't have them either; I them

would have lent to him without hesitation, because his store spoke for him and I knew him well. After the World War, he did not immediately find his way home; I had met him on the various post-war stages. An active participant in the Küstrin putsch, he was nally condemned. After serving his sentence, he returned to his country, determined to lead a bourgeois life. Anyone who saw him handling lemons in his shop must have believed that this man had found his true place and, therefore, can only appreciate security if he has been deprived of it for a long time. But, strangely enough, the more his business seemed to prosper, the worse things went. Far from being sufficiently informed about the events which had taken place on October 23, 1929 in New York, this worried man was ready to attribute what incomprehensibly deprived him of the fruits of his labor to a mysterious world conspiracy which, for several years, labored daily for the ruin of the German Reich, including the country of Württemberg, the city of Calw and the store in the market place. The principal of the commercial school, whom our friend often met for a drink, doubted the existence of such a plot, but he was in no way capable of explaining this deplorable development (and I, too, was much too conscientious to formulate final judgments on this point). Our friend therefore took off his white blouse every Saturday afternoon to put on a clean brown shirt and well-polished boots; and soon this excellent man was seen marching through the streets of the city, his left hand laid in regulation on the buckle of the belt, at the head of a detachment which, with hoarse voices, sang resounding songs. The townspeople were not without some concern about the behavior of their respected fellow citizen; they had the unjustified feeling that these people I was also far too conscientious to make definitive judgments on this point). Our friend therefore took off his white blouse every Saturday afternoon to put on a clean brown shirt and well-polished boots; and soon this excellent man was seen marching through the streets of the city, his left hand laid in regulation on the buckle of the belt, at the head of a detachment which, with hoarse voices, sang resounding songs. The townspeople were not without some concern about the behavior of their respected fellow citizen; they had the unjustified feeling that these people I was also far too conscientious to make definitive judgments on this point). Our friend therefore took off his white blouse every Saturday afternoon to put on a clean brown shirt and well-polished boots; and soon this excellent man was seen marching through the streets of the city, his left hand laid in regulation on the buckle of the belt, at the head of a detachment which, with hoarse voices, sang resounding songs. The townspeople were not without some concern about the behavior of their respected fellow citizen; they had the unjustified feeling that these people this excellent man was seen marching through the streets of the city, his left hand resting in accordance with the buckle of the belt, at the head of a detachment which, with hoarse voices, sang resounding songs. The townspeople were not without some concern about the behavior of their respected fellow citizen; they had the unjustified feeling that these people this excellent man was seen marching through the streets of the city, his left hand resting in accordance with the buckle of the belt, at the head of a detachment which, with hoarse voices, sang resounding songs. The townspeople were not without some concern about the behavior of their respected fellow citizen; they had the unjustified feeling that these people

were not behaving well. But they behaved well, and even the director of the commercial school greeted the group, not by stretching out his right arm, but by waving his hat cheerfully, for he was a convinced nationalist. With the month of September, the elections approached, these elections which were later called “historic”. The electoral campaign was not very animated. Only the National Socialists organized one meeting after another. There were always a lot of people but never trouble, because the speech of the "Reich orator" was never followed by a debate. These orators, young and dashing men, had been educated in the art of oratory at a National Socialist school; the experiences of thousands of meetings had taught them what to say. They went from locality to locality, without omitting the smallest village. Wherever there was not yet a local party group, they were accompanied by a detachment of SA, so that their arrival was in any case a pleasant distraction for the villagers. On Sunday however, all the brownshirts seemed to be on their way. Early in the morning, they left the city in trucks, and late at night, when they returned, their battle songs echoed in the streets. My friend saw with chagrin that I was not as enthusiastic as he would have liked. I expressed my skepticism as to the eect of such walks on the peasant population, whom I thought I knew. He invited me to participate in one of these outings. I expressed my skepticism as to the eect of such walks on the peasant population, whom I thought I knew. He invited me to participate in one of these outings. I expressed my skepticism as to the eect of such walks on the peasant population, whom I thought I knew. He invited me to participate in one of these outings.

First, we passed through Altburg, a fairly wealthy village. It was not surprising that people came out of their houses to greet the truck since my friend, seated at the wheel, had spent his youth in this locality. Already at the first gas pump, we would see what people were really thinking. The two attendants raised their arms. It goes without saying that the men on the truck were singing at the top of their voices.

Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

head when we passed through a village; but they had no respite on the road; they would sing, if only for a few bars, as soon as we met a human being, whether it was a lone cyclist, a bus, a child or an old woman, and all, all answered with "Heil Hitler". The gendarme was greeted with a particularly sonorous song, and he saluted by raising his hand to the cap. "It's lost," I said. You speculate on people's loyalty! "Well," said my friend, "do you want us to speculate on their vices? We stopped at every inn, and what innkeeper isn't happy to see forty seated customers arrive all at once? There was no doubt: the country was National Socialist. No peasant who had not saluted; people going to church greeted, even the pastor took off his hat with a curt “hello”; the railwaymen, the gendarmes, the concierges, the guards, all saluted. The truck crisscrossed the country, through villages, small towns, workers' housing estates and spas: no sign of hostility, no gesture of spite, joyful greetings everywhere. In the evening, we met another truck, coming from Pforzheim. The men had bewildered faces and were somewhat bedraggled. There had been an incident. Singing, they had passed through Butenhausen. However, a few centuries earlier, the lord of Butenhausen had established Jews on his property. Butenhausen was a Jewish farming village, probably the only one in all of Germany. When the SA battle songs rang out, the peasants had seized their scythes and pitchforks, and their arms were strong. I couldn't hide my pleasure. — You know, said my friend, next time I'm going to go in Butenhausen!

- Oh! yes, I say, when it comes to typing, you are strong. But why don't you allow discussion? Who do you want to win? Fools and cowards? — You know, said my friend, unwavering, you too are one of those

intellectuals who know everything! Well, you will have the opportunity to talk, as much as you want! At the next meeting, I'll give you the floor.

Before the next meeting, I think over what I want to say. I intended to start from a silly turn of the speaker and it was just a matter of finding the few transitional phrases. My friend chaired the meeting. He had never studied public speaking and spoke without constraint. He says the newspapers were full of articles about Frick, the first president of the National Socialist council of Thuringia. Everyone knew Frick, but who had ever cared about Thuringia, and who knew the name of the previous president of the Thuringian council? "Here's one," he cried suddenly, pointing at me, here is one of those clever ones! This is when you can talk! Do you know what the previous chairman of the council in Thuringia was called? My ears reddened. I did not know. The room was screaming with pleasure. I was made ridiculous for the rest of the evening. Later, I asked my friend: "And if I had said any name, Muller or Schneider?" What would you have done ? - I would have burst out laughing! said my friend, my excellent friend.

Do you think I know what his name was, that idiot? - It's demagoguery! I said. "It's propaganda!"

I was very curious to learn the results of the elections. The director of the business school explained to me: "We Swabians are not in favor of radical solutions! Youth, well, it has to happen... He said that the Swabians were sober and tolerant people, with a good old democratic tradition. He quoted consoling figures to me, proving the happy balance between industry and agriculture. "With us," he said, "age, experience and authority are not more empty words. And what our friend is doing there is circus. My good friend sent me by SA cyclist the results as they were announced on the radio. Every half hour, the cyclist arrived with his little chess. The success of the National Socialists was evident. My friend had always indicated on his papers the numbers of the previous elections. It was clear that the National Socialists' gain came from the strata that habitually did not vote; this was particularly the case for Berlin. Then came Hamburg, then Leipzig, Cologne, Munich, Hanover, and each time the cyclist got a little drunker. And if I had first glanced quickly at the sheets to put them aside, they now lined up on the table and Rudolf Schlichter and I were examining them carefully. A "political collapse" had occurred, as the national and international press said the next day. Where had the balance of Swabia gone? The purely industrial regions were as submerged as the purely Catholic countries, Schleswig-Holstein was National Socialist, East Prussia, Saxony too: Thuringia was no longer alone.

The cyclist came back one last time. Instead of a small leaf, he wore a huge patch that read: "Altburg

near Calw: 101 surages cast, 100 National Socialists!!! "And underneath, my friend had written:" The only voice for the Social Democratic Party is that of my father who wants to offend me! » When, towards dawn, I crossed the market square, there was still light in my friend's house. I entered. He was sitting on the counter, a glass in his hand; SA were sitting on the bags, on the ground. When my friend saw me, he raised the glass, stammering: "One hundred and ten deputies!" One hundred and ten !

"To your health then!" I said. He looked at his glass, then he raised his head, his mouth flattened, his eyes almost disappeared behind the red cheeks, and, filled with immense happiness, he announced:

- You know, I became district chief! District manager! So he was back, this Hitler, and well back. Not a single moment of my life had I been able to be his supporter, but there was not a moment when the mere existence of this man had not determined, in one form or another, my behavior. I did not understand him, I understood neither his character nor his doctrine; I didn't just think it was wrong, I didn't understand what he really wanted. What I could understand of his speeches, his methods and his ideas only seemed intelligible to me by comparison with other methods and other ideas. But then it was ultimately, in a huge magnification, the methods and ideas of liberal democracy that were just as alien to me. I could only understand the phenomenon of this man and his movement if I placed it in the perspective of the history of the mind. He was then the last manifestation of the age of reason which had begun by reaching out to the stars, which had emancipated man from God, and which had ended in "one of the most rudimentary, primitive and more

children of the spirit of humanity”… “accompanied by a little laughter from the Orient which seems to comment in a muted voice, mocking, all our progress", as Egon Friedell wrote6. After the manifest and shameless decomposition of all organic forces by the spell of the liberal bourgeoisie and of social democracy, devoid of ideological sense, Bolshevism seemed to me in fact to be the legitimate heir, if we did not succeed in finding a constructive conception of State. And now an even further period of dissolution was to take off with the socalled National Socialist movement. If this were so, the obligation became inevitable to rebuild the State, to put this reality back where man had torn it down to bring it down to his level; then the State, the order of men, was to be handed over to God alone. Even for the Christian, the State was only a face of sin, destined to put it to the test. I wasn't a Christian, I didn't think I was. What seemed to me to be understandable by logic, I could not understand by faith. That was the conict that nearly broke me. I only had the hope that the eternal law which always ends up bringing man to order would come to pierce the crust, the soil of the spirit made crumbly by the continual questioning of problems; and there remained only the obligation to push this process forward with ever more pressing questions. When I decided to go abroad, it was an escape. There was no doubt: all my efforts had failed. My drunken participation in the attempt of the peasants of Schleswig-Holstein to arrive at the establishment of a new order had remained a crude joke, the incessant eorts in the circle around Ernst Jünger had remained a despair. So I wanted to at least make a kind of inventory of all the ideas that agitated our

era ; perhaps I would succeed in this way, which might be proper, in obtaining fertile results. I do not succeed. In January 1933, I returned from abroad with the firm intention of giving preference to my civil profession over any political effort. My brother Bruno came to Berlin on purpose to express his contempt for such a decision. He no longer lived in Schleswig-Holstein. Acquitted at the great Altona trial, he had taken on a little more provincial air and he had found no sense in remaining faithful to the peasants of the region. However, he wanted to remain faithful to the cause of the peasants. Strangely, these circumstances always brought him closer more of his old opponent Bodo Uhse7who had been editor of the National Socialist newspaper in Itzehoe. He surprised me with the news that he and Bodo Uhse, forced to draw the conclusions, had joined the Communist Party. So there were still some who had drawn conclusions, rather surprising conclusions, but they all had the same origin and the same date of birth. It began when General Seeckt was replaced by General Heye, who was unlikely to reserve any surprises. This brave benevolent soldier was going to have a lot of sorrow because of two young oers. Second Lieutenants Scheringer and Ludin had discussed with a former regimental comrade, Reserve Second Lieutenant Wendt, the hypothetical situation that might arise if the Reichswehr had to fight off another attempt at national restoration. They came to the conclusion that they could not make up their minds to use their arms against such well-meaning friends and patriots.

put them in contact with dierent comrades whom they invited to also “reect” on the situation. An older comrade denounced. The Minister of War, Groener8, seemed to be unable to understand young patriotic oers who allowed themselves to "rework". He does not resonate, he puts them on trial. In vain Papa Heye had rushed to Ulm to speak seriously to the young delinquents. Things were going their way, no one could stop them. And no one could be happy about it, except Hitler. The young oers, in their eorts to see clearly, had also addressed themselves to Munich, without however receiving a clear answer. Yet they had to receive it. During the "Trial of the Reichswehr in Ulm", Hitler was heard as a witness. Under oath, he announced bluntly that he intended to come to power “by legal means”. Never before had he spoken so publicly and with such determination. For Ludin, Scheringer and Wendt, this testimony removed the psychological basis of their military crime. They were severely punished. Scheringer served his sentence at the fortress of Gollnow, Ludin in Rastatt. In Gollnow there were also communist prisoners, not in Rastatt. When Ludin was released, he drew his conclusions. He accepted Hitler's ore and entered the SA Soon he became a group leader in his native Baden. Wendt also drew his conclusions. He waved melancholy goodbye to everyone and devoted himself to his civil inclinations. I believe he became a musichall manager in Paris. Scheringer, however, had not spent whole nights with the Communists in vain. He went to Goebbels and presented him with a series of straightforward questions that he and the Communists had discussed, each of which demanded an honest but embarrassing answer.

Goebbels replied cynically. Scheringer gave his questionnaire to his former fellow prisoners and joined the Communist Party. The Communists read this interesting document from Doctor Goebbels in the Reichstag9. He who had ears to hear could hear. Soon after, Scheringer was again arrested for high treason. And so my brother had followed Scheringer's example. The Communist Party sent him to the Rhoen Mountains, among the poorest peasants of Germany. Blushing, my brother confessed to me that he was called there "the red tsar of the Rhoen." The newspapers reported on his activity there as they had once reported in SchleswigHolstein. Only, their indignation still raised the tone a little. In the National Socialist papers, it had become "foaming." The authorities were looking for him with as much zeal as the National Socialist shock groups. He was living illegally, under a false name and homeless.

For a long time, my brother and I had agreed to be frank with each other. I tell him that I didn't find his activity very funny. My brother was silent, but Bodo Uhse pointed out to me that it was not our boastful putschism that could recommend us to the party. Besides, it wasn't the possibility of continuing the old putschist jokes that had pushed him and my brother to join the Communist Party. I say with a laugh that he was already quite orthodox. But he wasn't laughing at all, he was really orthodox. He says he came to communism through Karl Marx. I asked my brother if he too had come to communism through Karl Marx. My brother confirmed it eagerly. I immediately saw a touching picture: the two former adversaries sitting in their small room in Itzehoe and

discussing Karl Marx by the soft light of the lamp. And indeed, this Karl Marx could, after a hundred years, suddenly seize with an irresistible force two existences so agitated, prey to a thousand errors, and change them radically.

However, respect for Karl Marx obliged me to no longer oppose my brother and his new friends with a kind of knowing nastyness. They were serious and they had every right to be. Since they were not to be persuaded and won over, war was declared against them. We didn't want their core-fort, but their lives. And they realized it every moment. They knew exactly what awaited them if the National Socialists took power. They were the only ones to know. And the reection that they knew it thanks to Karl Marx changed my respect into admiration. Obviously, Karl Marx had been part of my reading during my detention. Obviously, I hadn't understood anything and, obviously, I thought I had understood everything. All I thought I understood was the fact that this was a working class doctrine that had every chance of becoming a political reality. But I was not part of the working class. I belonged to a class, or so I thought, to which Karl Marx left no choice but to disappear as quickly as possible. The lasting result that reading Marx left me was a feeling of regret because the class to which I was so categorically referred did not possess a system of the same grandeur and bearing the same hope, that it did not possess a method such logical, rigorous and precise thinking.

downgraded. This was probably the only class that had a real interest in overcoming the class struggle. She was neither propertied nor organized. She seemed to me on the way to becoming one. Hitler had left no doubt that his will to annihilate "Marxism" was "indomitable." And indeed, he could hardly hope to win over the classconscious workers. Until the end, he did not succeed in destroying the cadres of the organized proletariat and in decimating the block of Marxist voters. Social-Democracy retained until the end those of its electors who were organized. The trade unions remained, in spite of the national-socialist organization in cells of company, the true instrument of the employees. In the last elections again, the Communist Party counted more than four million votes. Vis-à-vis the Communists, Hitler renounced all political means. At no time did he succumb to the temptation to collaborate tactically with the second great bloc of implacable opponents of the Weimar Republic. It is dicult to judge whether Hitler's attitude towards the Communists was clumsy or not. In any case, his struggle against the “commune” was to remain popular, not only with his supporters, but also with the public authorities. The existence of the communists always legitimized its own existence. On the other hand, fascism was to appear to communism as the last and most dangerous attempt of "monopolizing capitalism" to once again stop the dissolution which had begun, by concentrating all forces, by mobilizing the quicksand of declassed, by corrupting the Second International and by supporting the "feudal reactionaries". And communism was right. This evolution was, so to speak, in the logic of things. It would be underestimating Hitler to suppose that he was not constantly aware of his historical position. He

recommended as the representative of the evolution against the communist "civil war". And it would be underestimating the leaders of the Communist Party to suppose that they were not prepared for it.

But they were not prepared for civil war, on the contrary they were prepared not to cause civil war to break out. This circumstance was to trouble Hitler. They were the only ones to refuse his paroli, not out of weakness, but thanks to an extremely complicated, so to speak dialectical confidence. Compared to the discipline of the National Socialist cadres who were nevertheless subject to the rigorous principle of the "Führer", the discipline of the Communists was truly superhuman. There was no glory to be won, no thanks and no reward. There was, for each, not only life and death, there was also life and death of the idea. The Central Committee, the anonymous power with unlimited powers, the only one of Hitler's stature, asked everyone what was most difficult: to recognize that dramatic circumstances in a national sector should not decide the global struggle. This meant that communism should not allow itself to be dictated by the law of action, neither by the adversary nor by the passion of its own comrades. Every German communist must have known that his personal fate was sealed. The attitude of the Communists was fascinating, fascinating their calmness, their stern impassivity, their absolute hardness towards themselves and all the hopes they had ever personally attached to the idea. Consciously and carefully, they were preparing for the illegal struggle. Around them reigned an atmosphere of catacombs. Everyone took their task for themselves. With his name and his existence, he renounced a will of his own; he became an element of an immense organism which, in the interest of the whole of life, should not spare its living parts. And no doubt this

organism thus acquired the right not to spare the lives of others. In those days when everyone felt that the era of General von Schleicher was coming to an end, and with it the last attempt at a "revolution from above", a legal revolution, made by and for the State, political life seemed paralyzed. The brown invasion had already begun; the brand new brown uniforms could be seen in all the cafes of the Kurfürstendamm, and at the headquarters, the "Kaiserhof", there was a jubilant confidence that seemed to stifle any other political will in the city. At times when a fatal threat is imminent, the will to live, starkly, greedily, is always unleashed. This state of mind that seems ready to face anything is basically ready to endure anything in order to survive. But despite all my eorts to understand Karl Marx, I did not grasp the immense significance of the spectacle which dawned on me when, one evening in February, I came from Grünheide by the suburban train. The dim, moving city lights were awash in a velvety red that tinged the night sky and seemed to permeate the atmosphere. The travelers all looked in the direction of this glow which suddenly took on an almost crystalline brilliance. The Reichstag was in flames. People weren't moving. The Reichstag hangs, a solitary torch; a wound seemed to have opened, yellow and red, paralyzing the life of the city. The train made a wide circle around this dominant nucleus, as if, adorning a spectacle of the primitive world, a vision of the end of the world, it turned, like a planet, in its unchanging steel orbit around a sun that was devouring in protuberances. And no one said a word. I was on my way to a "rendezvous," one of those secret meetings which changed places daily, where the Communists

illegals sought instructions from the central committee or branch secretaries. I walked into the room and said: "The Reichstag is burning!"

I saw pale faces, all turned towards me, faces that I knew and which suddenly changed in a horrible way. I say : "It's true, the Reichstag is burning!"

But no one moved until a voice quietly noted: "It's the most monstrous provocation in history!" Only then did I understand what this news must mean for each of these men. They had held on, but by the time they were sure to win, they were frustrated with their bet. They hadn't given the Civil War paroli, but now one was pulling a trump card out of the sleeve and slamming it on the table. No civil war, so naked terror! Never before had I felt such bitter shame at not being one of them. I asked them what I could do for them. I could not do anything. I gave everyone my address and telephone number; they engraved in their memory what I had written and burned the slips of paper. They held out their hand to me and I left. The national associations of combatants had "protected" the seizure of power by the National Socialists. Thanks to a compromise within the "national government", where there were also non-National Socialist ministers, Hugenberg, Seldte10, von Papen, they had been "assimilated" into party formations—that is to say, they could participate in the latter's dirty work. The SA and the associations of combatants were given a sort of police power.

"Amazing," I said to the commander. Exactly what we always wanted! Sullenly, the commander replied: — Name of a name, I don't wish you to find yourself in a situation where you're glad I stopped the brigade from disbanding! The commander had appointed Walter Muthmann commander of the brigade's Berlin group; this consisted of about fifty unemployed sailors, whom Ehrhardt had lodged in a house and who wore the old gray navy uniform with the imperial crown on the buttons and the Viking ship on the sleeve. They did nothing; they were hanging around the house and cost a lot of money. But they were there, and Muthmann, also in uniform and wrapped in a large naval steel cloak, looked as if hundreds of thousands of men were marching behind him. "Do you at least have weapons?" I asked him. - You do not belive it ! Just a few guns! he said, for add immediately with emphasis: but these we clean them every day! One day, the SA, which these little obscure associations had been watching for a long time, attacked the houses of the " Deutsch-national Jugendbund »11. On this occasion, a man from the brigade was also arrested and taken to Papestrasse, the Berlin SA headquarters. Muthmann, dressed in his flowing cape, immediately went there to get his man out. But the SA kept Muthmann in turn. They put him in the cellar, with the others who had been arbitrarily arrested, and he had his "tobacco," like the others. But unlike the others, this was not new to

Muthman. He manages to see the group leader Ernst12and to cry out to him, skinned and bloody:

"And you claim to be soldiers!" His instinct had hit home. These people, who had proclaimed the "character of a soldier" as the standard of education, resented the fact that no one thought of taking them for soldiers. Muthmann himself had never been a soldier. The group leader let Muthmann and his brigade man go. Muthmann briefed the commandant. The latter immediately went to Vice-Chancellor von Papen. We never learned what von Papen had said to him; but the major returned, his face red with anger. He had a furious telephone conversation with the chief of police of Berlin. Finally, he slammed the phone down and shouted at Muthmann: - Write ! Circular! To all my squad members! AT all the services of the party, of the police, of the SA! To the government of the Reich!

Fiercely he paced back and forth, dictating: — If armed hordes in uniform were to approach the house of the brigade, it could only be, according to the repeated armaments of the Government and the police headquarters, communists in disguise. Therefore, I give the order to open fire immediately! There were no longer any armed hordes in uniform approaching the brigade house—but it must be said that it was located in a quiet area. One association of fighters after another gave up the race. THE Steel Helmetwas incorporated into Roehm's SA. THEWerwolf, once a group of young people who had separated from theSteel Helmet, was dissolved and devoured in its turn. The commander, in whom everyone believed the determination to open

fire, refused to make contact with Roehm; the hostility dated back to the days of Hitler's putsch. But there was also the old hostility between Ehrhardt and Hitler himself. Von Papen and Seldte tried to reconcile them. The major was invited to Seldte. Plaas told me that when he entered there was a stir in the great hall. Hitler saw him, brushed aside the people crowding around him, approached, smiling, and held out his hand. The major, completely stunned, for he did not know that Hitler was present, made a movement as if to answer the salute, then he withdrew his hand. Hitler smiled as if nothing had happened. The commander immediately left the house with Plaas. “Sorry! “, he says, “at the first moment, I had really forgotten that I had sworn not to shake hands with this animal again. Fortunately, I thought about it in time! » "That was the old commandant again!" says Plaas. But it was no longer the old commander. Why didn't he take a step back, with his fossil, the brigade? Did he believe there were still trumps in the game? There was the Wehrmacht, still waiting. There was von Papen with his mysterious Catholic Action. There was the Reich Navy with which the commander had close relations, and an admiral was chief of the Abwehr. "Why doesn't the commander take a step back?" I asked Plaas. Melancholy, he replied: - He can not. He promised to stay. It would seem to him a desertion! Like every year, I wanted to go to Saaleck to the grave of Kern and Fischer on the anniversary of their death. I telephoned Plaas to ask him if he would come with me. He answered in a stilted tone that the major suggested that I go with him, in his car. When I came to Plaas, he was in uniform. THE

commander arrived, also in uniform. Surprised, he looked at me and asked: "Why aren't you in uniform?" I say I had none. Plaas explained: "He's still not on the squad list!" The commander was furious. - Name of a name! You always need something special

! I clicked my heels and shouted:

"At your command, Commander!" In the car, Ehrhardt asked: "He doesn't know anything yet, Plaas?"

"No, Commander! The commander says with a smile: - Well ! it will be a surprise! It was a surprise. The brigade was going to be "brought into line." It was to be incorporated into the SS. The commandant and Hitler had reconciled. During a boat trip on Lake Starnberg, the two men had emptied their bags. Papen had played the mediator. The commander had complained about the actions of the SA Hitler had recommended that he stick to the SS. The SA was reputed to be the dangerous competitor of the Wehrmacht, the SS were preparing to assume the role of the police. The commander did not want to find himself in opposition to the army. Hitler had promised him that the unit of the brigade that would remain under Ehrhardt's command would not be touched. She even had to keep her gray uniform and liaise between the police and the Wehrmacht.

"Plaas," asked the commander, "what rank will you have?"

Plaas hadn't thought about it yet. — You are my deputy, so you have the rank of captain. So… do the math! Plaas calculated and said:

— Hauptsturmführer.

The commander tried to joke, we were silent. But he absolutely wanted to talk. He asked me: - And you ? What do you want to be? “Nothing, sir. - Devil ! If I don't think I'm too good for this business you don't have to do the dicile! After a moment, he added with a broad smile: — I will appoint you as a clerk of scruples with the general staff.

! I wanted to know what it was, and he replied:

— I just created this post. Express for you! post very pleasant ! You will inform me of your scruples before each of my undertakings. That's all ! "And then the commander will do whatever he wants!" I said. — Plaas, he said, I think he is still too intelligent for this job ! The commander was driving himself. I was next to him. After a silence, he said: - So ask it, your stupid question! "Commander," I said, "was it necessary?" - He had to ! said the commander. At Saaleck, I parted ways with the Commandant and Plaas. The brigade had assembled in a field; there were delegations from all over the Reich, about four hundred men. On the road, columns of SA and SS were approaching. I went to the cemetery. But an SS man, wearing a helmet and a rifle, stood guard there.

When I wanted to enter, he stopped me and asked for my pass. I didn't have any. I say I wanted to go to the graves of two friends. But he wouldn't allow me to. So I went to the village. Shortly after, I met Ernst-Werner Techow, also in civilian clothes. He too had been dismissed by the sentry, but he had climbed over the wall and made his way to the grave. It was marked by a large square block of stone engraved with the names of Kern and Fischer and the phrase chosen by the commander: "Do what you must do, win or die, and leave the decision to God." » Techow and I went to a restaurant we visited every year. Little by little, a few other old comrades arrived, some in uniform, others in civilian clothes. Everyone had problems. Then Plaas came to tell us that the commandant wanted us to be down there. None wanted to go, we found that this joke did not concern us. Plaas addressed me, saying that the commandant absolutely wanted to speak to me. I followed him. I have always been a good player. The commander stood alone in front of the small gray block of his brigade. On both sides were placed the columns of the SA and the SS, with flags, standards and brass bands. In front of the SS block stood the high party dignitaries in all their splendour. The commander came up to us and said: "Plaas, you will stand on the right behind me, and you, you you will put on the left, please. And watch out, I'll give a speech. Then he went to the open square. In front of his brigade, he stopped. I felt very unhappy. I was the only man in civilian clothes, but I consoled myself with the thought that I would certainly have felt

even more unhappy if I had been in uniform. The group of invited high dignitaries looked at me with astonished curiosity. The commander began to speak, in a short and jerky way, as was his habit. He says : "Men of my brigade!" - you know that very late only — and after long struggles — we found ourselves ready — to enter into a formation — of the new Reich. - And I'm happy! — For it is only in the struggle That one learns to know the adversary — to esteem him — or to despise him! "And we will do the same in the future!"

I glanced quickly at the party leaders. These gentlemen were motionless. Roehm had a surprised face. I snapped at the commander's neck again. It was a very stiff neck. “We won't do politics anymore. - This is the new Chancellor of the Reich who makes it — he is there for that — but we — we will rely on the weapon — as we — soldiers — are used to. — And we stand ready In case of a war The new Reich Chancellor Cannot prevent. I glanced quickly at Plaas. Plaas glanced at me. — Men of my brigade Asked me What he had to do — about the so-called German salute. — I got us to salute — as we — soldiers — are accustomed to — by putting our right hand to the hat — if we wear a hat — otherwise by the so-called German salute. — I order — that the men of my brigade — on duty and off duty — always wear a cap. Only the flags rustled in the wind.

- That's all ! - Oh yes ! - Please: - no hooray! no ahoi! — our salvation is no longer in order! - But hey! — the Reich Chancellor — and our homeland — for which we are ready to bear anything — Heil! Hey! Hey! The commander turned around. He came immediately to me and took me by the sleeve, while Plaas rushed to give the orders that would free the brigade from its immobility. The commander asked me: - You are a writer, devil! You must know about it! Tell me frankly: did I lick these guys too much? I say with an eort that the commander really did not have to be the least worried on this point. We couldn't go to the grave until the party was over. I defended the commander in front of the inner circle of comrades by repeating his speech to them verbatim. The speech was very successful, I had to recite it often and it became one of the best numbers in my repertoire. But I was not the only one to have kept a precise memory of it. Neither Roehm nor Himmler, nor Sauckel13had not taken leave of the commander.

When two weeks later the commandant and Plaas returned from a trip, they found their office and the brigade house sealed. Inquiries revealed that, contrary to all engagements, the brigade as a unit had been disbanded; members had been individually summoned and invited to remain in the SS as individual members. The vast majority refused. Those who preferred not to stay in the SS any longer had been beaten up and then sent home. The others were incorporated into local units. The commander told all his former members of the brigade that he was in turn leaving the SS; her

circular did not forget to say that the path of the national movement was paved with words of honor which the party had failed. The commandant asked Plaas to remain a member of the SS; he wanted to keep a keen observer in this party organization. As always, Plaas obeyed. I asked the major what his plans were. He replied that he intended for the first time to take advantage of the relations his wife had abroad. She was a Hohenlohe-Œringen princess. Shocked, I asked if he really wanted to emigrate. No, he did not want to emigrate. He wanted, through his wife's English relatives, to make English politicians understand that everything that was happening in Germany was a natural and direct consequence of the peace treaty of Versailles. He says : “We will have war, there is no doubt about it. And we there lose again, there's no doubt about that either. I will do everything in my power to make the English understand that after this war the folly of Versailles must not be repeated. The brigade was dispersed. It was the last act of the German national movement. Every time I thought about all this, I felt very bad. What a wasted effort! What goodwill wasted in a criminal way! Always, I remembered the words of Gerhart Hauptmann, inFlorian Geyer: “ The most noble, the most sacred thing...a thing that God once put into your hands, and may never again give—into your hands it has been like a precious jewel in the pigsty! »

I had no idea what was going on in Munich. During the night Muthmann phoned me. He, who was a qualified agronomist, had not joined the SS; he held a position in a

agricultural cooperative, but he was still in contact with his old comrades. He had set up a kind of private intelligence service and he was always aware of everything. I was already used to his nocturnal calls; he transmitted laconic news to me which always interested me very much. This time, he says: “In Munich, it smells bad. “I found that everywhere, it smelled bad. But he said, "The chief is in danger!" I let him know that throughout the next day I could be reached at Rowohlt's in Grünheide. He hung up. When I arrived at Rowohlt, he was glued to his post as TSF He gave me an impatient wave when I wanted to say hello. On the radio it was announced that Roehm and the SA leaders had been shot. Rowohlt was not alone. A man had contacted him shortly before on behalf of Roehm. He had written a book:Story of a traitor;as he had quarreled with the official party publishing house, he had oert Rowohlt to publish it. Rowohlt gave me the book to read. His stilted face told me he was going to be a big game. But this game seemed to me too gamey. I knew which argument made the most impression on Rowohlt. I shredded the book from a literary point of view, which was not difficult. I read him a few sentences, Rowohlt could only put up with a badly written book if at least it contained something important, which it didn't. Roehm's representative, accompanied by his wife, had come to Grünheide to learn of Rowohlt's decision. But another had already taken it.

The young woman, her face in tears, stood next to the post. “Spreti too! she sobbed. Count Spreti was quite young, I believe he had been Roehm's deputy. The young woman cried desperately, she said that Spreti had been such a man.

charming. When Rowohlt wanted to cut off after the end of the bulletin, I stopped him. The news was repeated at short intervals. But I didn't cut, despite Rowohlt's protests. I say to the young woman: - You have to hear it, again and again! You do not don't forget it in your life! Listen ! Later, Lucie Höich, the great actress, came to Rowohlt. Like the others, she sat down near this dreary post which spewed out the news all the time. She asked me what that meant. I say : “That doesn't concern us. Let them devour each other! But Mrs. Höich shook her head. In her resonant, eminently human voice, she says: “Nevertheless, I believe that it concerns us all. Men are assassinated, without trial and without judgement, slaughtered by assassins who were their friends and who govern our people. I believe that concerns us closely. Then Muthmann called. We met in town and in a car belonging to my brother Horst we drove to Klessen. Three times the SS stopped us. But the car was small and old and on our passport photos we didn't have any party badges. Sometimes there were advantages to not being in the party. "What's going on with you?" Muthmann asked. "We SS men are in order," said one of them. These are these bastards of SA who take it for themselves! We could continue on our way. Shortly before Friesack, we joined Plaas who, informed by Muthmann, had come from Finkenkrug on a motorcycle.

The commander was not yet aware. He wasn't listening to the radio. "Roehm?" he asked, I never got to smell that guy. But Plaas and Muthmann told him as briefly as possible what must have happened. The commander: "But that doesn't concern us!" Plaas and Muthmann tried to impress on him that the opportunity for a "great purge" was too good and was probably planned. The commander pointed to a huge Newfoundland that had its head on the table and was staring at us with red eyes. "Standing on the man," said the commander. I bought it expressly for such a case. "I'm not thinking of running away from my own house!" "Let them come!" - Devil, I have nothing to do with all these stories! Suddenly the commander's wife exclaimed: - The newspaper !

We started looking for the newspaper. We searched the whole house; the commander remained seated and drank his drink, laughing. But we had no heart to laugh. We didn't find the diary, but harsh words about the unbearable way that certain screw-up conspirators had of keeping a diary, of keeping betrayal very nicely at home. Finally, the commander reluctantly admitted that he might be able to hunt the boars that were devastating his potato field at the edge of the wood. We all accompanied him there, rifles in hand and pistols in our pockets. We left Madame Ehrhardt at home in peace, we were still unaware of the assassination of General von Schleicher's wife.

An hour after we had left the house with the commander, they arrived, fourteen men. The Newfoundland gave the paw to the intruders. They smoked the commandant's cigars and wallowed in the armchairs after having searched the house from top to bottom. The commander's wife could take on an extremely authentic princess air. She says she was used to seeing her hosts get up from their seats when she, the hostess, entered her house, and the hosts got up, confused. They asked, "Why did the commander flee?" The princess was very surprised. He hadn't fled, he was hunting wild boar. Or this ? The princess showed a map of the property. These gentlemen were to follow the lake to the edge of the forest. "Through this clearing?" they asked. "Through this clearing," the princess confirmed. If he was hunting, said one, he must have had a gun. "Two," said the princess. The men looked at each other. "In that case, we have to call first!" " - " You are welcome. They phoned from the next room, then they took the captain's bottle and left. They had found the newspaper. He wedged a rickety table into the room where the meat was smoked.

No doubt the commander had to go. He ends up coming to terms with the facts. We proceeded as usual; he was traveling separated from his wife, but under our discreet supervision. We were familiar with the small border path near Lörrach. I accompanied his wife to her compartment in which Muthmann, dressed in a very showy Scottish cap and with the extremely reserved air of a stranger, was waiting for her. I stayed on the quay. I was enraged. I had to say something to the princess, I had to find a goodbye note. I did not know what to say. She always looked like a princess, she had a way of frowning

eyebrows if ever we used a swear word… We all feared her a little. She was at the window, her pearl-grey gloved hand resting on the edge, Princess of Hohenlohe-Œringen, wife of our commander, of the man who had been a great hope of German nationalism, who, in the Imperial Navy, was called " the red Ehrhardt", which, in the Skagerrak14, had led the torpedo boat attack, which had sunk, got on another ship to continue, the man who had marched one day with his brigade by the Brandenburger Tor, the man who had been in prison… I was in rage. Did this man need to flee secretly from the country for which for twenty years he had lived, fought, made mistakes, did this woman need that?... The train started off, I didn't. I hadn't said anything yet. The train started, I ran to the side of the compartment, I banged my fist on the edge of the window and I shouted: "Well, damn it! ahoi! The princess carefully took off her glove, banged her bare fist on the edge of the window and cried in a clear voice:

- Shit ! Ahoi! I was very curious to hear what Hitler would have to say about the events of June 30, 1934. Wilhelm Scheuermann asked me to listen to this speech with him. Scheuermann was an Alsatian, one of those German Alsatians who are as fanatical Germans as French Alsatians are French. He was a journalist, one of the best-known reporters of the World War, later a highly respected contributor to national newspapers. He was proud to have in his little house the most important private library between Berlin and Breslau and, indeed, the house was overflowing with books. He had written a biography of Oberlin,

this pastor who, towards the end of the eighteenth century, had transformed a deserted and sad valley of the Vosges into a paradise, thanks to his faith and his active love, whom Goethe had visited and with whom Lenz took refuge. Now Wilhelm Scheuermann was an old man, a kind of oddball with an unkempt goatee beard and such a scruffy exterior that it cost a little to go out with him. But he liked to go out, he was a gourmet and he had invited a few foreign correspondents to a restaurant in the center, renowned for its French cuisine. He said it was important to listen to the speech in their company; experience taught that even the most knowledgeable tended to form the wrong idea of how a speech was received by Germans. There were English, Americans and French.

The speech was monstrous. At first I tried to continue eating, but I couldn't. Correspondents also put down their forks. The boys were leaning against the counter, their faces pale and motionless. The guttural, muffled voice drowned out all other noise, it rested on us like a thick carpet and it made breathing difficult. When Hitler said that during the operations, the notes of a conspirator had been found and that he had to admit that this reading had "upset" him, I managed, at the cost of great effort, to notice that this did not surprise me; but my voice was rusty and harsh; the correspondents looked at me for a moment, then they turned their heads again towards the set. This man had the courage to maintain the ction that Roehm had been shot because of his homosexuality; he had the courage to pretend that Roehm had communicated with the foreigner on the grounds of high treason; he had the courage to repeat

all that had been painstakingly spread without a single sane man believing it. And that voice resounded with a violence heavy with threats, it vibrated as dangerously as the hum of a hornet, it roared dully like the roar of an irritated lion, revealing a brutality before which I ducked my head between my shoulders. With a shudder, I thought about what I was going to say to these strangers, these men who, much better informed about the facts than I, listened to all this without batting an eyelid. This man and this voice makes me ashamed of my country. I was enraged. I suddenly had the feeling that these people were my enemies, that vis-à-vis them I had no choice, that despite everything, I had to recognize my homeland, a homeland where something like this could happen, this unforgivable and horrible justification for an unforgivable and horrible act of violence. I hated these men with their moral assurance. They were the witnesses of an unbearable humiliation, and I wished them a man like that in their country. Oh ! they too had to have tottering knees, they too had to find themselves confronted daily, hour by hour, with the arduous alternative of acting like a fool or a coward. Should I say something to this Englishman about the bloody history of its kings, about Ireland and the concentration camps of the Boer War? Should I remind this Frenchman of Robespierre, of the murder of the Duc d'Enghien and of Napoleon's note saying: "André They were the witnesses of an unbearable humiliation, and I wished them a man like that in their country. Oh ! they too had to have tottering knees, they too had to find themselves confronted daily, hour by hour, with the arduous alternative of acting like a fool or a coward. Should I say something to this Englishman about the bloody history of its kings, about Ireland and the concentration camps of the Boer War? Should I remind this Frenchman of Robespierre, of the murder of the Duc d'Enghien and of Napoleon's note saying: "André They were the witnesses of an unbearable humiliation, and I wished them a man like that in their country. Oh ! they too had to have tottering knees, they too had to find themselves confronted daily, hour by hour, with the arduous alternative of acting like a fool or a coward. Should I say something to this Englishman about the bloody history of its kings, about Ireland and the concentration camps of the Boer War? Should I remind this Frenchman of Robespierre, of the murder of the Duc d'Enghien and of Napoleon's note saying: "André Should I say something to this Englishman about the bloody history of its kings, about Ireland and the concentration camps of the Boer War? Should I remind this Frenchman of Robespierre, of the murder of the Duc d'Enghien and of Napoleon's note saying: "André Should I say something to this Englishman about the bloody history of its kings, about Ireland and the concentration camps of the Boer War? Should I remind this Frenchman of Robespierre, of the murder of the Duc d'Enghien and of Napoleon's note saying: "André

hofer15must be brought before a court martial in Mantua, condemned to death and shot”? Should I remind this American of the extermination of the Indians, the treatment of the Negroes and the reign of the gangsters in Chicago? But we were here, in Berlin, a few minutes from this man who bawled: “At that moment, I was the supreme judge of my country”, whereas he was nothing other than the supreme executioner. And I had written one day that I believed in my

people, that I believed in its great historical mission to find the true valid order between East and West, I had spoken of our most intimate dreams, of the immense goal to the conquest of which we had set out, I I had done that, and my comrades had died for that, for that we had been dragged into the prisons, I had said one day that our last goal, our most secret faith was the victory of the German being over the earth ! Scheuermann had closed his eyes. Correspondents did not take notes. They no longer had their heads turned towards the post, they were looking at us, Scheuermann and me, the two Germans. The voice thanked a man, General von Blomberg, for his exemplary delicacy. " I will never forget him ! the voice said and she almost broke with emotion. So he too had suddenly been drawn into the aroused circle, had suddenly become an accomplice—a general, an aristocrat, the representative of the last power in this country to which a hope was still attached, enticed and bought by the prot! Never had I despised myself so much as when I got up and left after the speech. Scheuermann came with me. He paid the bill, we left the strangers. We fled. We didn't speak, we had nothing to say to each other, the two of us who were Germans by free choice, not by biological accident. I collected all the documents relating to June 30, 1934. A name that I was looking for everywhere was not mentioned anywhere, that of my old defender, Mr.eLuetgebrune. I hadn't seen him since the day he released me from prison in the peasant movement. One day, I had seen a photo of him, taken during an SA rally. He was wearing the uniform of an SA group leader, which fitted him very badly. A year after June 30, 1934, I thought I saw him in Berlin in a passing taxi. But I was not

sure of my fact. I telephoned Muthmann, who promised to find out. Already the next day, he called me. MeLuetgebrune was in Berlin and had been detained for months. Muthmann gave me his address. I went there on the spot. He opened the door for me. I stepped back, I had in front of me an old man with too moist eyes above deep pockets. It looked like it had been passed through a fulling mill. I held out my hand to him, exclaiming: "Master, don't you recognize me?" He looked at me fixedly, murmured: "Yes, yes," looking for a switch; I grabbed her hand, she was shaking violently. I turned on the light. MeLuetgebrune opened the door of a large room where many books had come out of the shelves. A huge round table was covered with papers. In one corner was a kneeler, and on the kneeler a Gutenberg Bible. Me Luetgebrune was a very religious Protestant. He will take a look among his papers. I say :

'Master, I heard you were back. What can I do for you? He lifted his head and said:

- You are the first to ask me this question! With both hands, he leaned on the table to let himself slide into the chair. — I'm neither, he said, I'm completely neither, they have neither. I saw on the table a bundle of large and small sheets, blank except for one signature, and that signature was either "Adolf Hitler" or "Ernst Roehm." - What's this ? I asked. MeLuetgebrune took a sheet in his trembling hands.

"These are blank signatures," he said. Like I had to always produce proxies at my trials, Hitler and Roehm had given me these proxies in blank. Since I was legal adviser to the SA steering committee…, legal adviser!!… "Give me those things, Master, please!" They could to serve me ! I said. He looked at me.

- To do what ? he asked. “Just think, Master, if Hitler receives a letter every day: “My dear Adolf, I am here in hell, when are you joining me? Yours, Ernst Roehm…” MeLuetgebrune rested her arms on the table and her head on the arms. I sat down on the table, took the papers in my hand and continued:

"Or what about a letter with the unmistakably authentic signature of our great Führer, addressed to every party service: “Every word I have uttered for fourteen years of shame has been a lie. Now I confess the plain truth: I am the greatest traitor in history. I hereby dissolve the party and place the destiny of Germany in the hands of…” Whose, Counsel? MeLuetgebrune looked up. A few tears had flowed from his eyes. He says : "And justice? What to say?" I s: "I see you're putting your things away. Is it that you allow me to help you? MeLuetgebrune had not been to Munich, he had taken part in a congress of jurists somewhere in central Germany. There he was arrested without knowing why. Then he was transferred, a day after the gunshots had died down. It saved his life. THE

The interrogations he had to undergo were as grotesque as the accusations. As an SA group leader, he was suspected of having participated in the “Roehm putsch”. The version of the putsch was unshakably maintained. ButeLuetgebrune was able to prove that Roehm had given him his uniform and his rank arbitrarily to give him a certain authority vis-à-vis the personnel of the SA M services.e Luetgebrune was not even a member of the party. He was able to prove that he had worn the uniform only once, that he had held no office except that of lawyer, that he had never been consulted in political decisions and that Besides, he came to Munich only occasionally and for legal conferences. Thereupon he was accused of failing to fulfill his duty as SA group leader, for had he fulfilled it he should have known of the intended high treason. It was the logic of the devil. His life depended on an l; but in the meantime, Rudolf Hess had to start his tour to apologize to the families of the innocent victims; meanwhile, the executioners of General von Schleicher and his wife had been executed in their turn; in the meantime, the Reichswehr had demanded and obtained honorary reparation for the general. For months, M.eLuetgebrune was dragged through the prisons and cellars where the interrogations took place. Eventually, without explanation, he was released. He did not speak of his detention. Nobody talked about his detention, except those who got away with it. What had happened with Roehm? MeLuetgebrune esteemed him. Roehm was a lansquenet, with that stubbornness that wanted to live and let live; he had that curious tolerance which respects the enemy but which fights him with all the more obstinacy. He was indeed a pederast; MeLuetgebrune had professionally defended him on this point on several occasions. He knew that his tastes might

lead him to form coteries since he did not judge his collaborators according to objective criteria but according to his personal sympathy. But Roehm himself knew it, he was always willing to take advice. Roehm, the old trooper, hated the stupid, narrow-minded arrogance of the party. He was, so to speak, making his own case when he publicly attacked the party's false morality in the areas of "degenerate art" and the painted lips of the "German woman." He was the only one with the courage to contradict Hitler. When Hitler yelled, Roehm yelled even louder. But he was loyal to Hitler, there was no doubt about it. Roehm was perfectly capable of forgetting that Hitler had once been his protege. 'Hitler never forgot him. Roehm was convinced of the rightness and the necessity of the “national revolution”. He was convinced that his SA were the shock troops of the revolution, while the party, with its organizations and its administrative services, had the task of predicting the future state in order to be able to take charge of it when the time came. Roehm felt responsible for bringing about the revolution, he called the SA and himself the "engine of the movement". He took the party program seriously as far as it concerned his sector, and he had no doubt that his duty was the "formation of a people's militia." The task suited his temperament. He was proud to command ever greater masses, he was happy whenever a new organization was incorporated. He had no qualms with former adversaries; he was convinced that no one could escape the spirit of his SA ers Did Roehm want to "absorb" the Reichswehr? Me Luetbrune says:

"Roehm was a former soldier, he himself had been in the Reichswehr and he still had many friends and

comrades. He obviously wanted to see the Reichswehr expanded as the army of the new Reich. He did not absolutely want the reintroduction of compulsory military service as long as the Treaty of Versailles forbade it, but he wanted to fill his cadres with volunteers. The Reichswehr was reluctant. Roehm did not want to absorb the Reichswehr, but neither did the Reichswer want to absorb him. He appealed Hitler's decision. But Hitler did not decide. Of course, we talked about it often. Everyone claimed that Roehm wanted to become minister of war. I asked him the question. Roehm answered me that everyone claimed that I wanted to become minister of justice and he asked me if it was true. I promised never to aspire to the function of minister of justice, and that I would never accept it. He said, "Then I promise you never to aspire to the position of minister of war and that I would never accept it!" And I believe Roehm was the man to keep his promises. "Did he want to make a putsch?" I asked. MeLuetgebrune looked up at the wall where a bas-relief hung with the heads of Hitler and Roehm. With great effort he says: — I have often reflected on the fatality of that day. I had a lot of friends among the SA I knew them all and they spoke to me openly. When I was asked during the interrogations if Roehm was planning a putsch—and they kept asking, so they weren't sure, although they seemed to believe that the putsch was proven—I said: no”, with a clear conscience! Later, the defender woke up again in my dear old Master. It was research, he gathered the elements of the mosaic. It was Hitler who called the congress of leaders

SA, not Roehm. He was sick and didn't feel up to it. The SA leaders awaited a decision from their Führer as to the position of the SA vis-àvis the Reichswehr. Hitler had always evaded the problem. The SA leaders finally wanted to submit their own grievances to Hitler, after having been attacked from all over the place. They were hopeful, interpreting Hitler's irresolution in their favor. Besides, they were ready to submit to the decision, whatever it was. Roehm also informed the Reichswehr. One of the Reichswehr generals, an old war comrade of Roehm's, went to find him in Bad Wiessee. They were the weapons of the SA Roehm, the old "Bavarian king of the machine gun", had succeeded in keeping his clandestine arms depots. Then he distributed them to his shock troops and stored them in their premises. The Reichswehr knew this, and it believed that these weapons were its own. The general considered the possession of these weapons by the SA as a point which made it difficult for the Chancellor to make the decision which the Reichswehr and the SA were awaiting. The general offered Roehm to deposit these weapons in a neutral place, under the administration of the police which, like Himmler, was placed under the orders of the "Minister of the Reich" Roehm. The latter, very impressed by the seriousness of the general, declared himself ready to accept this proposal. He gave his word of honor to the general that he was not going to make a putsch, that he had no ambition to become minister of war and that he would order the surrender of arms. Reassured, the general left. And, indeed, Roehm gave the necessary instructions to his representative in Munich, group leader Schneidhuber. Hitler was at Godesberg. At dawn, trucks stopped in front of the premises of the SA, the weapons were loaded. The SS, who were unaware of

the agreement between Roehm and the general, communicated to Godesberg that the SA were arming themselves.

One question to Schneidhuber would have known to explain everything. But Hitler advanced towards him, snatched his fodder and immediately shot him in the next room. It must have happened this way, the mosaic was completed in this way. The only body that could have invalidated or confirmed this view of events, the Reichswehr, was silent. She was always silent in such cases. Seeckt's school had borne fruit. MeLuetgebrune called the events of June 30 a fatality. But he was a defender, not a judge. The “supreme judge” had said “homosexuality”, he had said “conspiracy with foreign countries”. That the fatality invoked by the plea of MeLuetgebrune was a term justified or not: Hitler had known for fourteen years that Roehm was a pederast. And there was no proof, not a single one, of a conspiracy with the foreigner. Since when was homosexuality punishable by death? Was General von Schleicher also a pederast? Does the leader of theStock

Catholic,ministerial adviser Dr Klausener16, was a pederast? Did the entire entourage of Vice-Chancellor von Papen, did Bohse1or Edgar Jung1had conspired with the foreigner? It was not a fatality. We wanted to cover up a crime. The foreigner could certainly not understand that the German people in its great mass accepted with such patience these horrible events, that the Reichswehr accepted that its general was assassinated. Now Schleicher's death could be an asset in the hands of the army. Hitler paid for this asset with many advantages that he had to grant to the army. It could be a gift or a business. The Reichswehr accepted the gift, it lent itself to the business,

she wrote the prot. Formerly, the army had been the representative of the nation. Now she was the "Wehrmacht", a power among others. And the great mass of the people, hadn't they been told that these bloody events ended the revolution? Couldn't she find that the end of the revolution was not paid too dearly by this act? Didn't that mean that the State now returned to its rights, with its Law? If the revolution was over, the "supreme judge" now had to create the law, just as Napoleon had created the Code Napoleon after ending the Revolution. MeLuetgebrune firmly believed in it, he even prepared to collaborate in the creation of a new legislation, a new justice. When I went to his house, I saw him struggling with the "Roman law" that needed to be replaced. He found nothing better than this Roman law, this first grandiose creation of a State, which survived this State, as if Roman law were not precisely the only law which “protects the people”… MeLuetgebrune had lost everything. He had always led a comfortable life; with his camel's hair coat and the exquisite scent of cigars it gave off, he hadn't spared any money. All he had left was a small cabin in Mittenwald. His large office had not been closed, but, useless and costly, he had first eaten up the remains of Madame's fortune.eLuetgebrune, then continued to vegetate on credit. Me Luetgebrune no longer argued any lawsuits, customers avoided him like the plague. He had to be rehabilitated. Since the revolution was over and the era of justice was beginning! Hitler had discredited him, I thought he just rehabilitated him. Why did I have a cousin on Hess's staff? But after hearing my request, the cousin showed up

very agitated. He exclaimed that he would not put a finger in the mud of June 30, anything but that! He ended up taking the case to Hess anyway. This one didn't know that he had tried to intervene with the Führer. But Hitler had immediately said: "Don't talk to me about Luetgebrune, this man hid from me for fourteen years that Roehm was a pederast!" » And at home, I had in my suitcase the blank signatures that Hitler had given when it was still a question of defending Roehm in the cases of pederasty in which he was implicated. There was no other way; if MeLuetgebrune didn't want to starve, he had to ask for a council of honor to rule on his case. He did it reluctantly, because he knew how many of his dear colleagues envied him for his success. The indictment against him had eight points. Each was easy to refute in all its perdie. None related in any form to the events of June 30, which alone had made such a procedure necessary. Point eight was so stupid that MeLuetgebrune had decided not to answer it in the interest of the dignity of the court. This point accused him of having defended, as a “National Socialist lawyer”, the Jew Krojanker. Long before 1933, he had once championed a gambling circle of which Mr. Krojanker had been one member among others. MeLuetgebrune didn't even know him. Point one reproached him for having asked excessive fees from the members of the peasant movement. This point therefore concerns me as well. MeLuetgebrune had defended me many times, and he had never taken a penny from me. And I knew many others that he had defended for free. But this point also reproached the leaders of the peasant movement for having wasted the money of its members. The peasants had to come.

And they came, the men who once had transacted financial affairs with Mrs.eLuetgebrune, Hamkens in the lead. They came in their usual attire, their green jackets, their big shoes, caps on their heads and canes in their hands. I was happy to see these peasants before this tribunal. And I was even happier when the President immediately began to treat the peasant witnesses with the condescension which was due to these simple and brave men; they must have been very disturbed by this high tribunal and accessible to benevolent words which would make them say what the tribunal liked to hear. The president was a professor Noack, a lawyer from Halle. And before him stood the peasant Hamkens of Tetenbull; he was turning his cap in his hands and his face was serious, modest, and the great effort of thought made him a little absent; it was the same face he had used to show in those many trials where he had been the accused. But that, the president did not know. The brave peasant evidently spoke Low German, and the president was about to squeeze every word out of his mouth. But everything went very well. Hamkens slowly recounted how he had been shown by MeLuetgebrune the tariff of lawyers; he frowned to relate his fright at the sum thus calculated. - And then ? asked the president. "And then," said Hamkens, "then Mrs.eLuetgebrune offered us a flat rate.

- And this package? asked the president.

"Well, it was half the official price!" said Hamkens.

The somewhat stunned president asked a few more leading questions, but Hamkens proved to be a simple but well-informed thinker. Then the president dismissed the witness

Hamkens. But he had not yet arrived at the door when he was called back. The President expressed his pleasure at having made the acquaintance of such an excellent witness and such an excellent man, imbued with the most laudable national ideas. There was no longer any doubt, he said, that the peasant movement had already fought then for a new, larger and cleaner homeland. And it went without saying, didn't it? that to defend their good national cause, the peasants had addressed themselves only to a lawyer whose national ideas did not leave the slightest doubt. "Of course," Hamkens said.

"Of course, of course," said the president. Isn't it, you wouldn't have

ever hired a lawyer who you would have known was also defending Jews? MeLuetgebrune raised a scratched look. Hamkens was unaware of point eight of the prosecution! Without rushing, Hamkens said:

"Well, we didn't even have to do this. reflection when it came to our MeLuetgebrune; we knew very well that he was not defending this or that client, but the law! MeLuetgebrune was reprimanded and rehabilitated. In the evening, with Hamkens and the other peasant witnesses, we sang the national anthem of Schleswig-Holstein.

This happened at the time of the Berlin Olympics. Those were the good old days, weren't they? The city was decked out for the big party, the women were wearing lovely summer dresses; attractive young girls in pretty white costumes presented the victors with oak or laurel wreaths. With each gold medal won by a German, sailors in white uniforms hoisted the new German flag. The streets were full

of strangers. The boxes of the "Stürmer17»had disappeared, as had the inscriptions on the benches in the squares prohibiting Jews from sitting down. We had every reason to be quite happy. The revolution was over, right? The Olympic Games had opened the doors to the world; we couldn't go out yet, but people were coming to our house. It was a start. It was obvious that Germany presented itself as a country of order, good morals, justice. The laws were in force again, even the Nuremberg laws, idiotic, ignominious, miserable laws, but laws to which the infamous arbitrariness had to adhere. And Hitler even appointed two Ministers of Justice, this area was so important to him; the Keeper of the Seals, Doctor Gürtner, an old civil servant with a lot of experience, and Minister Frank, full of sap, President of the Academy for German Law; he had the task of finally creating German law. And Frank, with gusto, tackled this duty. Let's say to his credit it made him sweat, Ms.eLuetgebrune told me about it. Hitler despised Frank's efforts; for him, justice was simply an institution created to ensnare him. Himmler also despised Frank's efforts. He had the task of guaranteeing calm and order, of consolidating the achievements of the National Socialist revolution. He despised Frank, but not without benevolent looks. Frank's manifest incapacity allowed him to draw his personal conclusions from the given situation. He pulled them.

Himmler was in fact a completely different man from Roehm. With him, there was no risk of eruptive excesses, neither personal nor political. Everyone who knew him had to say that he was a good family man without worldly ambitions, a meticulous worker, severe towards himself and towards others, even more severe towards his collaborators. He remained in his office installed

in an exemplary manner; he did not like to show himself in public; he did not make speeches in front of crowds. He was certainly not an unscrupulous lansquenet, on the contrary, he was a moralist, even if his morality had nothing to do with that of his thoroughly Catholic religious education. He was missing an important card in his le: the legal basis according to which he could orient himself. The constitution was not abolished, but temporarily suspended. There was the penal code; this was still in force, but it concerned the private life of the individual, and the individual had become a political being thanks to the National Socialist conception of the world. And there was Frank with his new "German" right, which he couldn't get over. He, Himmler, didn't have to worry about that. His task was the consolidation of the National Socialist state. What does a brave civil servant do in such a case? He is looking for a “precedent”. Himmler found it in the military penal code. This dispensed with any moral, philosophical or metaphysical justification of the law. He noted a state of emergency, a state of war or preparations for war, and he declared unequivocally: "This is permitted and prescribed, and this is prohibited and will, in case of violation, be punished with such or such such way. And, moreover, martial law supersedes all other law. There, Himmler found a denition of his situation and that of his country. The country was in the process of liquidating the revolution, therefore still in a state of revolution. It would be in this state until a "German" law was created. Until then, he would apply his rules, and there is no doubt that his logic was not consistent with the situation. When man became emancipated from God, he could hardly suspect that one day things would become emancipated from him. Who was responsible for everything that had happened? How could he

to make that all were guilty, therefore no one? How could it be that the triumph of the will made all will wither away? I was there, in a remote room, with the curtains drawn, while the windows outside were shattering, and I was talking to a quivering young woman about things of the past.

The phone rang. It was Axel who told me that the synagogues were burning. From his balcony, he could see the reflection of the flames. I thought Axel was going to say his spiel, but he says: — Please take note: if, tomorrow morning, we say on the radio that outraged by the infamous crime of the Jew Grünspan, who shot the German legation councilor in Paris, the German people rose up spontaneously to set fire to the synagogues, I formally declare that I did not rise up spontaneously and that I didn't set fire anywhere. Since the Reichstag fire, the crime of arsonist is punishable by death by hanging! - Yes, yes, I said, it's fine. Ille and I, we also stayed home talking to us. I will call you back during the day. But Axel didn't hang up. In a very clear and very distinct voice, he said: - It's still very interesting! For years these people have declared ocially that they are not attacking the Jewish religion, but that they are fighting against the danger posed by the Jewish race. They even enacted laws about it. Are synagogues houses of prayer or institutes for the propagation of the race? "I don't know either," I said. But, in any case, the synagogues shed light on our situation!

And I hung up. I reported Axel's words to Ille. "Why don't Axel and I stand in front of the synagogues, I say, with outstretched hands, in protest and for

to accuse ? Because we know we won't find an echo? It's not that, it's much more serious. Basically, we are already dead. We can no longer live on our own. Everything that is done around us does not live from those who act. It lives from a collective; he who cannot recognize this collective is dead. The collective always acts in an absolute way. It also demands absolute membership. But this collective did not incorporate us, it atomized us. Atomized plots do not form a community, but an explosive charge. Ernst Jünger once said that the Stylite anchorite represented the most consistent form of socialism. It is certainly fair: the individual case pushed to its extreme consequences serves the solidarity solution, it is always also an act of solidarity. I have never backed down from real solidarity, from the collective. But here, the collective destroys itself, it is not a real collective. It does not give anyone the possibility of achieving solidarity through an individual act. This collective reduces itself to the absurd, it is the greatest crime it can commit. Of course, I know what happens to Jews, even if I did not witness it. It's been said often enough, and the synagogues are now demonstrating that it really does happen. The tricky thing is that no one can help “the Jews,” because any help exposes them to even more danger. What's funny is that we can't help being affected much more than the Jews, and the collective itself much more than us.

Last summer, I came home one evening by tram. I got onto the front platform. In addition to the wattman, there were two SS Then, an old lady came up. Suddenly, the two started heckling. One says to start: “It smells of garlic here! You can imagine the rest. The old lady tried to open the door to go to

inside. Only then did I realize that these remarks were addressed to her. Now I am not in the habit of allowing ladies to be molested in my presence; it's still one of those atavisms, but that's the way it is. What to do ? Tackle these two moults? That would have been just plain foolish. Act like it's none of my business? It would have been cowardly. I think seriously to find the third possibility that must exist. But of course ! The simplest solution! I tried to open the door for the old lady. It remained closed. I called the receiver who came. Through the wicket of the door, I shouted to him to open. He replied that in winter the door should remain closed. I shouted to him to open immediately, that it was an old lady. The catcher shouted that she had to get off and go up to the rear platform. While I was still arguing with the receiver, I suddenly saw close to me the face of the old lady. She looked at me with an undisguised hatred, with a hatred that originated in the feeling of the most complete impotence, the most terrible hatred possible. And I understood. Naturally! This woman only wanted one thing: not to be noticed. Being noticed could mean anything, martyrdom and death! And I was exposing him to this danger. Me, not the two SS moults who sneered, but said nothing more. The tram stopped, the lady hurried down. I also descended; I hadn't arrived yet, but I wanted to help the old lady, I wanted to try to explain my behavior to her, I don't know what I wanted, I was acting “spontaneously”. The old lady didn't come back up to the aft platform, she disappeared into the darkness. I walked home, thinking with all my might. There had to be, there had to be a third solution. And, if there were none, what was better, to act like a fool or a coward?

At the corner of Clausewitzstrasse there is a street lamp. Next to the lamppost I saw a large piece of paper tied to a tree. I approached and read:The seamstress Frieda Junge, living at Weitzstrasse 14, defiles the

race with the Jew Victor Aaron.Not far from the lamppost stood a policeman. The opportunity was therefore a good one. I decided to be stupid, not a coward. I tore off the ache. The agent came immediately. He asked, "Are you allowed to remove this ache?" » - "No, I said, but it's a crap!" The agent says, “Okay. Me, I'm waiting here to pinch the guy who always pinpoints ache. For ache, there are advertising columns! If that doesn't apply to you, go home. And give me the ache, I'll put it back so I can pinch the guy. Anyone could come along and pin some aches! » The provocation of the Reichstag fire led to the annihilation of the Communists, at the same time destroying the real legitimation of the party to seize power. The events of June 30 ended the revolution, but at the same time they created the police state instead of the people's community. This night reduces the central doctrine of the party, racism, to absurdity, and at the same time makes the Jewish question a German question. We are all atomized, impotent, with no direct link to the collective thus discredited. This is perhaps the most monstrous result of evolution: the hope of our time, the true end goal of civilization, the building block of the future, the collective is discredited by its most fanatical representative. . And if all of this is true, what are we left with? Since in these circumstances every act is a crime, the only thing left to us is inaction. It is in any case the only decent attitude. And it is at the same time what is most dicult, a kind of Gandhism without Gandhi. The solution

individual has here a range of solidarity. It really is the hardest thing, and, isn't it? it looks so simple. Happy is he who is capable of it; as for me, I'm not very sure I have the strength. Now, anyway, I'm going to take a bath, I'm going to shave, get dressed and have breakfast, and then I'm going to Meissner's. He jumped. - You are not going… ! she cried. - I'm going, I say, I have an appointment. And, for the rest, I'm curious

; I want to know what's going on. I owe this to my health. I want to know what's going on and be able to talk about it. This is my psychic therapy. Without it, I can't get rid of my complexes. She still said a lot of things, but she took out a shirt for me, she stuffed my wallet with all the identity papers I had, she lamented; what did I imagine? Grünspan had simply entered the legation in Paris and shot the counselor and everyone wondered how he had gotten in. I immediately had to show everyone my Schrifttumskammer card and, in any case, I had to pronounce my name quite indistinctly, because if they heard what my name was, they would shoot immediately. And I told him that the old God of the Jews still lived, and this was his revenge: a German must be afraid of being shot when he went to see his minister. And Ille brushed my coat and my hat and, when the time came, I left.

It was sunny outside, it was cool. To my surprise, I was suddenly in a good mood. The methods of psychoanalysis did not seem so stupid. The first man I met was my friend Kurt Heuser. As a young man, he had settled on a farm in Africa. In solitude he began to

write small African short stories. He had talent. Back in Germany, he had abandoned literature to write screenplays. He came to meet me, in a hurry as always, in his legendary old coat that was still missing a button and with his mismatched socks. - What do you say ! he exclaimed. I just had a funny of adventure! Guess what, I had no idea what was going on. I wanted to go to town (he lived in the suburbs) and I noticed that there were a lot of people on the Kurfürstendamm, you know, people you usually never see there. Then I saw the broken glass; and suddenly I see a stir, a man is running towards me, others are chasing him. The man was bleeding. Blood dripped from his dark hair; he staggers, he runs towards me. There were hundreds of people, but he was running towards me. I am very proud to have been the only one to inspire his confidence. He ran towards me, almost kissed me and shouted: "Save me, I am Persian!" » I immediately hailed a taxi. The driver didn't want to take us at first: who was going to pay for the cleaning of the car, since this gentleman was bleeding? I shouted to him: “Embassy of Persia! Well, he drove off. It was high time. And my Persian? Do you know who he was insulting? Me ! He could hardly speak, but he grumbled as if I was responsible for everything. “Me, non-Aryan! he shouted. What do you imagine? I am Persian! If I am not Aryan, who then? Where do they come from, the Aryans, if not from Persia! » I laughed and Kurt Heuser asked:

"Say, do you understand that?" - I do not know, I replied, I'm not very trained in the matter, but I think he's right, your Persian. It is said that the Indogermains came from Persia.

- No, not that! said Kurt. Do you understand ? They have just gone through a world crisis, they have just obtained everything in Munich by arming that they would renounce any act of violence, and now this! But they give a gie to the whole world! Do you understand that? I say I didn't understand it either. He exclaimed in despair: - But it's stupidity without name! - Yes, I said, but stupidity is what is normal. He gave me a puzzled look and said: - You know, I think he's mean! There was no doubt who he was talking about. I had never heard Kurt Heuser speak ill of anyone before. If now he called a man mean, something shocking must have happened to him. I called a taxi. - Where are you going ? Kurt asked. I got in and said to the driver: "New Chancellery!" I turned around so as not to miss Kurt's stunned face. In front of the gate of the New Chancellery stood a large SA. On his chest, he had an oval ensign suspended from his neck by a chain, which gave him an extremely warlike appearance. As I approached the stairs, he clicked his heels and extended his right arm. I took off my hat, amused at the idea that he must now take me for a high foreign diplomat, and said politely: "I would like to see the Minister of State, Doctor Meissner!" - This way please ! he said, indicating the portal. No sooner had I entered than an SA jumped up from a niche, clicked his heels and stretched out his right arm. A little more conant, I say:

"Minister, Dr. Meissner?" - This way please ! he said pointing me to a staircase covered with red carpet. I went up. At the first landing, an SA jumped up, clicked his heels and stuck his arm in my face. I say abruptly: "Minister Meissner!" "This way, please," he said, pointing to a large doorway. two doors, through which one could see a long corridor flooded with light and covered with gray carpet. I walk through the open door. A short, gray-haired man, dressed in a simple gray livery, asked me in a low, knowing voice: - Will you allow me to take off your overcoat? He helped me take off the overcoat in the pocket of which were all my papers, took my hat and hung everything up in a little niche. Then, politely leaning over, he asked in a soft voice: "Who can I announce?" This was the time to boldly face fate. In a loud, distinct voice, I say my name. Fate did not blink. He says : - One moment please. He disappeared in the first door, returned immediately and said:

"The Minister begs you to come in!" So it wasn't more complicated than that. I entered a large bright room. The minister had already risen and came towards me, his hand outstretched. He wore a gray suit without any buttonhole badge. He says : "I am very happy to meet you personally." So he had read my books. He immediately continued. — Are you coming for the first time to the New Chancellery?

I say I had never been to the old one either. He laughed and I looked around. Facing the large desk, there was a huge portrait of Hitler. He observed, so to speak, with a piercing gaze what Meissner was up to. On the other wall there was a large portrait of Hindenburg. Then there was another one from Bismarck. But, on the side of the door, the wall was empty. I looked at this wall and said: "Something is missing here!" The Minister smiled cordially and, amused, he said:

“Yes, something is missing. This is my office. THE portrait of Mr. President Ebert, whom I deeply venerate, has a place of honor in my house, in my house! He gave me a seat and sat down behind his desk. I say : — Minister, I am busy collecting the materials for a history of the German post-war period. He smiled engagingly and said: — I know, a beautiful task, very necessary. I decided to get to the heart of the matter and said:

— Minister, during my research, a rumor insinuated that you got your job as Chief Chancellery because… because you brought President Ebert a bag with a million! The Minister burst into a cordial and frank laugh. Then he says:

"Yes, you see, rumor always spreads things that contain a grain of truth. I want to tell you how it actually happened. During the Great War he had been a railway lieutenant. When, towards the end of the war, Groener succeeded Ludendor and assumed supreme command of the army, he chose Meissner as his successor. Responsible for the railway network

eastern front, Meissner took on an enormous task. There were still half a million German soldiers in the immense sector between Reval and Rostov-on-Don; it was a question of bringing them back to Germany at the time of the German revolution. In kyiv, everything was upside down. The military governor had already left, the Poles and the Bolsheviks were seeking to occupy Ukraine where the leader of the Cossacks Petljura was fighting for the autonomy of his homeland. Everywhere, gangs and groups of partisans of the most diverse affiliation fought; the small German detachments were dispersed in the immense space and had only the desire to return. The only thing still intact was the network of German railways and the German army in the east was successfully repatriated without any notable incident. Meisner says: "I had reserved for myself an armored train which was to bring back my

staff and the last protection troops. The train was ready to leave, all the business of my service was settled, except one. I had to take leave of Petljura. I went there alone. I was the last German in town. Petljura knew what he owed to the presence of the German troops and he was very unhappy with their departure. Indeed, his position was precarious. In three large columns, the Poles, the Bolsheviks and the Allies advanced towards the Ukraine. Petljura had few reliable troops; he was probably strong enough to face each of the armies individually, but never all three at once. This farewell visit was therefore imbued with cordiality, but also with melancholy. Eventually, Meissner said everything was settled, except the question of payments for German property in Ukraine. Petljura did not understand. " How ? Well, the railroad system, the rails, the sleepers, the telegraph poles, the bridges,

the stations… all that was German property. "But you can't take them away!" exclaimed Petljura. "Not take away, but destroy!" said Meissner. Petljura was afraid. “Then I am lost! In fact, without the only communications that still functioned in this vast region threatened by gangs, he was lost. “Pay! said Meissner. - " But I have no money ! — "Sign the receipts!" said Meissner. And Petljura signed. He signed receipts for destroyed rails, sleepers, bridges, telegraph poles, stations, and wagons. Meissner had the papers on him and Petljura signed. Meissner stuffed the receipts into his sleeping bag and drove to the station. But the armored train was gone. Meissner got himself a sled, sat on the sleeping bag filled with receipts and crossed the restless country, passed through the snow-capped Carpathians, bustling Czechoslovakia and, weeks later, arrived in Germany. He looked for the service where he could deposit his accounts. But this service no longer existed. No one was more competent. He went to Berlin and sought to reach the provisional leader of the Republic, Ebert. But Ebert was inaccessible. He dragged himself from one conference to another. When Meissner came for the eighth time, Ebert's deputy wanted to kick him out. “We are desperate! he cried. We don't know what to do! The President is at a very important conference! An allied commission wants to destroy our Ukrainian assets! These are millions that we don't have! And you ask to see the President! — "But I'm coming to the subject of Ukrainian assets!" cried Meissner, pointing to his bag. He was immediately introduced to Ebert. And Ebert submitted Petljura's receipts to the Allied Commission, which, as the successor to the Ukrainian state, wanted to consecrate the consideration for supplies of Ukrainian wheat. THE These are millions that we don't have! And you ask to see the President! — "But I'm coming to the subject of Ukrainian assets!" cried Meissner, pointing to his bag. He was immediately introduced to Ebert. And Ebert submitted Petljura's receipts to the Allied Commission, which, as the successor to the Ukrainian state, wanted to consecrate the consideration for supplies of Ukrainian wheat. THE These are millions that we don't have! And you ask to see the President! — "But I'm coming to the subject of Ukrainian assets!" cried Meissner, pointing to his bag. He was immediately introduced to Ebert. And Ebert submitted Petljura's receipts to the Allied Commission, which, as the successor to the Ukrainian state, wanted to consecrate the consideration for supplies of Ukrainian wheat. THE

receipts made a sum slightly greater than the credit note. The commission withdrew without discussing the difference. And Ebert asked Meissner, that able civil servant, what post he wanted. So Meissner proposed to Ebert to set up a service which, in direct contact with the Head of State, would deal with these complicated but politically important affairs. "And so," said Minister Meissner, instructed by the President of the Reich, the revered Mr. Ebert, I organized the Presidential Chancellery! He laughs heartily.

"It was a little over a million, but it was only received!

I thanked him very much and the minister stood up. But, before I took my leave, he asked me: "Would you like to visit the New Chancellery?" I stopped and said: — Thank you very much, today I am more interested in broken tiles. Meissner lost his smile, but not his friendliness. He says quietly: - We break more than you think! "But all that will be paid for one day!" I exclaimed. And who should pay it...? Meissner looked at me calmly, his pupils had become very small. He says : - Well, first there is the insurance! This idea had not yet occurred to me. I asked: "But will they be able to?" Will they? — And then there are the reassurances! said Meissner. And thosethey are abroad!

— But… I said piteously, is there no one who can prevent this madness...? - Whether ! he said. At least we are trying. But we can fight badly against fatalities. You have to pay them.

"It's not inevitable," I cried, "it's a crime!" "Crimes are always fatalities," said Meissner, "I believe that — you — must recognize that! But we can strive to find an honest solution to the consequences of fatalities. We can strive to find honest solutions, that's all we can. And that is what must be done. And hope others do the same. When I got home, Ille wasn't waiting for me as usual at the door with a big glass of cognac. She was in the kitchen, filled with smoke, where swirls of soot swirled. He was smeared in black and was sweating in a small pile of red ashes, heaped up in a shovel. She looked at me with burning eyes. - What is happening ? I asked. "I burned the papers!" she said sobbing. "What papers?" He cried: "The ones in the old suitcase!" The signatures in white! Laughing, I helped her clear the ashes. While she was washing her hands and face, she said: — So tell me: When you arrived, everyone was already there…

I told him the story of Kurt Heuser and his Persian, and I told him about my interview with Meissner. At the end, I had my cognac, and Ille said:

"What a terrible time ours is!" And I was born in 1912! I wish I had died in 1912, aged seventy! And

I would have worn the fashion of 1880 so well,' she added with a sigh. I objected, laughing:

“You have to admit that our time is interesting! I think it's the most interesting time in history! And never before has there been a generation that has experienced so much and such a variety of things! "You're surely right," said Ille. But, you know, you don't have to I'm sorry, but I'd rather read them!

99.Have you ever sworn an oath of secrecy to any organization? — 100.If so, list the organizations and give particulars. —101.Have you any

relatives who have held oce, rank or post of authority in any of the organizations listed from 41 to 95 above? —102.If so, give their names and addresses, their relationship to you and a description of the position in organization. —103.With the exception of minor contribution to the Winterhilfe and regular membership due, list and give details of any contributions of money or property which you have made directly or indirectly to the NSDAP or any of the other organizations listed above, including any contributions made by any natural or legal person or legal entity through your solicitation or influence. —104.Have you ever been the recipient of any titles, ranks, medals, testimonials or other honors from any of the above organizations? —105.If so, state the nature of the honor, the date conferred, and the reason and occasion for its bestowal. —106.Were you a member of a political party before 1933? —107.If so, which one? —108.For what political party did you vote in the election of November 1932? — 109.In March 1933? —110.Have you ever been a member of any antiNazi underground party or groups since 1933? —111.Which one? — 112.Since when? —113.Have you ever been a member of any

trade union or professional or business organization which was dissolved or forbidden since 1933? —114.Have you ever been dismissed from the civil service, the teaching profession or ecclesiastical positions or any other employment for active or passive resistance to the Nazis or their ideology? —115.Have you ever been imprisoned, or have restrictions of movement, residence or freedom to practice your trade or profession been imposed on you for racial or religious reasons or because of active or passive resistance to the Nazis? —116.If you have answered yes to any of the questions from 110 to 115, give particulars and the names and addresses of two persons who can conrm the truth of your statements.

99. HAVE YOU EVER COMMITTED TO AN ORGANIZATION ANYONE, TO OBSERVE THE LAW OF SILENCE?

I don't know.

100. IF YES, INDICATE NAME OF ORGANIZATION AND DETAILS.

See

attachment. ad 100:I have never pledged to any organization to observe the

code of silence, except perhaps at the review board; however, I can only suppose that among the articles of martial law there was one of this nature. Of course, many people have often urged me to observe silence. I always prudently asked, then, not to make revelations to me that included an anecdote, because, in these cases, I was never sure of my discretion.

101. HAVE YOU ANY RELATIVES WHO HAVE NEVER HOLDED AN OFFICE, RANK OR AN INFLUENTIAL POSITION IN ANY OF THE ORGANIZATIONS LISTED UNDER 41-95?

Response refused.

102. IF YES, GIVE NAMES AND ADDRESSES, DEGREE OF RELATIONSHIP, SO ONLY A DEFINITION OF THE POSITION AND ORGANIZATION IN QUESTION.

See

attachment.

ad 101/102:It is difficult for me to deny myself the pleasure of answering these two questions. I would have many curious things to tell. But I don't. I believe that these two questions are lost. I realize that this omission represents a violation of the orders of the Military Government, exposing me to legal proceedings and sanctions. I hope that the Military Government will not deny itself the pleasure of accusing and punishing the only man in the world who really takes his questionnaire seriously.

103. LIST, EXCEPT SMALL SUMS OFFERED FOR RELIEF WINTER AND REGULAR CONTRIBUTIONS, ALL CONTRIBUTIONS UNDER

18 ANY FORM OF MONEY OR PROPERTY YOU HAVE ALLOCATED TO THE NSDAP ANOTHER OR TO OF THE ABOVE-MENTIONED ORGANIZATIONS, INCLUDING ANY CONTRIBUTIONS GIVEN AT YOUR REQUEST OR UNDER YOUR INFLUENCE BY INDIVIDUALS OR LEGAL ENTITIES OR ANY OTHER LEGAL ENTITY.

See Attachment. add 103:I have always left the administration of my finances to the female members of my household. From 1936 to 1945, Ille had the pleasure of looking after my receipts and my expenses. On May 6, 1945, she informed me, with obvious satisfaction, that since 1942 she had sent all the circulars from groups affiliated with the NSDAP asking for donations straight to the wastepaper basket. Apart from contributions, neither the state nor the party organizations had received anything since that date.

Gravely, I expressed my disapproval to Ille. Like me, Ille had a very subjective attitude towards money. But, whereas I saw in money above all the precious means which makes it possible to avoid dramatic situations, Ille considered it rather as a starting point for these situations. If she bought only one Winter Relief badge for a while, for twenty pfennigs, it was certainly not out of greed, but to attach it to a beret she had bought for the purpose. When a collector in uniform stopped her in the street, she could then designate his forehead with an equivocal gesture. As soon as I realized this, I obviously put an end to this joke. Another day, on “Police Day,” Ille came home covered from top to bottom in badges that tinkled with every step: she had given herself the pleasure of seeing very dignified police officers kneel down in front of her, in the street, to attach yet another insignia, a little porcelain policeman, to the hem of her coat. I also put an end to this joke. One day, however, Ille had the joy of seeing me, who always tried to be correct, in one of those situations against the consequences of which I had so often and so vainly warned her. I didn't like being disturbed during meals. On collection days, I therefore asked Ille to prepare a meal at home. But if I had to eat in town, I would cautiously buy a whole collection from the first beggar I met and pile it in the middle of the table in the hope that the others would have the decency to leave me alone. One day, quite a number of us were gathered in Schlichter's restaurant. Cut-glass insignia representing the egies of the "Great Germans" were sold for the Winter Relief. Hitler's head was sold at a higher price than those of Bismarck, Frederick the Great, Luther or Kant. I had piled the whole collection of blue glass on the table. This did not prevent an SS

adorned with several stars to approach our table. Pointing to the pile in front of me, I say: - I have enough ! But the SS was not discouraged for so little and said that he still had several badges with the Egie of the Führer. Annoyed, I say: "Führer too, I've had enough!" It wasn't until I saw the SS retreating that I understood the enormity I had just said. It wouldn't have been so bad if Henny Porten, the famous movie actress, hadn't, with her naïve and impulsive vivacity, stretched her hand across the table and cried: - That's good ! But it was not good at all. The SS interrupted his quest and left the restaurant immediately. With that, the atmosphere at our table became somewhat drunken. He had a pale nose and I wondered if there was a hidden exit. There were none. As all the others were expressing their admiration for my courage, all I had to do was order a second dessert in a cocky voice, which I didn't like anyway. But the SS did not return, either alone or in the company of armed men. Obviously, it was impossible for me to control what was done with the sums collected for Winter Relief. But it was no different with the taxes, and yet I paid them.

104. HAVE YOU RECEIVED TITLES FROM THE ABOVE-MENTIONED ORGANIZATIONS,

DECORATIONS, DIPLOMAS, GRADES OF SERVICE OR OTHER HONORS?

105. IF YES, INDICATE WHAT YOU RECEIVED, DATE, REASON AND THE OPPORTUNITY OF THE GRANT.

not applicable.

No.

106. WERE YOU A MEMBER OF A POLITICAL PARTY BEFORE 1933?

107. IF YES, WHICH?

No.

not applicable.

108. WHICH POLITICAL PARTY DID YOU GIVE YOUR VOTE TO IN THE NOVEMBER 1932 ELECTIONS?

see Attachment. add 108:In November 1932, the deadline for the "loss of civil rights" which had been imposed on me in 1922 had not expired. I was therefore not admitted to the elections. Moreover, I was abroad in November 1932.

109. AND IN MARCH 1933?

see Attachment.

add 109:I did not take part in the March 1933 elections either. The answers to questions 1 to 131 of this questionnaire show that I have compelling moral and intellectual scruples about taking part in the elections. I have never voted and the fact that, while knowing the secrecy of the vote, an ocial questionnaire asks questions like numbers 108 and 109 inclines me to believe that I will never participate in elections.

110. HAVE YOU BEEN, SINCE 1933, A MEMBER OF A PARTY OR GROUP PROHIBITED OPPOSITION?

111. WHICH?

Yes.

Imming main group.

112. SINCE WHEN?

Since 1933.

113. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN A MEMBER OF A UNION, CORPORATION PROFESSIONAL OR ECONOMIC DISSOLVED OR PROHIBITED AFTER 1933?

see

attachment.

add 113:Even memory has limits. Mine only kept facts that interested me. I can't answer question 113. I don't know anymore.

114. HAVE YOU EVER LOST A CIVIL POSITION OR A SITUATION IN EDUCATION OR IN THE CHURCH OR ELSEWHERE DUE TO ACTIVE OR PASSIVE RESISTANCE AGAINST THE NAZIS OR THEIR IDEOLOGY?

No.

115. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ARRESTED OR RESTRICTED IN YOUR FREEDOM OF DISPLACEMENT OR ARTISANAL OR PROFESSIONAL FOR RACIAL OR RELIGIOUS REASONS OR FOR HAVING ACTIVELY OR PASSIVELY RESISTED THE NAZIS

? Yes.

116. LIST FOR EACH AFFIRMATIVE ANSWER TO ONE OF THE QUESTIONS IN 110 TO 115, DETAILS AS WELL AS THE NAMES AND ADDRESSES OF TWO PERSONS LIKELY TO CONFIRM YOUR SAYINGS.

see Attachment. add 116:By searching my memory rather than my conscience, I come to the conclusion that I have indeed been a member, since 1933, of a banned opposition group. It was even a kind of main group from which the nourishing ground made germinate all the other groups of the opposition. I even believe I have the right to assert that the powerful apparatus of totalitarian terror was set up because of this main group alone. Its eminently dangerous character prohibited this group from adorning itself with a

official designation. For simplicity, I'll call it the “Imming core group”. In Paris is the statue of the Madelon. In her, the French who had fought so valiantly in the Great War thanked the French woman. During the celebration of the armistice, the song of theMadelon resounded everywhere more frequently than theMarseillaise. It is an enthusiastic tribute to the good genius of France, to the mother of victory. Every Frenchman knows her. But almost no Frenchman knows the statue of the father of victory, the impetuous and famous Clemenceau, the "Tiger" whose cape is torn by the wind. We can envy the French people for their equilibrium which knows the threat and the danger of victory, this people which does not celebrate Napoleon but Joan of Arc, not Clemenceau but Madelon. To us Germans, the passion for monuments to victories is not unknown. But, apart from the excessively solid allegorical figure of Germania, we have never thought of paying homage in a woman to the good and valiant genius of our people. And yet, the German woman would have every right to be honored as the true heroine of the Second World War. That this principal group of the opposition thus takes the name of an unknown woman, good, valiant and honest, a faithful and constant woman who had always seemed to me to be the symbol of the resistance: Mrs. Imming. Mrs. Imming was my cleaning lady. One day, in the spring of 1939, I went to the kitchen and said: “Mrs. Imming, did you hear? German troops entered Prague! "I don't need Prague!" she said while wielding his saucepans noisily, I need butter!

Another day she said to me:

'I must tell you that I am a social democrat. My father has always been a social democrat. In my house, everyone is and always has been. And we will remain. His house was a workers' apartment block in Treptower, in the east of Berlin. The reddish building, of which she was the concierge, had many stairs; a large carriage entrance gave access to a courtyard at the end of which was a factory. Three times a week, Mrs. Imming came to our house in the west. When doing her accounts, she never mentioned the travel time, but Ille always paid her three hours more. When Ille came to pick me up in Friedrichshagen, where I worked in my post-war archives, she arranged to take Mrs. Imming, who she then dropped off in front of her house. If the carriage was open, Mrs. Imming sat in the back, crossing her arms over her considerable chest and glancing expectantly. He had to stop right in front of the house and honk his horn vigorously.

- Do whatever it takes! she says. Otherwise my people don't believe me

when I speak to them of my masters!

"But, Mrs. Imming!" cried Ille, are you talking about also that we are not social democrats at all? 'Of course, our people are informed. To your husband, we do not want not since he was a cadet. Here is education. He doesn't know anything else. But ours who have crossed over to the other side, these rossards, we keep a tooth for them, and on the day of the big night, we won't forget any of them!

I was very fond of Mrs. Imming and she repaid me. One day, when I got home, Ille told me that things couldn't go on like this with Mrs. Imming, that I had to talk to her.

seriously. I had barely left the house when Ille received a visit from a childhood friend whom she had not seen for a long time. She had gone to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Imming to prepare the tea. Then she could go home. But Mrs. Imming immediately sprawled into a chair and said, "No, ma'am, I won't!" — "But, Mrs. Imming!" What fly bites you? — "Madame, I am not walking." No sooner has Monsieur turned his back than you receive another! — "But he's a childhood friend, Mrs. Imming!" " - "Of course, madam, a childhood friend, we know that! She burst into tears: "He even brought red roses!" He lost patience and said vehemently, "You are crazy!" Prepare the tea and then go home! But Mrs. Imming made herself a little more comfortable, took a sweater out of his bag and said with calm resolution: "No, Madame, I'm staying!" And if I have to stay all night, I stay! Furious, Ille had to prepare the tea herself. But even after the visitor had left, Mrs. Imming remained in the kitchen, saying, "He can come back!" »

When I got back, she was still there. I explained to him somehow the nature of this visit, and that in principle I saw no objection. Finally, she left; but I had the distinct impression that she was in complete disagreement with my lax principles. During one of my absences, the doorbell rang. As Mrs. Imming was splashing with her two big red arms in the dishwater, Ille went to open the door. A dark-eyed gentleman said, “Geheime Staatspolizei! He was afraid and begged him to come in, trembling. The official asked: "You have a Mrs. Imming?"

He says yes. He wanted to know then which woman it was. Ille eloquently gave a very favorable description: diligent, hardworking, conscientious. Skeptical, the official said: “Did you know that Mrs. Imming is a very dangerous ? He didn't know. She eloquently gave a very unfavorable description: simpleton, stupid, talks indiscriminately, disinterested in politics. The official says: "Did you know that she said at the color shop: ' I could tear my hair out for giving three years to the Third Reich! »? Desperate, Ille said that it seemed inconceivable to her, but that she was going to ask him. She called Mrs. Imming, who came in wiping her fingers on her blue apron. He says emphatically: "Mrs. Imming!" This gentleman is from Geheime Staatspolizei! Mrs. Imming gave the gentleman a look and said: - And then ?

As the direct method seemed ineffective, Ille attempted an indirect process. She told him about the wicked who spread all gossip by changing the meaning of words; she held out all possible and imaginable perches to him and said to finish: 'Obviously you couldn't have said such a foolish thing; anyway, we told this gentleman that you had said to the color merchant that you could tear yourself away... - But I can ! Mrs. Imming interjected. Of course I can! With my head, I do what I want! The gentleman remained motionless. He tried to entice him:

"You can see she's stupid!" She says that, but obviously she doesn't think a word of it! She promised to speak very seriously to Mrs. Imming — "because I know how to treat her, she listens to me!" — and to see that she didn't say such nonsense again. The official says: — I provisionally renounce the arrest, but beware! And he was gone. Then Ille lectured Mrs. Imming. After half an hour, Ille concludes: "So I hope that in the future you will know how you behave! - I think so ! answered Mrs. Imming, who shook herself and continued: We will buy nothing more in this store! At that time, for some time, I received letters without mention of the sender. Rowohlt also received some and threw them, like me, in the wastepaper basket. But one day, a dark-eyed gentleman came to his house and questioned him. The police therefore knew that he was receiving such letters and they informed him emphatically that it was his duty to send them to the Gestapo without delay. It was likely that the police knew that I was getting it too. So I sent the police these anti-National Socialist leaflets, the content of which was most of the time flagrantly stupid. I took Mrs. Imming's advice. “Without an envelope! she would say. “They are only interested in envelopes because of the postage stamp! And always wipe that stuff off before you send it off, fingerprints!

- What to do ? I asked Mrs. Imming. She was not taken aback.

"You just have to say that I'm the one who opens the mail and that I throw the envelopes in the basket and that I burn the papers. That's what we do in chic offices! Another day she said to me:

"Must tell you that we have nothing against Goering!" "Because he was a cadet?" — Naturally. That's education! But this Goebbels! Do you know what we will do with it? We'll hang him in a cage at the Brandenburgertor, and every passer-by will have to spit in his face! "But, Mrs. Imming!" You don't spit on a man! - On this one, yes! Even if I have to stand guard next to the cage ! He says sternly: "Mrs. Imming!" Take care! During the war, I had to work in Munich, but Ille went from time to time to Berlin to settle questions with contributions. She told me that Mrs. Imming had come with a sack of potatoes on her old back as soon as she heard that he was in Berlin. For obvious reasons, working-class neighborhoods were better supplied than western neighborhoods. “We do not give in the panel! Ms. Imming had said. “In these times, we need solidarity! His potatoes were much bigger and of much better quality than ours. He lived through several air attacks on Berlin. After each night of bombing, Mrs. Imming came to our apartment to see if everything was in order. "I have to tell you, madame," she would say, "the ladies of the upper class, I have respect for them!" You wouldn't believe it, but when it's on fire, they go at it like a man, despite their jewelry and their red fingernails! My people, on the other hand, they

stay in the basement and say: “Let the head of the island go to the roof!” In her building, Mrs. Imming was the block manager.

— Imagine, said Ille laughing, after the last attack, Mrs. Imming was all the same strangely moved. She made one of those gossips with her pots to finally exclaim: "This Tchourtchill, he should be suspended in a cage, at the Brandenburgertor, and every passerby should spit in his face!" » Mrs. Imming was a barometer. She returned in despair from her last visit to Berlin. We were already living in Siegsdorf in Upper Bavaria at the time. I was waiting for Ille at the station. She was exhausted.

"Our beautiful Berlin!" she cried. Our life here, safe, seems like a loose leak! But I can't take it anymore, I don't think I can ever go back to Berlin again. When I arrived, everyone was already there… She burst into tears and said: - It's not true, there is no one! "Does the house still exist?" I asked. “The house, yes, but I think Mrs. Imming is dead. "How do you think?... “I told him not to come any more; with all these alerts, we never knew… But she came anyway. The last time, I immediately fired her; I had clearly seen that she was worried and that she was in a hurry. Barely a quarter of an hour after his departure, there was an alarm. It was terrible, but the house had nothing. The next day the butcher in Heidelbergerstrasse telephoned: Mrs. Imming had not returned home. I went to the police station, the first aid service and the fire brigade. Nobody knew anything. She had to take refuge in a shelter that was hit. THE

people of his household have everywhere tried to identify him among the dead. Me, I couldn't.

He kept blessed candles at home. She had Catholic leanings. I took a candle and lit it in my room. I didn't want Him to see a flame burning; she had told me about those lights that Mrs. Imming called "Christmas trees." I had no Catholic leanings. But the spirit of the land of Upper Bavaria is communicated to all hearts. Thus, in a peasant's house in Upper Bavaria, a blessed candle was burned in memory of Mrs. Emma Imming, housekeeper from BerlinTreptow, 4, Heidelbergerstrasse, member of the Association of Freethinkers and the company for the cremation of bodies. About eighty percent of the German people were members of the main Imming group. She was so upset that she told me the news in small chunks. She says : 'I also telephoned Plaas. - How is he ? "It was weird," said Ille. I phoned him at the office. There operator did not understand and I had to repeat his name three times. Then she said, “Don't quit! and passed me a gentleman. At first I thought it was Hartmut, but he began to question me, he wanted to know who I was and what I wanted in Plaas. I told him that I was passing through Berlin and that I wanted to meet him. Then he began to speak in a low voice; he advised me not to inquire there, and in general not to try any more, under any pretext, to enter into communication with Plaas. I think he's still on a trip for one of his mystery cases.

At first, I was of the same opinion; but suddenly I realized that this assumption could very well be due to the fact that I was a little too busy with sensational scenarios. I tried to find out what had happened to Plaas. But everywhere I found cotton wool: the name of Plaas was surrounded by a soft silence. At the end, Hauenstein sent me without comment and pasted on a postcard, the announcement of death cut out of a newspaper. Plaas had died on July 19, 1944. In the announcement, Sonja had mentioned all his titles and ranks and had added: "He died a man, and until the end he had faith in Germany." » It was very difficult to learn details of the circumstances of his death, and what the following years brought in certainties was very meager. It appeared that the atmospheric research body, where Plaas worked, had mainly the task of probing the atmosphere of conspiracies. There is no doubt that Heinrich Himmler was aware, months in advance, of the activity of the conspirators of July 20, 1944, without undertaking anything against them. Occupying a position of senior adviser, Hartmut Plaas saw this game of cat and mouse, and it horrified him. Through Walther Muthmann and Count Fritz von der Schulenburg, he warned the conspirators. One of them fled, was seized and confessed under torture that Plaas had warned him. Plaas was arrested and sent to Ravensbruck where he was interrogated. I know the names of the criminal court counselor and the SS brigade leader who tortured him. I don't know how he died. His brother was curtly refused the handing over of the body. The fact that Plaas had to die for an act which tended not to destroy but to save men makes me happy. His way wasn't mine, but every time we met, we knew we were walking in the same way.

direction. The first knot of the fateful net with inextricable meshes of which he was the victim had been tied on the days when we began together the long journey in a life that the shadows have never left. The violence we had formerly averted put an end to his life; and it would be a miracle if violence were not also at the end of mine. He died a man, and until the end he had faith in Germany. He had always been braver than me. For Hartmut Plaas, I did not light a candle. I always think of him when everything is dark. Around 1931, a certain Harro Schulze-Boysen19founded a journal which he calledThe Opponent. He told me that, in his opinion, the crust with which "the old", the representatives of the past century, had covered our century had finally become crumbly, this crust fatal for all truly spiritual life, which had been formed from the ideologies that arrived at the power too late, too unexpectedly, with too little merit and with too much weakness to be able to come to terms with their times except through the dusty maze of bureaucracy. He believed that the youth had finally succeeded in freeing themselves from the shadow of these powers and their jargon to find their own language. He wanted his review to allow all these young forces to speak, that it be, regardless of their affiliation, a review of the intransigents. My interlocutor was a slender, well-made young man, with blond hair, with a correctly traced parting. His gait was a little stiff and his clear eyes had a harsh reflection. Everything he said seemed to match neither his face nor his mannerisms. At first I had taken him for a young naval officer; he was the admiral and grandson of Grand Admiral von Tirpitz. Soon,

many young people of all backgrounds contributed to his review, Catholics, Socialists, Communists, and, among the Nationalists, Ernst Jünger, Bogoumil and myself. When I returned from France, the magazineThe Opponentno longer existed. On the other hand, the adversaries still existed. Towards the end of 1933, I met Schulze-Boysen in the street. I did not recognize him, it was he who approached me. His features were very changed. He had lost half of an ear and his face was marred by barely healed reddish wounds. He had been arrested because well-known young Communists had collaborated on his review. The SA had put him in this state. "I put my revenge in the cooler!" he said. He intended to join the army thanks to the support of his family. Maybe he felt my disapproval, because he says he knew very well what he was doing. Then I had no news of him for a long time. In 1936, Rowohlt asked me one day to receive a young woman who had submitted a very interesting manuscript. As a young girl, she had enrolled in the female voluntary service of work, out of idealism, and because she was enthusiastic about something that should be that of youth. After finishing her service, she had written a very positive and at the same time very frank book. There was no doubt that the national service would not relish this book, and for that very reason Rowohlt wanted to publish it. But the young girl did not want to act against an institution which she believed, as a whole, to be useful and full of promising beginnings. It therefore depends on the publication of the prior agreement of the heads of the national labor service. I offered her my services for this purpose, but she said that her husband would take care of it. Her husband was Harro SchulzeBoysen. (The book never appeared.)

The young couple lived near us, in a workshop they had set up in the attic of a house. They lived modestly, but very freely, and in the spirit of that generous hospitality which was a kind of belated and temperate bohemian, but typically Berlin. Harro had his old car and the four of us, Harro and Libs, Ille and I, went boating a lot, and Harro took a lot of pictures of us.

He held a position in the same atmospheric research oce where Plaas worked. They knew each other very well. When I asked him what his job consisted of, he said with a smile: — I plant little flags, pretty little flags multicolored, on very ugly old geographical maps. This seemed to be the main activity of this atmospheric research oce which was beginning to worry me. The atmosphere we were probing there didn't seem very healthy to me. Harro invited us to a friend of his, a Mr. Harnack, a close relative of the famous late theologian Adolf Harnack. I knew Mr. Harnack and his wife, of American origin, having seen them at the Russian embassy. The Harnacks lived in a large, comfortable apartment. Ille and I stayed for an hour, then we left. We used to indulge in the vice of slander, which means that we express our opinion about our guests as soon as possible from the door of the apartment and in the best case from the door of the house. This time, Ille started from the door of the apartment. She says : “These people are wonderful! They carelessly lean against a fireplace, they have a cup of tea in their hand and they tell you

incidentally things… things! Each sentence can cost them the head! I shut up ; at home Ille did the same. She says : "I smell something sinister!" I believe that I can in my opinion! (Her voice was insistent.) Promise me we'll never go back there again! I don't want to lose my head like that, incidentally! I do not want ! I shut up. It was good that He thought so. If only she always thought like that! She resumed: - I like that! People come together, distinguished people, well-dressed, and cause "transverse connection"—do you know what that is?

I knew it, but I was silent. He says: "So they talk about Hitler and Himmler, Rosenberg and Frick as if they were complete idiots, and they relate to me, to me who does not know them, who have never seen them apart from the Harnacks and the Schulze-Boysen... He stopped in the middle of the street, stirred an imaginary cup of tea with one hand and said: — … They tell me: “You see, madam, I have this from an absolutely reliable source, I have a direct tip in Zurich… Of course, we exchange our information! And then, the gentleman winks at another and says, "Excuse me for a moment, ma'am", gets up and gives the other a yellow envelope with the words: "Strictly confidential", and again a wink ! And me, I'm standing there, and I feel like I can't breathe, and I'm looking around to find out who this is and who that is. So I learn that one is a ministerial adviser and the other a deputy and a third SS and a fourth diplomat… Tell me, do you understand that?

"Yes, yes, that's how it is," I said. So come ! But He did not come. She says : "And Harro, our dear Harro, I hear him say to another, in speaking of a third: "That one is also one of those sad figures that we will have to shoot!" Harro! Our dear Harro is busy shooting! But I don't want to hear any more about shooting! I do not want ! I don't want it to go on like this, people are shooting here and there, and who is shooting who? I do not want ! "Me neither," I said. So come ! But he says: "Do you know what it is?" It's the assistant revolution! It is a teacup revolution! But I don't want a revolution and especially not one like that! She stood in the middle of the pavement, in the nocturnal Friedrichstrasse and shouted:

"I've had enough of revolutions!"

I promised her that there wouldn't be any and I promised her that I wouldn't go back to those people whose cups of tea especially seemed to exasperate Ille, and not even to Harro's. But on this point, I did not keep my promise. I had to explain to him at least the reasons that led me to no longer see him. I too took all this seriously, but in a different way than Ille. I myself had once held a cup of tea and eaten herbal sandwiches while saving Germany. Deeply convinced of the importance of my activity, I myself had once discussed the "spiritual foundations" and I had been happy to see friends, who believed that their position was as eminently important as was eminently stupid the activity of their leaders, "throwing the ball", talking about "transversal links" and "direct pipes". And Dieter Salinger with his "

revolutionary salon” had emigrated to the Netherlands where he dealt with the cartelization of the enamel, sheet metal and household articles industries; Hans Zehrer read the Church Fathers at Kampen; Ernst Samhaber, who had become a correspondent for South American newspapers, desperately tried to translate into suitable Spanish the wordVolksgemeinschaft;Erwin Topf, a WWI tank driver, now frolicked as an armored officer; Franz Joseph Furtwängler administered a dilapidated estate in Hungary; Bogoumil, living as a "retired scholar," indulged in deep speculation to determine whether Wotan had been blind in the right eye or the left eye; Me, well, I wrote screenplays, good or bad, most often bad. And was it good ; all in all, it was fine, kindly normal; and we had all learned to be somewhat wary of anomalies. Oh ! I knew all that; I also knew the rather desperate fate of this layer of young people whom I harshly called “the academic proletariat”. Those who were lucky found shelter in the already bloated apparatus of the administrations or in the newsrooms where they became the right or left arms of eminently cretin heads. Those who were unlucky remained unemployed while waiting. She came with the man who said, "Give me four years" and who effectively conquered unemployment by building highways and public works, by armaments and a rapid increase in the amount of money in circulation, by extension of the bureaucracy which was doubled and even tripled. Suddenly there were plenty of places and plenty of opportunity for dashing, intelligent, hard-working, ambitious young people, with or without academic training. There were newly created offices and chambers where one could be an assistant or an adviser and where one received a nicely framed diploma where Adolf Hitler attested

by his signature that he took you under his personal protection. Suddenly, there was also the army; its doors were wide open, and in front of the doors queues were forming, made up of insurers and sales representatives who had had enough of going up the stairs and who were going to get a nice uniform, a luxurious office with an antechamber and private secretary, with geographical maps with small flags and official car with "my driver". But these young people were not stupid; nor were they looking for an easy ride. They wanted to do sensible work instead of digging up water, planting little flags, and probing the atmosphere that had become heavy and the space that had become hollow; then it rose up on its own, that terrible, dull, mute thing, the coal dust of power, the firedamp explosion in the galleries and pits of politics. To really do politics, you had to have the information in a nutshell. And they all wanted to do politics. They therefore all endeavored to accumulate information, to create for themselves that central point of support of which a hundred years earlier Joseph Goerres had said, speaking of the political methods of Metternich, that he encouraged the attempt to make pull the world off its hinges when you only ever managed to uncork a bottle. No body, no body, no organization wanted to give up organizing a "secret intelligence service". Suddenly the snitches, overseers, whistleblowers, spies and counter-spies became the most important people. Everyone suddenly wanted to be their own policeman and police manners became widespread. The world suddenly consisted of police files, and it was a world seen from the perspective of police morality.

But no morality is so close to crime as this. Politics entered the sphere of police and crime, politics with its two components: power and revolution. Everything, in the end, came out of one and the same pot: action and reaction, the potions intended to cure and those intended to destroy, everything was boiled in the same pot and the eggs did not smell good. The oath was transformed into a police oath, and the conspiracy into a police conspiracy. The evolution was completely logical. Since power had withdrawn from social transformations, conspiracy was to follow it. Politics was becoming modern, it was becoming an art for the initiated, like atonal music or abstract painting, for example. I felt like a good old dad talking to his son about bad wives and debt knowing it was in vain. Harro Schulze-Boysen listened to me with good countenance. He smiled when I told him that he could unscrupulously consider me one of those "sad figures" who would have to be "shot." He even protested politely. He said that I was absolutely right and that he was going to "stop" the chatter. Only once did he become serious. It was when I told him that in my opinion these activities were criminal, a crime against himself and against the thing he thought he was serving. He said I had to agree that the greatest of crimes was inaction. I didn't agree. But when I say things had to come to pass, he pulled out all the arguments I had discussed with such fervor just fifteen years ago. He talked about 'advancing evolution', 'erecting a beacon' and all that, and I could only repeat that none of that was true. But inaction is fatalism, he cried, inaction is anarchy! And I knew that I was in a very bad position vis-à-vis him when I said that inaction was the sourance, that inaction was the

ripening and true fruitful responsibility. He said that I had departed from the spirit of the action and I replied that the action had departed from the spirit and one was as wrong as the other. The discussion didn't make sense. The preconditions were no longer fair, and everyone had to go their own way. However, today I regret not having insisted. Harro put his hand on my shoulder and said: "We'll have to do some more boating together!" I met him quite often. When he passed me in his car, he made me friendly signs. I would meet Libs at the deli and say: "When are we going to go boating?" — Yes, said Libs, we absolutely have to go back there one day! We did not go back. In 1942, it was neither. We whispered about mass arrests, a monster trial and mass executions. It was the first of the monster trials, which was to be followed by many others. It was whispered that for these executions an instrument had been specially invented called a "rocking gallows", constructed after the strappado, but in which, by rocking, the victims mutually brought about their death. Names were whispered, a certain Schulze-Boysen and his wife, a certain Harnack and his wife, and about eighty young men of good families and good social positions, ministerial advisers and SS officers; eighty young people who were then calledDie rote Kapelle. And there was talk of clandestine transmitters and a "direct tip" in Zurich and spy contacts with Russia. Years later, I learned that pictures had been found at Harro's, pictures of a canoe. Harro and Libs and all the members of therote Kapelleto find out who this was

slightly overweight man with a bald spot and this dark-haired young woman, sitting with Libs in the canoe. But no one had been found to give the information. Around Easter 1933, I was living in Grünheide. The innkeeper had freed up a small pavilion for me, one room of which was large and comfortable enough to be able to sleep and work there. Rowohlt lived barely a hundred yards away, in a small house with a narrow garden overlooking the lake. In the light of his veranda where his folding bed was, I could see if he was at home. But most of the time he was so tired that he threw me out, lowering his bed with a lot of noise. That's what it was one night when I thought I could talk to him about things that bothered me. In a bad mood, I went back to my pavilion, worked a little longer, then went to bed. It seemed to me that I had barely fallen asleep when a loud knock at the door woke me up. I shouted: "Yes, Rowohlt, what is it?" But it wasn't Rowohlt. It was the police. I looked at my watch, it was six o'clock sharp in the morning. With some satisfaction, I thought, "They're still playing by the rules." I switched on and opened. The room immediately filled with strong men who let in a breath of fresh air. They rushed to the bed and the table and searched my clothes in the closet. "Why didn't you open right away?" asked meyour.

I say that I had first checked whether it was six o'clock. The man remarked:

"Hey, well, so you know about it?"

I told him that I was quite aware of these things. It was nonsense, because the man immediately said: - So much the better, it saves me long speeches. You are arrested! I politely asked him for the arrest warrant. He showed me his plate. - The mandate ! I say patiently. "That no longer exists," replied the man, "those times are past!" But correcting himself, he added:

"You are apprehended!" "So it's different," I said. Giving me a look that he thought was piercing, the man announced: "I'm Commissioner Fendrich!" So he was Superintendent Fendrich! The whole city resounded with his glory. Crime commissioners always know how to surround themselves with a little publicity, but this one had made an art of it. The newspapers talked about his genius and, on the news, we saw him, a dashing young man, dressed in an elegant leather coat with a raised collar, questioning a trembling old man in a caftan. He turned to the table and grabbed the book that was open next to the typewriter. He read the title and exclaimed triumphantly, “Lenin! " It wasState and Revolutionof Lenin. The day before, I had made some extracts. The commissioner says: — You could also read something else, for exampleMein Kampf

! - Never mind ! I said. He is on the other side of the typewriter ! From this book, I also made some excerpts. The superintendent checked, looked at me in bewilderment and said abruptly: - Get dressed!

"I can't get dressed in the presence of a lady!" I said. There was a pretty young blond woman, who thrust her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. - This lady is my secretary! said the commissioner with severity. But the lady gave me a languid look and said: - Oh ! please... I can go! She left. I got dressed. The agents had no need to search, they picked up all the papers, piled them up in a briefcase and gave it to me to carry. Outside, in the mist, a large car was waiting. Rowohlt's window was lit. So they had gone to his house, but he was not in the car. No doubt he had been asked questions about me; he must have known that I was arrested. It was good, because we had agreed on certain arrangements for such a case. The car drove into Berlin and stopped in front of the “Karl-Liebknecht House”. It is true that the banners and emblems had disappeared from the former central headquarters of the Communist Party, which had been renamed and was now called “Horst Wessel House”. I had once wished to visit this house and I had to think of a word from Kurt Tucholsky20who said you always end up getting what you really want, but always one number too small. The house no longer suited me. The house had been occupied a few days before and there were still workers there. Apparently, it was to house a police headquarters. On the top floor, I was taken into a room where several officials were busy doing nothing. The superintendent pointed to a chair and said to me: - Wait there!

I waited. The officials didn't care about me. After two hours, one of them asked me if I had had lunch. To my negative answer, he took out of his napkin some slices of cottage cheese. He had certainly been unemployed for a long time. After a while, another asked me if I wanted something to read. I wanted to. He took a book out of a cupboard and said with a broad smile: 'We blew up a nudist club. It was a book on nudism with lots of photos of naked young girls dancing by the sea or in meadows full of facetious dances. Suddenly, the commissioner burst into the room.

— Tremendous success! he cried. We just found a clandestine printing press! The agents congratulated him, moved.

At lunchtime, all the officials disappeared, except the one who had offered me his sandwiches. I asked him why I was arrested. "The superintendent will tell you!" he said, and he added with a look almost pained: It's serious, very, very serious!

I waited, reviewing all the possibilities. There was a lot. But I knew from experience that there was always one that was the right one that hadn't been thought of. I therefore played at "elimination", consoling myself with the idea that by considering the most serious things, I automatically ruled them out of the probabilities. I was waiting. It was five o'clock, then six o'clock. Finally, one of the agents went into the next room where he returned immediately, saying that the commissioner had already returned. The officials whispered and looked at me askance. Finally one of them left; he came back

after a while with a sheet of paper which he gave to my morning agent. After reading, he said emphatically: - Not me ! The others looked at him, then looked at me. One of them says: - So we have to stick a guy from the guard! He left and returned accompanied by a stocky SA.

"What more do you want from me?" he asked.

The official had him read the paper. The SA remarked: "Whose order?" "From the commissary!" answered the agent.

The SA xed me. Everyone has me. Then the SA says: - Always me ! Always me ! Gentlemen the agents judge each other too good for these jobs! No one answered. The SA took out his pistol and approached me. He asked me if I had ever heard of “attempted escape”. Oh yes ! I had often heard of it. But I say nothing. The other ordered: - Follow me ! Coming down the stairs, he was standing behind me and my neck seemed mortified. Passing in front of the guard room, my SA said to his comrades who were there in large numbers: "That's the gentleman who wanted to kill our Führer!"

The men rose to a considerable uproar and followed us into the small triangular courtyard. I was up against the wall. The SA silently drew their pistols and began to load them with a sharp snap. I heard the noises of the street, the horns, the cars, the footsteps of passers-by. That's how I understood what was happening. These bad jokers wanted to trick me.

"You can put away your cannons, my lads!" I said. It's a caliber that does not impress me!

The SAs laughed and sheathed the pistols. My SA gave me a cheerful pat on the shoulder and said: - You, you're a good guy! But yesterday we had an old Jew — what he screeched! You should have seen that! So good, come on!

And he led me to Alexanderplatz21. The "entry" office was crowded. They lead you down a long underground corridor. A white wooden partition separated the apprehended from their supervisors. Along the walls, the prisoners stood in large numbers, standing or sitting; many were badly abused. From the back, an elderly head warden passed through the ranks. He wore the uniform of prison guards and said: "Don't be afraid, gentlemen, here you are again among

men. I asked my neighbor who he was. His face was scratched, his clothes were torn and he was holding broken glasses. He was a trade unionist, like most of those arrested. At the "entries" office, a civil servant gave me the memo through my SA. He glanced first at the paper, then at me, then at the SA. Then he leaned back and said: — My dear colleague, what do you want me to do? Do not haveyou no other paper? He tasted the word "colleague" on the tip of his tongue. My SA shrugged. “That's all I was given. I don't know anything more! - But you should know, my dear colleague! resumed the official. You recently entered the service of the police and there, we know. And when we don't know, my dear colleague, we

informs. It's okay, my dear colleague, you can go, you're great! "You just have to stay here!" he said to me aloud, in any case, here you are safe! Dear old prison at Alexanderplatz! Everything was there as usual. Even bedbugs were still lodged in the mop, behind the bowl. Time passed as usual, there was no need to count the days. On Sunday, the soup contained landres, as usual. But when I asked to be heard by a judge, I was told: — That no longer exists, those times are past. And it was not as usual. "But it's the law!" I said, and the official answered: “Of course, it's the law. But where do you want us to go find so many judges? One morning the guard opened the cell and told me to follow him. I thought it was for the bath and took my towel. But the guard says: - No, take everything, you're leaving!

Oh, I was leaving! I was taken to the office and entered a large room where there were tables and typewriters. In front of the tables sat the delinquents who could be heard. My guard led me to a table without an offender. The official who was to interrogate me stayed at his machine until the guard had left the room. Then he raised his head and said: - So good, ahoi! Minute ! it was the salvation of the old navy! I say “ahoï” and the official smiles with all his teeth. — Let's always start with identity! he said, inserting a sheet in the machine. He wrote down my surnames, first names, etc.

"Do you know what they reproach you for?" he asked.

I tell him that ocially, it had not been communicated to me. - No ? t the official. Funny police! Then he asked: — Do you know a gentleman… (he rummaged through his papers)…

a Mr. Fallada, Hans Fallada? I actually knew him. "You have chosen associates," he remarked. I say with verve that Fallada was a very respectable man, a writer known throughout the world. - Oh! he tells stories! said the official. I could have guess it. Well, I'm also going to tell you a story: Mr. Fallada has a young girl at home who takes care of the housework. The young girl is the friend of the owner's daughter. With the latter, Mr. Fallada has disputes over his rent. And Mr. Fallada tells the young girl that tomorrow a very curious man will come to lunch, a former terrorist. And the young girl tells it to her friend who tells it to her dad; this one — we've got some brains! — rechit: author of attack? against who ? There is only one! And will denounce. - Well, I said, it's like that! "Yes," said the official, "it's like that in our world. bad. Mr. Fallada is also in prison. Only not here. - And now ? - Now we make a report! "Allow me to dictate it!" I said, and immediately began: “The charge, only brought to my attention today, is dismissed! » The official was typing: "... is repelled..." He raised his head: "With indignation"? "With indignation!" »

He typed: “… with indignation! » The door opened and my old friend Walther Muthmann rushed in, wrapped in his vast naval steel cape. He knew how to make his entrances! He said to the official: “Ahoi! and sat down on a corner of the table. - Well, my old man! he said, you're making a fuss of it! Rowohlt and I had all the trouble to find out just where you were hiding! "But everything went very well, Mr. Muthmann!" say it official. Muthmann resumed:

— The entire brigade was put on alert and oiled the guns! - How many do you have ? I asked. "Eight," Muthmann said, and now they're all posted around from Alexanderplatz.

'Sign here,' said the official, 'then you can go home. - No I can not ! The towel is still missing! The official went to fetch her. It hadn't even been opened. "Funny policemen!" remarked the official. So good, ahoi! Fallada was only released weeks later. When he saw me entering Rowohlt's room, he exclaimed: - It is to you that I owe that! But since I had just said the exact same thing, at the same time, we had a free will. We wished the same thing and the wish was granted twelve years later. But then it didn't fit us anymore, it was one number too small.

1. Bourgeois districts of Berlin.

2. Assassination of Roehm and many high dignitaries of the SA, Schleicher and several direct collaborators of von Papen. 3. Coup attempt against the government of the Republic (1920). Failed following a general strike. 4. Hitler's coup attempt in Munich. 5. Leader of the German National Party, one of the richest industrialists in Germany. Minister in Hitler's first government, who however dismissed him as soon as his power was established.

6. Author of a monumentalhistory of civilization. 7. Novelist. Currently lives in eastern Germany. 8. One of the few German generals who sincerely rallied to the Weimar Republic. 9. The case of Lieutenant Scheringer caused considerable sensation at the time. He has often been quoted to show that part of German youth went indiscriminately towards all extremists. 10. Leader of the Steel Helmets, Minister of Labor under Hitler.

11. Youth organization of the German National Party. 12. Chief of the Berlin SA, one of the victims of June 30, 1934.

13. In charge of the organization of the work of foreigners, in Germany, during the last war. 14. The largest naval battle of the First World War between the English and German otters. 15. One of the leaders of the Austrian resistance against Napoleon.

16. Executed June 30, 1934. 17. Violently anti-Semitic organ, headed by Julius Streicher, one of those sentenced to death in Nüremberg.

18. National Socialist German Workers' Party. 19. Leader of the "Rote Kapelle", one of the first German resistance movements against Hitler, with communist tendencies. 20. Journalist and satirical author, one of the closest collaborators of Carl von Ossietzky (who received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1937 while in a German concentration camp). Committed suicide in emigration.

21. Berlin Police Headquarters.

F. PART TIME SERVICE WITH ORGANIZATIONS F. SECONDARY JOBS IN OTHER ORGANIZATIONS

117.With the exception of those you have specially mentioned in

sections D and E above list:To)Any part time, unpaid or honorary position of authority or trust you have held as a representative of any Reich Ministry or the Oce of the Four Year Plan or similar central control agency;b)any oce, rank or post of authority you have held with any economic self-administration organization such as the Reich Food Estate, the Bauernschaften, the Central Marketing Associations, the Reichswirtschaftskammer, the Gauwirtschaftskammer, the Reichsgruppen, the Wirtschaftsgruppen, the Verkehrsgruppen, the Reichsvereinigungen , the Hauptausschüsse, the Industrieringe and similar organizations as well as their subordinate or aliated organizations and eld oces;vs)any service of any kind you have rendered in any military, paramilitary, police, law enforcement, protection, intelligence or civil defense organization such as Organization Todt, Technische Nothilfe, Stosstruppen, Werkscharen, Bahnschutz, Postschutz, Funkschutz, Werkschutz, Land — und Stadtwacht , Abwehr, SD, Gestapo and similar organizations.

117. EXCEPT FOR THE POINTS MENTIONED UNDER D. AND E., LIST HEREIN AFTER :

To)ANY SECONDARY INFLUENTIAL, UNPAID, HONORARY OR TRUST YOU HAVE HAD AS A REPRESENTATIVE OF A MINISTRY OF THE REICH, OR OF THE CENTRAL OFFICE OF THE FOUR-YEAR PLAN, OR OF A

SIMILAR SERVICE OF ECONOMIC CONTROL.

b)INFLUENTIAL POSITIONS, RANKS OR SITUATIONS OF ANY KIND THAT YOU HAVE HELD IN AUTONOMOUS ECONOMIC SERVICES SUCH AS THE REICHSNAEHRSTAND, BAUERNSCHAFTEN, COOPERATIVE ASSOCIATIONS, THE ECONOMIC CHAMBERS OF THE REICH, THE GAUWIRTSCHAFTSKAMMERN, THE REICHSGRUPPEN, WIRTSCHAFTSGRUPPEN, INDUSTRIERINGE AND OTHERS ORGANIZATIONS AND AFFILIATED ORGANIZATIONS.

vs)ANY SERVICE IN MILITARY, PARAMILITARY ORGANIZATIONS, POLICE, LAW ENFORCEMENT, PROTECTION, INTELLIGENCE OR AIR DEFENCE, SUCH AS THE TODT ORGANIZATION, THE TECHNISCHE NOTHILFE, THE STOSSTRUPPS, WERKSCHAREN, BAHNSCHUTZ, POSTSCHUTZ, FUNKSCHUTZ, WERKSCHUTZ, LAND-UND STADTWACHT, ABWEHR, SD, GESTAPO OR IN ANY OTHER SIMILAR ORGANIZATION.

1

ad 117:It is curious to see that the question of my position was only raised in all its rawness very late, during the decline of National Socialist power. I can even indicate the exact date: October 18, 1944. I had just heard a speech by Heinrich Himmler calling to arms, shortly before the Russian attack on East Prussia, the soldiers of the Volkssturm. Coming back from the village, Ille had brought me a note ordering me to present myself the next day to take the oath. Unlike so many of my compatriots, I had never before been asked to take an oath either in court to conrm the truth or to swear to any wrongdoing. From my family and my upbringing, I was quite naturally inclined to take for granted the phrase of those who "faithful to their oath" were "dead on the field of honor". This seemed to me to correspond to an attitude dictated by immutable and precious notions, by values which should not be touched as long as they were not only based on law and right but also consecrated by a living sentiment. This is why the provision of the Weimar constitution which allowed to take an oath without invoking the name of God certainly seemed to me to take into account the realities of evolution, but at the same time discredit the fundamental value originally linked to the oath. I therefore considered it a precedent which could have incalculable consequences.

My attitude towards the oath obviously had to be different from that of a believing man who sees his salvation

exclusively in the survival of his soul. The intransigence of my feelings made me see in the Catholic Christian the only being who could find a home for his individualism in a true hierarchical community: the Church. His conicts with the state were not mine. My attempts to lead an individual life, based on myself alone, without obligations to a community, had failed. I had honestly attempted it and the circumstances had been favorable to me, both during the years in the individual cell and during later isolations, more or less voluntary. They never gave me, even temporarily, the certainty that my being was individualistic. It was therefore to judge me in an erroneous way not to want to understand that I was basically a politician, that is to say a man of the community. The tragedy was not to find the right collective. I looked for it in the nation, in this nation which had just entered the twilight of its death. And what a nation! She was so strong that despite her false pretense and general misconception, the whole world had to gang up on her to break her strength. The question of the oath revealed the essential problems. And I had to deal with it albeit belatedly. Others had decided before me; my friend Hartmut Plaas, Harro Schulze-Boysen and the men of July 20, 1944 as well as each soldier, each individual who sealed his decision, whatever it was, with his death. The oath was the touchstone where the 'yes' were separated from the 'no's, with all the visible consequences. And no death could be attributed to the fact that this stone had become as flimsy as a piece of tissue paper.

Leaving my peasant house in Upper Bavaria, I saw the village of Siegsdorf at my feet, with its pointed steeple surmounting the low roofs, the bridge which crosses the Traun, the mountain range, the forests and the meadows, with , here and there, the colored roofs of the farms. I could contemplate this piece of land without sentimentality. It hadn't been long since chance had made me fail at it. But it was the only piece of this country that could require me to rise to the test. The man who asked me for the oath demanded that I defend the fatherland. But I knew that this same man deemed the German people unworthy of surviving their defeat. I had heard him utter this phrase myself, on the last commemorative November 8, before those who had gathered for a final profession of faith in favor of the beginning — and now also of the end. — of their struggle. If there was a contradiction, it was neither in me nor in any of those who were determined to defend the fatherland. Defending it could mean nothing more than preserving it from destruction. This oath, I could take it. Obviously, these considerations were entirely academic. In reality, anyone could be shot for desertion, whether he had taken an oath or not. The oath was nothing but a dishonest and inhuman speculation on human honesty. Among the thousands of those who were handed over to the executioners, not one was accused of perjury. The let where the valiants were taken was called "law of perdie", created at the psychological moment of the provocation of the fire of the Reichstag. So the German nation had been tactically duped. Every speech of Hitler was a tactical deception of the world, as from the military point of view, blitzkrieg was the prototype of tactical deception. We opened the game in a daring and breathtaking way

chess games where pawns and rooks fell, where bishops and knights managed to save themselves and where the partner who refused to give up kept all his chances as long as he was sure of his skills. However, the individual needed an almost superhuman courage to be sure of his skills which had to contain, in addition to the will to accept the game, the certainty of possessing, not only the secret of victory, but also the plan which gives his sense of victory. He had to expect that in the event of a decision unfavorable to himself, neither efforts nor deeds would be appreciated, but only success. In taking the oath, he had to choose between delicacy and absolute obedience or the annihilation of himself. If he did not want to devalue perjury just as the oath had been devalued by the power that demanded it, he was certain to see annihilated, even if by chance he survived, what he possessed most precious: his honor. Me, I had neither the certainty of my skills, nor the secret and the plan of victory.

I believe that the fact of having overslept the morning when I was to take the oath comes within the realm of psychoanalysis. When, exhausted, I entered the gymnasium of the commune, the solemn act had long since begun. I tiptoed into the back row of the Volkssturm men. My gaze slid along the row: the old peasants of the region were gathered together, gures eritated before age and bent down by hard work. They had raised their right hands and repeated in their hoarse voices the formula of the oath. And the left hand — here and there, everywhere in the row — the left hand was hanging down and the three fingers were stretched out towards the ground. Like a lightning rod, they

deviated from the oath according to a cunning old custom of the peasants. Oh peasants! Was it so simple!

A Wehrmacht captain in uniform stood on the stage, which was used for theatrical performances at association parties. Without knowing him personally, I knew that he was the commander of the Volkssturm. Reformed after the French campaign, he had transferred his business from Munich to this village. He stood a little apart. The most important figure was the local group's propaganda chief, the local cobbler, who looked rather handsome in his brown uniform. He came down from the dais, asking the men of the Volkssturm to register on the attendance list. Oh ! they forgot nothing! I went to the captain and, standing at attention, I asked him if I should also register myself on the list, although I had not really taken part in the oath. He looked at me with a smile and without betraying the slightest surprise. He said to me kindly: - Always register, you will not cut it. And the oath, you will lend it one of these days, on occasion! As I hesitated, he added: - It's not so urgent! Even without that, I think the Final victory is assured to us. The local doctor was the only man with whom I sometimes entertained an illusion of "society life." I asked him how the captain was. The doctor replied: "Do you want to meet her?" He often comes to We. One of these days, I'll invite you together. The doctor lived at the entrance to the village, in a small white house whose well-maintained garden even included an arbor of wisteria. He collected preciously framed paintings, crammed together in every room. When I

Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

live for the first time, I decided to abstain from any judgement. For fifteen years, the doctor crisscrossed the region every day in his small car. He knew the people better than the priest and his quiet nature had perhaps made things easier for him with these quiet Bavarian people. He was originally from Westphalia, but he and his wife were fully acclimatized. The captain was Bavarian. He had the thoughtful nature of the people of this country. He knew that you could say anything to a Bavarian if you said it calmly, winking a bit. He only wore the uniform on duty. Usually, in civilian clothes, at the wheel of his small van, he traveled the country to visit his customers. He knew all the people and when he took charge of the Volkssturm he handled the inventory like a good trader. The town had, before the war, about 2,500 inhabitants; it included the relatively small nucleus of the village proper and a large number of hamlets grouping three to five farms, scattered in the valleys and on the hills. However, at the time, the number of inhabitants had almost tripled. The houses in the village and the surrounding farms were full. First there were the evacuees, women, children and old people from Gelsenkirchen; the new Gauleiter of Upper Bavaria was a native of this region and had brought his closest compatriots to the chagrin of the people of Munich who found the Chiemgau overpopulated when the bombardments of Munich began. There were prisoners of war, mostly French. Almost every farm housed two or three. They were neatly dressed young men, always bowing politely and being greeted alike. They were more or less on their own and moved about almost without restriction. There were workers from the East, Poles and Ukrainians, even more numerous than the French.

They too were divided on the farms into agricultural workers, valets and servants. With them, living together was not easy; they didn't get along with each other, mostly because of the Ukrainian girls. In addition, they found themselves in nocturnal meetings in isolated barns or in the few rare collective dwellings. The police kept a close eye on them, but when they thought they had a "nucleus of the clandestine movement", the sinister place revealed itself, during the police raid, almost always as a secret love nest. However, some twenty kilometers away, was the Polish penitentiary camp of Bernau where thousands of Poles were interned. Sometimes entire groups escaped from the camp; they obviously met with help and assistance from all the eastern workers employed in the region, and how could it have been otherwise? When they withdrew in bands into the mountains and into the forests, no one was any longer sure of his life on the isolated farms. The main task of the Volkssturm was therefore to be the protection of these farms. But for now, the danger was not yet imminent. Even when the year was exceptionally good, the commune did not produce enough to meet its needs. "When the communications are cut off," said the captain, hunger will enter the valley. Above all, we need to stock up quickly. He added that the district chief of Traunstein had rallied to his point of view, that he was, moreover, a very tractable man when one knew how to handle him. The district chief had been a mechanic on a branch line through Siegsdorf, and apparently the captain knew how to take him. “The local party group leader, on the other hand!… For four weeks, there is in Siegsdorf station, on a dead line, a convoy

tank cars. The station is in the center of the village. On any aerial photo, the tanks must be clearly visible because they are not camouflaged. I pointed out to the local chief the danger of a bombardment. What do you think he answered me? He said, "Never mind, there's nothing in it!" » I lived in Reiten, a small hamlet above the village. My father had already had the ardent desire to one day live in a house of his own and I believe that at times he even had the temerity to dream of a house that he would build. He never made it, but with memory, that desire is the only thing I inherited from him. The older I grew, the more impetuous the desire became, and in the summer of 1939 I could hope that the day was not far off when I would reach my goal. In my mind, I already marked out the land in Kampen, and in view of this house to be built, I dissuaded Ille from buying a new fur coat. Then came the war. And finally fate allowed itself a benevolent joke with me: it did not give me a house, but the illusion of owning one. It was the dream house, in one of the most beautiful regions of Germany, above Lake Chiem. It was an old Bavarian peasant house, in a pure style, built in 1757. The date, inscribed with a hot iron in a beam, was still legible. Balconies with a carved balustrade circled the house, emphasizing the gleaming little windows, overflowing in summer with geraniums and petunias while in the fall, braids of onions and ears of corn dried in front of the brown beams. and that the cut wood was piled up in front of the house. It was the dream house, this Huberhof in the small hamlet of Reiten which included five other farms nestled in a small valley, protected from the weather. The valley was important: on all sides, Reiten

hid from view, huddled in the slope of the hill like a wild animal in the bushes. Only one fairly steep climb led from Siegsdorf to Reiten and the slope did not soften until shortly before the hamlet. I was just “the Huber”; because here, the farm gave the name to its inhabitant. A neighbour, named Emmer, was "Schneider" and another, named König, was "Schmid." The inhabitants of the village, twenty minutes away, knew my name, but when I ordered something, they sent it to “the Huber”. There were eleven cows in the barn; when Nanni, the farm girl, who lived in two pretty rooms next to the barn, milked the cows, the fragrant smell of fresh milk entered through every crack in the house and saturated the air above the undulating floors on the old joists. The house had six rooms, a kitchen, a cellar and a real tiled bathroom, an electric water pump and splendid old tiled stoves with glazed green bumps and a smooth bench all around. The rooms were overflowing with books and every room had running water. The corridor was paved with stones with reddish veins and… we lived alone in this house!

We were left alone for three weeks. Then, two dark-eyed gentlemen arrived. They said, "Heil Hitler," but without taking off their hats. They took exible tape measures from their pockets and measured the rooms. They soiled the whole house with their muddy boots, and in every room they shook their heads knowingly and said at first: "Requisitioned!" » - My books ! I said. "We have to get them out!" they said.

- My work ! "You might as well write in bed!"

I offer them my last cigars. They accepted them, put them in their mouths, looked into the kitchen and said: "Requisitioned!" After having requisitioned everything, the bath, the toilets. and Nanni's little apartment, they said "Heil Hitler" and went to the next farm, smoking my cigars. And I say: "So Heil Hitler!" and watched them leave. I wanted to return to the hotel "Königshof" in Munich and I praised the bohemian life and I cursed all property, even illusory, and what property is not illusory? But Ille displayed a quiet activity. His family had been much better off than mine, they had kept the instinct of ownership. She even still had a real house, in Kassel, a "mansion" of fourteen rooms with a "winter garden", a house built for her in 1912, at the time of her birth. Only she had no right to live there. She was born on July 14, the day the Bastille was stormed. She was born under the sign of Cancer and had the instinct of the house, of the hard shell which, alone, allows the crab to live. In short, she had a happy hand with the houses: that of Kassel had not yet been touched, in spite of the destruction all around; as for the Huberhof, she succeeded in arranging the affairs. After a few days, my sister-in-law Hilde, the wife of my brother Günther, arrived with my nephew Michel, sent from Munich by a far-sighted magistrate. Then came my friend Pablo, merchant and lawyer and then soldier of Anti-Aircraft Defense His apartment had been destroyed. We were therefore already five people for six rooms, which represented a very acceptable proportion, one would say. But there also arrived a young woman with her still very small son, sent by the mayor of Munich. His apartment and his store had been destroyed by the bombs. She was a very calm young woman, her the wife of my brother Günther, arrived with my nephew Michel, sent from Munich by a far-sighted magistrate. Then came my friend Pablo, merchant and lawyer and then soldier of Anti-Aircraft Defense His apartment had been destroyed. We were therefore already five people for six rooms, which represented a very acceptable proportion, one would say. But there also arrived a young woman with her still very small son, sent by the mayor of Munich. His apartment and his store had been destroyed by the bombs. She was a very calm young woman, her the wife of my brother Günther, arrived with my nephew Michel, sent from Munich by a far-sighted magistrate. Then came my friend Pablo, merchant and lawyer and then soldier of Anti-Aircraft Defense His apartment had been destroyed. We were therefore already five people for six rooms, which represented a very acceptable proportion, one would say. But there also arrived a young woman with her still very small son, sent by the mayor of Munich. His apartment and his store had been destroyed by the bombs. She was a very calm young woman, her which was a very acceptable proportion, one would say. But there also arrived a young woman with her still very small son, sent by the mayor of Munich. His apartment and his store had been destroyed by the bombs. She was a very calm young woman, her which was a very acceptable proportion, one would say. But there also arrived a young woman with her still very small son, sent by the mayor of Munich. His apartment and his store had been destroyed by the bombs. She was a very calm young woman, her

husband was at the front. Ille didn't ask him for rent and we didn't even notice his presence. Even if Mrs. Söllner was there, Ille casually listened to the BBC and the "Soldatensender Calais" whose wavelength was close to that of Munich. When I was at home, she never did, I objected. I had listened to these enemy transmitters several times and I refused henceforth to let myself be treated "under my own roof" as badly as the propaganda did, which never touched me where I believed myself likely to be touched. Until today, no event has made me regret this kind of mental hygiene. The situation of the house had originally suited me, because it made my work easier. We were shooting in Munich and Salzburg lms in the production of which I participated. From the Huberhof both towns were easy to reach. At that time, the danger of shelling was not yet acute. But then the Huberhof seemed to have, in addition to all its advantages, that of security, a security due, it is true, more to its isolation than to the solidity of its walls. In this country retreat, a new geography was born, a geography of memory rather than imagination. Already, my home town of Kiel was ruthlessly hammered. With Frankfurt-am-Main, my youth was dying, with the Rothschildallee and the cramped five-room apartment, with the way to school lined with little flower gardens, with the Opera and the Roemerberg festivals under the Argentinians of the moon. On the Rhine, the towns sank, and with them the dreams that had made us plan a road trip after the war. Ille tried to evoke for me his hometown, Kassel, as the press release from the OKW2mentioned new attacks, not without adding, by way of consolation, that no military purpose had

been touched. No doubt it was the same lack of imagination that allowed one to rain down fire on the cities at his command, and the other to transform, at his command, endless lives of men. in heaps of shot corpses. No doubt it was also the same lack of imagination that made it possible to endure, day after day, what was happening day after day. I learned to know the shameful joy of neutrals at not having yet been struck by all the violence of war, the ignominious hope of surviving, the terrible desire not to be destroyed in one's inner being, to be able to recover , one day, to seek the same bland happiness as before. “Life goes on,” my brother Günther had said to his wife as he settled his business the day before he left for the front, fully aware of how brutal and true this sentence was. "Go to Bavaria!»a friend from the American Embassy shouted to me when he took leave of me the day after Pearl Harbor. Now I was in Bavaria. Day after day, the OKW communiqué announced the slow, groping approach to war. Formerly, I had put in epigraph of one of my books the words of Novalis: "The intimate capital of a country is not behind embankments and cannot be taken by assault." It was a precious, consoling, romantic word; it was a terrible, excusable, criminal word, a word heavy with obligations which no one could satisfy any longer; it was human speech for monsters, monstrous speech for men.

A curious joker had had the idea of taking the cuckoo's song as a preparatory warning sign given by the Munich transmitter. After the collapse of the Italian front, the danger no longer came from the west but from the south. The war stretched its arm over the Alps. But before the cuckoo song sounds, followed by the

reassuring voice of the Bavarian announcer who announced the approach of formations of enemy bombers, the air began to vibrate and, above the crests, one could see the squadrons emerging, shining in the sun like silver or standing out from the clouds like black lines. The air pressure sucked to rattle the windows and open the barn door. My nephew was sent to the cellar; her little voice reciting the prayers that had been recommended to her was drowned in the din and only became audible again after the passage of the storm; it is true that at the same time also the prayers ceased. It was said that rivers of bombers gathered above Lake Chiem before attacking their goal, Munich, Landshut, Regensburg or Nuremberg. If the wind was favorable, we heard the bombs on Nuremberg; the bombs on Munich were always heard at home. We were going to the hill behind the house—my God, how many times have we listened to that dull barking! — and at night you could see the lightning over Munich and the fires reeter in dirty red on the clouds. But then the bombers would come in. They no longer passed in rivers, but in scattered swarms. With them, danger approached us. Quivering, we listened to the crackle and the roar grow louder and weaker: therein lay the danger. The sick machines, affected, tried here to take flight which would allow them to cross the steep wall of the mountain; they then scattered the rest of their charge over the country. Here and there the bombs were falling silently; like staggering shadows, the machines suddenly passed over the crest of the hill, and the ripping of the engines rushed into the house, rushing us out and into the cellar. Alas! the cellar had no protection, any more than the house. For two centuries, these walls, made of clay, wood and

lime, had protected against the forces of nature; against the forces of culture, they turned out to be as thin as eggshells. Ille had put in the suitcases everything that was not essential to daily life, apart from the books. Then, she had stored the luggage in the entrance, believing that we would have time to throw them outside. But one day in November, when we were at table and the first snow seemed to prevent planes from taking to the skies, there were sudden explosions, five, six, dry and heartrending. Then the choppy sound of a damaged engine. I ran up the hill. On the other slope, dirty spots lay in the snow in front of the hamlet of Reichhausen. Above the hamlet floated a pale cloud. Neighbors had joined me and we were looking steadily in the direction of Reichhausen. Nothing was moving. Peaceful, the farmhouses opened to view, two, three, four; and the fifth, where was she? We rushed into the valley and climbed the other slope. The farm no longer existed. She seemed worn out, sunk underground; all that remained were a few stones and debris from the roof. They had been at the table, three adults, nine children, peasants and evacuated townspeople. Curiously, I lost nothing by the bombs, apart from a few books and a suit that I had given to be cleaned. At no time had the bombs seriously threatened me, and sometimes all of this made me look as suspect to myself as to others. Ille, on the other hand, seemed to attract the bombs like me the prison. My work required conferences sometimes in Munich, sometimes in Salzburg and we shared the work. Ille let me go without worry, because we knew from experience that the days I spent in the city were days without bombs. But I

I could be sure that the cuckoo would sing as soon as Ille left the Huberhof. - I do not understand anything, she knows me. And say that I love so many Americans! She liked them very much. She had many friends and even relatives in the United States. She knew American movies and literature as well as songs, cars and refrigerators. She was not fond of American cuisine, and that reassured me. But she not only liked the Americans, she also wanted them to come. And the Americans seemed eager to send him their good regards. When the cuckoo sang, I could calculate where the attack would surprise it, on the way or in the city. I would then go up the hill and listen to the rumbling and dull barking. Ille had promised to call me after each attack and she had always kept her promise. During her last trip, the first alert was given when she could only be in Prien. The second alert must have stopped him shortly before Munich, the third in the city itself. It was as if all the devils had gotten involved. All day I did not leave the hill. Sometimes I would throw myself to the ground, so heavy was the roar of low-flying bombers in unrelenting waves. Subdued by this horrible thunder, I pressed myself against the ground, at the foot of an oak tree, without averting my gaze from the sky above Munich. The first swarms were already returning while new formations were still arriving. As soon as the sky was empty, I rushed to the telephone to try to have communication with Munich. But the line was out of order. All day she was out of order. Night had barely come when new waves appeared. I saw the amber lightning over the city, and the small

sudden reddening dots of exploding anti-aircraft grenades. Late in the night, I asked the operator at the Siegsdorf exchange not to abandon the attempt to communicate with Munich. In vain. I learned that the train had already been machine-gunned at Prien, that the rails had been torn out a little further on. Firefighters from across the country had been directed to the city. They didn't even come back the next day. And the trains no longer passed. On the fourth day, despite the waves of bombers, I decided to go to Munich by bicycle. By highway, it was a hundred kilometers, but I was not allowed to use it. I couldn't count on doing more than eighty kilometers a day. Not having heard from Ille, I wanted to at least look for his body. I was inflating my tires, when the phone rang. The operator says happily:

- So, finally! I pass the communication to you! Immediately afterwards, I heard Ille's voice, very small, very distant. - Come get me, please! I tried to explain to him that I couldn't arrive until the next day. I screamed when she didn't want to understand. Finally, I understood that she was not in Munich but at Bergen station. She had come home on the first freight train that had been able to pass. I rode down the four kilometers to Bergen. I could see her from afar, sitting on the bench in front of the little station, her gaze fixed on the peaceful valley. She had half-opened the fur coat; her dress was dirty and torn, her face stained with soot, her eyes red. I jumped off my bicycle and asked excitedly: "Where's your suitcase?"

She looked at me in silence. I felt that she was absolutely exhausted. A warm wave of tenderness washed over me. I him

asked: "Was there really no possibility of warning me?" At home, Ille sat in the corner of the window without taking off her coat. During the whole journey, she had been stubbornly silent. I didn't know what to say either. Now I sat down next to her and asked her: "Tell me, how was it?" But she was unable to tell. I learned only bit by bit what had happened. She says : — Suddenly there was water in the cellar. A stream in the middle middle of the cellar. You know the Stanner kids had turtles in their bedroom. There had been nothing yet and I wanted to go back up again to look for candles, when I saw a turtle coming to meet me. She descended the stairs, dropping from one step to the next on her shell; then she got back on her feet and continued on her way. I took it in my hand and returned to the cellar. I knew: today, that's it! I had always made fun of Ille because she claimed she couldn't touch a turtle. She says : — When the main staircase came down, I thought: "Above all panic! For heaven's sake, don't panic! The basement was crowded, but everyone remained calm. Only the Polonaise, you know, the maid on the third floor, the nice girl who always got us ham without a ticket, suddenly started screaming at the top of her voice. So I gave her a gie and she was silent. And then, she followed me everywhere and, when they dug us up, she was the one who pulled me out of the hole! Do you remember the little Dutchman who operated the elevator? He had put on a helmet that was much too big for him and, between two waves, he always walked around the house to see if there were any incendiary bombs on the roof.

Eventually, Mr. Stanner forbade him. When the bomb fell in the elevator shaft, he was injured. We dragged him into the cellar; Mrs. Stanner bandaged him and I had to hold his hand. Suddenly he sat up and said: "You see, the Germans won't be able to say now that we Dutchmen aren't brave!" And then he died. And Ille suddenly began to cry. I put her to bed. I no longer allowed him to go to Munich. The “Königshof” having been completely destroyed, I spent the nights in the workshops of the studios. None of my trips was disturbed by a bombardment. During my last trip to Munich, the new director of the Oce National du Cinéma had invited the authors of Bavaria to a conference. He was a dashing young man who confidently and concisely laid out the outlines of the production to be started immediately after the nal victory. The plan took into account all the data, except reality. The sun was shining, the spiel was lapping, the projects were being discussed in detail. These were enormous projects, and the dashing young man spoke with pride of the successes of the German inventive spirit in the field of color cinema. The Russians were at the gates of Berlin and I wanted an alert, just a good little alert and a medium caliber bomb on the vacant lot in front of the workshops... But, for that, I should not have been in Munich. I phoned Ille from the studios. She told me she was sitting on the floor, the camera on her lap, right against the wall, as a lone fighter bomber machine-gunned the house. "He's coming back now!" She held the receiver out of the window. I heard the engine roar, followed by a sharp crackle.

- Already passed ! Ille said. It's the third time. behind the hill, he turns around and comes back to the charge!

From my telephone box, I sent Ille to the cellar. The fighters and light bombers that accompanied the heavy bombers apparently did not participate in "mass attacks", but chose as a hobby small personal attacks on fun little targets. Thus the air of bucolic peace began to quiver. The war was coming to an end. It was obvious. There were signs of it all over the place. The German transmitters were broadcasting only one program, and one station after another was drying up. But, better than the silence of the transmitters and the press release from the OKW, my friend Taddée informed me about the phenomenon of the near end of the war. Taddée was a young Pole who had worked for years on a nearby farm. He was a kind, broad-faced man who sometimes came to lend a hand at my house. He had the confidence of the workers of the East and in the many petty disputes between peasants and Poles, his mediation was never sought in vain. I was used to hearing the truth from Taddée, who was extraordinarily well informed by impenetrable sources. It was said that the Poles got their information and their passwords from clandestine transmitters. But, if an investigation did not make sense, good relations with the workers of the East made much more, as the old chief of the gendarmerie of Siegsdorf said. He was an intelligent man who was trying to get along with Taddée; the latter, for his part, only wanted good understanding between the Poles and the people of the country. If, at the beginning, when the Poles were still keeping quietly apart, Taddée wore a broad smile when he came to the farm, his face grew darker and darker at if an investigation did not make sense, good relations with the workers of the East made much more, as the old chief of the gendarmerie of Siegsdorf said. He was an intelligent man who was trying to get along with Taddée; the latter, for his part, only wanted good understanding between the Poles and the people of the country. If, at the beginning, when the Poles were still keeping quietly apart, Taddée wore a broad smile when he came to the farm, his face grew darker and darker at if an investigation did not make sense, good relations with the workers of the East made much more, as the old chief of the gendarmerie of Siegsdorf said. He was an intelligent man who was trying to get along with Taddée; the latter, for his part, only wanted good understanding between the Poles and the people of the country. If, at the beginning, when the Poles were still keeping quietly apart, Taddée wore a broad smile when he came to the farm, his face grew darker and darker at

as the Poles changed their attitude. The change was very slow; besides, they weren't becoming insolent, but familiar. They no longer fled at full speed when they were surprised in the orchard, they laughed happily, tore off the blossoming branches of the cherry trees and put them between their teeth. He would look at Taddée's state of mind and try to console him. "It's not the Russians who will come here, but the Americans! But, with sadness, he said: "Before come the SS!" I believe that I will die, every Poles will die! He told me these words. I knew it was going to be very difficult, however, I promised Taddée that no Poles would be killed by the SS as long as the Volkssturm was there. But Taddée said with an oppressed air: “I will surely die. I am not happy ! It was self-evident that the tasks of the Volkssturm were determined by air attacks. Primarily, the captain had drawn up a plan of service which made the peasants fear that the rumors according to which the Volkssturm would be sent to the front as a stopgap were not completely unfounded, as the ocial denials armed him. The captain didn't care about rumours; he commanded the service. He did a model of the Siegsdorf region, which above all enabled him to convince the district chief that he needed every man to defend his sector as best he could. It was necessary to establish protective shelters against planes flying low. Soon the district head got into the habit of ordering the Volkssturm for all emergency work. The railroads called him to unload wagons, bridges and roadways for road repairs. The Volkssturm was not

placed under the command of the Wehrmacht, but under that of the party. Company commanders had to be party members. The assistants were not compelled to do so. The captain therefore took me on as his assistant. In the captain's absence, the deputy commanded the battalion. The captain stored reserves. Mills and dairies supplied their surpluses exclusively to the Volkssturm. The captain establishes an alert system that he often experienced. Each hamlet and each isolated farm was connected to the village by sound installations or couriers. People at the Volkssturm were worried about seeing their service grow ever larger. So the captain organized a "friendly evening", during which he went from one table to another, clinking glasses with his men, and repeating with a blink of his eyes: "You beasts!" Can't you see that plus there he service, the more indispensable you are! But the Reichsleiter Bormann demanded that every unit of the Volkssturm detach a small contingent to battalions formed expressly for the front. Anxiously, the captain studied the ever-increasing ot of instructions and orders, then he went to all the men appointed for the transport and spoke to them fatherly. The group left for Rosenheim, accompanied by best wishes and a sigh of relief from the neighbors who "had cut it". But after a few days it was whispered that the detachment had deserted. By order of Bormann, any deserter from the Volkssturm was liable to capital punishment. The captain immediately went to the district chief. - Everything is in order! he said coming back. people are everything

just got home.

The district chief stops them. They declared that they had gone to Rosenheim to serve at the front in a unit of the Volkssturm. But, after having spent days in inaction, they had been called to give them uniforms with black lapels. So they thought they were wrong. They had thought that they were drafted to serve in the Volkssturm and not in the SS. There must have been a misunderstanding and, in that case, the best thing was to go back and find out. They said they had nothing against the SS, but order was needed, and they were enthusiastic about the Volkssturm, they preferred to serve there! The captain laughs. I asked: - And then ?

— The district chief is a reasonable man. For To begin with, he threatened the “death penalty” and “war council”, then he explained to them that the black lapels had been prescribed by Reichsleiter Bormann to designate the Volkssturm. Then he sent them home. - And then ? I asked. — Now they have to be ready for the next one transportation. In Rosenheim, we declare to know nothing about a new transport. (The captain smiles.) The district chief asked me why I had designated the most clumsy for this transport. I pointed out to him that they were all party. So he shut up! Time seemed to take its breath once again, the snowmelt had begun. Long enough the bomber rivers had dried up. But suddenly it all happened at once. It began with twelve planes that soared determinedly over the snow-capped peaks, roared past us and soon after dropped rockets like shining candles.

which left behind them a white, padded vapor. For the first time, I saw the “Christmas trees”. The next moment the earth shook. We were in front of the house, looking north. Traunstein was under attack. Where the city huddled in the valley, between the slopes of the hills and the forests, a yellow cloud rose. The sirens sounded the alarm too late. It was followed almost immediately by the alert from the Volkssturm. Siegsdorf's companies hurried towards the town. From the violence of the degradation, we expected to find it in ruins. But the attack had only hit the station grounds: the station itself, the post office and a few rare houses that were right up against the railway tracks. The attack had lasted only a few seconds, but we had done "precision work", as the captain said. The railway installations no longer existed. It looked like the bomb craters lined up next to each other, but between two craters there were still some. Any attempt at clearing seemed futile, the destruction was perfect. Countless shards of iron had turned the earth to concrete. This gave me an idea of “total destruction”.

From there, each day brought new events. When the peasants returned home, crippled with fatigue after digging all day in the ruins, they undertook spring work in their fields. Against all expectations, it was possible after six days already, to lay a rail on the ground of the station and the first train passed, shaky, but it passed. In the evening, my neighbors were aairing with the horses and the plows to return to the fields again, when the captain telephoned me, calling the Volkssturm to the evening service. I met the captain in front of the gymnasium. He was smoking. I say : "The peasants were going to the fields!"

The captain was smoking nervously. He threw away his half-burnt cigarette and said, lighting another: - I know ! The training company received a new leader, a competent, energetic guy, German Cross in gold, once leader of a local group in Stuttgart. (He hastily inhaled the smoke.) The district chief has made him commander against the enemy! He turned and went up the stairs.

The new commander had a jagged arm and high decorations. He spoke the dialect of Swabia, but in a harsh tone. When the Swabians start acting like a soldier, they are much sharper than the Prussians because they lack humor. The commander, a lieutenant, talked about the construction of anti-tank barriers. He got along without a doubt. Incidentally, he says: — Getting out of the way doesn't make sense: we always got off, either by

the enemy or by the council of war. In serried ranks, the men of the Volkssturm listened silently. The next morning, the captain, the lieutenant and I inspected the village. The lieutenant indicated the places where the barriers had to be established. The locality was open on all sides, many paths and streets led to the bridge over the Traun. I noted the designated places; the captain said nothing, he was smoking. On the way back he asked: "Do you think the defense of Siegsdorf makes sense?" - Obviously ! said the lieutenant haughtily. We are here on the main line of defense of the "Alpine Fortress"! The captain looked at me. I say with a cough: "And where is this 'Alpine Fortress'?"

The lieutenant gestured vaguely towards the mountain range and said:

- That way, of course! - Obviously ! said the captain, turning towards me and throwing his

cigarette. The question is silly! You think she is in the moon! The lieutenant said in a biting tone:

"No matter what, I'll make sure that everyone here, do his duty! I accompanied the captain home. He tossed me a pile of brochures. These were the instructions for the construction of antitank barrages. There were three models, a large, a medium and a small. I studied the models and asked: "And what kind do you want?" - The smallest, of course! said the captain, rising. Under the door he turned and added: “The “Alpine Fortress”! The Volkssturm built dams. The work in the rocky ground was tough. As long as the lieutenant was nearby, the men worked with silent stubbornness. At some distance from the planned obstacles, the lieutenant had holes dug where "elite men" were to, with antitank guns and twin grenades, "neither" the tanks "hesitating" in front of the roadblocks. We had neither anti-tank guns nor twin grenades. Nobody says anything. The lieutenant chooses the most agile men for this delicate task and exercises them. As soon as he left, opinions found free rein. Why build the barriers between the houses? Heavy tanks would simply drive by, ramming into the walls. The captain was silent. One of the men expressed the general sentiment by saying to me:

"If it wasn't for the captain, we wouldn't be doing it!"

Going up to my house, I met Taddée. He told me that the Americans were in Kassel. Taddée knew that Ille was from this city. I gave him a cigarette and continued on my way. He was at the door, looking up at the mountain. I told him the news. For a long time she was silent. Finally, she sighed softly and said: — With us, in America, the magnolias are already in eur! She nevertheless tried to learn on the radio what had happened in Kassel. She loved her hometown very much and smiled that she would never be able to go there. But all the German transmitters that were still working were busy with the voice of Dr. Goebbels calling for "ruthless" defence. Men and women, old people and children had to cling to the soil of the homeland, without abandoning a meter of German soil… Ille stopped the post. She says : "I'm leaving like bogeyman!" I stand on the highway and when the American tanks arrive, I go “kss, kss”! At the time, I stayed up late at night. Sitting in my bed, I could see a stretch of the highway and hear the hum of the engines. Until then, most cars had driven east. Almost all of them were now heading west. The gas pump, at the crossroads of the highway, was surrounded by cars. But little by little the traffic increased in all directions; to interior pipes were added trucks and even couplings. Volkssturm patrols were to direct them to secondary roads, but that was impossible. Teams, often accompanied by cattle, stubbornly continued on their way.

At the pump was also the highway telephone station. The attendant could establish exactly where

the Americans, because in the West one telephone after another fell silent. Gasoline ran out and the pump was turned off. The attendant was given Volkssturm guard. I went to see her. The gas station attendant stood next to his closed pump. The cars passed in an uninterrupted ow. Most of the trucks, almost all overloaded with men and baggage, left the highway here to head north or south. Cars were stopping. With a tired look, the attendant told them he had run out of gas. He told me that behind the forest, near Oed, a police unit had taken up residence with a column of cars and many Slovak girls. They also had two tanker trucks and sold petrol at exorbitant prices to fleeing motorists. Most of the sedans were overflowing with luggage; very often, women were in the background. The attendant says to me:

"I didn't know there were so many headquarters and so few troops! I haven't seen any soldiers pass by yet, but staffs… staffs! A car stopped. The attendant has his negative sign. A senior SS man, dressed in black uniform, descended. Without paying attention to the gas station attendant, he headed straight for the phone booth. I asked if it was permissible to simply come and telephone here. "He doesn't call," said the attendant. He is changing! A very pretty young girl was waiting in the car. The attendant continued:

"I didn't know these great gentlemen were all so good married. But they never have children! Just very young girls! After a while, the SS came back. He was wearing civilian clothes and the uniform was rolled up under his arm. He inquired with the

pump attendant where the nearest painter was. Then he headed towards the locality.

"He's going to have the license plate repainted!" say it gas station attendant.

He knew all of this. According to him, all along the highway, the trees were adorned with the most beautiful uniforms.

A car stopped. The attendant wearily t his negative sign. A face tilted. I recognized him. It was Nagai, from the Japanese Embassy. - Nagai! I exclaimed. Where do you want to go ?

He had become very grey, but he was still smiling. He said he was going to Gastein where the foreign diplomats accredited in the Axis countries were to wait for the end of the war.

- And after ? I asked. "I'll finally have time to write my Memoirs!" said Nagai in smiling. For more than sixteen years I have been in the service of German-Japanese politics! I have always looked for a good title for my Memoirs, without ever finding it. This morning, I heard the conversation of two of my secretaries and I had the illumination that I held my title! "And what will your book be called?" “Too bad, too bad! Nagai said smiling. I asked him with a laugh if he still remembered our mutual friend, Doctor Yu, a Chinese diplomat. Nagai had bittersweet memories. I say : — At the time of the anti-Comintern pact that Ribbentrop concluded

with Japan, I asked Yu what he thought. He says: “Tlès commelcial gelmano-Chinese, tlès pretty, tlès pretty! Gelmano-Japanese assistance tlès pretty, tlès pretty! The two together, do not go, do not go! »

Nagai said with a smile:

— When I learned about the four freedoms of the Charter of Atlantic, I for the first time thought like our amiable enemy Yu. If I ever see him again one day, I will say to him: "Libelty of the Fulani, very pretty, very pretty!" Text of misele, tlès pretty, tlès pretty. The two together, do not go, do not go! » I gave Nagai the tip from the police unit in Oed. With that, he left. Pity, pity. On the freeway, the pedestrians became more and more numerous. From the hill, I saw on all the roads the long lines of the fugitives mingle and separate. Only the hamlet of Reiten, protected by the valley, was not affected. But one day, a car stopped in the village. A colonel of the artillery got out. Méant, I approached the house where he had disappeared, but he was the friend of a family who lived there. He related that he had had a mission to prevent the Americans from crossing the Danube. 'But I had no more guns. I was ordered to pick up everything that was still in the Regensburg area. There wasn't a single one. I reported to my superiors that I was materially unable to accomplish my mission and I was ordered to withdraw my troops. At the Ratisbonne mess I announced that the city would not be defended. As the troops were already withdrawing, an adviser from the military administration came to see me to ask me what he should do with his guns. “What guns? I asked. “I have seventy guns at the marshalling yard! he answered. This unfortunate man guarded a transport of seventy pieces of artillery which left the factories, with the ammunition, to send them to Hungary. The Russians were at StPölten and the communications interrupted. And the cannons I was looking for had been rotting for weeks at the marshalling yard!

had said nothing because he had the order to send them to Hungary and not to me!

The Colonel wept. He firmly believed in miraculous weapons. "I saw them, with my own eyes," he said. But they are probably stored in some marshalling yard! I asked him if he believed in the genius of the Führer. He opened his mouth, but immediately closed it again. No doubt he remembered his oath. One day a soldier joined me under the oak tree on the hill. He was coming out of a nearby infirmary whose convalescents were required not to exceed a certain radius at the limit of which was the Huberhof. They often came to chat and to borrow books. This soldier also asked me for some reading that he wanted to take to the front. - How ? I said. I think you'll go first permission! “I didn't ask permission,” he said. I can not go at home ! Since he had a Bavarian accent, I said to him:

"Yet you're from the country?" He nodded. I took him home. On the way, very hesitantly, he told me his story. When he was at the military hospital in Rosenheim, the head doctor had come to see him. He said, "You're from Munich, aren't you?" Won't you go there one of these days? The soldier said he wanted to, but his leg wouldn't allow it yet. Then the doctor: “Oh! yes, that will be fine, I will have you accompanied by an orderly. He had been very happy to be able to surprise his wife. In the train, the nurse

was weird. He was talking about the heavy attacks on Munich and asked him where he lived. “Close to Gare de l'Est. — "Yes," said the orderly, "there was a lot of damage over there." At the end, the soldier, very worried, said to his companion: “Listen, you are hiding something from me! What's the matter ? Then the other: "The doctor didn't want to tell you, so he asked me to tell you that you have to come for identification." » He stopped in front of the door of the house. He looked at me darkly. I shut up. He says : — The charred bodies had been lined up in a cellar, on benches. They looked like burnt tree trunks. I passed my wife several times before recognizing her. She had the kid in her arms. I saw his bracelet, and that's how I was able to identify him. I had once taken it from a young Jewess in kyiv to give it to my wife. He was intact. When I saw it, I was sure. It was a very pretty, chiseled bracelet. In line! "In ligrane," I said with an encouraging nod. He added in a heavy voice: — Yes, sometimes I wonder if that was why… I gave him a bundle of books, taking care to put Nathan, from Lessing,Judenbuche, from Droste-Hülsho, andThe Marquess of O., from Kleist. After he left, I opened the wireless set. Almost immediately, a deep, resonant voice let me know that the German Führer, the Reich Chancellor, had just died in front of the Chancellery. I rushed down the hall and shouted upstairs: "The Führer is dead!" Upstairs, the doors opened. He came out of his room, Hilde and Michel from theirs. I shouted again:

"The Führer is dead!" Michel began to weep bitterly. He looked at him: "I really believe you're the only one in Germany to mourn him!" Hilde defended her son: "Just cry!" You have the right to cry! He went to the kitchen. After a while she called: "So are you coming?" The meal will be cold! During the meal, no one mentioned the event that we had once thought would shake the earth. In the afternoon, I went down to the village. Near the bridge, there was a huge traffic jam, bogged down in the thawed earth. The bridge was teeming with vehicles and quivering dangerously under the overload. I had to press against the railing to pass the vehicles; below me the waters of the Traun swelled in a rapid current. Suddenly, I saw the local party leader walk across the bridge from the opposite direction. He had left the uniform for his civilian clothes and his little green hat. I greeted him saying:

- Heil ... basically, what are we saying now? With a quick movement, the local chief pulled out a pistol from under his cape and pointed it at me. I thought he wanted to shoot me. But he had grabbed his thing by the barrel, pressing the butt against my belly. So I thought he wanted me to shoot him, that he didn't want to survive his Führer. - But no but no ! I said. There will be better times NOW ! Visibly striving for noble language, he said: "I'm handing over my weapon to the Volkssturm!"

Despite myself, I grabbed the "weapon" and asked, flabbergasted:

- Why, then ?

Falling back into his usual language, he said:

- Because it's cooked! - Oh! I said. And now ? The local party leader conjured me with a look and said:

- I do not risk anything! I'm not a party veteran! An idea came to my mind. "In that case, the party office will be free?" "Indeed," he said; the captain is already there!

At the local group's office in the town hall, the captain was examining rubber stamps. The portraits of Hitler and Goebbels had disappeared. Square spots, adorned with cobwebs, indicated their former place. The local party leader came in politely saying, “Hello! The captain answered: “Hello! Then, without raising his head, he asked: "Who cut the insignia out of these stamps?" "Me," said the local chief. I removed them since it's cooked! The captain still wasn't looking at him. He put the tampons back on the table and said: "With these stamps, I could have established backdated certificates!"

To every Nazi in the place, I could have given a party certificate, a very bad certificate that would have proven that our Nazis were very bad Nazis and very good citizens! He swept the stamps with the back of his hand.

"That's not possible now, because of you..." fool! "Do you need tampons, Captain?" asked a rough voice.

At the door stood a sergeant major from Luftwae intelligence. He stood to attention and said with a smile:

'I was a soldier for eighteen years. Couldn't you Engage me, Captain? "What did you mean with your question?" asked him captain. The sergeant major produced a stamp and handed it to the captain:

"It's my unit's." It allows to dismiss any member of the Wehrmacht. The place is full of people without marching order, isn't it? The captain examined the pad and said:

— Dismissals from the Wehrmacht will hardly interest the Americans! — I don't care about Ricans, said the sergeant major, but not about the SS

A formation of the SS has arrived at the gas station! "I don't care about the SS!" said the captain, straightening up. He lit a cigarette and turned to me. “The training company is gone. The district head made me commander before the enemy! He stared at the tampon again. Suddenly he asked: — What do you think of Meerrettich3? I was banned.

- Write ! said the captain. Note: “Meerrettich! " But write the word as a signature. I put this signature on a sheet by simply tracing the corresponding number of feet. The captain examined the result and said: — Write dismissal certificates with this stamp and this signature. Any member of the Wehrmacht who does not have papers will receive one and will be placed under the orders of the commander in front of the enemy from here! He addressed the sergeant major:

"You don't have any papers either?" "Yes," he said, laughing. Excellent papers too! An order of march for my unit in Italy. But my unit no longer exists! "So," said the captain, "you are in charge of the office of the Kommandantur! Immediately, the sergeant major sat down at the typewriter and began typing like a madman. The local party leader stared at the scene in awe. The captain asked him: "What are you still looking for here?" You are not part of Volkssturm? "Not exactly," said the local chief. "Then go home!" We don't care about people like you ! After he left, the captain added: — A police depot has been set up at Ponts et Chaussées. He has uniforms, coats, boots and underwear that will be very useful to our population. But the police are useless. I don't want unorganized cops in my area. Also, they don't want to hand over the goods to me. Probably to make the Americans look good by giving them back the deposit. All this was intended for the troops of Italy! Of Italy ! We are here in the Alpine Fortress! Go to Ponts et Chaussées and requisition the deposit. And tell these people to go home. I said, "At your command," and turned towards the door. It was my first mission and the captain seemed to suspect the feelings that animated me towards all things police. I was under the door when the sergeant major called me back: "Take a gun!"

He handed me a brand new submachine gun: it contained fortytwo cartridges. He showed me how to use it. I slung the machine. The Sergeant Major added: "Take my cap too!" I stuffed my old Basque beret into the pocket of my leather coat and put on the Luftwae cap. She suited me perfectly. At the Ponts et Chaussées, three gloomy police officers were seated amid huge heaps of clothes. I had decided to be energetic, just as the police did when approaching me. I took the machine gun under my arm, pointed it at the three and said in a curt voice: — The stock is requisitioned! And you can go home! The older one, a police captain, gave me a sad look. "We can't go home," he said. We are from East Prussia. They made me terribly sorry. I say : "So what are we going to do?" 'Fifteen years ago,' he went on, 'I was a simple policeman. We We will find the commander of the local gendarmerie and we will ask him to take us into his service. - Good idea ! I said. The chief of the gendarmerie is a nice guy

! I announced to the captain that the order was carried out. He had pinned a map of his area on the wall and was studying it. "Go to the Adelholzen military hospital," the captain told me. According to the Geneva Convention, each military hospital must be surrounded by a free zone where no military training has the right to stay! "The Americans won't care," I said.

"I don't care," said the captain. "The SS won't care!" said the sergeant major. - I do not care! said the captain. Me, I care. I went to the head doctor who looked at the map and drew a circle on it. He says : — The zone is fixed at two kilometres. I was amazed to see how much distance was covered on the map by two kilometers. The area extended to the first houses of Siegsdorf. The Huberhof was right in the middle of the area, which filled me with satisfaction. "No one will care!" said the head doctor. The captain urgently ordered poles and signs from the carpenter and placed them at all the exits from the area. He admired my military headgear. She denied me. - You already smell like a hero, sweat and leather! Take care, all the girls will run after you! At night, I lay awake, xing the freeway. The ot of cars was still pouring out. Where the climb began, the drivers changed gears. From the stable rose the dull sound of cows' hooves. Nothing moved in Reiten. At the bridge, the next morning, the traffic jam was worse than ever. Suddenly, a column made its way unceremoniously. A car with an SS registration number stopped next to me, stopped by a truck. An SS leader jumped out. He shouted at me: "What is this hole called?" "Siegsdorf!" I said. "What does this bullshit mean?" shouted the SS Isn't there no one to regulate traffic? I shrugged. Then he howled, and his voice broke: - So I'll put it in order!

He passed a sign to stop the cars, jumped on the bridge and stopped the truck which was about to start. He showed himself the driver's papers while of all the cars in the column, SS men had to block the bridge. Their leader, a Hauptsturmführer, backed up the truck, and his people immediately began to pump gasoline from its tank. The Hauptsturmführer gave the order to control all the cars and to withdraw gasoline from all those who did not have a valid circulation permit. With that, a few cars tried to turn around. At the Kommandantur, soldiers of all arms crowded; they were Captain Meerrettich's soldiers, engaged by the commandant in front of the enemy. Their number was constantly increasing, most of them wanted to be housed. The sergeant major was extraordinary. He rocked in his chair without losing his composure. The door opened abruptly and three officers of the military gendarmerie burst in. Armed with submachine guns, they pushed everyone around. The first, a real bull, said gruffly: "I need a place to live!" - Me too ! said the sergeant major, swaying. "For thirty men!" cried the constable. - Only ? said the sergeant major. Apparently, that was the normal tone of conversation between soldiers. The gendarme softens a little. "Can't you get me something?" he asked he. We are exhausted. - Everything is busy! said the sergeant major. The gendarme then aimed his submachine gun, saying:

"We're kicking them out!" They are only deserters! Is the come down!

"Here, we don't shoot anyone!" said the captain as he entered. Show me your marching order! The gendarme handed it to him and the captain examined it.

"Bad Tolz?" he asked. The Americans are there! So where do you want to go ? The constable hesitated. Then he says:

— I have orders to act on my own if I cannot join my unit! The captain smiled charmingly. "That makes you want to stay here!" Excellent ! I need people like you! Valiant and tried soldiers! I place you under the orders of the Kommandantur! You will immediately occupy the antitank barrage on the highway! This is the most important and most dangerous dam. You will defend it to the last man! Understood ? The gendarme stood to attention, his broad jaws working. But he says: - At your service !

"You will be lodged at the Trout," added the captain. The sergeant major wrote a note and the gendarmes disappeared. A little uncertain, I asked: "Do you really want to keep these men?" The captain smiled impenetrably. The sergeant major laughs: 'Tomorrow morning they'll be looking for the camp. The anti-tank barriers

are provided for in their rules! I told the captain what was happening on deck. Full of admiration, I say: - He makes order! The captain threw away his cigarette and said angrily:

'And the people he takes gas from stay there. The place is overcrowded!

I returned to the bridge and asked the Hauptsturmführer to leave the people with just enough gasoline to leave the town and go camping in the forests. The Hauptsturmführer asked me: - What is the name of this bled? "Siegsdorf," I said. "I will bring order here!" he yelled. Our tanks no longer have juice and here people drive around! People will stay there! The bled will be defended! Distribute weapons to them and put them at the anti-tank barrages! The tire-au-anc will be down! As soon as I got back to the office, I saw a colonel storming in, shouting, his face congested with fury: "Where's the captain?" I take it down! The sergeant major rocked in his chair and said politely: "Won't you settle for me, sir?" The captain is not there. "What does this bullshit mean?" yelled the colonel. Types of the military gendarmerie want to kick me out! The “Truite” hotel was requisitioned by myself for the “Mission Abeille”. I'm the one ordering here! The captain entered. He says :

"Can I ask you to take care of the Kommandantur, Colonel? Furious, the colonel retorted: “I have other things to do. More military missions important! "Colonel," said the captain, "I will point out to you that I am quite prepared to place the Kommandantur in your hands

since you are the dean of the officers of the place. But until then, I'm in charge! The Colonel turned and left. The captain sat down and said, laughing: - "Mission Bee"! And it wants to settle here! A colonel, twelve advisors to the military administration and sixty female aides of the Wehrmacht. Sixty ! “Mission Bee”! I asked one of these girls what they were doing. For three years, this mission era has been wandering, in Paris, in Brussels, in Italy. Always in the most expensive hotels. The girls had absolutely nothing to do. They were over the moon. They didn't complain! "And people like that walk around here and talk about to come down " ! I say bitterly. "I can't stand the word 'get down' anymore!" said the captain. He smoked in silence. Suddenly he exclaimed:

“Give me the Volkssturm files. He leafed through the voluminous files and finally said: - Oh! There. Write ! In capitals you will underline three times: "COUNCIL OF WAR"! I wrote. It was an impressive document concerning the formation of a council of war in the village. Any resistance to the commander's orders was punishable by death. Sentence to be executed immediately. Council consisting of the commander in front of the enemy, the commander of the Volkssturm and a citizen of good reputation. - The three, it's me! said the captain. Attach this to the door. Anyone who comes and says "get down" will be warned: here, only one man gets down, it's the commander! The purchase had magical eects. An adjutant came, submachine gun in hand, to ask for accommodation for a staff

superior. The sergeant major gave them a warm barn. The sergeant yelled, “Dirty! and “Upper Staff” and “Down!” ". The sergeant major led him to the door. The sergeant read the ache and became peaceful. "In that case," he said, "everything is in order!"

And he went away, visibly satisfied. The main thing was that there was someone to get off, it didn't matter who was getting off who.

Shortly afterwards—the Hauptsturmführer was still on deck directing traffic—the door to the Kommandantur opened softly and a young SS Obersturmführer, blond and rosy-cheeked, popped his head in and asked: "Is this where I should go?" I was so surprised at this unexpectedly kind way that I said happily: - Of course ! Always enter! The Obersturmführer, armed with a submachine gun, entered with two huge Oberscharführer, armed with rifles. He could barely have been twenty. He surveyed the room with a smile, nodded to the two spots on the wall and said: "There the portrait of the Führer hung, and there that of Goebbels! The sergeant major looked at me, got up and pulled out three chairs. With girlish grace, the Obersturmführer sat down, taking the submachine gun to his lap like a baby. He looked at me, beaming with all his teeth, and said: "To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

I tell him that I was the deputy commander in front of the enemy. Very cordially, the Obersturmführer exclaimed:

- All my respect ! We couldn't be better off. You are the man to get us lodgings for me and my men,

Thirty followers of our great Führer, who unfortunately passed away too soon.

"That's impossible," the sergeant major interjected. All is overcrowded.

- But no ! said the Obersturmführer smiling. All the farms near Adelholzen are unoccupied! "And they have to stay that way," I said. They belong to the free zone of the military hospital! - Not possible ! he. All my compliments! It is rare, of our days, to meet decent people. How big is the free zone? I showed it to him eagerly, but noticed the stern glare of the sergeant major. I say : “I must have done something stupid, Sergeant Major. Those gentlemen will want to occupy these neighborhoods all the more!

- It is more than likely! said the sergeant major swaying. The Obersturmführer looked at us with a broad smile. "We have here," I said, "thirty military gendarmes in charge of enforce our orders! "Wouldn't it be by chance the thirty military gendarmes who decamped this morning for an unknown destination? I looked at the sergeant major who nodded sadly. — Would you please read the proclamation attached to the door ? I said. One of the Oberscharführer approached the door, read and said:

“These guys are amazing! They even have a council of war. - All my respect ! said the Obersturmführer. To my relief, two soldiers came loudly. They were covered in dust and looked exhausted. They were unarmed. I politely asked them what they wanted. They

showed their feet and this aspect was sufficiently eloquent. The shoes were falling apart. 'We have orders to go to Berchtesgaden. With those godasses, we can't go on. The Obersturmführer said nonchalantly: — If you hadn't run so much, your shoes would hold Again ! The soldier xed him and said calmly:

“We belong to a mine throwing company, my Lt. That will tell you enough. We were wiped out because we always had to cover the retreat of the SS The Obersturmführer blushed. The blood got to his ears. "It's okay," he said.

"You will have your shoes!" I said. I am happy to be able be useful to the first real soldiers who pass through here.

I gave them a voucher and the two men left. The Obersturmführer also stood up. He held out his hand to me. - Do not worry, we manage to settle well! With the same cordiality, I say to him: — If you want, you can occupy the accommodation of the military gendarmes, at the “Trout” hotel. There is no one there, apart from the "Mission Bee" with sixty female helpers from the Wehrmacht! Sixty pretty girls! Two for each! - All my respect ! said the Obersturmführer smiling. I knew well that here, we had fallen well. "A completely different guy!" I said. But the sergeant major contented himself with grumbling and immediately attacked the typewriter. A moment later, an older man entered. Seeing me, he exclaimed: - Thank God ! I fall on you, baron!

He was the restaurateur at the "Königshof" in Munich, who had the annoying habit of calling me "Mr. Baron." - What are you doing here ? I asked. "I need your help, Monsieur le Baron!" The Organization Todt hired me. I am the canteen manager. I have my car outside, full of brandy and cigars! And on deck, there's a captain who took all my gas! But I have to go! I also have a bottle of Armagnac for you! he added, leaning forward. After a moment of reflection, I say to him:

— Take the bottle and some gas cans and go to Ed. In the small forest, there is a police unit that sells juice. But don't get caught! The restaurateur rubbed his fleshy hands together and disappeared like a weasel. After an hour he was back. He held the bottle of Armagnac in his hand. "It went like clockwork, Monsieur le Baron!" Gasoline is already in the car! He handed me the bottle. I didn't want to accept, but the sergeant major took it for me. - How to go back? asked the restaurateur. He is will have to cross the bridge! I showed him a detour on the map and he wanted to leave. But the sergeant-major got up, stopped him, and took two more bottles out of his coat pockets, saying: "You never know what it might be used for!" The director made an unhappy face. I decided to push my charity further and said: - I will accompany you. You will try to read for that I will speak to the Hauptsturmführer!

The Hauptsturmführer seemed to be present night and day.

- In this cursed bled ... he cried to me ... what is his name Already ?

"Siegsdorf!" — … in this cursed village, there must be a secret source gasoline. I take the juice from these pigs and then they get the hell out! There!... There!... One more!...

It was my restaurateur trying to sneak out of the tangle of cars. The Hauptsturmführer shouted: — Stop! Stop! But the car bypassed a truck and disappeared down a street. It was the wrong one, but he disappeared. I quickly asked:

"What do you do with the gasoline you collect?" "I'm putting it in a safe place!" said the Hauptsturmführer. there is over there

a police unit with tank trucks! - In that case, I said, everything is in order!

On my way home, I met Taddée and asked him: "How are things going, Taddée?" "The Americans are at Rosenheim," he said, leaning forward. I was very tired. I say :

- So it's almost the end! — Yes, said Taddée, soon the end! He looked at his horses and drove off.

That night, like all those nights, I slept very badly. I was halfstraightened in my bed, listening to the noise on the freeway. The next morning, the sergeant major telephoned me. Two officers from Ziethen's engineering staff had asked to speak urgently to the commandant or his replacement. The captain was not there. I wanted to know if they had talked about "going down," because I hadn't carried Pablo's submachine gun or revolver with me since the

area signs had been put up. Sergeant Major says: - No way ! They are Wehrmacht, not SS! They were waiting for me at the mayor's. On the bridge, the Hauptsturmführer fidgeted, swearing. Was he never going to eat, was he never going to sleep, was he never going to defecate? Through the jumble of parked cars, I made my way to the mayor's inn. In one corner of the crowded room, two young, slender blond second lieutenants waited. I approached the table and asked: "Ziethen Engineering Staff?" They got up and introduced themselves politely.

"We have orders to control the anti-tank barriers!" I was relieved. I had enough to serve them. I led them to the first roadblock and explained: — It is still under construction. The second lieutenants shook their heads.

"Who ordered this installation?" "A Wehrmacht lieutenant!" I say proudly. - It's insane, in this place! We approached. Men from the Volkssturm were digging up some tree trunks. "But..." exclaimed a second lieutenant, "what are you doing here?" YOU

demolish! In fact, the men were happily busy removing the roadblocks. One of them winks at me and says: "Order!" The second lieutenants looked at me. I did not know what to say. I whispered that an order was an order. "Did the captain give it?"

I didn't know. They asked to speak to the captain immediately. We walked back in silence. The captain was at the Kommandantur. The second lieutenants introduced themselves and saluted by putting their hands on their caps instead of raising their arms as the regulations had prescribed since July 20, 1944. They politely asked who had given the order to demolish the dams. Quietly, the captain said: - Me. Blushing, the second lieutenants expressed the desire to be informed of the reasons for this order. The captain lit a cigarette and said: — Roadblocks don't make sense. I don't have anyone for defend. "The Volkssturm!" said the two officers. The captain chuckled bitterly. "I have five hundred men and eight guns!" "There are enough troops here, and enough weapons!" The captain laughs harder.

"General staffs!" No troops! From staffs to profusion! Not a single troop! If the Americans feel resistance, they withdraw their vanguards and five minutes later the bombers are there. Do you want me to allow the destruction of this village only for these gentlemen from the staffs to be taken prisoner two hours later? And what do you want me to defend around here? "The Alpine Fortress!" - But it does not exist! cried the captain, that accursed Alpine Fortress! You know it as well as I do! The second lieutenants said with unhappy faces:

"Captain, we deeply regret this, but we we have to report! "Make a report!" said the captain. “Captain, we beg you! Don't you want there resent again? Think of the consequences this will have, at the council of war! The captain reconsiders, smoking in silence. He looked at the second lieutenants. Finally, he threw away his cigarette butt.

- I maintain my order! he said as he left the room. The second lieutenants gave me a pleading look. I swallowed my saliva and said slowly: "If you want to wait a little longer, I'm sure I'll I will succeed in making him change his mind!

The oers breathed a sigh of relief. They promised to wait until noon at the mayor's. The sergeant major rocked in his chair. He says : "Your assassin was there!"

- My what ? 'Your assassin, the Obersturmführer. He came: "Where is the captain? I take it down! I said, "He's not here, he's looking for his deputy." He said, "I'm shooting the deputy too!" And he wanted to know which of the two was Meerrettich. I grab the machine gun and say:

"I'll get the captain. "If you meet your assassin, shoot immediately!" who shoots the first one is right! "Who shoots first is wrong!" I said. You have probably seen too many American movies.

- But no ! said the sergeant major with a broad smile. Only, I was temporarily assigned to the Waen-SS

As soon as I arrived in the street, I saw my assassin coming, armed with his two henchmen. They were heading towards the Kommandantur. I hid behind a truck. Then I met the doctor. He wore the Red Cross armband. I asked him if he had seen the captain. He believed he was in Eisenärzt. There had been a monstrous incident there. An old retired steelworker lived in one of the first houses. He had a pretty little garden whose columns of cars had brutally rammed one corner. Behind the house stood the sign of the free zone. He dug up the sign and planted it twenty yards away, in front of the house. An SS officer had observed him and stopped him. He asked her who had given her permission to move the sign. The old man believed that it was a general way of the authorization to put up these signs and said that it was the order of the mayor of Eisenärzt. The SS officer immediately arrested the mayor and asked him if he had given this order. Unaware of the incident, the mayor denied it. So the SS called two men, formed a council of war, condemned the old gentleman to the death penalty and executed him without delay. The doctor gazed at his fingers yellow with nicotine. - This is how it is now! I heard a very loud engine noise and quickly pulled away. My killer was riding a motorcycle. Seeing the captain coming, I ran to him and told him the events. He interrupted me. He already knew the story and even the name of the SS officer I told him about our murderer. The captain says: — At this moment, he is going to find the district chief to find out about Captain Meerrettich! I begged the captain not to sleep at his place, under any pretext. As he smiled, I told him that with my submachine gun, I

I was not going to leave him with a single sole. It was impossible. He had to go see a contractor. As I left, I shouted to him:

— Captain, Ziethen's Engineering Staff! - All right ! I jump to the mayor to say to my two second lieutenants: - Everything is in order! I saw the captain!

- Good very good ! We will be back tomorrow to inspect the dams! At the Kommandantur, the sergeant major said to me:

'Your assassin has come again. He loves you dearly. Stay safe ! I believe he knows your name. He always talks about Meerrettich and Knoblauch4. Knoblauch, it's you! He also got the trick, with the dams. Here he goes again to the district chief to ask who gave this order! All afternoon I followed the captain. It wasn't always easy, he had to enter here or there. When I passed under the window of the Kommandantur, the sergeant major gave me a sign: “The air is pure! or he opened the window to tell me with devilish pleasure: “Your killer has come back again. He absolutely wants your skin ! Going back to the Huberhof, I met two French prisoners of war dressed in their neatly maintained uniforms. They greeted me politely. I stopped and said to them in my horrible French: "Then the war will soon be over!"

- Oh yes ! Sir ! they replied laughing. "Are you rejoicing, huh?" "Certainly," replied one, to add, with a slight embarrassment. : That's not very polite, maybe, sir, but you understand,

five years a prisoner of war, that's too much!

I say wearily: - I understand very well ! Well, good luck ! - Thank you, sir, good luck too! One was an employee of the SNCF and the other heart. For four years they had worked in the fields for a neighbor whose son and son-in-law had disappeared, one in France, the other in Russia. “What a world! I thought involuntarily in French, "what a world!" » Cruel night! I barely slept an hour. I watched the steps of my assassin. The next morning, the Hauptsturmführer was still fidgeting and swearing on deck. The two second lieutenants were coming out of the inn just as I was passing in front of the house.

"Ah, there you are!" they cried. Excellent ! So we can go immediately to the roadblocks! I felt very uncomfortable. But I went with them. At the first roadblock we found the captain. He was smoking and comfortably watching the men unloading huge tree trunks from a huge truck. He cheerfully saluted the second lieutenants and said: — I like watching these lumberjacks. Amazing how they handle these trunks. - It's really huge stuff! says the eldest oers. - Is not it ? asked the captain, beaming with satisfaction. We build the best dam there is, the number one model! No tank will pass! The second lieutenants inspected the work closely. Giant beams were driven into the earth. The men of the Volkssturm and the contractor were struggling terribly.

- It is unheard ! I say full of admiration. "You should see the dam closed!" said the captain. I looked at the trees that had to be placed between the beams and asked how they closed it. "With pulleys!" said the captain. "Do we have any?" The captain smiled and said: - Just ! Ask the contractor to see where he has put the pulleys! I approached the contractor who was driving a beam into the rocky ground. At my question, he glanced briefly at the second lieutenants who were again at the captain's side and said: 'In Siegsdorf there is only one. At my house. Unfortunately, it fell into my well this very morning! The second lieutenants were charming. We drank another brandy at the mayor's, assuring each other how happy we were to have made our acquaintance. Early in the morning, my assassin had come to the Kommandantur to deny the smell of garlic. I was hardly there, I was following the captain.

A formation was advancing in good order on the highway: two second lieutenants on motorcycles followed by a warrant officer and an engineer company on foot. A few trucks brought up the rear. In front of the school, the troop stopped, but the school was already occupied. The sergeant came to see the captain to ask for quartering. The captain sent me with the sergeant in search of a free place. It was unlikely, and we found nothing. I decided to push further, towards Eisenärzt, but the sergeant stopped me. “It's not okay. We must stay in the village. We have orders.

"What orders?" - Well ! to blow up the bridges! "The bridge over the Traun?" I asked, startled. But how do you want the columns to advance, after? Impassive, the sergeant says:

“We don't care. An order is an order! We will blow the bridges !

- But there is no other! I shouted. And the bridge is defended by the SS - Well ! there is the viaduct! My stomach was cut off. The viaduct whose elegant arch matched the landscape so well! I shouted:

— No, not the viaduct! The Führer's Magnificent Highway! "Especially the viaduct!" said the adjutant. It is a special pleasure!

For a long time, we haven't had one so beautiful to blow up! I walked the sergeant back to school and promised to find him nice quarters. Then I rushed to the Kommandantur. - My captain ! the pioneers are ordered to blow up the viaduct! The captain was afraid. For a moment, he looked at us, bewildered. Then he lit a cigarette and said: "The mine holes!" They must be walled up immediately!

- The sergeant said it was for tonight! The captain reconsiders. “It can't go on like this. The village must be rid of all these people!… Tomorrow morning, at five o'clock, I am going to sound the alarm: “The Americans are here! You will see if the place empties in less than two! The pioneers are housed in the “Ancient Post Office”. We will put a Volkssturm guard in front of the door and he will notify us immediately when the detachments

will leave to blow up the bridges. We will give the alert at that time! And you take care of the warrant officer! he added, turning towards me. He must not leave the village. The sergeant major was swaying.

'Leave me the sergeant, my captain. I will know how do I go about it. Bring him! "Me," said the captain, "I'm at the viaduct." And no matter how tomorrow morning, alert!

The sergeant came to the Kommandantur. He wanted to plot on a map of the region the various bridges that would need to be blown up. The sergeant major was swaying.

— First of all, he said, a little brandy! He took out the bottle of armagnac.

- I do not say no ! t the adjutant. "You go to bed!" said the sergeant major to me smiling. Your type of beauty is not required here! "That's it," I said. You're going to drink armagnac all alone, bro clever! I left. An unpleasant feeling gripped my heart. When I got home, I told Ille that there would be an alert in the night, or rather a semblance of an alert. Our dinner passed in silence. Then I listened to the radio. No more German transmitters. Yes, "Salzburg" was still broadcasting. A sympathetic and warm voice took leave of Salzburg. “I know that my dear Salzburgers will never forget…”, said the voice, and I understood that it was the Gauleiter's farewell. How much the Gauleiter was aware of the feelings of his dear Salzburgers was unclear to me. Then there was music. I was listening. We handed over a disc. It was already a little worn. This was the song:Under the bed there is a mouse, you have to hunt it, you have to hunt it! Do you hear it sir?It was the swan song of the

broadcasting of Greater Germany. I thought, “O Germany, o Germany! » I was exhausted and went to bed early. But I couldn't sleep. I was waiting for the degradation which would announce that the viaduct was blown up. Well, I fell asleep. I woke up with a start. Something must have woken me up, a noise. I was listening. Absolute silence reigned. That was probably what woke me up. The noise on the freeway had stopped. Dawn was breaking. I was listening. It was five o'clock in the morning. Any moment the siren would sound the alarm. I opened the window. I wanted to hear the siren distinctly. On the tops of the mountains, the snow shone. I thought, “The day will be beautiful. The stars were fading. Suddenly, a crackling. What was that ? Dry shots. The sound of automatic weapons. He was coming from the overpass. There, again those brief, strange shots. And then the noise again, but a different noise: metal on stone. Tanks ! Suddenly I understood: “The Americans are here! » The Americans were there. I jumped out of bed, rushed to the door. I opened it violently. And in the sleeping house I let out my cry: "The Americans are here!" The Americans are here!

1. National Socialist organizations. 2. OKW: Oberkommando der Wehrmacht = Supreme Army Command. 3. Meerrettich: Horseradish (N. d. T.).

4. Knoblauch: Garlic.

G. WRITINGS AND SPEECHES G. PUBLICATIONS AND SPEECHES

118.List on a separate sheet the titles and publishers of all publications from 1923 to the present which were written in whole or in part, or compiled or edited by you, and all public addresses made by you, giving subject, date, and circulation or audience. If they were sponsored by any organization, give its name. If no speeches or publications write “none” in this space.

118. LIST ON A SPECIAL SHEET THE TITLES AND PUBLISHERS OF ALL PUBLICATIONS WRITTEN BY YOU IN WHOLE OR IN PART, COMPILED OR EDITED SINCE 1923, AS WELL AS ALL YOUR PUBLIC SPEECHES AND LECTURES, INDICATING SUBJECT, DATE, CIRCULATION OR AUDIENCE. IF THEY WERE MADE UNDER THE PATRONATION OF AN ORGANIZATION, INDICATE IT. IF THERE WERE NO SPEECHES, LECTURES OR PUBLICATIONS, INSERT THE WORD “NIL”.

see answers to questions 1-131 of this questionnaire.

H. INCOME AND ASSETS

H. INCOME AND WEALTH

119.Show the sources and amounts of your annual income from

January 1, 1931 to date. If records are not available, give approximate accounts.

119. ORIGIN AND AMOUNT OF ANNUAL INCOME SINCE JANUARY 1 1931.SIF YOU CANNOT PROVIDE DOCUMENTS, INDICATE APPROXIMATE FIGURES.

add 119:The Americans were there! I dressed in haste, but before I was ready, I heard the Porte d'Ille. I knew with what impatience she had waited for them and I hurried downstairs. He stood in the small hallway, saying nothing. Since the night she had spent in the cellar of the "Königshof", she had changed a little, less spontaneous, harsher, more tense. I also knew that for weeks she had been worried about Pablo, who was an anti-aircraft soldier in the West. He said nothing. She began to pack the suitcases. All his acts always obeyed mysterious rites and I understood that this gesture had a symbolic meaning. In the distance, gunshots could be heard. He had my suitcase in his hand, the only one that belonged to me, all the others were hers. It was a nice yellow bag with a zipper and a wide strap; he was full of skin and I liked him very much. It was, so to speak, new.

Near the stairs, Ille suddenly dropped him. With tears in her eyes, she said: - Come on, let's danceChildren of Bolle! This dance was something very stupid. The first time I went to the cinema with Ille, we were showing a film during the intermission advertising the Bolle dairy in Berlin. We saw carafes of milk, the big ones as boys, the small ones as girls, marching through the streets and finally performing a pretty little round. He had been so delighted with it that when he left the cinema, she wanted to dance with me.The Children of Bolle, right in the middle of the bustling nocturnal Kurfürstendamm. I was very much in love and would have done anything for Ille, but it seemed almost too much. He, however, had insisted and I danced. And she begged me to "give" her this dance. Since I didn't understand, she explained to me what that meant: I had to promise never to refuse her this dance whenever and wherever she asked. I was very much in love and I promised. I had never refused her the dance, but I had never danced it without feeling a certain shock. Now I took Ille's hand without shock and we dancedThe Children of Bolle, three steps to the left, three steps to the right, let's go around in circles! I stumbled against my suitcase and fell on the stove bench. And suddenly, the tension of the last days, the last weeks, the last years, broke, I burst out laughing, a shrill, hysterical laugh. Laughing, as tears rolled down my cheeks, I pointed to the suitcase and shouted: "That's how it started!" And that's how it ends! This suitcase! I bought it in 1933! And where? At Bolle! Bolle at Olivaerplatz, on the corner of Kurfürstendamm! At Bolle! At Bolle!

It had started with this suitcase from Bolle and my typewriter, that was all I had then. And that came with the suitcase from Bolle and my typewriter, that was all I had again. It was still the same machine that Mademoiselle doctor Querfeldt had given me at the time; it had served me for everything I had ever written. Beginning and n, n and beginning. Between the two, there was the good life and Ille. The slightly exalted good life, with difficult beginnings and hard pleasures, and with Ille. She was born under the sign of Cancer, she carried the house with her, even if she didn't have one. It is not true that crabs walk backwards; they advance obliquely through their ever-threatened life; they protect their vulnerable underbelly by pressing anything they can grab onto them, and to protect themselves they tolerate parasites on their backs. Basically, I was a parasite of Ille; I went where she went, I did what she did. Before, my way of life had been quite different from his. After living together for three months, she discovered that for years I had thrown all the official letters into my suitcase without opening them. She noticed that in my life I had never paid taxes. She says nothing. She went to the tax collector and returned my honesty. We had our first quarrel when I heard about it. But Ille was a supporter of a well-ordered bourgeois life. She didn't know anything else. She wanted a good bourgeois life with a decent dose of luxury and just enough bohemianism to give her salt. “The tax collector was touching,” she said. “You, with your phobia of civil servants! I told him to speak to me, that you were a maniac with whom we could not discuss! He understood it right away. He did not even ask for the payment of the arrears, provided that in the future the taxes were paid regularly. » She went to the tax collector and returned my honesty. We had our first quarrel when I heard about it. But Ille was a supporter of a well-ordered bourgeois life. She didn't know anything else. She wanted a good bourgeois life with a decent dose of luxury and just enough bohemianism to give her salt. “The tax collector was touching,” she said. “You, with your phobia of civil servants! I told him to speak to me, that you were a maniac with whom we could not discuss! He understood it right away. He did not even ask for the payment of the arrears, provided that in the future the taxes were paid regularly. » She went to the tax collector and returned my honesty. We had our first quarrel when I heard about it. But Ille was a supporter of a well-ordered bourgeois life. She didn't know anything else. She wanted a good bourgeois life with a decent dose of luxury and just enough bohemianism to give her salt. “The tax collector was touching,” she said. “You, with your phobia of civil servants! I told him to speak to me, that you were a maniac with whom we could not discuss! He understood it right away. He did not even ask for the payment of the arrears, provided that in the future the taxes were paid regularly. » She wanted a good bourgeois life with a decent dose of luxury and just enough bohemianism to give her salt. “The tax collector was touching,” she said. “You, with your phobia of civil servants! I told him to speak to me, that you were a maniac with whom we could not discuss! He understood it right away. He did not even ask for the payment of the arrears, provided that in the future the taxes were paid regularly. » She wanted a good bourgeois life with a decent dose of luxury and just enough bohemianism to give her salt. “The tax collector was touching,” she said. “You, with your phobia of civil servants! I told him to speak to me, that you were a maniac with whom we could not discuss! He understood it right away. He did not even ask for the payment of the arrears, provided that in the future the taxes were paid regularly. » provided that in future taxes were paid regularly. » provided that in future taxes were paid regularly. »

I really had no idea what I could win. At first it had certainly not been prodigious. I surprised Ille by saying that the experience teaches at least one thing: new money only arrives after the disappearance of the old one; and I acted accordingly until Ille, with obstinate gentleness, obtained the opening of a bank account. And indeed, since I had a checkbook, I had the feeling of living much better.

"Ille," I asked, "how much is still in the bank?" - Nothing ! It was very reassuring. So I couldn't lose anything. So I hadn't had time to accumulate a fortune. I never realized on what foot I was living, except perhaps by comparing it with Axel's life. When I started my activity in the cinema, I oriented my expenses more or less on those of Axel, who did the same work as me. Axel, Ille and I were very fond of good food. Besides, Axel was continually in love. Once a month, he said he had finally found the woman of his life. He promises her to show each chosen one first and to marry her only if Ille agrees. One day he said, “This time it's really serious! “She” was a young Viennese actress. We all went to eat at Schlichter. The meal was delicious. But suddenly, the young girl stopped to say: “When I think what it costs! At this price, we could buy a good book! »

Ille stopped nibbling on his chicken thigh for a second, said quietly: "Axel, not this one!" and continued to eat. The young girl married a publisher. I often went to Schlichter. When I went there for the first time, I had just been released from prison; I had a certain

money in my pocket and I thought I had the right to have a meal. The restaurant consisted of only four small rooms; right next to the entrance, there was the famous “cold buet”, a treat for painters and gourmets. No sooner was I seated than an imposing gentleman with silver hair came to introduce himself. It was the owner, Max Schlichter, the brother of the painter Rudolf Schlichter who was to become my friend. When I said my name, Mr. Schlichter knew right away, because the newspapers had just been talking about me in an unfriendly way. When I expressed the desire to eat really well after the eternal prison soup, Mr. Schlichter, who was a world-renowned chef, gave me his advice. He invited me to come back very often. When I pointed out to him that this would present some difficulties since I usually didn't have a penny, Mr. Schlichter suggested that I simply sign some notes. He was convinced that a year later, I would be able to pay them. A year later, I still couldn't. But I had eaten at Schlichter's every day and signed notes. I extorted an advance from Rowohlt and asked Schlichter for "my accounts" in a loud, firm voice. The manager went out of his way to look for M. Schlichter. This one admitted to me, very embarrassed and with a worried face, that it was impossible for me to add up: he had burned all the notes. I thanked him by going to the restaurant as often as possible, never signing a voucher again. I discharged all my worldly obligations at his place. After his death, his nephew, Karl Wassmannsdorf, continued the management in the old tradition. One day when Ille was in Berlin, in the middle of the war, he came to her table, extremely embarrassed, and told her in a whisper that the Gestapo had brought him here because of her. A denunciation claimed

that Ille was his mistress and that Wassmannsdorf continually passed him coffee and countless bottles of Armagnac. Mr. Wassmannsdorf, assuming it was revenge for a fired boy, had gathered all the staff, recounted the incident, and sought the advice of his employees. Then the lady from the cold buet had come forward to declare: "And if so, it is a great honor for Mr. Wassmannsdorf and for the entire restaurant!" And the staff applauded. " Where is she ? Ille shouted. She kissed him, then she kissed Mr. Wassmannsdorf, and after the last customer left, the restaurant celebrated this extraordinary event. Armagnac was flowing and when there was an alarm, we had coffee in the cellar. Just opposite Schlichter was the most famous restaurant, Horcher's. We only went there a few times. We were badly received there. Only later did I learn the reason. My brother Horst ate there quite regularly, in female company which changed quite regularly. When Ille and I appeared, Mr. Horcher thought that Ille was Horst's abandoned wife and I his cicisbeo. Mr. Horcher found this shocking. M. Horcher considered us an immoral family. Mr. Horcher was very moral. Mr. Wunderlich, however, represented serious competition for Schlichter. He had a tiny room behind the Imperial Stables. At his house, we found the cookbook and the wines of the imperial family. They ate there as at the Emperor's, when His Majesty was not yet at Doorn. Then there was Mr. Mehlgarten. He ran a bistro at the Olivaerplatz. At his house, the bus drivers took their meals, and all those who liked to eat well, a lot and quickly. We used to go there often.

Rowohlt and Ledig, Axel and Kiaulehn, Scheuermann, secret adviser Planck and MeLuetgebrune. And the old inn in Meldorf? It was a magnificent house with curved windows; the innkeeper wore a false collar and sternly scrutinized each customer before serving them. The first time he said there was nothing. We learned that that day he had gotten angry because of the 'work front'. When he got angry, he couldn't cook and the hosts had nothing to eat. We begged him to split stones. Finally, he said, "You won't get anything, except maybe a pie!" It was the best pâté of our life. He looked at us with a suspicious look and said: "At most one more piece of duck!" It was a duck with oranges, a poem! We ate it in religious silence. For dessert, the innkeeper prepared us crêpes Suzette. As the bluish flame of French cognac quivered, the devil pricked Ille so that she would say: "I usually eat pancakes sprinkled with grated and golden almonds!" The innkeeper walked away. He did not return. We went looking for him. We found him in a dark corner, determined to end his life. He had no almonds.

And the princes' palace in Schleswig? It was once the residence of the princesses of House Gottorp; now the beautiful park had returned to its natural state, and the simple palace with balanced proportions wistfully exuded princely decline. We visited it in the company of our friend Strohmeyer who, apart from other excellent qualities, owned a car, a very old DKW of the smallest model. The roof was plastered with plaster and the core rotted. Along the way, Ille told, as she always did, that she was descended from King Jerome, who indeed had quite a large posterity. When, in turn, Strohmeyer confessed that he was part of this lineage, the

two claimants shared the throne of Westphalia. She was recognized as Royal Highness and Regent. Strohmeyer was more interested in the finances of the country and I, judging myself incapable of any administrative activity, found the post of prince consort quite appropriate. We arrived at the palace of the princes, on the steps of which stood an amiable old man. Strohmeyer opened the door and said, still engrossed in this childish game: "If Your Highness will bother to get out!" And Ille answered: "But with pleasure, Excellency!" The old man on the porch turned pale, bowed deeply, and with trembling knees he rushed inside. He put an old damask service on our table, muttering confused excuses, he drew the curtains and, quivering with his whole body, he lit the candles from a three-branch candlestick. Obviously, we did not undeceive him. Never before had we been served with so much attention, the meal was, so to speak, celebrated. The moment when the rotten old car would reveal our deception made us tremble. But the old gentleman who accompanied us to the steps, candlestick in hand, at the start of a sunny afternoon, bowed once more with reverent devotion, and we left with an infernal noise, but convinced that for a melancholy second , the old DKW had transformed into a golden carriage drawn by eight white horses. The moment when the rotten old car would reveal our deception made us tremble. But the old gentleman who accompanied us to the steps, candlestick in hand, at the start of a sunny afternoon, bowed once more with reverent devotion, and we left with an infernal noise, but convinced that for a melancholy second , the old DKW had transformed into a golden carriage drawn by eight white horses. The moment when the rotten old car would reveal our deception made us tremble. But the old gentleman who accompanied us to the steps, candlestick in hand, at the start of a sunny afternoon, bowed once more with reverent devotion, and we left with an infernal noise, but convinced that for a melancholy second , the old DKW had transformed into a golden carriage drawn by eight white horses.

And Hans Gruss in Munich? The third time we ate at his place, he came to our table to tell us that he would always have a place for us in his constantly crowded restaurant. " Do you know why ? You don't eat, you get worse! » In Kampen, we lived in the “White House”. Until the war, we stayed there several times a year, in summer and in winter. In summer, the day began with sun, beach and sea and ended with brandy. In winter, she began with eau-de-

life and ended with grog. Here, the strong drinks counterbalanced the emotions of the soul caused by the elemental landscape. Nowhere else was the sky so truly sky, the earth earth and the water water. Sylt seemed to us to be the island of madmen; it pushed natural dispositions to their climax; the melancholiacs had depressions and the sanguine ones were emaciated. The last summer before the war once again unleashed the delirious joy of living. Never had madmen been so mad; entire cliques of lunatics sought to outdo each other in orgies of animal ecstasy beside which the habitual vices seemed pale and insipid as West Berlin tea. The east wind, hot and dry, the pale storm that was brewing made us lose our minds. The house was becoming too narrow for us, the old house where everything was beautiful, every tile, every door, every table. Balanced measure and form were becoming too poor for us. We surprised each other in hordes; we went to Arthur Nann who threw the mussels in milk before cooking them in white wine. At Margot von Opel's we ate tubs full of navarin, with huge pieces of meat. At Melly Forst, we devour goulash in all forms. For years we couldn't see navarin or goulash. At Margot von Opel's we ate tubs full of navarin, with huge pieces of meat. At Melly Forst, we devour goulash in all forms. For years we couldn't see navarin or goulash. At Margot von Opel's we ate tubs full of navarin, with huge pieces of meat. At Melly Forst, we devour goulash in all forms. For years we couldn't see navarin or goulash.

Oh ! we lived well! There is no doubt! It would be ungrateful to deny it. We had good food and we only knew good people! We only associated with people who liked to eat and drink well and a lot. And no one can dispute that this is a laudable principle. For that reason, I quite liked fat Morell, Hitler's doctor. On the occasion of a premiere of a lm, he was by chance seated next to Ille. He had always had a thing for fat men. She didn't know who this could be

neighbour, but a conversation ensued. Morell was greatly animated when he learned that Ille lived in the Huberhof, not far from Berchtesgaden. One afternoon a car pulled up in front of the house, a huge black Mercedes with an SS man behind the wheel. In the background, there was a fat gentleman, with a frog's mouth, golden glasses and extremely intelligent and cunning eyes. He wore some sort of fancy uniform, gray-green with gold braid everywhere you could put it; on the collar, the sign of Aesculapius, — Morell. He sat down by the window and began to tell. He had been a ship's doctor and had traveled extensively. But deep down, we didn't really know why he had come. We only learned of it when Ille asked him, rather out of politeness, if he was hungry. With an embarrassed, whiny laugh, Morell admitted he was terribly hungry. In Obersalzberg they had again had a royal visit, this time King Boris of Bulgaria, and on such occasions everyone shuddered, for the organization of the day, always precarious, was then completely upset. Hitler only ate when he had time, and if he had visitors, he had no time. Sometimes we ate at four in the morning, and the suite had been waiting since seven in the evening. We waited standing, because, as Morell said, it was obviously quite impossible to get up from an armchair if the Führer entered the room unexpectedly! Glancing wistfully at her stomach, Morell said, "And standing up is so painful to me!" So he had come to the Huberhof to eat his fill.

He came back. He really had a nose for good things. We had liver dumplings, he was beaming. “Liver dumplings! »

he said reverently. He said that one day, during a trip by car, Hitler had gone down with his retinue to a small town in Bavaria to eat there. As the dishes were prepared especially for him, these gentlemen waited in a room while behind them, soup with dumplings of liver was constantly being carried into the common room. These gentlemen were mouth watering and denying. Finally, Hitler admitted that these dumplings smelled very good. The group leader immediately said: “But try once, my Führer! What we love does not hurt! But Hitler exclaimed: 'Oh no, my dear! there is then only one more step to take to arrive at the principle: Is permitted what pleases, and this step, I will not do it! » We weren't dating Hitler. He had learned some golden rules from his father, including that one-fifth of income should be spent on housing. have a fortune. I was already ready for more modern calculations when the war broke out. At the same time, in addition to a fifth of my income, my activity allowed the much more convenient solution of living in a hotel. I loved hotels, hoteliers, the whole hotel industry. If ever, during a possible metempsychosis, I came back to earth, I would like to be a hotelier. In a hotel, life shows itself in its densest form; this is where it takes place: every day encounters with new people and new destinies, every day everything that makes up life, eating and drinking, sleeping,

When we first stayed at the Hotel des Quatre Saisons in Hamburg, it was also the first time in my life that, in a confident voice, I asked for an "apartment." I

had to work and Ille had her own business. The reception manager led us. In silence, but with eloquent gestures, he showed us the advantages of the apartment. He opened a cupboard, and immediately a lamp went on inside. And Ille immediately went to the bedside table and opened it. No lamp. Ille raised an eyebrow and said very distinctly: “What shit, this hotel! The front desk manager blinked and I thought he was going to kick us out. But there was nothing to it, on the contrary, we were particularly well served. I tossed an old pair of sneakers into the wastebasket. When I returned six months later, they gave me the same apartment without hesitation. On the table was a sealed package bearing my name. We opened it. It was the sneakers, with the compliments of the hotel management and the indication that we had forgotten them. I wanted to sneak away from the hotel to throw the old slippers into the Alster, but a bellhop ran after me and begged me to give him the package. It took a large tip to hide my shame. At the "Königshof" in Munich, I slept in the bed where the last queen of Naples had died, not so long ago. I slept very well in it, but now it had burned down. The hotel was in ashes, the "Regina", the "Continental" were in ashes, in ashes Munich, Lübeck, Hamburg, Würzburg and Berlin. What was left? During these years, I had had twelve suits made; of course, I never had more than three at a time (no uniform or evening dress). I had two overcoats and a Basque beret. I had five pairs of shoes and a bathrobe, thirty shirts and thirty pairs of socks, eight ties and a dressing gown. All of this fit into a single suitcase, the big yellow bag from Bolle.

Of course, Ille had a lot more. One day, I had written a lm which took place abroad, among very rich people. To show off their wealth, I had the heroine open a closet, and she would lament: "I have nothing to wear!" In the closet were eighty dresses. The playwright, furious, swept the scene with the remark: “Eighty dresses! No woman has eighty dresses! I told this to Ille, who immediately began to count her wardrobe. She put on trousers with each pullover, a skirt with each bodice, she combined two-pieces and suits, she added a dressing gown and a beach suit, and counted eighty garments in all. But Ille was also convinced that it was necessary to earn money. "If it's not us, who ? Since we are the only ones who know how to spend it? »

But where had the money gone? He had simply melted. Freedom and comfort were always dearest. The guys in the middle called this part of the loot the disappearance of which they could not explain the “pleasure cake”. The pleasure cake was the most expensive. In the cellar, there must still be some pear brandy. It was strictly forbidden to distill, but the peasants did it in secret. I went down to the cellar where I had so often heard Michel's voice automatically recite his prayers. There was still a bottle. I put it in my mouth and drank. Beautiful, very strong! The whole cellar suddenly smelled of pear. Still a little brutal. In twenty years, this bottle would have a bouquet, a bouquet!... Twenty years !

I lifted the bottle to my mouth and drank. For the moment, the Americans were there.

120.List any land or buildings owned by you or any immediate members of your family, giving locations, dates of acquisition, from whom acquired, nature and description of buildings, the number of hectares and the use to which the property is commonly put. —121. Have you or any immediate members of your family ever acquired property which had been seized from others for political, religious or racial reasons or expropriated from others in the course of occupation of foreign countries or in furtherance of the settling of Germans or Volksdeutsche in occupied countries by Germany? —122.If so, give particulars, including dates and locations, and the names and whereabouts of the original title holders. —123.Have you ever acted as an administrator or trustee of Jewish property in furtherance of Aryanization decrees or ordinances? —124.If so, give particulars.

120. LIST ANY LAND OR REAL ESTATE PROPERTY BELONGING TO TO YOU OR DIRECT MEMBERS OF YOUR FAMILY, INDICATING THE LOCATION, DATE OF ACQUISITION, FORMER OWNER, KIND OF BUILDINGS, NUMBER OF HECTARES AND USUAL USE OF THE PROPERTY.

without

object.

121. HAVE YOU OR ANY DIRECT FAMILY MEMBER EVER ACQUIRED PROPERTY CONFISCATED FROM OTHER PERSONS FOR POLITICAL, RELIGIOUS OR RACIAL REASONS, OR TAKEN FROM OTHER PERSONS IN COURSE OF OCCUPATION OF FOREIGN COUNTRIES OR WITH A VIEW TO FAVORING 1 THE ESTABLISHMENT OF GERMANS OR VOLKSDEUTSCHE IN OCCUPIED COUNTRIES BY GERMANY?No

122. IF YES, PROVIDE DETAILS, INCLUDING INDICATIONS OF DATE AND LOCATION AS WELL AS THE NAMES AND PLACE OF RESIDENCE OF THE FORMER OWNERS. not applicable.

123. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ADMINISTRATOR OR CURATOR OF PROPERTY IN ORDER TO FAVOR ORDINANCES OR ORDINANCES OF ARYANIZATION

? No.

124. IF YES, GIVE DETAILS.

not applicable.

1. Were considered as Volksdeutsche all people of Germanic race and language, but of foreign nationality, such as, for example, the Sudeten Germans.

I. TRAVEL OR RESIDENCE ABROAD I. TRAVEL OR STAYS ABROAD

125.List all journeys or residence outside of Germany including military campaigns.

125. LIST ALL TRAVEL OR STAYS OUTSIDE GERMANY, INCLUDING INCLUDING MILITARY CAMPAIGNS.

ad 125:The Americans were there! I ran up to the oak tree. The hill was black with people. The French prisoners of war were there, they had put on their insignia and their decorations, the Poles, the Ukrainians, the German soldiers from the military hospital, a few Italian, Hungarian or Rumanian officers. Everyone was looking towards the highway where the Americans were driving.Germany wants to see you!

The noise of the wheels had resumed. Columns made up of innumerable tanks, trucks and small square cars, open and nimble, rolled rapidly towards the east. Slowly, I turned around. The white flag flew from the top of the church of Siegsdorf. A few isolated gunshots could be heard from very far away. Suddenly, the French began to shout. They were screaming, they were dancing and throwing their caps in the air. They were pointing to the viaduct where cars were passing with huge tricolor flags unfurled. On all the roads and in all directions the columns were advancing. Those heading south, into the mountains, must have been Germans. They had a mad pace and suddenly exceeded each other—"the debacle," I thought. Between Bergen and the viaduct, only one road, in the valley, was deserted; only one car was there. I looked at her, she wasn't moving. A young Frenchman sat next to me on the bench. He wore the same Basque beret as me. I pointed to the car and asked him what it was. He looked at me with a shrug of regret and said: "It's Taddee!" I did not understand. He then began to explain to me vividly that Taddée had left as usual very early in the morning to look for bread in a village behind the viaduct. No sooner had he left than a lone tank rolled over the viaduct, firing at anything that moved in the valley. The only thing moving was Taddée's car. She overturned and Taddée was killed. These knocks woke me up. I was enraged. “They are getting in well! I thought as if the Americans had committed an indecent act requiring the intervention of the police. So I already had

identified Americans with the idea of peace and justice. And they began by killing our Taddée, a Pole, and the best to boot. Now the columns were rolling and one could move through the valley without fear. I saw a group of children coming up the hill. The teacher who accompanied them was very excited.

"The Americans kicked us out of the Trout!" - But no ! I exclaimed. Not the Americans! What's going on pass ? "I don't know," said the teacher. Everything was going so fast. They

were looking for an officer in the hotel and saying that the children had to go out, they were going to set fire to the house! I looked towards the village. All was quiet there; there was no fire or smoke to be seen. The teacher says:

— They let everyone out, but no one can enter

! I looked at the plain. Apart from the tanks on the highway, everything was business as usual. - It is beautiful, the country! said the Frenchman next to me.

"Are you Breton?" I asked him. He was a stocky little redhead. "No, sir, I'm Basque!" - How so ? I exclaimed. I too went to the country Basque! I showed him my beret. In the torn and worn lining, you could still see the name of the store and the city:Saint Jean de Luz… "I'm from Urrugne!" he said proudly. Urrugne was on the road between Saint-Jean and Hendaye. For years, I had met this man and we had never exchanged words other than "hello" and "good night".

I was a little ashamed and said:

- It is a beautiful country !

- It's a bit like here! he replied politely. We were comparing the two regions; they really weren't that dissimilar. Then my Frenchman was called by his comrades. We wished each other good luck and he left. He came and sat down next to me with a slight sigh. I was so excited that I forgot to tell him that Taddée was dead. "Just imagine," I exclaimed, "that Frenchman is Basque!"

- So, you immediately told him the story of Mayie! said He yawns a little. She didn't much like hearing me talk about Mayie. I once said that the time spent in France had been the happiest time of my life. He couldn't bear it. - But I never told you the most vile action of my life! I said. - Whether ! Ille replied.

"I'm not talking about that one!" Let's say, if you prefer, the second ; Finally, I don't want to establish a xed order...

'Tell me,' said Ille, yawning a little. — I already had the passport and the visa, but I begged Rowohlt not to tell anyone that I was leaving Germany. If the news transpired, the magistrate would have to intervene, since I was called as a witness at the great trial of the peasant movement in Altona. Even my closest friends didn't know where I was going and I went almost secretly to the Paris train. I choose the least busy compartment; there was only a woman's coat. Then I wanted to buy a newspaper. But, as I went out into the corridor, I cringed. Opposite the window, on the platform, was a man I knew. It was

correspondent of Ullstein1in Prague and had just written a pretty nasty article about me. He was talking with a young girl. Handing him a small badge, he said, “You will put this on the lapel of your jacket. I phoned Paris, a gentleman from Ullstein's office will come to the station. He will wear the same badge in his lapel. So you will recognize yourself. Understood ? " - " Yes Dad ! So it was his daughter. Cautiously, I entered the compartment. No sooner had the train started than the young girl came in and sat down opposite me. She had put the little owl, Ullstein's badge, on the lapel of her coat. She was blonde and quite pretty. We were alone until Cologne, but we didn't speak to each other all night. My daydreams were turned towards France. I knew practically nothing about France. I knew things about Napoleon, about the war of 1870, the Great War and Versailles, about the occupation of the Rhineland and the "Black Shame". It was little, and not very engaging. But French literature! And the ecstatic gaze of all those who spoke of Paris! And the Parisians! And I knew in what terms my good old Franz Hessel spoke of Paris and of France, of the silky atmosphere, of the infinite charm of manners, of the French table and of French wine. Franz Hessel was a fanatic, a lover. Well, I was going to see. In Cologne, the train had one hour stoppage. The young girl suddenly asked me where we could drink a decent coffee. I didn't know, but, indeed, the coffee on the train was terrible. The young girl went to the waiting room. When she came back, she hadn't even washed a little. “Slut! I thought. We were crossing Belgium. The young girl remained in her corner, brooding and stilted. Apart from the few words exchanged in Cologne, we still hadn't spoken to each other. Against my expectations, I passed through German and French customs without the slightest incident. I

was looking out the window. So that was France! Not very exciting. However, the railings in the stations were made of cast iron. I didn't like the font, but it was quite cute, and a bit touching with all those unnecessary embellishments. Suddenly, the young girl began to do her make up. “Oh! I thought, the mysterious charm of France! She had the smooth movements of a little cat. I say, "If it's okay with you, I'll come with you to the dining car!" Deep down, I wanted nothing to do with her, but the mysterious charm… In the dining car, the staff were French; he was in fact more polite and discreet than the Germans. And in the little rings in the window, the bottles of beer had been replaced by bottles of wine, very good wine even. We drank and started talking. I asked her if she was looking forward to going to France. She says, “Oh! I don't know…” When I noticed that she was probably going there for the first time, like me, she said: “Obviously…” What a bottle! Seeing my astonishment, she added: “Oh! I would like to rejoice, but not like that…” — “What, not like that? »

She came alive. No doubt it was the eect of the wine; she wasn't drinking, she was smoking. She had gone to school in Prague and now had to learn French with a Parisian family. “I don't know these people! Dad fixed it all! » And with spite: « Au pair! We know that! Daddy still treats me like a baby, I'm eighteen! I noticed that eighteen was a wonderful age. She smiled, for the first time. It was all to his advantage. “We became very good friends. At Le Cateau, I knew his whole life; I was careful not to tell him mine. In Saint-Quentin, we were so busy irritating that I forgot to look out the window to see the destruction of the war. In Compiegne,

we were again in the compartment, but we were no longer seated facing each other. Seeing the houses around Paris, I exclaimed excitedly: “Here is Paris! She glanced over and said, disappointed, "The entrance to Dresden is prettier!" » Then she fidgeted. Suddenly, she took off the badge. " Why are you doing this ? She said, wrinkling her brow: "I don't want to!" I don't want all that! Concerned, I said to him: "In a moment, we will be there!" She exclaimed: "Paris, oh Paris!... It could be so beautiful!" She looked at me gravely and said very emphatically, "I don't want to go to those people." I want to be in Paris without having everything written to Papa! I say nothing, because, well, we can understand that. She said, "I'm just going to the hotel." Which hotel are you staying at? I was afraid. " I do not know yet ! — "We'll find one!" She says "we"! She was very pretty, she was charming and incredibly young. And we were in Paris! Daddy would never know! What had Dad already written about my book? "And all smeared with a filthy paste of formal talent…" Well, wait, Dad! I say, “Of course! and gave her a kiss. She threw herself against me. She didn't know how to kiss yet. She would learn all of this. It was curious, never such an adventure had happened to me in the railways of the Reich! The train pulled into the station. I helped the young girl put on her coat and took out her luggage. Then I took down my small suitcase and the typewriter. The machine ! What did I want to do in France? Write a book for Rowohlt; I had the contract in my pocket. Suddenly it weighed on me. The contract ! One day the book will appear and it will have my name on it. And Dad? Dad will write about the new book. "

Repugnant. What was disgusting? In the corps of cadets, we used to call a thing called “ugly revenge” “repugnant”. I got off the train. The young girl would take care of her luggage. A gentleman of a certain age whose face inspired confidence passed alongside the train; he wore the badge of Ullstein. I approached her and said, “The girl you are looking for is over there. And I left without looking back.

- It was really ugly! Ille said. "Certainly," I said. But here is the bouquet! Five years later, I have saw the young girl again. I went to Paris for the premiere ofThe Heroic Kermesse, this great lm by Jacques Feyder, with Françoise Rosay. I stayed in Paris only a short time, but night and day I wandered through the city. Very late, one evening, I ended up at the "Monocle Bar", a small club where there was a lot of atmosphere. There was a naked girl singing a Hawaiian song. Her breasts, moreover very pretty, swayed in a very exciting way. She was really only dressed in a garland of flowers; it was 'she'. "Did you at least sleep with her?" - Impossible ; the “Monocle Bar” was a place for lesbians. He smiles. She added: - Do not worry. Now the Americans are in Paris; THE " guys” will make him break this habit. - I do not believe ! I said. It's been so long. Now she is surely a stale old girl. He stood up and said, caressing my cheek:

"Honey, she's exactly my age!" I was scratched, but I stood there without moving. He left. I am a Boche, I thought. I am and I will remain. At the time, in France, I had undergone all the transformations of a Boche,

starting with the one who wants to be one and is proud of it to the one who does everything not to appear so. When I got home, I wanted to write a book for Rowohlt calledThe Adventures of a Little Boche in France. The project fell through because, very slowly, the little Boches had become big Boches and even for the little ones, it was very dicult then to prove that they were not big. But Rowohlt had always sent its irresolute authors to France. When I told Rowohlt that I wanted to go abroad, but didn't know where, Rowohlt got in touch with Mr. Seyerlen, a curious and mysterious man who wandered around the world with no apparent purpose. He says he had rented a house in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, but had to leave prematurely. The house was empty, the rent prepaid for another year and I could go. He gave me a letter for M. Douat, the owner of the house. He showed me Saint-Jean-de-Luz on the map;

M. Seyerlen also recommended the Hotel du Palais-Bourbon to me.

and advised me to check on the map of Paris the shortest route from the Gare du Nord to the hotel, for the taxi drivers were in the habit of first driving foreigners through the city for two hours. When the taxi pulled away, I unfolded my plan on my knees. But suddenly I felt a painful shame. I wasn't sure whether my behavior was that of a man of the world or that of a Boche. “Let the driver rob me! I thought; why wouldn't I let myself be robbed if it's done in a fun way? The driver drove me without making any detours. Here is the Opera, the Madeleine, the Place de la Concorde. Everything was like on the postcards. In Berlin, nothing

was never like on the postcards. Here is the Seine and the PalaisBourbon. And the hotel. The bedroom only seemed to contain the bed. A huge bed, as wide as it is long, with a green silk bedspread. I threw suitcase and machine in a corner and left. I walked the streets of Paris until late at night. I wanted Paris to be Paris; and he was Paris. Here are the Tuileries, Notre-Dame, the Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe and the dome of the Invalides. And again and again the Place de la Concorde with the pearl necklace of the lampposts on the ChampsÉlysées. And, under each lamppost, a couple of lovers. When I got back to the hotel, rubber knees, the door was closed. The night watchman came to let me in, looked at me with astonishment and said: “Ah! sir, all alone? » The next morning, I went to the train very early at the Gare d'Orsay and chose a corner near the window. Gradually, the compartment fills up. There were only women, each of whom, on entering, said a few friendly words with astonishing rapidity. I answered politely: “Yes, yes, madam! and sucked on my pipe. None of these ladies knew the others, but they all talked to each other right away and very, very quickly. It was a tweet that I couldn't understand. No doubt they were also talking about me, because from time to time they looked at me kindly. I stretched comfortably; I have always enjoyed the company of women. When I felt like someone was talking to me, I would politely say, “Yes, yes, ma'am. They would see that I did not understand them, but I had to do honor to the flag of my country.

The chef de train did not come until very late, after Orleans. The ladies spoke to him politely, all together. He looked at me and motioned for me to come down the hall. There he gave me a long speech all excited and

with lots of supporting gestures. Finally, he pointed to the tip of my pipe, blinked and said, indicating the compartment with a quick little shake of his head; "It's for the ladies!" I thought I understood and burst into a great friendly laugh, between men, isn't it, until I realized with terror that he didn't hear at all what I thought was necessary. in fashionable French manners, but that I had entered a compartment reserved for ladies and, moreover, "non-smoking". I stayed in the hallway, not daring to come back from the whole trip. I brought the flag of my country. I ardently wished to be taken for a Dutchman or a Dane. It was dark when I arrived in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. I left my suitcase with the porter of the Grand Hotel which was near the station. In front of the entrance, I saw a young man in a tuxedo. I didn't have a tuxedo (nor a dark suit). In the hall, a few old ladies were playing patience. At the reception, I saw myself in front of a young woman with painted lips in a rectangle. In my best school French, I asked: "A room for one night!" The young woman asked me: "Spanish?" I understood and said: “No! " - " English ? — "No, German!" — "Ah! German, third floor! »

Ah! Here there was order! Damage ; I had imagined that a pleasant disorder reigned in France. But it was obvious: most Spaniards were very, very poor, cruelly poor, and then there was a very thin layer of rich, who were cruelly rich, first floor! All the English travel; a fairly well-to-do people, as everyone knows, but all the same already a little less well-to-do, second floor! The Germans lost the war, but they are getting back together, you never know, third floor!

The porter asked me in German which floor I was going to. " You are german ? I asked her. “No, he said smiling, Switzerland. All hotel staff are Swiss! » What wonder then that there was order! I asked: "And where are you lodging the French?" "Under the roof," he said without hesitation. “But we hardly see any. They usually live in cottages and boarding houses. I was careful not to ask him where the Italians and Poles were kept, probably in the cellar. I fell asleep right away. When I woke up, I saw the sea. It shimmered before me as far as the eye could see. Apart from the Förde, in Kiel (1.5% salt), I had never seen the sea before (3.5% salt). I went to the balcony and it seemed to me that it was now time to get rid of my German complexes. To get to Mr. Douat's house, I took the tram. Mr. Seyerlen had told me that he would be sure to tell the wattman "L'Atenia" so that he could get me off at the right place. The tram was a rickety old box, painted blue. The wattman wore a large, elegant beret, sneakers, and a blue scarf that held the shirt and pants in place. He had a well-filled leather bag in front of him. The car started and immediately took a breakneck pace. We skirted the sea in the wide bay, then on a steep slope that descended almost perpendicularly, less than a meter from the rails. Each time the old box rushed down a descent or, with a shrill screeching, around a bend, the wattman's hand left the crank to grab the leather bag. Then he would lean back and squirt a long, thin stream of red wine down his throat. I clung on with both hands. The car rattled along a wide stretch of beach and stopped. I longed for it to be L'Atenia, but the

small station bore the inscriptionErromardy. I liked this beach. Wide and powerful, the waves rolled over the white sand. The car began to climb again for a long time and with a creak, to then follow a new slope. She stopped. The wattman shouted: "The beach of L'Atenia!" And I went down. I looked around me. There was a bay. At my feet, the coast descended steeply about sixty meters. The slope was covered with thorny broom, and through this prickly thicket a narrow path wound down to a crescent-shaped beach. To right and left rocks guarded the bay, which was shielded from the sea by a chain of cliffs over which the breakers foamed. The water in the bay was green and clear. I could see clear, sandy strips and, towards the bottom, forests of undulating seaweed with multicolored reflections. And there, to the north, on the coast, the white cubes of houses and hotels that stood out against the blue sea must have been Biarritz. I turned around. There was a house, only one house in the whole bay. I walked the twenty paces to the door and knocked. The shutters were closed. It was a pretty house with a touue pergola. It seemed uninhabited. But, from a cellar door, an old man came out, dressed in a shirt and trousers and wearing a large Basque beret. He had white hair, a mustache and small, cunning black eyes. He looked like Clemenceau. “Mr Douat? I asked. " Yes sir ! I handed him Seyerlen's letter. After reading it (“Excuse me, sir!”), he folded the sheet and gestured broadly, saying solemnly: “Sir, the house is yours! »

The house was mine. She was wonderful. It comprised five rooms, all tastefully furnished with solid, antique furniture. And there was the bed as wide as it was long, the French bed! And there

had the pergola. Its ceiling was made of box lids. On each one could read the wordCognac. I asked, pointing at them: "Cognac?" Father Douat smiled. " Yes sir ! Suddenly he grabbed both my hands and shook them. "The rest of us love the Germans!" You understand, the submarines! » I understood right away. Obviously, German submarines were once hunting in the Gulf of Biscay. Blessed beaches! They had received the crates of sunken ships, heavy crates filled with cognac! For four years, we had harvested! We drank the cognac and used the crates to build the pergola. We love the Germans, us! I sank into a chair and exclaimed, laughing: “Cognac! " - " Immediately Sir ! said Father Douat. He opened a large buet which contained nearly a hundred bottles, Mr. Seyerlen's bottles… I had arrived in paradise! Father Douat lived in the basement with his two sons, Étienne, short and stocky, and Dominique, tall and thin. Both were fair-haired, wearing Basque berets, dressed in shirts and trousers held up by the blue scarf, and wearing espadrilles. Étienne was a sailor, currently out of work, the crisis, you know; Dominique was a house painter, currently out of work, you know, the crisis! Étienne asked me: "Fishing?" I nodded eagerly. He looked disapprovingly at my shoes and threw sneakers at me. I rolled up my pants like him and we left. We went down the little path to the beach. The tide was low. The cliffs had risen out of the water; the iodine had dyed them brown. The rocks were slippery. I got rid of my clothes to go in the water. Étienne stayed on board and

looked, amazed. After a few strokes, I shouted to him, “Swim! » - " I do not know how to swim ! he replied, shaking his head. I thought I used the wrong word, but he really couldn't swim; he was born here, he had always lived here, but he couldn't swim, sailor though he was. " It's no use ! he said, you can't make money with that! » With perfect assurance, Étienne jumped from cliff to cliff. I followed him and, thanks to the sneakers, I never slipped. Countless crabs flew past us with a light rustle. Étienne grabbed one, bit into it, and sucked it. He offered me another, but I shook myself in horror. He didn't understand that. We were walking in the water. Etienne stopped and pointed to a crack in the stone behind a narrow strip of white sand. “Octopuses! he whispered with a meaningful look. He placed the truble on a nearby stone, seized the bamboo pole in one hand and the hook in the other. Carefully, he thrust the pole into the slot. Immediately, a reddish arm with suction cups groped forward. I was very excited. Slowly and carefully, Étienne waved his pole. One arm after another came forward to cling to it. Suddenly Étienne pulled it away. An octopus, whose arms measured well over a meter, hung on the end. Barely out of the water, she untied her arms and let herself fall, releasing a large, stinking black cloud in an attempt to save herself in her slot. But already, Étienne's hook sank into the areous body. Étienne swapped the bamboo pole for the truble, pulled out the hook and pulled the octopus out of the water. She hugged Etienne's neck and arms. As soon as he thrust his hand into the cloud, it changed color, turning green, then red, then green again. But with a quick gesture, Étienne tore out the air bladder, then,

unfazed, he detached the suction cups from its body and threw the octopus back into the water. She went straight to the bottom. "Here, now she can't swim anymore, either!" »

Étienne caught a dozen octopuses, but I did not take part in this hunt; she was repugnant to me. And never had I seen eyes as wicked as those of the beast when it felt helpless. Around noon, I went back to the house, tired but happy. Fortyeight hours before, I was in Berlin… Father Douat and Dominique were already waiting for us. They seized the octopuses, cleaned them and scooped out the flesh, while Etienne put a frying pan on the fire, with oil, onions, garlic and lots of herbs. Then Father Douat threw in the octopuses which, as they curled up, became white and firm. Dominique threw plates on the table; the frying pan emptied into it while an acrid and savory perfume filled the room. “Monsieur is served! » I began to eat with suspicion. It tasted of spices and oil, and landres. It was excellent. " Matter of habit ! said Father Douat. “We eat octopus every day! » All three looked at me smiling. Étienne put a hand on my shoulder and his teeth shone. He said: "Sir, we eat very well at Mrs. Luis's!" The house there! » I thanked him for this benevolent suggestion and returned to the other bay. The white house was immediately behind the cape. Here the slope descended to the wide bay with the wide sandy beach. It was Erromardie. I found Madame Luis in the kitchen. She was short and chubby. Her red cheekbones made her eyes into cheerful little slits. She was rummaging through her saucepans. It smelled very good. Beside the

stove, a very old woman was peeling vegetables. "It's the grandmother!" Mrs. Luis said, leading me into a large wooded room where there was a fireplace. Mrs. Luis approached a large door closed by shutters and opened it abruptly. Then she stopped and said, watching me: " So ! What a pretty painting! »

The sun was entering ots. The sea shone. It threw its snowy and gleaming foam against the rocky coast. The bay formed an elegant arc. Behind the round, green hills rose majestically the steep, pointed peak of a mountain. “La Rhune! said Mrs. Luis. A chain with bluish reflections undulated on the horizon. “The Three Crowns! said Mrs. Luis. A cape poked his tongue far out into the sea. “Fuentarribie! said Mrs. Luis. In front of the coast, a solitary rock with wildly torn edges rose from the sea. "The Pile of Plates!" said Mrs. Luis. From the beach, a young girl was hurrying home. As she ran, she took off her bathing cap and tossed her long brown hair. The sun shone on the wet jersey. With a single dash, the young girl ascended the slope; his wide red mouth showed white, shining teeth; she saw me, joyfully waved her bonnet and cried out to me in a clear voice: - Good morning sir ! - It's Mayie! said Mrs. Luis. My little niece ! - What a pretty picture! I exclaimed with ardour.

Shortly after, Mayie brought a tray. She had only put on a light dress. Her hair was still a little wet, her bare legs and arms exuded the scent of the sea. "Here are the appetizers!" she exclaimed, setting down the plates with artichokes, sardines and many other things, garnished with herbs. Mayie said fondly, "These are little

crap, you know! and added, setting down a carafe of red wine: "It's Jurançon wine, you know, our good Henri's wine!" » She straightened up and said with a smile:

"And I'm little Mayie!" I got up and said solemnly: "And I am the great Ernest!" We looked at each other smiling. I thought of the courage my ancestors had always shown, German as well as French, and asked: "This evening, at the Saint-Jean-de-Luz cinema?" » Mayie shook her head violently. She looked at me and said: "Tonight, dance at Saint-Jean-de-Luz!" »

It was in May and I was in France. I was in the most beautiful corner of the world. I was in heaven. And heaven even had an Eve. We were dancing in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, on Place Louis-XIV. There, in this beautiful majestic church, Louis XIV had once married MarieThérèse, Infanta of Spain. On three sides the square was lined with low old houses. There were taverns with their terraces, the town hall and a small pavilion where musicians wearing red caps played. There were rows of square-cut chestnut trees, forming a roof of vibrant green light. On the fourth side was the harbour, a small fishing port, with many boats bobbing along the quay at high tide, and resting on the sand at low tide. That evening, I saw the tide rise and fall.

We danced until dawn. Mayie had bought me a Basque beret; I threw my hat in the water. I wore sneakers, a canvas shirt and blue pants and a scarf as a belt. Mayie only had on her a little light dress

and light. We danced the waltz and I held Mayie in my arms, we danced the Charleston and, at every moment, Mayie threw herself against my chest, we danced the java des midinettes, taking tiny steps, and Mayie's little breasts jumped, and we were dancing the fandango. Seeing the musicians seize the castanets, the young girls gave joyful cries and the young men pulled up their pants. “The fandango! Mayie shouted importantly at me. She pushed me to her side, facing another couple. We raised our arms and snapped our fingers when the castanets started. And then we jumped; Mayie was jumping and I was like her. It was a leap of tiny, very quick steps that communicated to the whole body, a dance to the right, to the left, forwards and backwards, at an ever more violent rhythm. The fandango lasted half an hour, and we danced it. Not for a moment did I have Mayie in my arms, but every moment I had her in my eyes. When the fandango was over, I had it in my heart forever. We were drunk without having drunk a drop. We stood under the trees smiling at each other. We stood under the streetlights, kissing. Under each lamppost, the couples were kissing. From the terraces of the taverns, the strangers of the Grand Hotel watched. It was much more beautiful than I had imagined. It was exactly as I had imagined it, but I had always believed that it did not exist. It was like a painted sunset; it was like a real sunset that they say no one would believe if painted. The last tram for Erromardie had long since left. On the way home, Mayie was singing with a little

unassuming voice all those unassuming little songs: John of the Moon andOn the bridge of Avignon, AndClogs are beautiful, Mayie Madeleine, clogs are good, Mayie Madelon. I asked him to sing one of those pretty little songs which, during the war, the French sang against the Germans. Mayie was zealously tragic. She sang the beautiful melancholy song of the poor girl from Alsace who, seated on the steps of the cathedral of Strasbourg, mourns the sad fate of the holy mother country. A German officer passes by and throws him a gold coin. But the poor girl from Alsace does not accept it; she lets it roll down the stairs and cries out: "I don't shake hands with a German!" And Mayie cried out, holding out her hand to me. Then she wanted me to sing one of those songs that the Germans used to sing during the war against the French. I thought about it for a long time, but none came to mind. Finally I sang:Victoriously, we will defeat France…” I sang badly, but very loudly. Mayie insisted that I translate the text for her. So I translated to her our unshakeable will to defeat France victoriously, and Mayie laughed. She was laughing so much she couldn't walk. This absurd song made her laugh so terribly that she had to pee. She disappeared behind a guier, a real guier from which you could pick, in summer, real sweet gues; I didn't want to believe such trees existed. I was convinced that the guages grew in small oval cardboard boxes, decorated with serrated white paper and with a multicolored picture of Africa on the lid. But the gues grow all by themselves, in France, on trees at the edge of the road. Mayie promised to pick the sweetest guages from that tree for me.

At one point, the railway track ran parallel to the road. Two trains passed as we passed, the two luxury trains Paris-Irun-Madrid and Madrid-Irun-Paris. Mayie quickly shook my hand and said, "You have to make a wish!" But without speaking, without speaking! I took her hand wishing something with all my heart, with every inch of my body. But I say nothing. Two hours later, Mayie said to me very softly: - Now I know what you wanted! - And you ?

- The same thing ! said Mayie in a breath. From then on, I didn't just go to Erromardie for meals. I was not going to the sheltered beach of Atenia, but to the sands of Erromardie. I didn't write a line, I was lazy, excessively lazy, erecting laziness as a conception of the world. And if at the beginning Mayie appeared upstairs, in front of Auntie's house, to shout at me, her hands cupped in her mouth: “Soup! ", she soon got into the habit of going down to the beach with a basket which contained, apart from the hot plates, roast chicken and French fries, crunchy salad and two bottles of wine, red and white (wine included), the Jurançon wine that our good Henri loved so much. It was truly a country after my heart. I didn't write a line. I was far from everything, far from Rowohlt and far from damned politics. When Dominique passed, or Etienne, we made lazy little bows; the wattman of the tramway was also making a small sign, between two throws of the leather bag; Jean-Pierre passed by with his oxen, enormous, silky, yellow beasts. “Aloua! cried Jean-Pierre, driving his animals forward with a long pointed stick. He came to look for stones at the beach—it was strictly forbidden. The gendarme would arrive, give me a friendly wave and

was chatting with Jean-Pierre. “Aloua! cried the latter; and peacefully, they all left together, Jean-Pierre, the policeman and the oxen, to "take something"—it was strictly forbidden. Everyone asked me if I liked the Basque country, in beautiful France. And if I was looking, at the beginning, for words to express my enthusiasm, to say how much I attached myself to this country, I soon restrained myself, for I felt a slight misunderstanding. You see, when something pleases you so extraordinarily, you would like to possess it, that's quite natural; so do you really like our country so much, sir? You are German, sir, are you not? It is certain that France pleases the Germans much more than Germany pleases the French… Ah! sir, the accursed policy!… I never knew how Mayie represented Germany, except that she was convinced that immediately after the Rhine, began the virgin forests where no man had yet set foot, and How cold it was, terribly cold! Mayie hated seeing me buy a German newspaper, almost always theBerliner Tageblatt. After reading, I was in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Mayie hated that newspaper whose name was so hard to pronounce. She pointed indignantly to the headlines with words like "Reichswirtschaftsratsverhandlungen" and was not surprised that as I read, a severe wrinkle appeared on my forehead, which she tried in vain to smooth out with her carefully wet finger. . Every morning, for breakfast, she passed meThe Little Gironde, this Bordeaux leaf from which Tantine drew her spiritual and political nourishment. It seemed harmless to Mayie, especially because M. Claude Farrère was collaborating in it. Tantine and Mayie were convinced that a man like Mr. Claude Farrère would not

would never lend to things tending to change the order of the world. Mr. Claude Farrère had his country house nearby, it was the only house in the bay apart from Auntie's. A road led there, a newly constructed road. Shaking with a laugh that shook her body, Tantine said that after the war a society had been founded which speculated in land. People used to say at the time: "The Germans will pay everything" (and in reality it was: "The Boche will pay everything", but Auntie was very tactful); the company had donated this land to Mr. Claude Farrère, that famous representative of the spiritual and artistic life of France, in the hope that his name would inspire many wealthy people to settle in the country. But Mr. Claude Farrère was smarter than the speculators. He graciously accepted the gift, on condition that a road be built for him as far as his land; and he knew how to lay out the road in such a way that there was no room left for a disagreeable close neighborhood. Auntie laughed until she cried, but to end her story, she always said with a slight sigh that she would have liked so much to see this road lead to her own house! And no one, absolutely no one, felt sufficiently honored by this illustrious presence to decide to build on fragmented land and at excessive prices… And then, there was “the crisis, you understand! and the company goes bankrupt. she always said with a slight sigh that she would have liked so much to see this road lead to her own house! And no one, absolutely no one, felt sufficiently honored by this illustrious presence to decide to build on fragmented land and at excessive prices… And then, there was “the crisis, you understand! and the company goes bankrupt. she always said with a slight sigh that she would have liked so much to see this road lead to her own house! And no one, absolutely no one, felt sufficiently honored by this illustrious presence to decide to build on fragmented land and at excessive prices… And then, there was “the crisis, you understand! and the company goes bankrupt.

A whole series of great French minds had settled in the Basque country. Pierre Loti lived there until his death, and the Basques were very proud that the author of so many novels to the glory of Breton and Brittany had chosen the Basque country to end his days. Francis Jammes lived there, a tender old man with a silver beard, and young Rostand, the old man's son. They were impressive figures of the spirit realm of the past century that had lasted until the Great War. I didn't know any of them, except Mr.

Claude Farrere. One day I read in theLittle Girondean article he devoted to the "Polish corridor". He wrote that if the Germans argued, for example, that the French would not agree either to see the Basque country cut off from the body of the mother country by a "Gascon corridor", they had to be told that the Gascons were French, so that the inhabitants of the "corridor" were Poles. Well, I had just read that dayThe battle, by Claude Farrère—that vivid and colorful description of the battle of Tsushima—in the preface to which the revered master passionately insisted that a writer should only write about things he himself had seen and experienced. So I took under the armThe Little GirondeAndThe battleand went to my illustrious colleague. I found him in his garden, inspecting his flowers. He wore an enormous Basque beret and a long, neat beard where silver mixed with red. I approached respectfully, introducing myself as "German colleague" and "great admirer of the famous masterpieces of Claude Farrère". I told him, trying to give my atrocious French a somewhat dignified air, how much I admired his sublime principles, particularly with regard to the severe rules to which they imposed the writer. And then I asked, modestly showing the article ofThe Little Gironde, if he had ever been in the "Polish Corridor". Then the master, who until then had contented himself with grumbling benevolently, opened his thin lips and said: “Ah! That's a very, very, very, very interesting question…” He was extremely eager to talk to me about this problem, but very, very, very unfortunately, he was expecting visitors…

His gaze followed me as I drove back down the road that had been built for him. I was firmly determined to

to go home, if only to tell him that I had never been in the "Polish corridor either." But I had clearly underestimated the master. A few days later, on returning from the beach, I saw Auntie rush to meet me to tell me that two gentlemen were waiting for me. I didn't like this kind of surprise at all and, falling back into the habits and customs of my country, I immediately asked: "Are they from the police?" Auntie widened her eyes and said, dumbfounded: “Ah! it can be ! Mayie had already brought them a carafe of wine; a look sufficed to confirm my unfortunate supposition: they were two gloomy-looking gentlemen; the type had to be the same in all countries of the world. They were so inconspicuously dressed that they inevitably stood out. But the pleasant manners of the French deprived their behavior of the roughness which the German police like to show. I understood that these gentlemen wanted to know what I proposed to do in the country. I assured them that I had the sole intention of writing a book. A book about this country? Oh ! No. On the situation in Germany. I was a writer and I hoped that was allowed. These gentlemen politely inquired about my previous writings. Alas! I had only written one book. They were very interested and assured that they would read it immediately; I tried to dissuade them. Then they gave me a card that gave me free access to all the museums and libraries in the region. These gentlemen were the delegates of a literary society in Bayonne; M. Claude Farrère had kindly informed them of my presence in the country and they hastened to welcome me. Apparently, the writers had prestige in this country. Both gentlemen were lovely. Wine merchant and radio mechanic, they weren't trying to sell me

wine or a radio station (but to Auntie!…) and they knew German literature. Thomas Mann, “a little dius, isn't it? ". And Gide (but Gide was French; ah! Goethe! Well, "also a little dius") and they were very happy to hear me resolutely choose M. Claude Farrère as my favorite author, with Pierre Loti, of course, and Francis Jammes, and Edmond Rostand, possibly Maurice Rostand too. They passed with an “ah! that!…” polite about my admission that I also loved Léon Bloy and André Malraux. Then they got serious. Picking up their momentum, so to speak, they asked me to explain a frightening phenomenon to them: France had won the war, hadn't it? “No doubt, no doubt, gentlemen. So how was it that a mark was worth six francs?

Yes, how to explain to them? If I had had a beautiful beard, I would have stroked it like M. Claude Farrère while saying: “Ah! That's a very, very, very interesting question…” But then, all I had to do was explain to them the true situation of the German economy, using myself as an example. I told them that despite all my hospitality, I could only offer them a bath in the sea… A suggestion that these gentlemen declined politely and firmly, frowning. In fact, my money had disappeared in some inexplicable way. Every day, I waited for the postman, but he passed in front of the door, greeting me kindly: “How are you, sir? Rowohlt still hadn't sent any money, and no letter, nothing at all. All the more reason not to start writing my book yet. I was going to bathe. The season was starting. Tantine's house was filled with families of French bourgeois who took advantage of their stay by the sea to have very long meals and very short walks. The gentlemen, wearing white caps and trousers

anelle claire, and the ladies, provided with small hats and parasols, formed small groups on the beach, discussing with animation the strange case represented by my head which appeared and disappeared in the waves. One day, I managed to swim from Erromardie to the Atenia, where I found the entire company, deliberating whether or not to warn the lifesaving society. As I came ashore, I was inundated with reproaches for my carelessness. But from then on, I was considered very “sporty”; this word seemed to me to be a polite designation of unusual and perfectly superior customs. It was not at all easy to avoid, in all things, in my French acquaintances, the discreet but eloquent surprise that I provoked: a slight frown, an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders and an "ah!"

One morning, arriving at breakfast, I saw Mayie in front of the house, busy cleaning shoes while singing. It was a glorious summer day. Mayie greeted me with a cheerful "Hello, sir!" Did you sleep well ? and no one could suspect that it had only been four hours since we parted. The guests came down with a lot of noise and decided to go straight to the beach. The freshly laundered espadrilles had just dried in the sun, the beach shimmered and beckoned; on the Rhune, every detail was clearly visible. The wind was blowing from the south, and in south winds the weather sometimes changed with disconcerting rapidity. There was no time, then, to escape from the storm; Suddenly the clouds broke and the little stream, usually so shabby,

Drenched, the vacationers ran back to their rooms to wait for the end of the storm. This time it passed as quickly as it had come. I left the house. Mayie was sitting on the stairs, she wasn't singing anymore, she was crying. She was sobbing as she cleaned the sneakers. "Auntie went to Saint-Jean-de-Luz," she cried, inconsolable, "the rooms aren't done yet...and now, I have to clean my shoes!" She furiously brushed off the mud with a brush, then she dropped everything, discouraged. In the height of despair, she said, "Fourteen pairs, sir, fourteen!" » Nothing could be easier than remedying this grief. “Hop! home and do the rooms, before Auntie comes back! — "And the shoes?" " "I take care of it! — "But that is impossible!" — "What's impossible about that?" » I walked Mayie home; her sobs were already subsiding. Then I sat down on the stairs to clean the shoes, fourteen pairs. Guests were coming down from their rooms, they wanted to go to the beach. They stopped short. They formed groups that looked at me laughing, whispering. They were astonished, frowned, shrugged their shoulders and said politely: “Ah! That… " And they spread the news of this incredible event. “It's the gentleman who cleaned the shoes for little Mayie… A gentleman! A writer ! A stranger ! A German ! Ah! That… " “Oh! sir,” Etienne told me, “it's not the custom with us! A bourgeois never does that for a servant! Etienne himself was a socialist. He patted me on the shoulder, I had become a "friend", a "comrade"! The Basques, he said, were all socialists. It wasn't true, but he was right. The Basques hardly had a bourgeoisie, they were a people

incredibly homogeneous, a people of peasants and fishermen, and the petty bourgeoisie had almost no influence. "Never," Etienne told me, "did a real Basque become a civil servant." In fact, civil servants were generally called "Gachcogna", and the Basques did not like the Gascons very much. They tenaciously preserved their customs. Vis-à-vis Auntie, I had a bad conscience. She was always so nice to me, she understood very well that I preferred to drink wine without water, she said nothing when I came to the table in a bathing suit, she had a satisfied smile when I put my nose in all her saucepans, but surprisingly often she had some commission for Mayie when I appeared at the door. I asked Mayie if she thought Auntie suspected something. Mayie whispered, “Listen! It's Auntie! She purrs! Auntie's room was above Mayie's. At night, we heard his loud snores. So it wasn't fear of Auntie's anger that periodically worried Mayie. It started on Friday. " This evening ? I asked. But Mayie was shaking her head violently to make her hair fly. "I'm scared," she said. Even if work was pressing, she always left for a few hours on Saturday afternoons. "I'm going to confession!" she would say, and Auntie put on a worried face. She seemed very touched when I offered in a deep voice to accompany her on this difficult path.

Going to confession required a lot of effort. Mayie was silent; she hardly dared to smile and contented herself with squeezing my hand when I tried to console her by advising her to blame it on me. "I'm scared," she said, very pale, entering the church without looking back, small, thin and shy,

to disappear into the dark. I thought it fair not to abandon myself, during this time when her little heart must have quivered, to worldly distractions; I was waiting for him in front of the church, meditating on serious matters. When she reappeared, blinking at the sudden clarity, I would rush up to her and ask, “Was it terrible? Then Mayie seized my hand and dragged me quickly with her, as if my presence had desecrated the sacred place. " Oh ! he scolded me! she whispered. She told me everything the priest had said. The priest was not a fanatic, far from it. I often saw this young man, always cheerful, always smiling, who wore silk shirts under his cassock, walking through the country in his little Rosengart. Rumor had it that he did not hesitate, for the sake of charity, to pick up lonely young girls along the way and take them a bit of the way. " Oh ! he was furious! said Mayie. He had again asked her to avoid all contact with this dangerous seducer. And I did indeed find it very hard to calm Mayie down with promises and sweet words until her heart, whose heartfelt beating she asked me to feel, began to beat more regularly under her light dress. But Saturday was terrible;

Thus, every Sunday, I went to mass, at that marvelous church where Louis XIV had married the daughter of Philippe IV. Inside the church, men and women were separated. The women filled the nave with their pretty kneelers, in rows

irregular. They presented to the men on the tribune a varied and multicolored appearance. I leaned over the wooden railing and twisted my Basque beret between my hands. The Basque only takes off his beret in front of God. My gaze sought Mayie among the followers. I saw her kneeling, her head bowed, conscious of her faults; not once did she look up at me. Slender and submissive, she was about to take communion; it was the moment when I got up to go down quickly, but quietly, and wait for Mayie outside, in the sun. She was coming, her eyes blinking a little from the sun; she turned her head in all directions, like a little bird, until she saw me. Her features lit up then, a radiant smile lit up her face, she rushed towards me. I took her in my arms; his eyes shone; light and free, she leaned against my shoulder, breathing deeply, looking at me happily. And then, she would begin: “Just imagine…”, she would talk nonstop; the weight that oppressed her had disappeared, she was freed from all sin, the fault had melted away and the world had once again become beautiful, so marvelously beautiful! We could hardly wait for the night. And Rowohlt didn't send money. He did not answer any of my letters. I hadn't paid Auntie's bill for three weeks. I could never pay for the return trip. One day, I thought, Rowohlt will give a sign of life, one day the money will come. The money did not come, but a letter. She was not from Rowohlt, but from a curator. It was a mimeographed circular, quite long. There was question of a mass, but not of a mass of money; it was about preferential creditors of which I was obviously not a part, the devil knew why. The only certainty that remained to me was the one that I could not count on, within a time

reconciled, neither advance nor payment of fees on the sale of my book. Then came a letter from Rowohlt. Only a few lines, but the large ornamental line of his signature betrayed an unchanged good humor. He consoled me, this publisher with a heart of gold, by pointing out to me that no matter what, the new provisions of the exchange trade made it impossible to send any money. He hoped that I was well and that I was enjoying my stay in beautiful France. He envied me. I prepared a little speech for Auntie, which I began in the kitchen with these words: “Very dear Madame! My publisher went bankrupt. I can't pay and I don't even know when I'll be able to pay my debts…” But I didn't go any further. Auntie, who was stirring the soup with a wooden spoon, tasted it and interrupted me: “Ah! That…that doesn't matter, sir! You can stay as long as you want! » I stayed sixteen months.

The day before, I had promised Mayie to take her to the cinema on Sunday afternoon. During the meal, I whispered to him that I was sorry but that I could no longer invite him to the cinema, that I had become very, very poor. Mayie replied in a whisper, "It doesn't matter!" You have to earn money! " - " But how ? » “This afternoon we will go to Behobie!…” Béhobie was a small locality on the Bidassoa, this small river which separates France from Spain. On the other side, the village was called Behobia. The French customs officers smoked in the sun in front of the customs house. They had unbuttoned their tunics and crossed their espadrilles' feet. The Spanish customs officers, on the other side, wore three-cornered hats and high shiny boots; they looked energetic and sinister. In front of customs

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French, many pretty young girls were walking. Mayie motioned for me to wait and joined the others. At this time, large elegant coaches arrived. Quantities of ladies of all ages descended from it. Immediately, the girls went to the bridge to take off their shoes and stockings. Then they stood in two rows. The ladies scanned the rows, looking at the girls' feet. I saw Mayie chat with several ladies, then nod. She gave me a triumphant look and crossed the bridge. Gradually, the other girls also disappeared. When they came back, they were wearing stockings and shoes, silk stockings and very elegant, brand new, high-heeled Spanish shoes. In front of the French customs, the young girls sat down on the ground to remove the stockings and the shoes which they gave to the ladies who crowded around them, talking with bewildering rapidity.

On the bridge, there was as much coming and going as on the Place Louis-XIV. The French customs officers blinked in the sun, the Spanish customs officers had serious and sinister looks, but that was all. Obviously, it was legal. After two hours, Mayie had won a hundred francs and on top of that a nice pair of shoes. " And now ? I asked. “Now,” said Mayie, “dance in Saint-Jean-deLuz! » We danced at Saint-Jean-de-Luz and Mayie gave me an ice cream. I knew the ice cream seller who was there with his well-polished little car, topped with a red and white striped curtain. He was a friend of Dominique. In a shrill voice, he shouted: "Ice cream, ice cream!" We were sucking on our ice cream when the castanets began to click. The musicians began the fandango. "

Ah! the fandango! shouted the ice-cream seller, furious; “and I have to sell ice cream, oh! name name name! He tore off his white quill and nipped it in spite. I grabbed it and put it on my head, shouting: “Go dance the fandango! He looked at me for a moment, dazed, but already Mayie had led him away. The fandango was in full swing and I shouted in a shrill voice: "Ice cream, ice cream!" People were laughing, it was an attraction. The stranger was selling ice cream! The well-known gentleman with his pipe! The German writer who cleaned little Mayie's shoes! It was a party. A crowd gathered around the little car; people crowded around and I slapped the ice cream between the wafer plates while in the upturned lid, the pennies piled up. “Ice cream…ice cream!” The fandango was neither. The salesman and Mayie were making their way to me. Mayie was fanning herself smiling at me. The ice cream seller saw with amazement that the bucket was almost empty. He looked at me and said slowly, wiping his brow: “Listen, sir, I still have a car!…” At each ball, I sold ice cream on the Place Louis-XIV. On one side my car, on the other my companion's. During the fandango, I worked alone. We competed and shared the profits. You have to earn money, what do you want! I was not left alone in the solitary house of the Atenia. One day a young man arrived. He wore sneakers and sweatpants; his bare chest was tanned and he had tied a motley scarf around his neck. Obviously, he wore a Basque beret over his long dark curls. Imperturbably, a monocle was stuck in the right eye which squinted a little. Under his arm he held canvases, an easel, a box with colors and

a pallet. I was under the pergola. He approached me casually. His French was extremely chosen, laced with those little words which serve as an introduction to the French and of which I did not understand any. There was no doubt that he wanted something from me, and in spite I squinted at my dictionary. Finally, I said, "Speak slowly, please, sir, I don't understand!" He pushed back his beret, scratched himself and said, "Himmisakra!" " - " You are german ? I exclaimed. He was German and as penniless as I was. I was worried at first that Mayie would prefer him to me, but he just gave her a quick look. “Legs too short,” he says, “nose too big. In twenty years, she will be like Auntie! » I was silent, hurt, but reassured. He had his own little tricks. He would set up his easel somewhere by the sea and paint, shirtless, monocle in his eye. He caused a sensation at the beach. When enough young girls were gathered around him, he took off his pants and jumped into the water. He swam much better than me and never took off his monocle. Painting easily got the better of poetry. All the ladies predicted a glorious future for her. I compared the white of its wave crests to toothpaste. Without hesitation, he scraped his masterpiece off the canvas, saying impassively, “You're absolutely right! That impressed me. Even Auntie displayed even more ardor when he came to the kitchen. He put his nose in all the pots and exchanged long recipes with Tantine. A day, he took some ears of corn from one of the many fields, threw them into boiling salted water and asked for them as a starter with butter. Auntie looked at him in astonishment. Mayie said scornfully, "At home, only pigs eat that!" I would have kissed her, but Auntie didn't

didn't leave the kitchen. Mayie brought the ears of corn, shaking her head and noticing to the other summer visitors the painter's bizarre habits. The young ladies watched with stifled laughter as Oscar pecked the kernels of the ear with his white teeth, then they ordered the same starter. Ears of corn came into fashion and entered the menu at two francs each. I gave Mayie a reproachful look. “What do you want,” she said, “it's business! » But Oscar had no eyes for young French girls from good families, traveling with mom and dad. They weren't his type. He gave me a meaningful look when at the beach a young girl passed by her easel without looking at the canvas; she had incredibly long legs and very short blond hair. "Don't worry about it," I said. "She must be English!" Oscar followed her with his gaze. "She's going to Auntie's!" he said dreamily. " We will see. » I asked Mayie who she was. Mayie didn't know it either, but she said in a whisper and with wide eyes: "Would you mind, she has nineteen dresses!" Nineteen ! » At meals, the "new" ate alone at a small table next to us. Oscar and I used to speak German out loud and quietly since no one understood. Oscar says: "Seen up close, she's not so good anymore!" I cast a scratched look at the young girl. She was nibbling on an ear of corn. Seeing my look, Oscar said: "The English certainly do not understand German, and especially not when they travel with nineteen dresses!" It has real lace in the bodice,” he added, xing it, “I know about it. But she wears it like an old piece of curtain! — "I don't know what's wrong with you," I said, "I think she's pretty good." But throughout the meal, Oscar detailed

the disadvantages of our neighbour. After lunch, we were still at the table when the young girl got up, approached us and said in perfect German: "Excuse me, could you lend me the Berliner Tageblattfor an instant ? » - Good God ! I exclaimed, you have heard everything!

- Yes, she said quietly, it did me good. It is rare to hear a frank opinion on his own account. Oscar said nothing. He was examining her carefully, squinting more than ever. Curiously, she therefore spoke much more to him than to me. She was Dutch and her name was Isa. She swam with us from Erromardie to the Atenia, Oscar and her far ahead while I tried to follow them. She was going to dance with us in Saint-Jeande-Luz. Oscar taught her the fandango, but with her long legs, she couldn't do it very well. Mayie beamed when I told her that Isa was stiff as a broom. Then she repeated stubbornly: "She's very nice!" Isa insisted on speaking French in Mayie's presence; she shouldn't feel left out. She told Oscar that on his paintings, the white of the crests of the waves frothed like toothpaste. Impassive, Oscar said, “White is fine the way it is. You talk about things you don't understand! — "Possible," said Isa, "I'm studying fine arts!" » Isa was very enterprising, but I only went on these excursions if Mayie could accompany us. I didn't want to take lessons in "politeness of the heart" from Isa. But when we were all together, I had a lot of fun watching the guerrilla warfare between Isa and Oscar. For nothing, they teased each other until they got angry. When we decided to spend the afternoon at the Pile d'Assiettes, I would wait at home until Mayie had finished washing the dishes. I helped her wipe it and we

disappeared as soon as Auntie retired to take her nap. Mayie wasn't very good at climbing cliffs and half-submerged rocks; often she stayed far behind and I had to wait for her or return to help her cross some difficult course. I also helped him climb the Pile. It was very easy, the rock really looked like a pile of plates, a staircase. But it was quite high and Mayie got dizzy easily. On the platform, at the top, Isa and Oscar were still lying lazily on their bathrobes, but far enough apart. Isa was dressed only in a small white bathing suit, while Mayie covered her pale limbs with a large black bathing suit and her head with a wide-brimmed straw hat. Mayie and I slept very close to each other, between Isa and Oscar who remained motionless until Oscar, with his usual nonchalance, made a cheeky remark. “You Dutch people, what have you already produced that is worthwhile? A few acceptable painters, okay; but apart from that, cheese! »

Isa jumped. This point must have been in dispute between them for some time. Isa stood up, indignant, and spoke above our heads to finally exclaim: “And besides, I don't care! I am cosmopolitan; this is the advantage of small nations, they can afford to be cosmopolitan instead of having ideas as limited as the nations which claim to be large…” Oscar replied impassively that so much the better; the small nations could then dissolve into the large ones without reluctance, which would be the true cosmopolitan spirit… And the Netherlands were predestined to be swallowed up!… "Not by you!" cried Isa furiously. You will still have surprises!

"Certainly," said Oscar with a sneer, "if you start shoot cheese balls!… Isa jumped up, spat on Oscar and, seeing the tide rise, took off to jump into the water. Concerned, I asked Oscar if she was really angry. Oscar laughs: “Of course, it's his nerve center! Holland is so small that she can't find a husband there…” Imperturbable, he went down to the sea. I saw them in the waves, Isa's white cap and Oscar's black toue; I followed them with my eyes until they were very close to each other.

When they left alone, I was worried and didn't know what to do. Mayie asked me if I was bored and brought me a carafe of wine; slowly and without moving, I filled up. In the night, Mayie asked: "Miss Isa…" she hesitated… "do you love her?" I was a little scratched. That evening, Oscar and Isa had gone for a walk, and when they got home they noticed that Isa had lost the belt of her dress. All evening, I had been very worried. I say with difficulty: “Oh! no, you know, she has a big nose, too big for her face. "His nose is very pretty," said Mayie in a low voice. Suddenly she rolled over, her hair falling in my face. She said, "She lost her belt!" I don't understand how this is possible! “I was unhappy. “Shut up,” I say. Mayie was silent. She remained motionless, then she whispered: "So you love him!" »

We were silent for a long time. Suddenly I felt that my shoulder was wet. I felt towards her face, trying to console her. It was the first time she had cried and I could never bear to see a woman cry. But she shook her head violently and refused to turn her face to me. I sighed in her hair;

I told long stories behind her neck, betraying Isa until the rooster crowed three times. Mayie remained motionless, but when I thought she was asleep, she suddenly gave a little laugh and said as if satisfied: “So you're jealous. Me too, I'm jealous! Everything will be alright ! » With that, she fell asleep while I listened to Auntie's snores, while I wondered how it was all going to end. Everything was going to be fine. At the time of the equinox storms, I was sleeping one day in my bed at the Atenia when Mayie burst into my room and shouted, shaking me: “Get up! Stand up ! I woke up with a start. I was furious because I hate being woken up suddenly. Mayie shouted, “Come right away! Miss Isa… she's drowning! I was stunned. What did Isa have? Was she bored? Anger seizes me. I shouted: "But let me sleep!" I don't care about Mademoiselle Isa! Mayie looked at me, dazed. Suddenly, she sobbed, gave me a "Coward!" Coward! and ran out. Stunned, I watched her leave, then I got up, put on my bathing suit and went up to Oscar's. He was standing on his table, the camera glued to his monocle. I asked him, "Do you know what's going on?" Mayie just woke me up, all excited, I didn't quite understand. She said something about Isa being bored. — "Yes," said Oscar, turning around, "to me too, she told me something about Isa, but I told her not to bother me." I photograph the sea. It is wonderful today. Feral, when there is not even wind, really dangerous. » We looked at each other, dumbfounded. Then we simultaneously rushed to the dictionary, leafing through, trembling. Here is the word: to drown!…

We ran towards the sea. It came in short, yellow waves; the ots made a deafening noise as the foaming waves crashed. I had never seen the sea like this. Oscar ran towards the cape which separated Erromardie from the Atenia. I followed him panting. There were a lot of people bustling around Auntie's house. At the cape, Oscar saw the first, in the foam, near the cliffs, the white cap which disappeared in a whirlwind... which reappeared. We let ourselves down. The slope was covered with cedars and thorny broom. The brush tore my jersey and my skin, we jumped, we tumbled… Oscar was already on the cliffs when I reached the first rock. I no longer saw the white cap. Oscar jumped from cliff to cliff. Suddenly, he turned and cried out louder than the sea: “Ein Seil! I turned back, slipped, fell in the water. On the beach, the crowd was shouting and gesticulating. “Ain Seil! I shouted. Name of a name, how do you say “Seil” in French? I arrived home, exhausted, and I shouted to Mayie: “Ein Seil! She threw the clothesline at me and said, "Here's the line!" Of course, rope! Fool that I was! I rushed towards the cliffs. I arrived at the waves. Roaring, the yellow wall crumbled, gurgled and retreated foaming. Oscar was huddled against a steep rock, and below him Isa was struggling. The next wave picked her up, threw her against the rock. Oscar wanted to grab it, but he missed. He stuck to the stone as the wave carried Isa away. Oscar let himself fall and disappeared into the water. Finally, I got to where he had been a moment before and threw the rope to him. A new wave rushed in. I clung on with numb hands. Oscar appeared, he held Isa in his arms, grabbed the rope and tied it around her. " Take ! he shouted at me. I looked at him, earé. He always had

his monocle. " Go ahead ! he shouted, but a new wave crashed over me. When she received, Oscar had hoisted Isa onto the rock.

We carried her into the house. The people around us were very agitated. " She is dead ! shouted a young girl. Isa had her eyes closed and hung rigidly between our arms. Her long legs swayed. We laid her on Mayie's bed. "Do you know anything about artificial respiration?" asked Oscar. I shook my head. Oscar says, "Let's get rid of the secondhand clothes first!" He ripped off her torn shirt, then grabbed her arms and pumped. “Press your belly! he commanded. "She must have swallowed quantities of water!" I pressed hard. I felt very stupid. Isa did not move. She was lying there, as if dejected. She had a wonderful body. Oscar was pumping. Suddenly he began to sing a rhyme making fun of the city of Amsterdam. I watched Isa's face. She smiles. I shouted, "She's smiling!" Oscar looked at her. He leaned into her face very closely. Her long wet hair clung to her forehead. He still had his monocle on. Slowly, in a deep, warm voice, he said: "It was Holland in distress, what?" A little bit of water, and you give up right away, you guys! »

Isa opened her eyes and said, "I'm going to spit!" But not cheese balls! She spat. Mayie stormed in, glared furiously first at Isa, then at us. " Go away ! she cried, "but now!" She is naked! Totally naked! You have no shame ? » Isa only recovered after several days. She had been unaware of the power of the sea at the equinox. She had tried to swim once more from Erromardie to the Atenia. Seven times she had gone to the bottom, but her resistance had only really been overcome by the

breakers, cliffs. Now she wanted to leave. “It was very nice of you,” she said, “but the urge passed me…” In Oscar too, the desire had passed. He wanted to go to Arles to paint there, and follow in the footsteps of Van Gogh, “the only Dutchman who would have been worth something”.

"And you treated him like a dog!" Cheese merchants that you are! » Isa smiles; she grabbed one of Oscar's ears and said, "If you have the guts, you'll give me that ear as a souvenir!" » Isa had solved the problem of financial inequality with great skill. She bought the painting "The Great Wave" from Oscar and for the farewell, Oscar even agreed to put a white cap in the toothpaste. To me, she paid me a fee for lessons in German literature, an hour every day, during which she had taught me the nesses of this rather disturbing science. She definitely knew better than me. I waited with some curiosity how she was going to say goodbye to Mayie. But it was very simple. She kissed him and asked him "since I'm the eldest" to use tu. Then she promised to come back the following year.

Everything was fine. The shadow of the long legs no longer crossed Mayie's path. Mayie brought me a basket of guages from that tree by the roadside, as she had promised. Summer was coming to an end. When I was cited at the Saint-Jean-de-Luz police station, I thought it was because of my work card. I knew the commissioner. He had sometimes bought my ice cream looking at me sternly. I had no work permit and it was more than unlikely that I would be given it. The superintendent received me with a very reserved air. The town hall was on the Place Louis-XIV and from his office, the commissioner could see the precise place where

found my ice cream car on prom days. I made a deliberately mischievous face, but the commissioner had heavy artillery. “Sir,” he said solemnly, “you are a German spy! » So. It had to happen to me. It was obvious that the darkest suspicions must hang over me. I had to keep my composure. Sheepishly, I said, "You're right, sir, you've convinced me!" Congratulations ! » He glared at me and I declared myself ready, to save my head, to betray the entire spy network that Germany had established to attack peaceful France soon. Seeing that the Reichswehr had no chance, with its hundred thousand men, of beating the victorious and valiant French army on the Rhine, tried a thousand times over, General von Hindenburg had decided to try a coup by passing through the Pyrenees. Once before, Roland had uttered a warlike cry with his olifant, fighting against the savage Basques, and everyone knew that General von Hindenburg was familiarly called "the dele Roland." The strategic goal was the separation of Gascony from the French mother country and the establishment of a corridor. It was the idea of the well-known French writer Claude Farrère who was in our pay. The commissioner did not blink. He said, "No jokes, sir!" He scrutinized my face carefully and added that I could tell him what I wanted, I was not the man I wanted to impersonate. He had proof. I wanted to see them, these proofs.

The superintendent took out a file, took out a piece of paper and slammed it on the table: “Here! »

It was a prospectus from the Plon editions, in Paris, which advertised my book. Rowohlt gave them a photo of me, taken immediately after my release from prison. A face marked by sourance, with thin lips, an ascetic face with burning eyes. " SO ? asked the commissioner. It was true that I had changed; I was unrecognizable. “Sir,” I said, “that…that's good French cuisine! From then on, we hardly talked about anything but culinary recipes. In the end, he even tried to speak to me in German and he was very upset to see that I did not understand in which language he was speaking to me. He had learned his German while he was a prisoner of war near Dresden. When I took leave of him, he took both my hands and said, a little sadly: "And, sir, if you sell ice cream without a work permit, please, not just in front of the police station!" » But the question of ice cream resolved itself: the season was over. One last time we danced on the Place Louis-XIV, and I closed the car when the castanets called for the fandango. We danced the Charleston (Mayie danced it particularly well: she practiced it by going through the dining room with steel wool), we danced the java des midinettes and then came "the bull", curated by two jokers who were chasing the young girls as rockets erupted from her skin, her eyes, her mouth and her tail. While dancing with Mayie, I bumped into another couple. After apologizing, I continued to dance. Then I heard a voice: "It was the Boche!" » It was the first time I had heard this word in France. I turned around. The person who said it was a young sailor from a

cruiser in the harbor at Saint-Jean-de-Luz, a young Basque who wore his pretty white cap with the pompom crookedly. I begged Mayie to wait a second and touched the sailor on the shoulder.

“Sir, please, what did you say? » He understood immediately. He smiled embarrassed and said, “Ah! sir, for us, this is not an insult! — "For me either," I said, "but I don't like it!" The sailor put on a very unhappy face. “Sir, you understand, in our country, we say that, it's the habit; my mother taught me this word herself. If you want, I'll never say it again! » What if the mother had taught him? I say: "So, we have to take something!" » We went to get something. I ordered a round, then he, then many friends and sailors, and even my ice cream mate who all wanted to pay for a round. People came from all over to celebrate the FrancoGerman understanding. Even the commissary approached with a giant Basque with a tanned and reckless face and an aquiline nose; this one crushed my hand and ordered a round for the whole place. "He's the king of smugglers!" whispered the commissary to me respectfully and with manifest pride in being his friend. Me too, I was er. Some time later, after delivering Mayie to the confessional, I went to Place Louis-XIV to have a drink. I saw the smuggler king and gave him a friendly nod. He came towards me. Seeing the glass of Pernod the waiter had just brought me, he asked me if I had already had a drink. To my astonished “no”, he said: “Ah, that!…” and threateningly: “Boy! » The waiter ran up, the bottle of Pernod still in his hand. The king of the smugglers said to him: “Listen, old man, this gentleman is not a stranger, he is a friend of mine! »

" Oh sorry ! the waiter said and refilled my glass. I asked my fierce friend how the business was going. "Bad," he said with a sigh, "very, very bad!" At the time, yes, it was still worth it. Saccharine and Salvarsan were valuable and easy to transport products. But now ? Should he carry matches? It was not a life; the crisis and the accursed policy had ruined everything, even his joie de vivre. I asked him to take me on one of his expeditions one day. But wearily, he refused. He no longer went to Spain except to see a girl there, a "hen" as he called her, a Spanish Basque. He explained to me how dangerous it was to hang out with a girl there. The seven Basque provinces, three French and four Spanish, were inhabited by one and the same people. But if the frontier had not been able to separate either language or race, mores had succeeded. In this country of pretrail and gendarmes, you never saw a girl alone. They lived behind bars; only going down the street to go to church, and still in the company of their mother… My friend heaved a heavy sigh. When the young girls there wanted to go dancing, they had to leave the house secretly at night and row across the Bidassoa; at Béhobie, and at Hendaye, they were then the gayest and prettiest. What wonder that my friend hates Alfonso XIII! He would strangle her with his own hands, he said. He had very large and strong hands. They lived behind bars; only going down the street to go to church, and still in the company of their mother… My friend heaved a heavy sigh. When the young girls there wanted to go dancing, they had to leave the house secretly at night and row across the Bidassoa; at Béhobie, and at Hendaye, they were then the gayest and prettiest. What wonder that my friend hates Alfonso XIII! He would strangle her with his own hands, he said. He had very large and strong hands. They lived behind bars; only going down the street to go to church, and still in the company of their mother… My friend heaved a heavy sigh. When the young girls there wanted to go dancing, they had to leave the house secretly at night and row across the Bidassoa; at Béhobie, and at Hendaye, they were then the gayest and prettiest. What wonder that my friend hates Alfonso XIII! He would strangle her with his own hands, he said. He had very large and strong hands. they were then the gayest and prettiest. What wonder that my friend hates Alfonso XIII! He would strangle her with his own hands, he said. He had very large and strong hands. they were then the gayest and prettiest. What wonder that my friend hates Alfonso XIII! He would strangle her with his own hands, he said. He had very large and strong hands.

“Ah, you are a Republican! I say respectfully. But he shook his head and said contemptuously: “The Republic… ah that…” He explained to me that in the past, it had been very easy. He bought the head of the Carabineros over there, because obviously, we couldn't do without that entirely. But now the Republic was fighting corruption. Recently, she had the carabineros relieved every

month and that meant he had to buy a new chef every month. The profits went there. “Oh! I said, "then you are a communist!" My friend abandoned himself to gloomy reflections. With an unhappy gesture, he dropped his head on his broad chest and said dully that Communism certainly had many good sides; but we knew that he tended to abolish frontiers, and what would become of him then? And becoming energetic again, he said proudly: “Monsieur, I am Basque! » He explained to me that the Basques were the most proud and freest men in the world. They had remained as Livy had described them. They always wore the same clothes and used the same knife, he showed me; they still had the same way of plowing the fields. They were the best cattle herders and the best sailors in the world. The boldest gauchos in South America and the bravest whalers in Greenland were Basques. And after making a fortune in the world, they all returned to their homeland in their old age. They were building a house there, one of those beautiful white houses. None betrayed his race, said my friend, all still spoke the same language, the oldest in the world which had no kinship with any other... "The Basques", he said again, "are the last vestiges of a more beautiful, freer and more serious world which had once sunk with Atlantis ; a world whose last two pillars were the Pyrenees and the mountains of Mexico. » “The Basques”, he concludes, “are not a people, they are not a nation, they are not a race, the Basques are an honor! There are French Basques, there are Spanish Basques, and you, sir, are a German Basque! »

I bowed to this charming compliment and ordered two more Pernods. The waiter was filling the glasses to the brim, setting the piece of ice aside, on the saucer. I knew the unfortunate effects of Pernod; it gave powerful dreams, exciting the imagination, only to leave behind a sort of stupor, a pleasant fatigue which made the problems of the world appear rather negligible. Mayie didn't like it at all when I drank too much Pernod, and I too was shocked at the idea of the consequences that were generally predicted. But Mr. Seyerlen's bottles had been empty for a long time, with the exception of a bottle of Fernet-Branca which I drank like any liqueur and which warmed my stomach pleasantly. However, consumed in too large quantities, it imperiously called for a supplement of pernod. So, I soon had difficulty following the conversation that took place after Etienne's arrival. We were about on the fifth round; Étienne greeted us very cordially and not without showing his astonishment that we knew each other. He even seemed a little offended because I hadn't told him. Besides, my friend, the king of smugglers, was surprised to learn that I was “a good friend of Mr. Seyerlen”. After exchanging a knowing glance, they expressed their respect for my exemplary discretion. But now, Etienne said, there was no longer any reason for us to be silent about things that concerned us all equally. And the moment was propitious: he had good news to tell us, he had found a captain who agreed to take charge of the garage's merchandise, and what did I think of it? I had no opinion to give, but I was a polite man and congratulated Etienne on the good news. The Smuggler King was very pleased. Garage merchandise, he said, had always given him a lot of trouble; He was tall

time it disappeared, and what did I think of it? I said that when it was high time for something to disappear, they could believe me because I had experience on this point, we could not hurry too much! We called the waiter and we toasted. Etienne said that obviously we could no longer hope to obtain the price we had originally expected; but the risks were really becoming too great. I say with ardor that if something were to disappear, it was necessary to run all the risks. My friends praised my great understanding of business. “So we will act accordingly! declared Etienne. " All right ? We joined hands and said solemnly, "Okay!" » Mayie glared at the Pernods and flatly refused to drink one. She insisted that I walk her home even though I would have preferred to stay a little longer with my friends. I loved Mayie. Every time I saw her, it gave me a little heartbeat. I loved her intelligent, natural way, which took reality into account, the assurance with which she gave everything its place, the grace of her movements, her whole agile and flexible little person. Never had I found her prettier, never had I desired her more fervently than that day when she was standing in front of us, with her light little dress that she still wore at the beginning of October. She had the raincoat over her arm, not that it was pleasing, but to appear more dignified in the confessional. I liked the little lock that fell on her forehead and that she sometimes arranged, with a wet finger, coquettishly into a "heart-hugger"; I loved the arch of her eyebrows, her wide mouth, always laughing, of a natural red.

drunk at the start of the afternoon, and with Pernod to boot. She only insisted on walking back to clear my head. The priest had seriously scolded her. He wanted to know when I was finally leaving and when Mayie said she didn't know, he had described to her in detail all the torments of hell. She walked beside me, head bowed, and I tried in vain to kiss her. She turned her face away and when she saw that I was upset, she grabbed my hand and said miserably, "You know, honey, I like you, but he scolded me so much!" » Suddenly she made me feel terribly sorry. For the first time, I gave up complaining about the comparison between me and any vegetable. I felt extremely vile, cowardly and infamous. We arrived at the guier. When we first stood under its branches, little Mayie was a young girl. She was so charming, she loved me, and from week to week I had chased her through the antechambers of hell. She really didn't deserve this. We were under the guier and I threw myself on the ground, forcing Mayie to stand next to me, and I told her that I wanted to marry her. Mayie had leaned against the trunk and she took my head in her lap. She ran her hands through my hair and said:

" You are drunk ! my pal ! » This remark had the effect of exciting me enormously. At full speed, I asked myself all the questions of my life, answering them immediately, without making it clear where the voice of the devil's advocate was. I wanted to stay there, forever. Mayie was the woman for me. I could make a living here as well as anywhere else. The longer my monologue lasted, the easier everything seemed to me. I certainly couldn't stand Mayie laughing; but Mayie was not laughing. She spent her

hands in my hair saying from time to time: "My poor little cabbage! » Seeing her smiling and uncertain face, I loved her even more and redoubled my efforts to convince her of my love and the seriousness of my proposals. I was getting more and more insistent; never before had I been more willing to give her all the proofs of my love, but the only result was that the next morning she could not go to communion. For the next few days, my determination remained unchanged. I saw it as proof that I was right. I seriously suggested that Mayie go to Auntie's, hand in hand, to ask for her blessing. But no sooner had I begun to speak than Mayie stamped her foot and said angrily, “Shut up! Don't lay the bench! She cut short all my more detailed explanations with exclamations like "I'm feeling blue," phrases whose meaning I always had to look up in the dictionary. So I made my thoughts without talking to Mayie. I was mainly concerned about the possibility of earning a living in the future. Germany was far, very far. I heard no more of Rowohlt, and in the sea air my typewriter had simply rusted. Ice cream season was over.

I went to the fishing port at Saint-Jean-de-Luz. I knew that boats were preparing to go fishing illegally in Spanish waters, at night, without position lights, so as not to be spotted by the Spanish coast guard. Tuna was only found on the Spanish coast. The crews of the boats shared the profits; and papers were obviously not required for this kind of business.

The boat owner I spoke to did not seem adverse to my proposal. He said that the work was hard, not without danger, but easy to learn provided one was of good will; we fished for tuna with a line; he was going to have Etienne warn me when the time came. A few days later Etienne came in to tell me that the captain wanted to speak to me. We went together to Saint-Jeande-Luz, taking the road to the port. But instead Louis-XIV, the king of smugglers was sitting on the terrace of a cafe opposite the town hall. He was in the company of a man dressed in a blue tunic, trimmed with golden buttons. They greeted me cordially and invited us to take a seat at their table. They were talking about trucks and garages, and a boat in Bayonne harbor. Gradually, I realized that it must be the business that we had sprinkled with so many pernods. At the end, my two friends and this man in whom I rightly assumed the captain of the Bayonne boat, joined hands and gave it to me too, saying solemnly: “All right! " Afterwards, the captain produced wads of notes and heaped them into three piles, one large and two smaller. I was in agony, for I wanted to see my fisherman; but my friends seemed to attach so much importance to my presence, so to speak, as an impartial witness to their complicated transactions, that I did not want to offend them. When the three agreed, the king of the smugglers pushed the big pile of notes towards me and said: "It's for you, sir!" » Dazed, I looked at the money, stammering: “But how?…” Immediately, the three began to give me explanations; I understood more or less that the business had not given more since it was so urgent to get rid of the goods.

Finally, my friend, the king of smugglers, said with a slight reproach in his voice, “Sir, you said 'okay'! » It was true. And it was not permitted in this country to break one's word. The French were very meticulous on this point. Their politicians were not, for the most part, lawyers for nothing. Poincaré was a man after the heart of the French: a contract is a contract! I put the money in the pocket. My three companions seemed extremely relieved. They were happily shaking my hand and calling the boy in a very good mood. At home, I counted the nest egg. That made nearly sixty thousand francs. Never before had I seen so much money at once. And I had no idea what merchandise I had sold or who it had belonged to or who it was going to belong to. But I suspected a little of the nature of the business, it was obviously necessary to put it in touch with Mr. Seyerlen. A quick look in any newspaper revealed many possibilities. Anyway, I had every reason to wonder which paragraph of the penal code I could have violated without thinking of harm. But I couldn't come to a satisfactory conclusion. I decided not to say anything, temporarily, about my luck to Mayie, but to find out more closely, not from Etienne, with whom I had to keep face, but from Dominique. It was dicult to reach it. During the season, he was a croupier at the Saint-Jean-de-Luz casino. He had tried many times to overcome my reluctance and make me try my luck at roulette. When I met him, he put it off immediately, saying that I had enough capital to risk something. So he was aware. And suddenly the idea tempted me to increase the capital so unexpectedly earned so that I could return it

fully to its owner while keeping a good supply for me. I had occasionally peeked into the gaming room from the pergola of the casino. The same building also housed the largest cinema in the area and during the intermission, before the big film, the spectators walked under this pergola. Now the season was over and in a few days we were going to close the casino. So it was high time. Dominique explained the rules of the game to me and gave me disturbing advice. In the evening I went to Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Obviously, I lost. Dominique had had the frankness to warn me. But he was of the opinion that with such capital, it was easy to wait for a series and to recover with certainty any previous loss. If I wanted to be honest again, I had to keep playing; in any case, after the first evening, the capital was no longer intact. I feared that Mayie had all sorts of misconceptions about my strange escapades in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. But she said nothing; she smiled at me when I put on my jacket, casting a worried glance at my watch. And when I rushed to the tram stop in the evening, she would cheerfully shout to me: "Good luck!" But obviously, the luck of the roulette wheel hadn't occurred to her, because she persisted in giving me a little perfume before I left. The game seemed silly and crude to me, and not exciting at all. I was winning and losing without feeling the slightest tickle. I just wanted to increase my capital, double it if possible. I was not succeeding. I lost and lost. And the more careful I became in my bet, the more I lost. When I felt only a thin wad in my pocket, I decided to risk it all.

The summer visitors who were still there had stayed because of roulette. They were almost all foreigners, mostly women. They dressed neatly in the evenings and crowded curiously around the table when I piled my tickets in front of me. I was playing at Dominique's table. He looked at me with concern when I lost too much and gave me encouraging smiles when I bet big. I had waited a long series without playing. When the trend reversed, I prepared myself: I wanted to risk the Napoleon coup. I started to bet when there was a noise at the door of the pergola. Everyone turned around. I was very startled to see Mayie on the door. The usher wouldn't let her in. She was dressed only in her little summer dress, raincoat and Basque beret. You could tell she was from the country, and people from the country were forbidden to enter. I got up immediately to hide behind the backs of the players who had all turned towards the door. I was terribly embarrassed; Mayie must have recognized me, because she was arguing more and more violently with the usher. This one was a very strong boy with broad shoulders. Mayie tried to slip under his arm, but he held her back. SO, she began to scream and fulminate. She was furious, she was drumming against her opponent's chest and her voice was getting so loud that everyone could understand every word. I didn't know Mayie had such a vocabulary of crude expressions. All I understood was "Ah, that!..." and a wave of invective which unleashed storms of enthusiasm among the spectators of the cinema, outside in the pergola. She shouted that she was French and that we were going to see, "nomdenomdenom" if someone could forbid a French woman from going to her own country wherever she wanted!... And then she kicked the tibia of the usher who recoiled in she was drumming against her opponent's chest and her voice was getting so loud that everyone could understand every word. I didn't know Mayie had such a vocabulary of crude expressions. All I understood was "Ah, that!..." and a wave of invective which unleashed storms of enthusiasm among the spectators of the cinema, outside in the pergola. She shouted that she was French and that we were going to see, "nomdenomdenom" if someone could forbid a French woman to go to her own country wherever she wanted!... And then she kicked the tibia of the usher who recoiled in she was drumming against her opponent's chest and her voice was getting so loud that everyone could understand every word. I didn't know Mayie had such a vocabulary of crude expressions. All I understood was "Ah, that!..." and a wave of invective which unleashed storms of enthusiasm among the spectators of the cinema, outside in the pergola. She shouted that she was French and that we were going to see, "nomdenomdenom" if someone could forbid a French woman to go to her own country wherever she wanted!... And then she kicked the tibia of the usher who recoiled in …” and a burst of invective that unleashed storms of enthusiasm among the spectators of the cinema, outside in the pergola. She shouted that she was French and that we were going to see, "nomdenomdenom" if someone could forbid a French woman from going to her own country wherever she wanted!... And then she kicked the tibia of the usher who recoiled in …” and a burst of invective that unleashed storms of enthusiasm among the spectators of the cinema, outside in the pergola. She shouted that she was French and that we were going to see, "nomdenomdenom" if someone could forbid a French woman from going to her own country wherever she wanted!... And then she kicked the tibia of the usher who recoiled in

letting out a cry. She stormed in, passing by the director of the casino, by the croupiers who had risen, by the ladies in full dress and the gentlemen in dark suits, who, disconcerted, were watching her, and went all the way. straight to me. She rushed at me like a flurry, with fiery indignation, her face on fire, her locks undone, her eyes blazing wildly. " Oh that ! she cried, grabbing me by the jacket, "you're coming with me!" But immediately! Right away ! » "Right now," Mayie cried, and I turned, sinking blindly into a sea of shame. Mayie saw the money that had been left in my place. "It's yours!" she declared without hesitation, grabbed it and stuffed it into the pocket of her little coat. Jostling everyone, she dragged me with her. With raised hands, eyebrows raised in horror, and with a tiny, round mouth, the director wanted to approach her. “Shut up, baby! she threw at him. Then the audience suddenly burst into applause and frenzied shouts of joy. An immense laugh, a thunder of laughter, a scrap of laughter filled the room, spread outside and accompanied us until the darkness had engulfed us. No sooner were we alone than Mayie burst into tears. I had about six thousand francs left. I didn't see a penny of it again. Mayie paid all my debts and put the rest of the money in a canary yellow sweater she had wanted for a long time. Then she led me to my typewriter. She was cleaned and oiled. Mayie had provided for it. “You are a writer! said Mayie. “So, write! » It was an idea that had occurred to me from time to time. It disturbed my thoughts like the piece of ice the Pernod. But he

was foolish to want to explain to Mayie how stupid it was to start a book of which I did not know the first word, of which I knew that it was the subject of a contract that had become void with the only publisher who could have published it, if he could. It was only out of self-respect, or rather out of love for the respect Mayie had to show me, that I went to the typewriter, inserted a nice white sheet and wrote, after having traced a belle — 1 —: “From Niebüll to Glückstadt, the west coast of Schleswig-Holstein protects a green and vast country with its dykes. This sentence was very pretty, it said everything one had the right to ask of it. I was very proud of this sentence. She was solid as a rock. And that's how she stayed. Only, the paper had yellowed when I added the second sentence. If I had thought that winter would bring me the calm conducive to work, a thought in which I had sometimes taken pleasure in summer, I was quickly disillusioned. It was a terrible winter. One day it even snowed! There was about six inches of snow, not in height, but in length. Bewildered, people came out of the houses to look at the three ocons. Auntie exclaimed, "What terrible weather" and shook her head. In living memory, we had never had a winter so terrible, so hard. I hadn't checked myself, but reliable people assured me that the thermometer had almost dropped below zero. It all started on Armistice Day. Long in advance, Mayie had prepared a dress to celebrate this holiday with dignity. She brushed my suit and moved the buttons, as it had recently become too tight. The whole family went to Saint-Jean-de-Luz to attend the solemn and holy commemoration. Even the grandmother, whom I had only ever seen in the kitchen plucking a chicken or peeling vegetables, and of whom I had never heard

a word I would have understood, for she only spoke Basque, even Grandmother would come with us, leaning on my arm. It was a very fine party; the mayor wore a blue-white-red scarf around his plump waist. In front of the war memorial, he made a speech in admirable French, and the rain poured down. The rain, whipped by the wind, passed in oblique gusts over the assembly. On my left, Mayie trembled and quivered with national emotion, and on my right, Grandmother stood stiff like Joan of Arc before her judges, not understanding a word, just like her. Slowly, the water rose in my shoes, and the mayor did not stop. But no one gives up. Finally, the orchestra played the Marseillaiseand we all sang it. Then he played theMadelon, and we all sang it. Then he played the national anthems of all the peoples who had assisted holy and noble France in this terrible war against the barbarians. The French are a grateful people, they are a polite people. There were twenty-eight national anthems. The rain was falling atGod save the King, it fell in honor of Belgium and Brazil, because, of course, we proceeded in alphabetical order. And the French remained steadfast, under the storm, and sang. Mayie was singing, and my friend, the police commissioner, and our friend, the king of the smugglers, Etienne and Dominique, Jean-Pierre and the waiter in the cafe and Father Douat, and even the grandmother who was making her voice heard. trembling voice a "lalala" like all the others who knew how to follow the powerfully played melody but not the incomprehensible texts. Father Douat was silent only once, during theGiovinezza. We sang for hours, and the rain was falling, and I was longing for Germany. Not that we had reason to commemorate the armistice there in delirious joy, but in all politeness, we could have stuck to a single national anthem.

No sooner was the party over than Father Douat took my hand and said solemnly: “Monsieur! You are german ! I am french ! The next war, sir, you and us... and against the Italians! So what !!!… " Mayie had caught cold and had to stay in bed. His parents had written to him to return since the season was over. But Auntie replied that Mayie was sick and there was still a guest, so Mayie had to stay. Mayie was starting to color again. But after the next confession, she came back pale and troubled. The priest had "scolded him so much" and had imposed on him a pilgrimage to Lourdes to atone for his terrible sins. Defeated and as if drained, Mayie declared herself determined to put polka dots in her shoes as well. In vain I knocked on his window in the evening; in vain, I made jokes of dubious taste (“cooked peas, Mayie!”). Pale and silent, she was packing her suitcase. She shook her head violently when I tried to kiss her. She just shook my hand as she got on the train. She reappeared at the window when the train started. She had tears in her eyes and gave me one last wistful look. I left on the next train. But I had to spend the night in Pau. I did not miss the desire to visit the city, the castle of "our good Henri" and the Boulevard des Pyrénées, but the nostalgia for my poor little penitent Mayie was so strong that I left for Lourdes by the first train, after having bought a bag of peas in Pau. It was raining, it was windy, it was cold. The mountains had disappeared in the fog and the windows of the houses were boarded up. The city was deserted. The barracks, which a few weeks before had been overflowing with devotional articles, were locked.

It looked like a town of gold diggers in Alaska, abandoned by its inhabitants, as we saw them in American movies. Lourdes flaunted all her ugliness. What, in the animation of the processions of pilgrims, could at a pinch seem picturesque, became degraded and repugnantly ostentatious. Everywhere you could still see signs swaying in the wind, creaking, warning against pickpockets. The halo and head of the Virgin turned out to be scaffolding for light bulbs; the grotto, surrounded by currents of air, was a black hole of smoke, dug in the rock from which hung all the expedients of the infirm: corsets, prostheses, crutches. The bad weather plunged them into an atmosphere of even more atrocious misery. Inside the cave, protected by an ugly cast-iron grate, was the statue: whitish lime and faded blue. Only,

Soaked and chilled, I searched the basilica and the crypt. I walked the streets of the village proper. Mayie wasn't there. I went round the inns, almost all closed, and waited on a stale terrace, at a table covered with a stained tablecloth, which had been there since the last caravan of pilgrims. And for the first time in France, I ate very badly. Then I went back to find Mayie, my bag of peas, also soaked, under her arm. I discovered it on the way to Calvary with the stations guarded by immense groups of crushingly massive bronze; I admired the power and the glory of the Catholic Church which dares to offer this mass of enticing monstrosities, diormes and screaming, to millions of pious souls, snatching from them a fervor

authentic. I spotted Mayie as I turned toward the upper bend in the path. A small black figure, slender and submissive, she was kneeling, her head bent to the ground, the rosary between her fingers, in front of a huge group of coarse bronze figures. I stopped. I carefully took a step back to hide and watch him; at that moment, she saw me. She got up, stared at me for a moment, then she started running towards me. The path was steep and strewn with muddy waters. Mayie was running so fast that I was afraid she would fall; I ran towards her. She collided with me with a violence that staggered us. She rubbed her cold little nose against my cheek, stammering little words of tenderness. "I knew… I knew…, and you came!…" She pressed herself against me with all her strength, making my bag creak. The peas rolled on the ground. Seeing them, Mayie grabbed my ears, brought her eyes very close to mine and said, while her tears mingled with the rain: “Ah! bastard! Dirty pig ! » We stayed three days in Lourdes, and it was raining. Mayie had taken a room in the smallest inn in the area. We couldn't heat it and there was only one bed. I asked the landlady where I could sleep. She was cross-eyed and on her cheek there was a big wart. She looked at me uncertainly, then she looked at the bed. She said, "The bed is wide enough, sir!" She rubbed her hands and lamented, "It's cold!" Better go to bed! And blinking her cunning eyes, she added: "So it's hot!" »

We stayed three days and three nights in bed warming ourselves. I only got up to go and buy the newspaper and to discuss meals with the landlady. Mayie's yellow sweater, her black jacket and my clothes were drying in the kitchen, and the landlady was in no hurry to iron them. She promised to teach me Basque. "

Maitenia,” she said, meant “I love you.” She told me, blinking that I could say to Miss Mayie without fear: “Naoussou etore nerekin! if I wanted to gladden his heart. But she didn't tell me what that meant. She was squinting terribly as I repeated those words. I say to Mayie: “Maitenia! and she kissed me tenderly. I said to him: “Naoussou etore nerekin! and she gave me a gig and said, blushing: "It's shameful!" But she didn't say what that meant. I will probably never learn that. All the Basques laughed when I asked them the question, but they never wanted to answer me. On the last day, the sun made its appearance. Lourdes looked freshly washed but still ugly. Only the surrounding green hills made it bearable. I tried to explain to Mayie that the exercises of penance no longer made sense, but she persisted in wanting to visit the crypt. She did not allow me to enter with her. I looked through the portal and saw her kneeling before a statue of a saint. Later, while she was packing her small suitcase, I ran to the crypt to see the saint. It was Saint Anthony. I asked the patroness what powers were attributed to Saint Anthony. She clapped her tongue and blinked hard with a crosseyed eye. She said it was the saint to whom young women asked to be blessed with a child. In the evening, we took a last walk along the Gave. I tell Mayie that if I ever had to have a ls, I wanted to baptize him Gatien. I explained to him that an ancestor had borne this name. Mayie found it very pretty and said that one could very well baptize a girl "Gatienne". I begged her to marry me if she was to have a baby; I told him that Gatien would surely be very unhappy if he had no one to whom he could say "papa." But Mayie was shaking her head so violently that her locks were clinging to

his face. But through the mesh of curls, she watched my face. Finally, we argued about the qualities that Gatien was going to have. We were as stupid as all the young couples who are soon to be married. But obviously, Auntie was not very convinced of the success of the pilgrimage. She must have written to Mayie's parents, because one day her brother Pierre arrived. He was a strong, well-built young man who kissed Mayie tenderly and squeezed my hand tightly, peering at me. There seemed to me no doubt that Pierre was, so to speak, the patrol sent to reconnoitre the positions of the evil enemy. But Mayie told me that during the three days he stayed, he hadn't asked a single question about me. He was with Mayie all the time, and I was with Mayie all the time; we ate together, we took walks together and, in the evening, we met around the fireplace. Pierre only seemed to have come to tell his sister that he intended to marry as soon as he finished his military service. He wanted to marry the midwife of his village. He explained to me with a smile that in France the midwives were not rather old ladies, very chubby, with red and robust arms, with a starched white apron and characterized by an imperious thirst for coffee, but for appetizing young girls who, after a very thorough education, came to the countryside to help the district doctors; their highly regarded scope of practice included much more than just midwifery. Pierre was a carpenter; at the beginning of his service, he had already built himself a house; now he was attacking the workshop, a small timber trade was about to be born.

Mayie was delighted with this invitation as I felt my knees give out a little. I didn't quite know what the family expected of me, but I had a vague feeling that my job as an ice-cream seller could not find unqualified approval among the craftsmen and peasants of the South. However, the thought that, if necessary, a midwife would be in the family seemed reassuring to me. I looked at Mayie fondly; we exchanged a quick glance and I promised to come to Pierre's wedding. Auntie was standing under the door, tender, her hands clasped under her blue apron, when we left to go to the wedding. I was carrying an extremely heavy basket with “housekeeping” dishes. I felt a bit overwhelmed by the vital meaning this word takes on in France. I dreaded the moment when I would have to confront Mayie's parents. But everything was very simple. From the door of the paternal farm, Mayie took an apron and got to work. His parents laughed happily when they saw my bewildered look: as a child, the mother had lost her left arm in a straw axe, and the father his right arm in war. Mayie had never mentioned it to me and her father, a short, lively man with white hair, was amused by my flabbergasted face. "You understand, sir," he said to me, blinking, "with both hands, it's the best cleaning! »

Mayie's mother showed me the house, the kitchen and the stable; Pierre showed me the vineyard and the press. Her ancestor was a charming young girl whose grace and self-assurance made me wish that I would soon place little Gatien in her expert hands. She showed me the house that Pierre had built for his household; the place for an outbuilding was already planned “for the children, you know! ". The interior smelled of fresh wood and good

strong glue. All the furniture, apart from a sofa covered in oilcloth, was Pierre's work. And I saw the bed, big and wide and shiny, made of selected woods, without the slightest scratch in the varnish. "It's your room!" she said quite naturally. Scratched, I say: "But it's your wedding bed!" " - " It doesn't matter ! She was truly a wise woman. I protested vehemently and finally tried one last thing: I asked her vigorously where they were going to spend the wedding night. So she pointed to the sofa that was in another room. It was very old, very small, very narrow and very hard. " But it's impossible ! I exclaimed. " Why sir ? answered the ance, “it's the habit! »

During those days, I didn't see Mayie much. She was very busy, she had to see many friends, old and young. "Little Mayie" seemed loved by everyone. And no one was the least surprised at my presence. I was "little Mayie's good friend," and that was all. Not that this position earned me or imposed any particular obligations on me; later, after the ceremony, when the wine was already flowing at ots, it did happen that Mayie's friends teased her with Biolet, some distant Biolet whose existence had remained hidden from me until then. “Oh! I don't want Biolet! exclaimed Mayie without betraying the slightest embarrassment. I expected her to tell me who this Biolet was, but she didn't. I was left with only a confused memory of things that happened about two hours after the ceremony and until the end of the party. The whole village let me know every morning that I had snored terribly, "louder than Auntie", added Mayie. It was a very successful party, the good Henri had certainly not had a more cheerful wedding. I tell the bride that the most beautiful seemed to me

to be the authentic and joyful peace and friendship between all who reigned in this blessed village. She listened to me with slight astonishment, then she said: “Ah! I learned things about each one; it was a whirlwind of disputes, lawsuits, inheritances and, I believe, a little poisoning. Relieved, I went back to drinking; Praise be to God, this village was of this world.

In the general animation, I had totally forgotten to talk with mom and dad about our future. I only noticed it with some confusion after my return. It appeared that I was unable to hold myself for long at the height of this slight well-being which bathed everything in this country. When I spoke to Mayie, with much hesitation, about this oversight, she said: “My poor little darling, it doesn't matter. You know, our little Gatien will not come! » I was afraid. Then I thought I understood. This decision must have cost Mayie terribly. My heart overflowed with tenderness; but when she understood what I was thinking, she drummed furiously on my chest as she had done on that of the usher of the casino and exclaimed: “Ah! Oh bastard!…” She didn't need to arm me in any way, her indignation alone sufficed to make me understand that I had insulted her with my Boche supposition. I had difficulty getting used to natural events. “From Niebüll to Glückstadt, the west coast of Schleswig-Holstein protects a green and vast country with its dikes. The sentence wasn't so bad. Perhaps I could add the adjective “flat”. That's what I know. That already put a dirty mark in the first sentence. She took away my desire for a second sentence. From Rowohlt, nothing.

On May 7, I was in Saint-Jean-de-Luz to buy a newspaper. According to the latest news, Chancellor Brüning's position had become shaky. There were no newspapers, neither French nor foreign. They were all sold. The saleswoman looked at me, taken aback, because I didn't know anything yet. She broke the news to me, which made my heart ache. I returned immediately to Erromardie. The contract for the house at the Atenia having expired, I was now living with Auntie, in the room next to Mayie's. How long could I stay after this senseless and atrocious act? France was going to rise as a single man, the patriotic momentum of 90 was going to be reborn. Oh ! France knew how to be cruel when she was hurt in her most sacred feelings. " To arms, citizens ! No foreigner was to defile the sacred soil of France, and I was a foreigner! Could I resist the delirium of passions? Passing in front of a farm, I saw Jean-Pierre in the barn, having a drink with three friends. I ran past; but changing my mind, I returned. Apparently, these men knew nothing yet of this terrible misfortune. I shouted, “Have you ever heard? The President of the Republic is assassinated! » Jean-Pierre looked up. He said: "Ah, that!... He's dead?" " - " But yes ! I exclaimed, "he's dead!" — "Ah! » says Jean-Pierre, « so much the better! » Then he emptied his glass and refilled it. I no longer understood anything in the world. The embal of reason was not ambling, was not smoldering, it was burning very gently!

A Russian immigrant, Paul Gorgulov, had shot President Paul Doumer during the sale of the Writers Fighters, and nothing happened! Some newspapers wrote that there were foreigners apparently unworthy of French hospitality; House

above all seemed to feel satisfaction that it was actually a foreigner and not a Frenchman who had dealt this blow to France. Nothing happened. However, everyone knew who I was. I had once been guilty of the same crime. The book I was talking about was sold and read in France. Something absolutely had to be done. I was wondering if I should speak to my friend, the police commissioner. He esteemed me very much; he seemed to regard me as a kind of unofficial German consul and had taken to sending me all the Germans who passed by. The suspension of currency allocations had practically paralyzed tourism between France and Germany. But almost daily, Germans came to find me. Most of them were very nice young people who traveled on foot or by bicycle and who earned their living by singing German folk songs on the farms,Round the world without money! These fair-haired, vigorous young people had the fine peace of mind of unemployed people who had had enough of receiving state allowances. They were going on a trip. Traveling was a sport for very rich people and for very poor people. I gave them food and drink and sent them away when they had told who they were and where they intended to go. They didn't ask for anything more. Almost all of them wanted to go to Spain first. But it happened that then, from this same Spain, Germans arrived who had lived there for years and who wanted to return to Germany because they were unemployed. They met those who came from Germany at my house and exchanged their experiences. They didn't agree on anything except that the whole world was crazy,

I wanted to stay in France. This idea seized me with an ever more imperious force. I knew it was a crazy idea but it was the only one that made me feel good. I sincerely wanted to take part in this quiet atmosphere where the shred of reason neither smoldered nor brooded. During the assassination of Paul Doumer, the president of the sale had been injured in the arm while trying to intervene. His name was on everyone's lips, he was the hero of this drama. His name was Claude Farrère!

I put on my suit. Mayie had moved the buttons again. I went to congratulate the master, but he had not yet returned. His wife was as majestic as he was. I stammered out my couplet, imploring in my heart of hearts the "good God of France" to confer eloquence and ardor on my words. Once upon a time, she must have been very beautiful. She listened to me, scrutinizing me with an icy gaze. When I had finished, she said, "Do you play bridge?" »

I say yes, although I had never played before. I traveled through Saint-Jean-de-Luz looking for someone who knew how to play bridge. I discovered an old lady who initiated me into the secrets of this game. On the day indicated by Madame Farrère, I went to her house. Around the bridge table were two other old ladies; obviously they were awfully eager to get their hands on a fourth partner. Apart from the announcement, not a word was exchanged. But I would have been dead a long time ago if the looks my partner gave me from time to time could have poisoned me. Alone, Madame Farrère seemed animated by almost maternal feelings. She was winning and invited me to the next game night. In truth, France revenged herself cruelly on foreigners. Every Thursday I played bridge at Madame Farrère's. I hadn't tried

only once to make a remark that had nothing to do with the game; the three ladies stared at me in silence as if a little dog had suddenly begun to inquire with chosen words about their health. One day, the master suddenly entered the room. Her arm was in a black silk scarf. I politely stood up and said my congratulatory verse. The tall man looked at me majestically. When I had finished, he said, “Let's not talk about it anymore! And indeed, I was no longer invited. At that time, Isa was already back, accompanied by five pretty, rich, cultured and elegant young girls. They took lessons in German literature from me and I learned a lot from them. They were incredibly educated and I envied them a lot. Isa and the young girls belonged to the best Dutch families; they were the "companions" of Princess Juliana; they had been chosen to be brought up with her. They were spending their first and last vacations without Juliana; they took leave of the community together. After this summer, they wanted to separate and face the world, each for themselves.

At first, I thought they had had enough of each other. But that was not the reason that made them appear oddly empty and distant. They were extremely nice and polite and well mannered to each other. They did everything together. Isa was the only one who sometimes had the courage to take vacations on her own. She was the enfant terrible of the six who did everything with considerable seriousness. They were always slightly embarrassed when they thought they had given me the impression that they had enjoyed themselves. They were charming and had a secret preference, deep and sweet, for all that was a little light,

who smelt a little of sin and vice, but only a little bit. But one day, at lunch we were having together at a large round table, I said abruptly: - But tell me a little, children, what's wrong with you? What do you really expect from life? What do you want ? They answered in unison: “We marry! They really said it in chorus, as one recites a lesson. Then they looked at me, a little scratched. I understood that they were ashamed, that they had been ashamed all the time and that they had feared my contempt. With a certain dice, Jessie, a slightly chubby girl, continued: "Yes, we're getting married!" And in wealth, in wealth, in wealth! — "And in speed, in speed, in speed!" continued the chorus of others. Then they burst out laughing heartily, as if delivered. - But nothing could be easier! I exclaimed. If it's not you, who SO ? Young, pretty, elegant, rich, cultured and all from the best stable! Then they got worried, and Jessie said: - Exactly ! It's not true that it's easy for us, more easy than for others; it is much more difficult! Where will we find the husband who will believe that he knew us? We are so terribly well brought up! We have such repugnant demands! We can't help it. Who will want us? Who is going to put such a burden on their hands? The men who want to marry us will have to be even richer, even more cultured, even more demanding than us! Where are they ? I would immediately take a husband who would be a notary in Utrecht or a doctor in Maestricht, or a merchant in Amsterdam! But what will the notary of Utrecht do with me? Or the merchant from Amsterdam?

Where is the man who will believe that I only ask to be a good wife, nothing more? "But," I exclaimed, surprised, "why do you insist on a Dutch? Since the whole world is open to you! - What a mistake ! Said Isaac. The men we like, England, France, America, find it all at home. They don't care what we can offer: relationships with influential families—and we don't like those who need it! "Poor girls!" I exclaimed. What an abyss of misery! 'You see,' said Jessie; now you despise us. Yes, we know that is absurd and that we are ungrateful! Do you know what we desire? A kind husband, and children, and our household. Exactly what countless young girls desire, with this difference that these countless have every chance, we don't. We would like to be gay without a second thought, we are tired of being cultured. Seriously: would you marry one of us? - For the love of God ! I exclaimed with such an accent of authenticity that we all burst out laughing. - You see ! said Jessie triumphantly. Mayie didn't quite understand how tragic these problems could be, but she seemed very happy to see me in such good company. She had a lot of work; all the mums and dads had come back with their little girls who had grown a little, who even dared to wade in the water, very close to the edge, while the mums were walking nearby with their little umbrellas. When I told Mayie what depths of desolation Holland was plunged into, she did not hesitate to call upon this elite of society to help her dry the dishes. Since in

despite the emancipation of women, the home was the object of their most ardent desires… France said with astonishment: “Ah! That ! frowning at the sight of those Beggars girls noisily making their way to the kitchen so that Mayie could accompany us to the Pile d'Assiettes. The multiple suitcases remained closed. We weren't going to Biarritz, any more than to Bayonne or Saint-Jean-de-Luz; we lay on the sand, we climbed the cliffs, we swam. Little by little, Holland's ivory limbs were getting tanned, knees were skinned, sandals were falling apart, shirts were torn and hair was hanging down in long stiff locks. The smell of salt and seaweed chased away Chanel 5 and Tabac blond, the skin peeled off, the grass grew between the toes; Short, demoralization was pushed to the extreme limit of what is possible in Holland. (And no man in sight!)

The day before they left was Queen Wilhelmina's birthday. The young girls had opened their suitcases, arranged their hair and decorated the dining room. They had placed the large round table in the middle of the room; Auntie had brought out her finest crockery. They had prepared the gramophone with all their records. For the first time they had put on their evening dresses. I, too, was wearing my suit, the buttons of which Mayie had to move again. And Mayie had put on her prettiest dress. The French hosts moved away discreetly. The air was scented with Chanel 5 and Tabac Blond. Jessie put the Dutch national anthem on the record player. After singing alongWilhelmintje von Oranien, we went to the table. Auntie had done wonders. Mayie ran back and forth, eating hastily between courses. There were speeches. When Mayie wasn't in the room, we were talking

German, but as soon as she entered, we continued in French, right in the middle of the sentence.

Jessie spoke last. She said that on learning from Isa that there was also a young man in Erromardie, they had been very suspicious. A man, it meant that the beautiful camaraderie between young girls that they intended to celebrate one last time, would be disturbed. It had cost them, Jessie said, to overcome their reluctance and come despite my presence. But she and her friends were to acknowledge to my honor and greater glory that, among my many good qualities, there was one particularly commendable... As Mayie had just entered the room, Jessie continued in French and said emphatically: — Sir, you have no sex appeal at all! Mayie violently put the tray down on the table, ran her hand through my hair and said aloud and very indignantly: "My poor little darling, you know, they don't understand anything about

everything, at all, at all!

Auntie, her face flushed and bathed in sweat, stuck her head out the door to learn the reason for this sudden storm, this unbridled laughter of young Holland. But we weren't celebrating me, we were celebrating Mayie. She ran out of the room, her face on fire. It took all our eloquence to convince Auntie that Mayie hadn't behaved inappropriately, far from it. I told the young girls how surprised Mayie was at Isa's nineteen dresses. So they ran to their rooms to come back heavily laden. They had emptied the cupboards and the trunks. They called Mayie. When she entered the room, her curls in a modest veil in front of her face, the girls had

cleared the table where the dresses were now piled up, nineteen of Isa alone. Mayie didn't want to believe that all of this belonged to her. If I had imagined that the evening would end in music and dancing or even in friendly and loving conversations, I was disillusioned: until dawn, the room was transformed into a sewing workshop. Eyes glaring, cheeks burning, Mayie was trying on one dress after another, while the young girls were airing around her, pinning, tucking, adjusting. And Jessie made the sewing machine hum; at little Juliana's, the girls had also learned to sew. I don't know how it happened. It was accidental. I passed by the typewriter by chance and read the sentence: “From Niebüll to Glückstadt, the west coast of Schleswig-Holstein protects with its dykes a green, vast and flat country. It seemed to me that the meaning of 'flat' was basically already contained in the word 'vast'. I sat down to erase the word 'flat'. Mayie had to call me three times at lunch, and when I finally did go, the look on my face probably showed that my thoughts were elsewhere. Concerned, Mayie asked me if I was sick; but I gave a gruff, distracted answer. I hardly touched my glass and returned to my machine as soon as the meal was over. I wrote all day and late into the night, for six weeks, without interruption. When Rowohlt's letter arrived,

» when Mayie left me in the evening saying: « So, good night, my little cabbage! I was in Germany, I was "taken." I was no longer in the dream, but in reality; I was struggling with reality and fairy tales were no longer my business. You can live fairy tales, in France for example, but not write them, like in Germany, and I wrote. I only saw Mayie at meals, but I noticed that she had started to go to confession again, and with satisfaction I thought: "What does she have to confess, poor girl?" » After sending off the last pages of my manuscript, I dragged myself along for a few days, ascus and hollow, as it were, drained. I had absolutely no idea how this was going to continue and I didn't even want to know. Mayie brought me a letter. I hadn't received any mail for the past few months, except from Rowohlt. Seeing the foreign stamp, Mayie thought the letter was from the Netherlands. But she was from Vienna. Professor Spann invited me to come and work with him. First of all, I didn't want to answer; it didn't make sense. I finally wrote, out of pure politeness, that I regretted not being able to accept because circumstances prevented me from moving freely. But I knew I had to talk to Mayie. In the night I went to her house. It was impossible to speak; Auntie wasn't snoring, her bed creaked. Apparently, she was tossing and turning, prey to some concern. I held Mayie close to me, I tried to whisper, but she begged me, "Please shut up!" » During the following days, no favorable opportunity presented itself, and deep down I was not displeased. I knew that anything I said to her had to hurt her, and I knew she knew it.

She also brought me the second letter from Vienna; a letter with declared value, containing ten thousand francs. Seeing the tickets, Mayie suddenly took my head between her two hands and put her face very close to mine. “You have to go! » His voice was not sad; she observed calmly, simply. It was as if she wanted nothing more than to confirm my intentions. Auntie called and Mayie hastily disappeared. All morning I looked for her; she only reappeared at lunch. Again it was impossible to talk to her, and immediately after the meal she was gone again. Finally, I went up to my room. Mayie wasn't there, but she had taken out my laundry, washed, mended and ironed; she had my suitcase packed, dusted and lined withLittle Gironde. Mayie was in her room sewing a button on my jacket. I started talking to her, but at the first words, she interrupted me: "You have to go!" She said smiling, she made everything easy for me. Everything was much simpler than I had imagined. No explanation was needed. I scrutinized myself, trying to dismiss all personal motives, to think only of Mayie. I stood there figuring out how Mayie was going to handle the separation, while she paid Auntie my bill and packed up supplies and aired herself out so that sentimentality found no room. Only once did she stick her head into the large room and tell me what time my train was going to leave the next morning, and that of course she would accompany me to the station. This night again, Auntie did not snore. We left early. I kissed Auntie and Grandmother. Auntie was sobbing and Grandmother said, “Maitenia! The two women were preparing large white tablecloths to make me

a farewell sign as the train passes, visible for a few moments. We did not arrive too early at the station. We had a few minutes left, but the train wasn't there yet. The wind was picking up on the deserted quay. There was only one baggage car piled high with parcels. Mayie looked at me smiling and I thought, "If she starts crying, I'm staying." She was very close to me and looked at me and I looked at her. If I left, I would never see her again, ever, and she had to know that. We looked at each other in silence until I heard the train. At that moment, Mayie turned away. Now, I thought, now she can't take it anymore, and neither can I. But Mayie wasn't crying, she was waving to a young man who had just appeared behind the baggage car. He wore a Basque beret and a nice blue suit. He was blond and approached, very embarrassed. Mayie grabbed his hand and turned to me. She smiles : - And that ... it's Biolet! Then she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. She pushed me towards the train and I got on. The train left immediately. I leaned out the window. Very small, Mayie walked quickly beside the car, her face raised towards me; she always smiled and said: - Good luck, my little cabbage, I love you! I leaned as far as I could out of the window and looked at her as long as I could see her. Then she disappeared. But since then, his image has burned in my heart and will burn there until my death. Little white dots were moving in front of the house at Erromardie beach. Three weeks later, I received a letter: “Saint-Jean-de-Luz, November 29, 1932.

“My dear little cabbage,

“We talked a lot about you in Erromardie with Biolet, Pierre, Hortense, the aunt and it really made me very sad. I would like to see you again, even if I want to and as soon as you can, even if I am married; I have to tell you that I made another acquaintance, who has become a good friend, a draftsman and who will soon be coming to the post office in Bayonne, so you know, Biolet (poor guy), I can't like them ; I only love one (it's you) and I'll never love another, even I don't want to love him. “What are you doing in your great city of Vienna? Do you work a lot? Are you having fun? Do you still think about the one who loves you? I hope so a little more. We talk a lot about you, but that's all I can do, think about it. Tantine made two knits, for herself and for Biolet, and now she's starting mine, orange and green, see how cute I'll be, but for whom! I had my suit and my dress made at home (ultra-chic!), I also had the dresses given to me by Miss Isa and her friends shortened, but other than that, I haven't changed them in the All. I beg your pardon if I'm mixing everything up in my letter, but I'm very sad and besides, it wouldn't seem like a letter from Marie to you if it weren't smeared. I hope you haven't forgotten French and that you will write to me quickly to tell me a lot of things and to show me that you still love us despite the great distance that separates us, but we can think about it, don't isn't it, my cute little cabbage? Tomorrow, Sunday, I'm going to go to mass and maybe the afternoon to the cinema, and all alone of course.

“My dear big friend, I'm going to leave you to go to sleep, I don't really know what I'm writing, but what I do know is that I think a lot about my little darling; write to me quickly and I want a separate letter for myself alone with the kind words you often said to me. I kiss you very, very much. “Your little MARIE. »2 Alas! I didn't answer Mayie. I had no right. But when I think of Mayie, I think of France, and when I think of France, I think of Mayie. O sweet Mayie, O holy France! You gave me the dream of my life, the great vacation of my life. I want to keep this dream in my heart, I have always dreamed it again, for twenty years, always again, for twenty troubled, senseless and wasted years... And now the Americans are here! 126.Was the journey made at your own expense? —127.If not, at

whose expense was the journey made? —128.Persons or organizations visited. —129. Did you ever serve in any capacity as part of the civil administration of any territory annexed to or occupied by the Reich? — 130.If so, give particulars of oce held, duties performed, location and period of service. —131.List foreign languages you speak indicating degree of uency. 126. — DID YOU UNDERTAKE THE TRIP AT YOUR EXPENSE?

It depends. 127. — OTHERWISE, AT WHOM’S EXPENSE?

See answer to question 125.

128. — WHAT PERSONS OR ORGANIZATIONS DID YOU SEE?

See

answer to question 125. 129. HAVE YOU EVER HAD ANY ROLE IN THE CIVIL ADMINISTRATION OF ONE OF THE TERRITORIES ANNEXED OR OCCUPIED BY

GERMANY?

God forbid, no!

130. — IF YES, GIVE DETAILS OF YOUR DUTIES, YOUR DUTIES, AS WELL AS LOCATION AND DURATION OF SERVICE.

Not applicable.

131. — LIST THE FOREIGN LANGUAGES YOU SPEAK, IN INDICATING THE DEGREE OF PERFECTION.

See Attachment.

ad 131:All the French people who hear me speak French begin to smile. I speak with a southern accent. So I speak more or less French like my friend, the police commissioner of Saint-Jean-de-Luz who spent four years in a prisoner of war camp near Dresden, speaks German. I swear that I will never abuse my knowledge of the French language in order to hear the holy land of France creak under my boots. I learned the English language during my detention using the Toussaint-Langenscheidt method. I read English like I read French and I write English like I write French. I don't understand a word of English when English people or Americans talk to me, and I'm not willing to speak English with them. I believe it necessary to speak German with the English and the Americans, especially as long as the English version prevails; in case of doubt, “if discrepancies exist”.

1. Publishing house which also published several newspapers with democratic leanings.

2. In French in the text (N. d. T.).

REMARKS REMARKS

The Americans were there. Over the church of Siegsdorf floated the white flag and tanks crossed the bridge over the Traun. It was the first beautiful day in a long time. The sun had lifted the light haze above the village, and the hum of the tanks was like the dance of bees above a field in the midday heat. The teacher came to say that the children were hungry; they had eaten nothing since morning. After having made the rounds of the farms in vain, all invaded by the refugees from the village, also Aames, I decided to try to return to the village with the children; the gunfire had completely ceased. I left at the head of the group, the teacher bringing up the rear. From Osterham we could see that a column of heavy tanks was advancing on a small secondary road on the edge of the village. The main road seemed flooded with vehicles. Bravely, we went forward. At the entrance to Vogeltenn stood an American, the first I saw; he wore the helmet, this helmet round and smooth as a pot; a submachine gun on his knees, he gazed with a bored look at the giant tanks advancing cautiously on the narrow road. I tried to make myself understood by gestures, I showed the children. Nonchalantly, he signs you

to continue on my way. Without incident, we arrived at the "Trout", in front of which tanks and trucks were parked. The children entered "their" house without anyone stopping them, the teacher followed them hesitantly. I continued now towards the bridge. On the shoulder of the road lay in an indescribable disorder the abandoned German cars, some overturned. Finally, I saw an inhabitant of the village whom I knew. - Here it is ! he said laconically. - Who ? "The Hauptsturmführer on the bridge!"

I approached. He was curled up against the embankment. When the Americans arrived, he had taken refuge in the cellar of the Hôtel de la Truite. But the Americans had seen that the fugitive was an SS They surrounded the house and threatened to set it on fire if this officer did not surrender. They were chasing the children when the Hauptsturmführer suddenly appeared. But he didn't want to surrender, he fled towards the bridge. He would have had every chance of escaping, had it not been for the abandoned cars impeding his escape. The Americans caught up with him and shot him on the spot. I took off my Basque beret. The Basque only takes it off in front of God. The Hauptsturmführer was there, he would be buried in the village whose name he had never been able to remember.

At the crossroads, I met the doctor. He wore the Red Cross armband, smoked nervously, and told me he had been kicked out of his house. He indicated it with a nod of his head. On the roof, the tricolor flag floated. "Yes," he said, "French!" Here is the seventh army American which includes a Gaullist division. The general lived in the doctor's house.

"Thank God, French people!" said this one. They know each other in

art and will respect it! The Americans took my car! "They know a thing or two about technique!" I say mischievously. The doctor was smoking and concluded:

'It's like that now. I invited him to come to the Huberhof with his family, but he had already found asylum in the Adelholzen military hospital.

At the bridge stood the captain of police whom I had seen at the Ponts et Chaussées. He carried neither weapon nor stripes. He was contemplating a German truck which, tearing off part of the parapet, had fallen from the bridge onto the stony bottom of the Traun. The bridge groaned and quivered under the heavy tanks.

"So what about that stuff, Captain?" He threw me a scratched look and conjured me: "Don't call me captain, I'm sergeant again!" Looking at the tanks, he noticed: — In the past, our “Tigers” were better! He said “back in time” and I knew that was going to be his way of speaking from now on. Suddenly a big tank stopped in front of us. A fight ensued, then a huge traffic jam. A jeep drove up at full speed, an American officer got out and began to direct traffic with loud yells and agitated gestures. For a moment I was tempted to lead this man to the side of the road and show him his predecessor. Exactly the same life reigned on the road as twenty-four hours before, the same soldiers behaved with the same nonchalant brutality, only the uniforms and types of vehicles were a little different, and if our "Tiger" tanks had been better "in the time", well, I had never seen one.

In front of the town hall, broken weapons were piling up. I poked around a bit with my foot. In fact, my submachine gun was there, also broken; I had had it brand new, and for a second I had an absurd feeling of regret that it had never been used; it was a symbol of waste. The crowd thronged the corridors and halls of the town hall. The captain, obviously in civilian clothes, and the mayor were behind the barrier and tending to the people. Without alluding to the events, the captain immediately said to me: — Put yourself there, you have to fill out accommodation tickets for the

people the Americans kicked out. I was filling out checks as instructed by the captain and the mayor. I had done the same thing twenty-four hours before. "Where's the sergeant major?" I asked. "The Americans pinched him!" said the captain laughing.

He had been completely drunk; when the Americans entered, he had said: "To your health!" A soldier had roughly snatched the glass from him and drank the rest straight from the bottle; then they took him away. The adjutant of the pioneers had been able to save himself. Now the sergeant major was kept in the schoolyard which served as a temporary prison camp. I decided to go see him later, but I didn't have time. Until evening we stayed at the town hall. There were always new inhabitants who had to leave their homes. They couldn't take anything, and even infants and the sick weren't allowed to stay. These methods of the Americans astonished everyone. In response to protests, they said that German steelworkers had done the same in France. But people didn't want to believe him.

"You have been in France, Captain," said one of them. YOU must know! Cautiously, the captain replied: "In my unit, that never happened!" He wanted to get in touch with the American commander, but there was none. The occupation of the village had cost fourteen dead. A group of pioneers had resisted, the soldiers had been able to escape, but since this incident, the Americans were firing immediately. They too had suffered losses, but no one knew why or how many men. Among the fourteen dead were Taddée and a Ukrainian; the people of the village were all unscathed. I wrote nonstop. A voice says: "I'd like a little Meerrettich, Mr. Knoblauch!" Wearing a charming smile, my assassin stood in front of me, behind the barrier. He wore a white shirt which exposed his young girl's neck, and short pants, also white, probably his underpants. He says leaning forward: - This is where I should go, is not it? “I can only advise you to disappear too. quickly as possible! s-i. - I want, I want, darling! Only I need one of those little papers, you know very well, Monsieur Knoblauch, one of those little papers which attest that I am discharged from the Wehrmacht! From the Wehrmacht, not from the Waen-SS! From the famous Captain Meerrettich's unit! The captain pricked up his ears, leaned towards me and said:

"Give it to him so these guys disappear from the forests!" My assassin smiled politely and remarked, facing the captain:

- I knew it was the right address! I wrote while he watched me with an interested air. "Your name is Canaillon, understood?" - Alright ! This is called hoarding coals burning on the head of the enemy! Old Testament, if I'm not mistaken. Terrific people, the Jews! I handed him the paper saying: "You have exterminated them!"

Waving the paper in front of my nose, he retorted: "Not all of them, my dear little Knoblauch, not all of them!" There is some left

a few so that we don't feel full and weary! Goodbye, honey ! - I hope not! I exclaimed. - Yes, yes, I'm sure! I feel it ! He gave me a friendly nod and left. In the evening, the room suddenly emptied. A lot of peasants had come to complain about the workers from the East who came to eat but not to work. The captain had become quite nervous; the day had exhausted us. Finally, the peasants who had all spoken at once left without knowing what to do. The captain leaned back in his chair and sighed: - What a day ! On the door, there was a young man. He wore a white shirt with an open collar, and white panties, probably his underpants. He was holding a pretty blonde girl by the hand. - What do you want ? asked the annoyed captain. "Marry me!" said the young man smiling. The captain burst out laughing. "The first reasonable word I hear all day!" he cried.

The young man was a lieutenant in a staff of the Wehrmacht, the young girl had worked in the same staff as a secretary. "Of course you can get married!" said the captain. It is for when ?… "If it's possible, now," said the young man. So that we can live together. I have a room at the “Ancienne Poste”! "But the hotel is occupied by the Americans!" t the captain, surprised.

The enterprising young man showed us a sign where “O limits! was written in large letters. - I put this at my door and no one will dare to enter! I got it stolen from an American staff car! His name was Diewald, he was from Vienna and a civil lawyer. The mayor had scruples. — But… we can’t go so fast… There are bans… - What next ? said the captain laughing. The certificate prenuptial and the Aryan certificate? "Good, good," he said without being able to prevent himself from smiling, in this

case…

Diewald spoke good English, and the captain, suddenly in a good mood, offered to have him hired as an interpreter by the commune. The mayor confirmed the engagement. This contract and the marriage constituted his last official act. He had had enough, especially when he learned that evacuees, protected by the Americans, had begun to take the dishes out of his hostel room. I went up to the Huberhof. In front of me walked the leader of the Hitler Youth from Siegsdorf with his good friend. I heard the

boy say: "I took a good look at them, there are only little ones! Our SS are very different! And these are their combat troops, on top of that! Those who remain will be worth even less. I thought about it well. How many men will they leave? At most sixty thousand; well, we'll always find sixty thousand guys of ours. One for each; and then, in one night, it will be there! » I quickened my pace and when I had rejoined the couple, I said:

"What a charming conversation between lovers!" You have always the same stuff? The boy looked at me, surprised.

- Of course ! We are all “Werwolf”! "I don't," I said. — No, no, said the boy, we don't blame you, you're already old ! In fact, I suddenly felt much too old to instruct the youth. "The captain will have to do it," I thought as I continued on my way. In Reiten, all was silent. But all the windows were lighted. It was the first sign — oh so desired! — that the war was over. He had even lit, in front of the door of the house, the lantern that I had never seen burning before. I took a few steps back to admire its clarity. Then I saw a shadow behind the shed. A man was trying to climb over the vegetable garden gate. I ran there shouting: - Stop it! Where do you want to go ?

The man approached hesitantly. He wore disparate civilian clothes and an old peasant hat. "To Heilbronn!" he said.

He was the sergeant of the pioneer company.

- It's you ! I exclaimed. Come, I'll show you the way the shortest for Heilbronn. I went up the hill with him. We could clearly see the viaduct through which the American cars passed, all headlights on. "Do you see the viaduct?" I asked. It's the same as you wanted to blow up last night. You would have particularly liked that, wouldn't you? You will pass under this viaduct; arrived at the railroad, you will follow the rails. This is the shortest route to Heilbronn. And hurry now and we don't see you again in Siegsdorf! The man disappeared without saying a word. He was in his room. She says :

“We have guests. Two camp boys downstairs. THE Americans still have to kick them out! Well, I don't think ours behaved differently. I was silent, but Ille suddenly got up and took the suitcases down from the cupboard that she had put there that morning. It was a symbolic act, and Ille's symbolic acts had to be respected. "Do you want us to dance Les Enfants de Bolle?" I asked. But without answering, Ille began to pack again. Although I was very tired, I had difficulty falling asleep. Towards morning, the cold woke me up. The sky was cloudless, there was moonlight, the air was freezing. Suddenly, I jumped up and opened the window to listen. I had heard the sound of studded shoes on pebbles. I couldn't see anything, but the noise was not unrecognizable. The ground was certainly frozen, and there must have been many shoes hitting the stones of the path. There !

They came out of the shadow of the forest and climbed the hill towards the house. I dressed in a hurry, repeatedly glancing out the window. A column of soldiers was coming up the path. They were undoubtedly German soldiers. They walked in two rows, in silence; they had rifles and machine guns, but they walked past the house. The noise died down. I took my shoes in my hand and walked slowly towards the stairs. Already there was a knock on the door. The peasant from the neighboring farm whispered that a German officer wanted to speak to me. I ran with him towards the Schmidhof, whose windows, which had shed so much light the day before, were again closed by the shutters. - Attention ! said the peasant, when I entered his house.

Soldiers were lying on the ground. They barely moved when I stepped over them, they must have been exhausted. In the common room, two candles were burning on the table. This room was also crowded with soldiers, seated and standing. None spoke. Two very young second lieutenants had taken their places at the table. One of them politely says: "Excuse us for disturbing you, but the peasant does not didn't want to give us any information! — The peasant has done well. I told people to call me if something extraordinary was happening. "Do you know where the American posts are?" asked the steel.

— At all intersections; wherever you would put your men if you were in the place of the Americans!

"We've never had so many men!" said the ocier in smiling. Listen, I don't want to oblige you to anything, but if you want to give us the information we need, you will save

my men exhausted from painful and dangerous reconnaissance missions! - Go for it ! I say, confused.

— We were overtaken by the Americans. We have the order to go to the forges of Max. "That order is outdated too," I said. Since yesterday morning, Americans are there.

"I know it, but I have this order, and as long as I don't have a counter-

order, it is valid. The soldiers listened in silence. I raised my voice to say: “Lieutenant, this order is nonsense. Max's forges are barely five hundred meters from the town of Bergen. Bergen is crowded with American armored troops. The forges were defended by the SS, the Americans took them after half an hour. The SS fled into the mountains. All the roads leading to it are blocked by the Americans. — We do not seek the paths leading to the mountains, we are looking for the path to Max's forges. — On the paths leading to the forges, there are columns everywhere

Americans, I say desperately. If you step out of the house, you can hear the noise from all sides. — So far, we have sent missions of reconnaissance and we are conducted "like in war", says the second lieutenant, we are used to it. For three days already we have been advancing in this way through the forests. "But there are no forests here!" There's the Bergen swamp, all flat and controllable from everywhere. If you try to cross it by day, you've descended like rabbits; if you try at night, you get stuck in the mud.

The two second lieutenants exchanged a look. None of the soldiers said a word. Changing his tone, one of the officers asked: "What is the situation in Siegsdorf?" Have there been any fights? "There was no serious resistance, and yet we had fourteen dead.

"How do the Americans behave?" "Correctly, in general," I replied, relieved. THE prisoners are assembled in a temporary camp and are fed by the population until their transfer. "And the population?" Glad the Americans are here? "She's glad that this senseless war is finished. She has no contact with the Americans. The soldiers drive out the inhabitants of the houses they occupy. "I don't want to ask you to drive us to the Max's forge, said the second lieutenant. But it's about light now, could you lead us to a point where we can orient ourselves somewhat in the forge area? "Lieutenant," I said resentfully, "I'm willing to do it for Let the madness of your enterprise blind your eyes! But can I tell you right now, and in the presence of your soldiers, that you are heading for a useless death? "Please," said the second lieutenant calmly. I hadn't expected this response, but I said aloud: — You are all alone, without liaison, without heavy weapons, your states

majors fled, I myself saw them pass with their cars. All the roads and paths are occupied, there are two motorized divisions here, and reconnaissance planes

patrol above the forests. There is no more organized resistance. The population will not support you. We surrendered so that blood would not be shed unnecessarily, so that houses would not be destroyed. If you lay down your guns here, I'll take you to your comrades whose camp you can see from here. I guarantee you that nothing will happen to you. All day I saw columns coming out of the forests and surrendering! - You have finished ? asked the lieutenant. - Yes. - Good. Did you hear what the gentleman said? A quiet voice asked: "Lieutenant, do I put my fist to the nose of this coward? The second lieutenant got up and put on his cap. Without raising his voice, he said:

- So, children, let's go! The soldiers got up immediately. Weapons rattled. All the cigarettes were carefully extinguished. Nobody was talking. We left the house. The tops of the mountains shone under the first rays of the sun. The snow was blindingly white. The valleys were still dark. Without a command, the column formed. The two oers and I were leading. I led them through the forests to a point from which there was a full view of the Bergen area and the forges. Everywhere there were tanks, big and small, and forges, columns leaving for the mountains, American columns. The second lieutenant scanned the ground for a long time with his binoculars, he smiled. "Thank you," he said. You can go back. You ... U.S saved a lot of fatigue. Do not take "this

coward”. We know your call was out of benevolent concern, but we are German infantry! He shook my hand and left. He approached his troop, said a few words, then they passed in front of me, with that monotonous and impassive step which had trodden so many roads in Europe. None looked at me. That morning I went to the village very late. On the way I met Mrs. Sachse, a young woman who had sought shelter from the bombs in her weekend home. She held her four-year-old daughter, who was called Pützchen, by the hand. "Have you been to the village?" I asked. How brave ! Panting, Mrs. Sachse said: "That would almost have gone wrong!" Imagine, I pass with Pützchen in front of the “Trout”; there is an American oer calling his dog. “Hitler! Come here! he says. Then Pützchen stops and asks, surprised: "Is your dog called Hitler?" — "All dogs are called Hitler!" replied the American. Then Pützchen waves his hand and exclaims: "My dog's name is Ami!" You can imagine if I took the kid by the hand, without asking for my rest! I asked laughingly what the situation was in the village. Ms Sachse says: - Well, I'm not going there anymore, it's too dangerous. People say that many girls were raped that night, an old woman died of it! The doctor confirmed these statements.

"Six rapes in one night," he said. Authentic rapes as many that I was able to verify.

After seven o'clock in the evening, the military police had hunted down all the women and girls who had not returned. The order had

given to the population not to show themselves in the streets from seven o'clock. But as the village was extended and included many scattered hamlets, this order had not been known everywhere. I asked what had happened with the old woman. The doctor did not quite see clearly in this story. He thought the American had simply wanted to take this seventy-year-old woman's watch. But for days people had been telling each other terrible stories of rape, and the old woman had probably thought that her virtue was being blamed. She had started screaming, and the American, confused and furious, had squeezed hard enough to break her arm. At that age, it was serious. When the doctor arrived, she was already dead. Surprised, I asked: "What did the American want to do with that watch?" "It's curious," said the doctor; there seems to be no watches in the United States. In the street, they take watches, old and new, good and bad! They took my old onion! he added, showing me his bare wrist, and advised me to hide mine. - It's like that now! he said. But I wanted to elucidate this business of watches. The rapes could be genuine or not, one could not very well control what had already been missed before, but missing watches were hard evidence. Passing in front of the "Trout", I saw a helmeted sentry on the door, next to a panel with the emblem of the division, a cactus. I turned around and asked in German: "Could I speak to the commander, please?" The guard replied in good German, pronounced a bit American-style: "What do you want with him?"

I explained to him that there was a rumor in the village that American soldiers were taking watches from peaceful citizens. I wanted to ask the commander for an explanation that would allow me to oppose these rumours. The sentry nodded and said with a smile: "Here is the commander!" A steelman appeared under the door; a silver bar on the cap indicated his rank. I was about to begin my explanation when I saw that this officer had no less than five wristwatches in his upper pocket. I swallowed my saliva, then I repeated what I had already said to the sentry. I tried to speak a distinct, well-accented German and I still mulled over what I had to say, staring sternly at his pocket. I insisted on the word "rumors" and showed my own watch to prove that these incredible facts had not happened to me. I was saying that it was obviously quite impossible for American soldiers or officers, who had come to this country expressly to teach morals and good manners to the population, to engage in an activity which was universally qualified as theft.

The steelworker smiled as the sentry had smiled. In very pure German, without the slightest accent, he says: "If you give me the name of an American soldier whose name you can prove that he stole a watch, this man will be punished! I thanked him for this exhaustive information and asked to whom I owed it. Still smiling, the steelworker retorted: - Remember that we are the ones asking the questions, not you !

I thanked him for this hint as well, congratulated him on the answers he would get with this method and left. Diewald, the young husband who seemed very happy, laughed frankly when I told him this story. He knew this officer, a very intelligent Pole. He, too, had approached this highest American authority, with no other success than seeing the lieutenant take his watch. I looked at Diewald's arm: he was wearing a watch. - That's another! he said laughing, I exchanged it at the sentinel against three eggs. It is much better than the one I had before. Diewald explained to me that this American thought he was within his rights. It was obviously forbidden to steal watches, but in the United States the individual was in any case protected by law, so that he was not a criminal, even before his own conscience, as long as he did not had not been tried by a court. On this basis alone, one could explain the phenomenon of American gangsters, this ambitious jurist told me. I thanked him for these enlightening explanations, but I thought it best to put my watch in my trouser pocket. He didn't want to believe this story. She argued that according to the catalogs of American department stores, watches were so cheap that no one, absolutely no one needed to steal them. When I told her that the troops stationed in the village came from Texas, she admitted that there some atavistic customs might have been maintained; but she was convinced that everything would change as soon as the Chamber of American Watch Manufacturers got wind of it. She who had always listened to my accounts of the time of the Volkssturm with a certain mocking indiference, wanted to know in all

the details of how life was organized in the village. I understood that in his imagination I was Noah's dove, but I could not bring him the olive branch. There was no doubt that she was smiling; she would have liked to hear enthusiastic tales of the signs of methodical action within the framework of the great American design. I had to copy for her all the communiqués and instructions of the military government posted on the blackboard of the town hall. It took me a long time, but Ille studied them eagerly to finally exclaim, delighted:

- So ! Here it is said that in the future no one can be arrested arbitrarily and that each defendant will be immediately brought before a judge; Finally, we are reintroducing a sensible state of legality! And I had to dance with her “the children of Bolle”.

In all that I told her henceforth, she found with infallible certainty the German insussions which had led to this state. Evacuees had reported to the Americans that the Volkssturm had stockpiled supplies and the Americans had immediately distributed the stocks "to the population". He thought that was very generous. I told him that the captain had tried in vain to save the rations of the German prisoners of war and that he had drawn the attention of the Americans to the fact that a shortage was going to be inevitable until the restoration of communications. with the success that the Americans had emptied the sacks of flour and enjoyed watching the eager passers-by cover themselves in flour. He says: "How stupid they are, these evacuees!... Me neither, moreover, I I have nothing left but eggs! I told him:

— Just imagine, the Americans who passed by here yesterday were

paratroopers and they distributed their food to women and children. Those of today, in front of the Aame refugees, poured whole cauldrons into a pit, doused them with gasoline and burned them! "Texas!" said Ille, they don't know anything else! Probably we do that there so as not to fatten the coyotes too much! Ille recounted:

“Just imagine, our two boys from Ludwigshafen came home from

Siegsdorf sprinkled with cocoa! Cocoa! Imagine yourself! They said that niggers had given them a big packet which they wanted to bring to us. So they met a woman from Reiten, from our Reiten, who immediately wanted to snatch the package from them. The kids fought back, the bag ripped open, and the woman left with the rest! I told the boys to show me this woman. Do you know who it was? This woman evacuated from Gelsenkirchen, you know, this brave woman who came to help us with the big clean-ups, it was her! Do you understand that? "Very well indeed," I said; such release always releases first all the primitive instincts… - Yeah ! said Ille, it's not just in Texas that there are coyotes! But she didn't dare go down to the village yet. His Cancer subject instinct warned him that someone always had to be home during those days. Thus, the first American He saw was this disheveledhaired soldier who, machine gun under his arm, suddenly advanced towards the house with a quick and determined step. He saw him coming and called me. I was on the stairs when he entered the door of the house. He asked him a question in English, but he only gave him a fierce look and opened the door abruptly, without

watch out for us, the door to my studio. When he saw the large number of books, he hesitated and turned around silently. Then, pointing the submachine gun, that most pernicious instrument of the little man's power, he passed in front of us and opened the next door. It was that of the ocean. The soldier took the basket with the eggs, slammed a bill and a pack of American cigarettes on the shelf, turned around without giving us a look and left, the basket of eggs under one arm, the submachine gun under the other, naked. head, disheveled hair, resolute step. The note happened to be a hundred mark note. He had never paid such a sum for twenty eggs before. - You see, she said, this is Texas! But she was for her eggs. A little later, I saw four soldiers coming out of the forest on the other side of the hill. They wore khaki shirts and were armed, but they didn't have the light helmets of the Americans. I watched them from my window. They approached the barn where the Poles and the Ukrainian girls had always met, and suddenly they fired shots into it. I was afraid. Were German soldiers hiding there? But, after a little while, the four continued on their way without worrying about the outcome of their firefight. They descended the slope, then reappeared and advanced directly towards the house. They were French. They wore a blue-white-red ribbon on the cap. They were very young, apparently marauding prisoners of war. I greeted them politely; the French were under my jurisdiction, not Ille's. - You want something ? You could distinctly see that they were encouraging each other.

"Do you have any weapons?" one of them shouted at me.

They tried to behave like fierce warriors. Politely, I replied: - But yes sir ! and stretched out my hand to the corner where my

nephew Michel always put away his little air rifle. But she wasn't there. I scratched my head a little and tried to explain to the French that I meant an air rifle. but then my knowledge of French abandoned me. I spoke volubly, looking for that cursed rifle that had always, always been in that corner, except now, of course.

- It's an air rifle1!I say, desperate. The French did not understand, but they would not have been French if all their interest had not been immediately focused on the desire to understand me. They were trying to guess, they were smiling kindly at my clumsy attempts to explain the thing to them, we were looking in the dictionary together, but, of course, the word wasn't there. - Oh! suddenly exclaimed one of them, obviously the youngest, I understand ! A pneumatic gun! Of course, pneumatic rifle! How could I not find that word! We laughed together, freed from the torment of not understanding each other. And here He brought the toy; Michel had hidden it in his closet. The "weapon" passed from hand to hand and no one was deprived of the pleasure of trying it out. Outside was walking the neighbour's big white cat. The four boys took aim—and boom! — the cat leaps a meter and runs away. The four were enjoying themselves royally. But the most energetic soon resumed his stern face, returned the carbine to me, and declared that he must search the house. I put the toy back in the corner and seeing the envious eyes of the youngest, I was a

tempted to give it to him. But the most energetic was already opening the door to my study. The French also recoiled from the books, but they did not turn away; on the contrary, they approached with curiosity, contemplating with obvious respect the shelves, the paintings and the typewriter. She was quite willing to show these gentlemen the deplorably empty oce, but even repeated hints failed to tempt them. They discovered the French section of my library and I showed them the translations of my books.

— Plon Bookstore! said the youngest. And even the energetic inquired

politely: "Are you a writer, sir?" After hesitating for a while longer, the “chief” decided: - So we're leaving! The younger one however was still looking at the books; he took out aMichelangeloand contemplated the images. He slammed the book shut and looked at me uncertainly. Then he tried to put himself in a countenance to say with delight: - I take it ! - Sir, please take it as a souvenir! He blushed, pressed the book under his arm, held out his hand to me and said, bowing:

- Thank you very much, sir, very much! And he ran after his friends. I watched them leave with a smile.

'There, those were French,' I said to Ille. They don't have any idea of Texas, but they know Michelangelo! — Of course, said Ille, only Texas paid, France didn't!

Shortly after, the Frenchman who worked for the neighbor came excitedly to ask me if one of his compatriots had taken a book from me. I explained to him that I had given it to this nice young man. The Frenchman looked relieved. He says :

“Otherwise, sir, otherwise… With extraordinary volubility, he assured me that otherwise he would have tried everything to make me return my property, "in any case, sir, in any case!" ". The next day, when I wanted to say hello to Diewald, cannon shots suddenly rang out. "It's the mortars!" Diewald explained to me. It's the first something that the new municipal councilors have asked the Americans: to be able to bury the victims of the occupation of the village with all the military honors, with the music, the flags, the mortars and the procession of all the associations! "And the Americans agreed?" I asked, surprised.

— The Americans asked the priest who he could suggest as mayor, Diewald said. He said that the mayor they had until 1933 had been very good. The Americans therefore called Mr. Landler and asked him if he would accept the post. "I don't mind," Landler said, adding that he joined the party in 1936. The Americans said they didn't care; he was to appoint as municipal councilors seven considered citizens. "I'm willing," said Landler, "but it's going to be difficult to find seven respected citizens who haven't been party members." They didn't care, armed the Americans, the main thing was that they were decent men. And now we have a city council where there are more party members than in Nazi times! And the second thing they asked the

Americans was to rat out my appointment as interpreter! The American commander granted everything! - How ! I cried, we even have a commander NOW ? And I decided to tell Ille right away that I was reassured too; the Americans knew what they wanted, and what they wanted seemed reasonable enough. Diewald began to laugh: "Yes, a Chinese!" Here it is ! The man who passed there was a short, slender ocier, with a yellow complexion, slit eyes and lots of white teeth. Diewald said: — When I introduced myself, he examined me in all my length, which lasted a while. Then he said, "You were in the SS?»He pronounced As-As! "No, sir!»So he:I like the As-As! The As-As is a good ghting troop and I am a good ghting man, and if I were German, I were in the As-As!»I looked at this little man and said in German, "They wouldn't even have caught you!" So the little devil started laughing and asked, "Excuse me?" He speaks absolutely pure German! He's a student, and basically they don't need interpreters. Most of the oers on the front are students who speak German, and if oers of Polish or Italian origin have a conversation, they speak German and not English! And the emigrants obviously speak much better German than English and, in addition, there are a lot of Americans of German origin. It is, moreover, with the Negroes that one gets on best; they said to me calmly: "You are second choice, we are second choice, we will not hurt each other!" »

I accompanied Diewald to his room. His young wife was making pancakes out of a tin can

American. I tried a little bit, it was delicious. I looked around me. The blankets, the lamps, the shirts, the pans, the food, everything was of American origin, the Negroes had given them all that. "It's an old prejudice," said Diewald quite comfortably, "who wants

the vanquished pay. Ever since wars have existed, the vanquished have never paid, simply because they had nothing left. If the winner wants to benefit from his victory, he must therefore pay! Too bad we didn't find out sooner! In any case, all that's missing to my happiness is a piano! — At the doctor's, there is a magnificent grand piano! I said. Diewald stirred and begged me to introduce him to the doctor. I noticed that his house was occupied by the French. "They left yesterday!" he cried. We went to the doctor. He was sitting alone in the room where the piano was, gazing melancholy at his yellowed fingers. "It's like that now," he said, while Diewald rushed to the piano and began to play. On the walls there were considerable voids. The doctor nodded sadly. - Gone ! he said. "The French know a thing or two about art!" I say by way of consolation. — Yes, he, I saw them in his car. Carefully removed frames and rolls. He took the best! - Who ? I asked. - The general ! - And then ?

"I told him they were my paintings!"

- And then ?

"He said, 'You have great taste, sir!' » - And then ?

- Nothing. I said, “You too! " and he left. "What's up in the village?" Ille asked. Throwing my beret on the table, I say sullenly: "I don't know, I don't go down there anymore." I can't even anymore

to come down. An American sentry tore up my military booklet! "But why is that?" Ille asked. - Like this. Of course he knew that the Americans consider as a soldier or SS any German of my age without a military booklet, because they think he doesn't want to be recognized. "Is it very serious?" 'I don't know, and I don't want to know. Everything I know is that the prisoners of war are starving and the meadow where they camp is awfully wet. You won't be allowed to come and bring me food and rub my arm with rheumatism ointment. He was silent for a moment, then she said, filled with admiration:

"The Americans know everything about us!"

"They know as much as the National Socialists, and that's considerably too little, I say. Indeed, my anger against the Americans was growing. I knew that this anger originated only in feeling and not in reason. It was the anger provoked by missed opportunities, the disproportion between proclamations and deeds. I say to Ille:

— Which frustrates every attempt to get in touch with the Americans is their monstrous susance. They prove at all times that they know nothing, but they claim to know everything. Of all the possible measures, they choose, with enthusiasm and assurance, the worst. And, what is even more serious, they continually act against their own interests! "Like the Nazis!" said Ille, imperturbable. "Yes," I said, "with them, you immediately recorded every symptom. Why don't you do the same with the Americans? — You talk as if you were contaminated by propaganda Nazi against the Americans, t Ille vehemently. - Possible ! In any case, it is certain that the Americans are contaminated by their propaganda against us! After a while, Ille added: "You forget that there is a difference between the injustice of a State,

elevated to the rank of a principle, and the injustice of the individual. If you can't go to the village anymore, I'll go. We can't let ourselves starve to death. "No need to come down," I said. There is nothing left. The stores are empty and the stocks looted.

There was really nothing. The two boys from Ludwigshafen, who roamed the village every day, fed us. They circled around the kitchens of the Negro camp, bringing us a small bag of beans or a packet of very white crackers that tasted a bit dusty. Our cows were still giving milk, but too little; there was no more hay and no grass yet and the dairy was very strict. The hens no longer laid eggs for lack of grain, and there were no potatoes left. The inhabitants of the village rarely left their houses anymore, and when they did they were in a hurry and fearful.

"Like the Jews in Berlin between four and five o'clock afternoon, said Ille. From time to time Diewald would bring us something; carrots or food he had received from his Negro friends. I asked him what the Americans were planning to do about food. He says : — They want to let us simmer in our own juice: only, there are no more! He had asked the question to his little Chinese who had contented himself with showing him some photos… Diewald looked at me as if I had to know what he meant. But Ille and I naively asked what photos he was talking about. - Oh! you haven't seen them yet? Diewald asked. I I'll bring you some next time. He had them when he returned.

"Have you ever heard of Mauthausen?" "Mauthausen?" No why ? I asked. - But if ! Ille said. You don't remember, we went there! It is on the road to Lofer, on the former Austrian border. — No, said Diewald, that's Mauthäusl, I'm talking about Mauthausen. It's near Linz, less than a hundred kilometers from here! "Never heard the name," I said. "There was a concentration camp," said Diewald. who is it what do you know about the concentration camps?

- Well, what everyone knows! "How many do you think there were?" "I don't know, there was Oranienburg, and Dachau, and Papenburg, and… and…

"And Theresienstadt!" said Ille, and then Axel's, how is what it was already called, in Saxony…?

— It's true, I said, Hohenstein... "Yes," said Diewald; never heard of Auschwitz? Or of Belsen? I, too, only knew three or four names…the Americans listed hundreds! "Is the number so important?" I asked reluctantly. They already knew in 1934 better than us that things like that existed here. Does their moral indignation increase with numbers? "Wait a minute," Diewald said, looking at Ille and me. He pulled out a series of photos.

"Do you have good nerves, Madame?"

He thought he could get on his nerves after the bombings she had suffered. Diewald handed us the photos. At night, I couldn't fall asleep. I went out on the gallery. The air was still fairly mild. We could see the lights of Siegsdorf. There were always more refugees; A few days before, Sudeten Germans had arrived from Czechoslovakia. They had lost everything and did not want to tell anything about what had happened to them. But, when they began to speak, they had to take the silence of the listeners for incredulity. Me, I believed them. And the Americans had to know in any case what was true in their stories. Ille's window was lighted up. No doubt she couldn't sleep either and had turned on the light to read a little more. I knocked on his door. It had been a long time since I had gone to her house in the evening to talk to her a bit. She didn't read. She had crossed her hands under her head and was staring at the ceiling. On the bedside table, there was a picture of Pablo. I knew she was thinking

much to him for some time. His last news had come from the Ruhr; he belonged to Model's army which had to capitulate. One day, at the table, Ille had begun to talk about her worries for Pablo, but Hilde, usually so taciturn, had said vehemently: "And me then?" Your Pablo is at least in Germany, and my Günther in Russia! During all these years, Hilde and Ille had never quarrelled. He was silent.

I sat on his bed and said: - I can not sleep. - Me neither. "Don't worry about Pablo," I said. One fine day he will be outside the door, tanned and a little sour and ragged; as I know you, you will first put him in a bath! - Oh ! that's not what I'm thinking of. What I fear is that nothing is like before! 'Nothing will be the same,' I said, 'and that's better. "That's what you say, but can we take it?" ? Won't we drift away from each other? Become strangers? Think about the past few months! That was right, I couldn't contradict her. "And if everything changes," said Ille, "promise me that everything between us

will remain as before, as in all these years. Promise it! How many times had I had to promise Ille the most impossible things. She had a childlike confidence in my prophecies, which were never right. "Promise me there will be no war!" and I promised. "Promise me nothing will happen to me!" and I promised. Promise this and promise that, and I promised. And always, she was reassured.

"But what madness!" I exclaimed.

— Seeing the photos today, said Ille, I knew that everything must to be paid !

"But not in the same currency!" This is madness ! So this never will! — You see, said Ille almost triumphantly, you want to get out of your way! And

Me too ! "I didn't even think of the two of us!" I thought of Americans. If, victors, they are as stupid as we were, then what good is their victory? "But it's so understandable," said Ille. — Stupidity is the most understandable thing in the world! What depresses me is not our defeat but the fact that the victors empty it of its meaning! - But this is not true ! cried Ille. What did they do ? You come every day to tell me about your disappointments, they did this and now they are doing that, and you tell it as if, deep down, you were happy about it, just to be right! It's not fair. What have they really done so far? So give them time! - Here, I said, give them time! It was our loyalty to Screw National Socialism! And now ? Do you want to exchange one Leporello list for the other? But that doesn't get us anywhere! This is the struggle for a valid order! We lost ours, and now the others are losing theirs. This is madness ! "Your orders don't concern me!" cried Ille. The German Order didn't concern me, and if it's like you say, the American order doesn't concern me either. All that concerns me is the fact that I will smile about it!

- Well ! I said furiously, you didn't do too badly! You have not no reason to complain! Far fewer reasons than all the ones you know and all the millions you don't know! And for me, it's exactly the same. We did well, Ille, we have no right to resentment. We are one of the few people who are not allowed to have resentments. This is precisely why we have the duty to demand henceforth what is reasonable, and nothing else! He was silent. Then she says:

“I have to tell you something terrible. Me, I don't care didn't come out well! I know that the whole time you thought the main thing was to survive. But I did not survive. I am no longer the one who once came to your house. What I had best, most precious, is dead. They killed him. The past twelve years have been dreadful for me. I've always tried to hide it from you. We lived a good life, if that's what you mean, we lived well from day to day. At night, you snored. Have I ever been sentimental? No. I've always been pretty tough. It's a matter of nerves and imagination. Of course, I knew as well as you what happened to Jews, Polish intelligentsia, Russian Commissars, Czech students and German Communists and all those who suddenly disappeared. But it was very far, as far as you were when you were in prison. Me in any case, I had nothing to defend, except me, and you, and our few friends. Death is more terrible for the one who remains than for the one who suffers it. We didn't lose anyone we really loved and wanted revenge. The other dead, those of Munich and Berlin, I saw them, and my memory is stronger than my imagination, and that is why I believe it is good that the

Americans show us these photos. They should also show the others, those of Poland, Nuremberg, Dresden. We must not forget it, and if the imagination does not overwhelm us, that task falls to the memory. These photos, yes, they upset me. They showed me what was going on while I lived so happily from day to day, while I suspected what was happening and could not imagine it. I suspected it, but it wasn't that which kept me awake at night, not that which hovered like a shadow over everything I did; it was not a feeling of my guilt; it was simply fear!

She took my hand and exclaimed:

- Oh ! and I love life so much! I always thought about death with great anguish. But when she was very close, in the cellar of the "Königshof", I was not afraid. I just put my arms in front of my face and thought that I would rather die than go on living mutilated, without a face, without arms or without legs. I love life so much that I want it all or not at all. But dignity is part of life. Not only the face, the arms or the legs, but also the dignity! And these twelve years wanted to take away my dignity. What does it mean to live, if not to love? I wanted to love the day and the country, the Germans among whom I lived, and you, and me! And I had no right. I had to learn to despise everything, the day and the country, and the Germans, and you, and me. How could I love and esteem where I was not loved and esteemed? where there is no dignity, there is hatred; I didn't want to hate and I had to learn it. I have known hatred, and it was myself that I hated most deeply. I knew that in everyone's eyes I had become what everyone was becoming in my eyes at the same moment.

"Nothing happened to you," I said in a rusty voice.

“Nothing happened to me. But it could have happened any day. I always must have thought of that stupid joke we told each other abroad, that Swiss who said that when someone knocked on his door at six o'clock in the morning, he knew it was the milkman! Since the Americans have been there, the shadow has disappeared. I know I will have my dignity again. I know I can love again. I know that I will be able to estimate again, that I will be loved and valued. None will come any more with the intention of forcing me to sleep on straw. Do not laugh ! But the most terrible thought for me has always been the idea that someone could force me to sleep on straw, me, a woman, me, Ille, who loves life so much that I want it all or not. at all. Because straw is not necessary as long as there are beds. The straw is arbitrariness and contempt, the straw, it is the abandonment of dignity; the cattle sleep on the straw, in their excrement. And I don't need to be afraid of that anymore, and that's why I'm glad the Americans are here! They know what dignity is. They proclaimed it. They promised something that no one has ever promised before. So let what happens happen, it can be excesses committed by individuals. There are bastards everywhere, but the principle is there! The will, the respect! Their power supports the principle. That's why I'm so happy the Americans are here! We may be hungry, it's a huge task to feed a whole people and more. They can change our order, it's the winner's right, provided he believes that his order is really better. They can do so much more

"Sleep," I said, "sleep!" It is indeed the milkman, only he don't bring the milk, he comes to get it! She kissed me and I left. When the next morning I heard a knock at the door of the house, I thought with a smile: “The milkman! and turned over in my bed. Shortly after, Ille, in her dressing gown, came to tell me: "There are two Americans who want to talk to you!" I jumped: "What do they want?" 'I don't know, they came by car. They are oers. "Come down and have a little chat with them!" I'm coming ! I just put on my dressing gown and went downstairs. They were sitting at the table. One was short, a bit stout with rough features and short, red fingers. The other was tall, with melancholy eyes and much neater hands, though his fingernails were also bitten. They wore helmets and pistols with long straps. They got up at my entrance, the little t the introductions. His name was Sullivan, the other Murphy. I asked these gentlemen to take their places. He sat down on the stove bench. After a brief silence, Sullivan said: — I am sorry, but you are arrested! He jumped. - There must be a mistake, he says you're arrested! "I understand," I said. So ask him why... He asked her the question; she spoke a very soft and, it seemed to me, very neat English; at the end of the sentence, she says "sir»,which surprised me a bit because I thought it didn't exist in America. The American says distinctly: — Oh, he's a big nazi!

He spoke briskly to Sullivan. She was smiling and I didn't understand a word she was saying. I waited impatiently for Sullivan's response. But I didn't understand it either. He had got up. She looked at me with wide eyes. "I don't understand," she said. He claims he's from the 42e division in Kitzbühel and that you are to be interrogated there. He says that a mistake is always possible but that he cannot decide! 'Of course,' I said, 'those kind of people never can. Good, tell him I'm going up to get dressed.

- Stay ! Ille said quickly. Please stay again! That must be able to figure it out! Please let me tell him! If I tell him our secret, he can't stop you! - But no ! I say, angry. You're only complicating things! - No, please! Let me tell! I know I have to TO DO ! He is so good that I too can help you in my turn, believe me, I feel that it is necessary! - No, I said, I know this kind of thing, you'll all confuse. "I have to tell him!" I won't be able to sleep at night if I know that I could have helped you and that I did not! She turned hastily and said to Sullivan: — Sir, I am jewish! They talked to each other. Finally, He says:

- I don't understand ! I told him and he asked me if I could prove it. When I cocked him he said that — that I must come too! - So ! I say, furious. He spoke to Sullivan again. When she had finished, the little man slowly nodded his head and finally said:

— Yes!

— Just imagine, said Ille, I asked him if that meant that I was arrested too, and he said yes! "Good, good," I said. Here we are in a beautiful salad! Mounted now and get your business ready! Murphy followed Ille. I shouted to him to bring me the yellow suitcase from Bolle. I thought I had to keep her busy all the time and shouted to her again that she had to tell Hilde and give her the house. I was about to revoke that instruction, lest they arrest Hilde as well, when Sullivan motioned for me to be quiet. I wanted to go upstairs myself, but Sullivan began to search the room. It was done quickly, he took nothing; I opened the kitchen door for him, which he crossed to go into my study, where he began to look at the books. I got in without worrying about him and started to get dressed. Sullivan followed immediately, a book in his hand. It was the English edition ofThe city. He had already brought me the suitcase; I s my luggage with circumspection. Then I went to Ille. Murphy was standing outside her door and Sullivan seemed to be scolding her for not coming in with her. I liked Murphy better than Sullivan. Already fully dressed, Ille was packing her bags. I scolded her: - Not the big suitcase, take the small one! And especially not too much

business! He had red eyes. - The big one told me that it could last a while! "Do what I tell you!" In silence, Ille emptied the suitcase and I chose for her, but she put back a small bottle of perfume that I had already put away on her dressing table.

Sullivan showed the book to Ille. There he found a card from the American Embassy on which Martha Dodd thanked me for my dedication. He explained with some triumph where this card came from. Sullivan took Murphy aside, the two spoke heatedly to each other. He asked, desperate: "Do you understand all this?" I was blunt enough to say: "They really look like milkmaids!" When we left the room. Hilde was in the hallway, a little pale but very calm. As I passed, I whispered to him: 'Tell Diewald and the captain. We are going to Kitzbühel! He says harshly: "Take care of the house!" Fend for yourself ! Hilde says nothing.

Leaving. Sullivan threw the book on my work table. We got into the car, an Opel with German registration. I was next to Sullivan who took the wheel. He was behind with Murphy. We took the direction of the mountain. I told Ille to point out to them that they were taking a wrong turn. But they told us that the bridges were all destroyed. For a second I wished the overpass had also been blown up. For a long time we drove in silence. He said once: - Just tell me: do you understand? I knew her well enough to know that she was trembling with emotion. - Close your mouth! I said. Everything will follow its historic course! In the steep bend near Lofer, the car stalled. Sullivan had probably braked too hard. He stopped a jeep and we had to change cars. At Lofer we came to an inn which served as the headquarters of the unit stationed in

this locality. Sullivan whispered with the oers and began to telephone. He listened with all his ears. The oers looked at us with an air of interest and surprise. He was very pale. She leaned over to whisper: "The kid told them something about us!" I could not to understand. But they must take you for a very large vegetable. That one on the left said something likedeath by hanging!… - Take ! I said. He was shaking all over his body. I put my coat on her shoulders, but it was very heavy in the room. Then the Opel reappeared. We had to get on, and suddenly Sullivan said in good German: — We won the war because we have the best mechanics! - Oh! that's why, I say. In Kitzbühel, the car suddenly entered a small street and stopped immediately afterwards. We descended. Murphy rang at a tall, narrow house. A man in shirt sleeves opened the door. He entered with me. She found herself in front of a gate. She stepped back, seized my arm and exclaimed: "But, but it's a prison!" The man in the shirtsleeves remarked: "What were you waiting for?" "But we had to be interrogated!" Ille shouted. She turned around, terrified. Murphy and Sullivan had already drifted apart. The man closed the door. He irritated me.

"Don't be so naive!" I said. Everything she did was wrong. All my stories from prison seemed to have been useless. She was completely upset. When the guard, a short, old man, whose servility one felt,

rummaged around as usual and took out everything I had in my pockets, Ille pressed his arms to his chest and said:

- But you're not going to touch me! "Don't make a fuss, please," the guard said. "Sit down and keep quiet!" I growled. An American steelworker, very blond and very young, with a red and white ribbon on his cap, came out of a room and asked:

"Have you been in the party?"

'No,' I said. Suddenly he yelled: "You miserable Nazi bastard!" At least have the courage to recognize ! Look at Bacherl! He has courage, that one, he was in the party and he admitted it right away! The guard, Mr. Bacherl, smiled and said without any embarrassment:

'Of course I was in the party, but because I was forced to! — Sir,Ille said,I am jewish! - All the more serious! shouted the steel. Well, you'll see, you bastards!

I'm going to question you! And he disappeared back into the room. Immediately after, we heard noises, a heavy fall, the screaming voice of the steelworker and piercing moans. - So ! said Mr. Bacherl. Don't make a fuss. It is not the moment ! This gentleman is Polish! He grabbed my arm. Furious, I tell him: - Please, do not tell your sales pitch to everyone. This only excites them more! M. Bacherl wrote down our surnames, first names, etc. He indicated, for the

first time in years, his real name. Then M. Bacherl put our business back in the suitcases and made us sign two receipts. I didn't dare look at Ille. I feigned interest in the place. We

had to go up to the upper floor by a worn staircase that smelled of mold. He squeezed my arm, I felt that she was shaking, but she was silent. M. Bacherl opened the first door opposite the stairs and pushed Ille through. She understood that it was her cell. - But we will stay together! she begged pitifully. - What next ? asked Mr. Bacherl. - Ille, I promise you that nothing will happen to you. Go ahead, think about it

I've always told you about prison, one of the few possible places, isn't it? And look ! A mattress! We talked about it yesterday. This is called the counterpoint of evolution. It's like in the cinema! I managed to make her smile. I continued: - And at noon, Madame is served, isn't it, sir? Bacherl, is there order here? Mr. Bacherl also smiled, saying: - Of course, of course.

Then he locked up Ille. I was taken to another cell in the same corridor. A skinny little man was already lying on one of the mattresses. "That's distraction!" said the guard. — Mr. Barcherl, I said, the young woman is not used to everything that. You will need to have some patience with her. "Of course, of course," said M. Bacherl, and he left.

The cell was big enough for one person, small enough for two. To the right and left was a metal bed, covered with an incredibly filthy mattress. But at least there was no basin, only a table between the beds. I immediately pushed this table under the skylight, climbed up and looked. We could see a church and a part of the main street. On the horizon, a jagged mountain. And in the street, indeed, one of

my colleagues from Bavaria. We had shot a film in Kitzbühel, so they all had to be there. It was a small consolation. My cellmate noticed that Mr. Bacherl didn't like people looking out the window. The little man was a tailor from Kitzbühel, arrested for violating the curfew, “I was very drunk”. Ten days in jail. Mr. Bacherl was a friend of his. Already before the first war, he had been employed in this prison. Mr. Bacherl seemed to be a constant and versatile character at the same time. Again the disgusting noise was heard rising from the interrogation room. My tailor could tell me. "It's the other man's turn," he said.

They were two paratroopers suspected of having stalked with a caustic product thanks to which the SS could make the blood type mark disappear. These things were all new to me. The two paratroopers, caught by the Americans at Kitzbühel, were interrogated in turn and beaten by the Polish-American steelworker, the same one who had promised to interrogate Ille and me. But I didn't believe he was going to keep his promise. Murphy and Sullivan must have made their report by then. I asked my tailor if he didn't mind my walking up and down as usual. It didn't bother him.

The midday meal was very good, but exhausting. I begged M. Bacherl to convey my respects to Madame and my compliments for her excellent cuisine. If she needed help peeling the potatoes, the young woman who arrived with me had some skill in that area. Mr. Bacherl seemed impressed and pensive. I was very worried about Ille. His false reactions had scared me. I slept very badly that first night in jail.

of Kitzbühel, but only because of Ille. All afternoon I had impatiently paced the cell; in spite of myself, I was waiting for the interrogation, without ceasing to repeat to myself that it was completely improbable, these gentlemen were certainly in no hurry; such gentlemen never are. My tailor was not very useful. He hoped to be "pardoned" after five days; in a mysterious voice he recognized me: — At home, in Austria, we always manage to arrange the things ! Mr. Bacherl had a sidekick named Walter who was—who would have believed it! — “resistance fighter”. (Was he as "forced" into it as Mr. Bacherl had been to join the party?) First, I thought he had been attached to Mr. Bacherl in order to keep an eye on him, but he was his son-in-law. I had always tried to make Ille understand that most of the inconveniences of prison life were due to the awkward attitude that the prisoners, surprised, adopted vis-à-vis the guards. It is not without reason that the underworld finds itself quite well in prison while the intellectuals write indignant books. So it was a great relief when I learned that Ille had pulled herself together, the first shock over. Already the next day, she had seduced young Walter enough to come and fetch me and lead me to his cell. When she heard my voice, she came straight to the door. Mr. Bacherl had already offered to help his wife peel the potatoes. He had accepted, but at the same time she was trying to get another job where she would have the opportunity to see Americans. She whispered to me not to worry about her. Besides, the brave Walter, like a brave hero of the resistance, was going to maintain the connection between us. He was up to it.

My tailor was indeed released prematurely. I resisted the temptation to give him a commission for my film colleagues, he was too stupid; and besides, I suspected that along with many other things, professional solidarity had gone up in smoke. I was not alone for long. A “wave of arrests” raged. Every half hour the door opened to let in a considerably bewildered parishioner. We had to take out the beds and put the mattresses on the floor. In the evening there were nine of us: an armored colonel, an OKW lieutenant, a Slovak ministerial adviser, a government adviser from Kitzbühel, a police captain, two unmistakable gentlemen speaking an oriental language and a man who called himself "head doctor". The soldiers were soon able to adapt to the situation. Civilians, especially foreigners, stood along the walls, very taken aback and reserved; they had to be invited several times to lie down on the ground, with the others, like "spoons in a case", to use the colonel's expression. None knew why he had been arrested; the foreigners understood nothing at all, they declared that they had placed themselves, confidently, "under the protection of the Americans." The oers criticized the premises and the methods and protested that as "prisoners of war" they were protected by the Geneva Convention, an armament which provoked a brief but very impressive laugh from the captain of police. The Slovak gentleman immediately tried to grease Mr. Bacherl's paw, and he was in fact the first to be called; he did not return after the interrogation. M. Bacherl recommended calm, for, he said, no one had yet remained very long in this prison. The oers criticized the premises and the methods and protested that as "prisoners of war" they were protected by the Geneva Convention, an armament which provoked a brief but very impressive laugh from the captain of police. The Slovak gentleman immediately tried to grease Mr. Bacherl's paw, and he was in fact the first to be called; he did not return after the interrogation. M. Bacherl recommended calm, for, he said, no one had yet remained very long in this prison. The oers criticized the premises and the methods and protested that as "prisoners of war" they were protected by the Geneva Convention, an armament which provoked a brief but very impressive laugh from the captain of police. The Slovak gentleman immediately tried to grease Mr. Bacherl's paw, and he was in fact the first to be called; he did not return after the interrogation. M. Bacherl recommended calm, for, he said, no one had yet remained very long in this prison. he did not return after the interrogation. M. Bacherl recommended calm, for, he said, no one had yet remained very long in this prison. he did not return after the interrogation. M. Bacherl recommended calm, for, he said, no one had yet remained very long in this prison.

Toilets. were halfway up the stairs. To simplify things, Walter took us all there together; He was

just cleaning up this modest facility. It was her "job", and she told me that it was the only way to get in touch with the Americans. She had briefly told her "case" to two Americans already, and both had promised to intervene on her behalf. They were from the CIC, but neither Ille nor I knew what it was. Before Walter could close his cell door, Ille quickly asked me what she was to say when she was questioned. "The truth, of course," I said. It's the only way not to contradict us! But it was Saturday night and there was no way we would be questioned before Monday. And Monday also passed. My fellow inmates left, only I remained. The soldiers believed after their interrogations that they would be sent to a prisoner of war camp: the foreigners were convinced to be released, but Mr. Bacherl came to fetch them “for transport”. The German civilians changed cells after each interrogation. For a few hours, I remained alone, and I savored my loneliness. We had all been extremely talkative; little by little, each one had told his life (me too) and it was not very interesting. They were all welleducated people—we considered the "chief doctor" a crook—and we were all as helpless in the face of the debacle as in the face of the phenomenon of National Socialism. They were all very happy that the war was over and all terrified that we had lost it despite everything. What the soldiers told of the war could make believe that everywhere, except in Russia, one had much amused; and the civilians were of the opinion that National Socialism had nevertheless had many good sides, except in their professional field. All of them, me too, described as great rubbish what had happened to the

Jews and prisoners of concentration camps, and all of them, myself too, armed that they had suspected it but that they had known nothing precise and that, moreover, we had been powerless. None of us, nor me either, could imagine the future, and each one, me too, explained in a thousand ways how it could have happened, and none of these reasons, taken apart, were convincing. It wasn't very interesting. I was alone and I was walking up and down and thinking of Ille who, seven meters from me, was putting her arms around her knees, which were tucked up under her chin. M. Bacherl opened the door and two men entered, what am I saying, two giants, two mountains of flesh and blood, in short, two Tyrolean peasants. They were completely stunned, beside themselves, they were crying, they were consoling each other, they made me feel sorry for themselves. I started a conversation. Each of my questions they answered eagerly, in their guttural-sounding Tyrolean dialect, so that I only understood half of them. But this half was interesting, much more interesting than anything the "educated" had been able to say. Both were National Socialists, veterans, illegal until 1938,

"I'm an old Nazi and I'm still one!" says the baker in me giving a look full of innuendo. They were very proud of being Nazis and they always believed that everything they did was right. The end of National Socialism was in their eyes a misfortune without a name, not only for them, but for the whole country, for the Tyrol and Austria and for Greater Germany, a misfortune so immeasurable that it was irreparable. They knew that their hopes and the meaning of their life were destroyed, that it was "cooked", nor,

ended. I tried to dissuade them ("Life goes on", "Things are developing quickly", "You will see, in five years everything will have a different face"), they shook their heads. They said “the blacks! they said, "the Reds!" ". The Blacks and the Reds were the two enemies who disputed Austria, equally strong, equally lost, equally implacable. Their struggle had ruined Austria; the National Socialists had wanted to put an end to it, and all that the National Socialists had done in Austria was better than this struggle of the Blacks against the Reds. They were convinced that it was going to begin again, this struggle, which would ultimately lead to the loss of the country. And they didn't say it with mocking satisfaction, but filled with deep sadness. That was the formula, a formula much too simple to be combated with arguments. The whole world was explained to them by this formula; and they were right, they were right, name of a name! And they did not doubt it and did not rejoice in it.

On the tenth day of our detention in Kitzbühel, Ille was able to whisper to me that Murphy had come to see her to ask her if she had taken the book with the card from the American Embassy. At his negative answer, Murphy had sighed that, in that case, he should return to Siegsdorf. He was very confident. Murphy had assured him that we would be interviewed soon. - Everything is fine, she whispered, I have the feeling that tomorrow

evening, we will be at home! Late in the afternoon, we came to get Ille and me. A jeep took us to the headquarters of the CIC which I had learned in the meantime was a kind of Gestapo or something very similar. This headquarters had been set up in former party offices, located a few hundred meters from the prison.

In the narrow, bare corridor we met Murphy, who had therefore not been to Siegsdorf. In good German, he assured us that it was not his fault that we were still there. He disappeared when a door opened. We were separated. Ille entered a room where a very tall, very fat man was sitting, in a khaki shirt, with extremely abundant and pomaded dark hair. I was led a few doors down into a bare room where a very young blond man sat, also in a khaki shirt and without any insignia of his rank. At first I was a little scared, because at first sight he looked like the Pole in prison. He stood up smiling and said in perfect German, with a slight Saxon accent, that I had to fill out a questionnaire to begin with.

I answered questions about my name, place and date of birth. Then came a series of identification questions, — color of hair, eyes, height — which I did not answer. The next question was about my profession; hesitantly, I put “writer”; I had never taken that for a real profession. Suddenly the young man took the paper from me, pointed to the questions I had left blank, and asked: "Why didn't you put anything here?" — At the top of the page, I am ordered to give answers accurate to all questions, but I'm not quite aware of my appearance. The young man looked at me, bewildered, then he looked at the sheet again. — Writer? Were you a member of the Schrifttumskammer? - Yes !

- Party ? - No. - Say it without fear, he invited me smiling, I know the situation. My father is a painter in Dresden and my mother a sculptor. I know them, these “rooms”! My parents also joined the party to be admitted to the “Kammer”! - Not me ! I said. He no longer smiled, a wrinkle creased his forehead. Slowly he asked: - But then, how did you not find incompatible with your awareness of living and working in Germany? I was taken aback. Pensively, I contemplated this fair young man and ue and that the most subtle questions seemed to prevent from sleeping at night. Slowly I replied: 'I haven't thought of that yet. But I want to promise you that in the future I will think very seriously about where I want to live and who I want to work for. The young man leaned over my questionnaire and asked in a neutral tone: "What did you write?" I tell him. He wanted to know who published my books, if they had been translated and into what languages, and I informed him. He wrote down the answers. He asked if I had any acquaintances in America and who, I informed him and he wrote it down. Then he asked me to tell him very briefly about my life. Sullen, I replied that I could only do so briefly. - In a few words ! Well, I thought, we'll have to get to the facts. I simply say: "Rathenau murder!"

Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

He smiled again and said: "Lucky you didn't try to shut him up!" Impatient, I noticed: — My dear sir, I have written great books on this subject! At that moment, an elderly man entered. He had a maple leaf on his epaulette, so must have been something like a commander. His face was nothing but a nose, an immense dark red nose, mottled with bluish veins; melancholy, he emerged under a cob of greasy black hair. Two small, piercing, almost black eyes stared at me quickly. The commander took the sheet and scanned it. The little blond whispered: "He immediately admitted it!" Even on duty, the two men spoke German to each other! The commander makes a small negative gesture; in a brusque tone, with an American accent such as a German actor playing the part of an American might assume, he asked me: "Have you been to Rowohlt's?" - Yes ! "Plon?" John Cape? - Yes. "How are these books?" - Well, probably! otherwise they would not have been accepted by these publishers.

"What else did you write?" — Film scripts. — Yes, films to the glory of Nazism! “You can see that,” I said; I suppose that you have seized all the movies and that you will do good business. - Answer yes or no! - No.

His eyes quickly scanned me from head to toe. "Did you also write for theSturmer? This question amazed me. I wondered what that could mean. He suddenly yelled: - Answer: yes or no? And he banged hard on the table. I lifted my head and said slowly:

— Before answering this question, I would like to ask you to don't tell anyone you asked me! It was his turn to be amazed. - For what ? he asked. "In the interest of the prestige of the CIC!" If we ever know that you

asked me this question, everyone will immediately understand that you have no idea of the situation in Germany! He stared at me with his piercing eyes. The young blond raised a devoted gaze towards his superior.

- For what ? asked this one. But is it possible? 'No,' I said placidly, 'it's impossible. The major threw the sheet on the table and continued:

"Where are the blank signatures of Hitler and Roehm?" What else did that mean? Surprised, I replied: "I burned them!" - YOU ? asked the major sharply. - Oh ! sorry, that was not correct; the lady next door! - For what ? "She was probably scared," I said, shrugging. The commander started screaming again. "We're going to search your house, and woe to you if we let's find! “Woe to me, I say.

The commander turned and left. Smiling, the little blond folded the questionnaire into a fan.

"Shouldn't I keep filling it up?" I asked. He threw the fan into the wastepaper basket, saying: - No. He looked at me and asked:

"Did you take this lady home because she's Jewish?" "No, I don't. He hesitated, then said:

- I thought… - You thought! I say very irritated. I took this lady home because I loved him! What funny ideas do you have? Has the whole world gone mad? He looked at me smiling. Then he blushed, the blood was in his ears. He was silent, I was silent. The commandant returned and ordered: - Follow me ! She was in the hallway, she had a beaming smile, shook my hand and said: - Everything's good !

— Shut up !said the commander. He took us to the prison. Carefree, He says on the way: - The questions were really stupid! - Calm down! I said. The commander looked very detached. He reassured me: — He doesn't understand a word of German.

- Each word ! I said. The commander looked very detached. Even his ears weren't red. At the prison gate, I say:

"I deeply regret, Ille, that because of me you find yourself in such a situation. The major had the nerve to ask Ille, in English, what I had said. He repeated it to him, in English. Mr. Bacherl was sullen, like all prison guards since the world has existed, when someone arrives "after hours". He tolerated no conversation. But, under the door of his cell, he cried out to me again: "We will be released tomorrow!" I slept very badly. The baker, who slept in the same bed as me, was very agitated, he moaned and perspired. At five o'clock in the morning, Mr. Bacherl came to fetch me. I had to take all my things. He was in the hallway, beaming. - You see, we're going home! "At five o'clock in the morning?" I asked in disbelief. — Brunswick hinted yesterday! "Who is it, Brunswick?" “The commander who brought us back last night.

Mr. Bacherl gave us our suitcases and a receipt that we owed sign. He counted: “Two people, ten days, twenty marks. I have already deducted them!

- How ? cried Ille, you still have to pay on top of the market ? M. Bacherl was silent, insulted. I say :

— But of course, for a tourist resort as well known as Kitzbühel is not even expensive! I checked our affairs. My watch was missing. "Monsieur Bacherl, my watch!" "The two gentlemen won it!" "Which gentlemen?"

"Those who came have you!" I looked at M. Bacherl. It could be true or not. "Mr. Bacherl," I said, "these gentlemen are called Sullivan and Murphy and are assigned to 42 CICedivision! What would you say, Monsieur Bacherl, to go and get my watch there? Mr. Bacherl squirmed.

"All the same, I can't, among these Americans... — Mr. Bacherl, I said, I think you are only among the Americans because you were "forced" to do so?

Furious, Mr. Bacherl put a twenty-mark note on the table, saying: - So good, come now! He took the ticket in silence and we left. Downstairs, Mr. Bacherl opened the gate. Major Brunswick was in the street and gave us each a sheet of paper. A truck and a jeep with two MPs parked in front of the prison. Under the tarpaulin of the truck, civilians seated on two rows of benches stared at us curiously. He understood immediately. Indignant, she turned to Brunswick and spoke briskly to him in English. He shrugged, answering a few words. One of the MPs suddenly shouted:Maksnell! mak snell!»and, menacingly, raised his gun. I took Ille by the arm and led him to the truck. She had become very pale. I lifted her without ceremony, helping hands helped her up, I climbed in my turn. The MP lifted the flap. Mr. Brunswick and Mr. Bacherl stood politely united under the prison gate. He was breathing with difficulty, while I was almost in a good mood; I had been right! I shouted: — Mr Bacherl, the next time we come to Kitzbühel, we want a room with bathroom! The truck started.

My good mood did not last long. I looked at the sheet Mr. Brunswick had given me. It was a "arrest report".In category "reason »,we had written:Security threat". "It means 'threat to security,' Ille muttered. panting. She pressed herself against me and, with each bump of the vehicle, she clung to my arm. On his "arrest report»was marked: Witness in the murder-case Rathenau. » "So I'm a witness," said Ille. But do the Americans simply arrest the witnesses? I shut up. Suddenly she burst out: "What a bastard, that Brunswick!" He asked me again if I had acquaintances in Kitzbühel who could welcome me. I thought everything was in order! And now! That bastard! He told me earlier that we had to be heard once again by a higher instance! — I understand that, I said, the one here was prodigiously

low. "Do you understand that?" Ille asked. First there was only one big guy who told me he had been a lawyer in Berlin. He received me with the words: “How? A beautiful Jewess living with a war criminal? He almost couldn't calm himself down. I say you weren't a war criminal at all, that you hadn't even been to the war, only to the Volkssturm, but, speaking of you, they never said anything other than war criminal. And then came this Brunswick who asked me what you had written... "Me too," I said. "And, imagine, when I had told him everything, he asked me suddenly if you had also written for theSturmer!I couldn't believe my ears! Since I had just listed your publishers!

- And then ? - Nothing ! I said : "Oh ! heaven no!»and the other, the lawyer, noted

even that. And guess what, they know the history of blank signatures! Do you understand that?

"I know," I said. My God, I've always told my stories a everywhere. But why is this a burden? "He didn't want to know why we had those things at all, only why we hadn't kept them. He harassed me with questions, he wanted to search the house. Finally, I had an idea! I said that if I had known that, ten years later, an American would set such a high value on them, I would certainly have kept them for him, because I thought he could sell them now for a hundred dollars apiece. ! - Oh ! I said, stretching almost comfortably, that's good, very good… And then…? - He stopped talking. And then he disappeared and after a little while he is

came back and shouted, "You've agreed to your statements! And I said, "Yes!" So, furious, he tore up the statement, shouting, "What else did the war criminal order you to say?" And me: "He advised me to tell the truth, because it was the only way to avoid contradictions!" » - And then ?

- Nothing. He told me about this knowledge in Kitzbühel… and now do you understand that? Witness in the Rathenau area! And he didn't ask me a single question about it! "Me neither!" I said. Ille lived so much this moment that she forgot her sorrow. I knew this faculty. She told me these things as if she were in no particular situation. She didn't seem to realize that we were numbers in one

transportation of prisoners; we were a little tight, but we had been on all the trips in the last few years. She wore her prettiest dress, a model in blue silk with pretty white prints, which suited her perfectly; she wore her prettiest hat, a little black straw hat, of an original shape, with a very light veil; she wore her best silk stockings and highheeled kidskin shoes; she had on her knees her little very soft leather suitcase, which had always accompanied her on her air travel. She smiled at me and delighted in the memory of the intelligent answers she had given to stupid questions. I knew her well enough to understand that she found life quite beautiful. She squeezed my arm and said: - Admit that I behaved in a magnificent way! Recognize it! - Yes ! I said. "I really behaved in a magnificent way," he said. her proudly, and you won't have to worry about me anymore! When we get back, I'll have lots of funny stories to tell Hilde! I was silent, which seemed to worry him. She says :

- It can't last more than a few days at most, is not it ? 'I don't know, Ille. "How fortunate that this Brunswick has put the business back in other

hands. The more people are in high places, the more their decisions are reasonable, it's an old story! "Yes, yes," I said. He even seemed to rejoice at the thought of a little intercourse with an imposing general; she was well aware of the effect she had on distinguished gentlemen of a certain age.

It was very hot, the roads were white with dust. He was the only woman in the truck. I knew some of the prisoners from having seen them in Kitzbühel. There was paratrooper Hartwig, who still bore the visible marks of the treatment he had undergone. There was M. Scheuermann, adviser to the government in a finance administration. He had been a simple member of the party, but he had an Ingres violin: he was interested in eugenics. Her "arrest report»indicated that he had spread "nazi-doctrines". "But eugenics," said M. Scheuermann, a somewhat gray-bearded pedant, eugenics is a science that is taught all over the world! I asked him if, in front of the Americans, he had also spoken of “eugenics” or if he had not rather used the expression “hygiene of racial heredity”. He recognized him. Apparently he was arrested for it. It was to be a National Socialist secret science, the prerogative of the greatest war criminals. Mr. Scheuermann did not want to understand this, even when I told him that it was at least as serious as if he had simply called Mr. Brunswick “Braunschweig”. Then there were two Rhineland teachers, quite young, who, without being in the party, had organized transportation of Rhineland children to the Tyrol, safe from the bombs. Their arrest warrants discreetly said:Big Nazis".An older gentleman, with striking features, was a Hungarian general. Of all of us, he certainly had the most reason to lament his fate, although it was one of his occupational hazards. He accepted it, moreover, with fine military impassivity. "I don't care where they give me food," he said. » In Kufstein, the truck stopped in front of a prison. An MP ordered Ille to get off. I was very upset when, wanting the

follow, a rifle butt held me back. Ille, who was giving me frightened looks, was not taken to the prison, but to the jeep where she had to take her place. A number of inmates came out of the prison to get into our truck. Shortly after, we continued on our way. A gentleman of about sixty-five, very tall and very thin, sat down in Ille's place. He politely introduced himself, his name was Alinn. His arrest warrant read:Big Nazi, says that Poland began the war.»He had talked with a friend on the terrace of a café. His interlocutor had said that Hitler should not have started the war. Then Mr. Alinn, "a member of the party like any honest man", declared that he had heard with his own ears the announcer of Radio-Warsaw exclaim that he was sorry for the poor blind people of the Germans who were going to be pitilessly crushed by the armies. of the whole world. And this furious speech had been made before the German troops had entered Poland (Mr. Alinn said: "retaliate"). Then an American officer, seated at the next table, rose and stopped him. We were driving towards Rosenheim. Ille and I could only speak to each other by looks. We smiled at each other as we crossed the old border now restored. When we came out onto the highway, she was waiting with as much curiosity as I did if we were going to turn in the direction of Munich or Siegsdorf; we turned in the direction of Munich and Ille gave me a sad nod. The big bridge at Mangfall was destroyed and we had to take a bumpy diversion. I exchanged a look with Ille; no doubt she thought as I did of the intact Bergen viaduct. To feel so united, Ille and I, filled me with happiness. The memory of ten years together formed a bond stronger than all the rest, and this bond could not be severed.

As we drove through Munich, everyone was silent. The city was in ruins. I looked at Ille. She had taken off her hat, the dust forming a dark layer on her face. She turned her head right and left; I knew how much she loved Munich. As a young student, she had followed Professor Kutscher's lessons there; on the occasion of one of the famous parties organized by the professor, she had founded, with two other students, a small cabaret, and her small fame had taken off here. She had played with Hellmut Käutner and Bobby Todd; and, in 1934, the pretty dream of youth had come to an end. But then she was already in Berlin and I took her to my nest (comfortable enough, but she couldn't fly away anymore). Here, in Munich, she had been cheerful as her nature would have it; she loved life so much, the carefree good life. I nod to him. She looked at me. She was crying, tears streaking the dust on her face. We drove north through Munich.

None of us knew where we were going or what to expect. For none, the loss of his freedom corresponded to an act he had committed. The arrest had struck them all unexpectedly and none understood why this lightning falling from the blue sky had struck him, and none believed that his neighbor was as innocent as himself. Behind Landshut, the truck stopped in open country. The MPs allowed us to relieve ourselves. I was able to exchange a few words with Ille. She had tried in vain to learn from the MP our destination and the reason for this transfer. She grabbed my hand abruptly and said: "I don't know, I have a feeling there's something there." below! What do you think about it ?

I say that I had nally understood that, among Americans, there was never anything underneath, except platitudes. But she shook her head thoughtfully. In an almost maternal tone, she explained to me that you had to know how to do it; I had to address every American as "Sir"; they liked it, because they all had the remarkable ambition to be considered gentlemen. We continued on our way. One of the two teachers amused himself by giving us the names of the localities we were passing through; there was a small tear in the tarp. He shouted: “Natternberg”. Immediately after, the car left the road and took a small path. Suddenly I saw an American soldier crouching behind a machine gun; then appeared a high fence of barbed wire, inside which were low, gray-green barracks. The truck took a sharp turn and stopped. The jeep stopped just behind. He was directly below me. She looked up and smiled at me. Large numbers of American soldiers lined up around our truck. One of them approached the jeep and said with a broad smile to the driver:

— Your girlfriend?nodding Ille. — No, says the MP,Internal! The soldier's face suddenly changed; brutally, he grabbed Ille's arm, shouted:You dirty fockend… Mak snell! Maksnell!»and he snatched her from the car. She stumbled, fell, her little suitcase fell on her; Shocked and with helpless astonishment, she looked up at me. I jumped. At the same time, a horde of screaming and vociferating American soldiers rushed towards us. A blow to my leg. A fist grabbed my ankle and pulled, I fell full length from the truck. Behind me, the others jumped into the biggest

confusion. I got up with difficulty, took my bag, received a kick and the strident order: "Maksnell!»I ran after Ille who, her suitcase in one hand, her soiled hat in the other, was rushing in front of me, followed by a yelping soldier who was constantly trying to follow her. At high speed we were pushed into a row; back against the barbed wire, we stood facing a barrack, exhausted and completely stunned by the cries of the soldiers pushing us with their rifles. I was next to Ille, I didn't dare look at her. In front of me, a young soldier with dark hair and incredibly blue eyes shouted something to me without my understanding a word. He whispered: - Stay calm ! Absolutely quiet! The soldier now addressed Ille. She didn't answer. She whispered: - Not moving ! not moving ! For a little while, nothing happened except that the soldiers were thrashing and yelling around us. An officer passed by without looking at us and entered a barracks. Then a soldier with four stripes on his sleeve read our names from a list. Then he disappeared; the vehicles that had brought us left and I felt a pain as from an irreparable loss. The sergeant, or what could be a sergeant, came back and called first. It was Hartwig, the paratrooper. He advanced at his usual pace towards the barracks, his little bag under his arm. Screams "Maksnell! Maksnell!» redoubled. Suddenly the sergeant seized him and pushed him across the threshold, so that he staggered; and the door slammed behind him. A few soldiers ran to the window to observe what was happening inside. Suddenly they began to bawl, they jumped from

fun and pushed each other away to see better. From the barracks came muffled noises and ferocious cries. We were paralyzed. My throat was completely dry. He was very close to me. I felt his arm tremble. I risked a glance at her. She was staring straight ahead, her mouth shut; the muscles in his cheeks twitched. Then Hartwig staggered out, as if he had been pushed violently; in his arms he held a bit of laundry; he was barefoot; his face was crimson, blood flowed from his mouth, he was running blindly. " Maksnell! Maksnell!»Butts pushed him to our right; to the immense delight of the Americans, he lost an undergarment: he wanted to pick it up, but a kick in the behind prevented him from doing so. The door opened again, a pair of shoes rolled down to Hartwig's feet. Then came the sergeant with his list, he was smiling. He smiled amiably and read the next name. It was M. Scheuermann. The scene repeated itself, exactly the same. I whispered to Ille:

"They won't beat us!" But I didn't believe it. I was thinking hard about what to do; my thoughts were not jostling in my head, but in my chest, the head was empty; in my heart I knew we were going to be beaten, but Ille won't be beaten, Ille, a woman, Americans don't beat a woman, and Ille will still be beaten, and I must resist if my turn comes before hers , no, I must not resist if my turn comes before his, no one must resist whose turn it is before us, otherwise they will beat the others all the stronger; in this case, only the last can resist; Oh ! who knows what to do! I was suddenly furious with Ille, her presence only complicated things; but, at the same time, I knew that she did not complicate anything,

simply because, in both cases, I could do absolutely nothing. That was what was terrible: I couldn't do anything other than what I was doing: tremble at the idea that they were going to beat Ille as they beat Mr. Scheuermann and his eugenics, and the two teachers and General Hungarians, as they beat Mr. Alinn, the old man who was now staggering out of the room, red-faced, with trousers falling off and no shoes. The two teachers had rushed off as quickly as possible; it had been very funny, the soldiers were screaming with joy, and that was probably the point of the show. I made the firm decision not to give them this pleasure. It was my turn; I lifted the yellow Bolle bag and forced myself to walk normally. I heard Ille's piercing cry: “Run! and I ran and only half felt the blow of the rifle butt which should have struck me in the kidneys. Just before the threshold, the sergeant took me by the arm, as he had done with all, he pulled me through the door, pushing me at the same time, so that I stumbled, then he kicked me violently behind. I was able to collect myself, I staggered, but I arrived in the room without falling.

The steelman who had passed in front of us was seated on a bench, his legs stretched out; he had a pale, pimply face and reddish hair. Another oer, quite young, stood in front of me; he was shorter, more slender, with a tuft of dark hair. On the ground dragged suitcases, shoes, suits, coats, linen. A soldier sat behind a typewriter. I didn't know how many soldiers there might be in the room, but there was at least one in every corner. The steelman yelled:

— You are Nazi! 'No,' I said.

At the same time, he slapped my right cheek and I thought, "He's left-handed!" While I received the gie, I saw that the gesture made the steeler's hair fly and that the other, seated on his bench, was watching me attentively, without ceasing to chew his gum. The little swarthy cried: — Hands up! I understood and raised my arms, enraged at myself for obeying immediately. The steelman shouted in German: "Take off the shoes!" I bent down to take off my shoes and obviously lowered my arms. At the same time, they rushed at me. Life is strange and world is bad! Strangely, it didn't hurt. Really amazing, but I felt no pain, only dull thumps as if my body had been numb—I have to tell Ille this before it's her turn: the thumps don't hurt at all. Now I felt broken teeth in my mouth, they had come off very easily, they were probably swimming in blood, it milked like honey still mixed with wax. Pieces had separated from my living body. I had to look for the reasons that prevented me from feeling the pain. It must have been rage. Of course, the rage had stretched my skin like a drum, so that the blows produced these dull sounds and nothing else. In other words: I was at that moment in a hysterical state. But it wasn't true, I wasn't mad,

- no, I felt triumph because it was not me who committed the injustice, of course, it had to be that. This ocier was in rage, not me. Her hair was flying, her eyes were injected with

blood, and he frothed! I had always thought it was a way of speaking, but no, it actually existed, that poor stupid pig was foaming. Apparently he was in a much worse state than me. No pain, no rage, triumph because of the foam, now they take off my pants, it's much more serious. Why is that ? For what ? There is no reason why it should be more serious, what gives me this impression? Oh yes, it's a psychic pain that deadens the physical pain, it's not rage, it's sadness. Attention, attention, then the feeling of triumph is that of sourance… can I venture that far, me precisely? The sourance is probably not productive, or is it? In any case, she raises, — these poor fellows will soon get tired, they beat me much longer than the others, or is that just an impression? So the sourance raises? Lucky they're wearing those rubber soles. With studded shoes, that kick to my elbow would probably still hurt. Studded shoes were always the symbol of German brutality, and rubber boots for America? One of these guys must have had eggs in his luggage, the ground is all smeared with egg yolk, my hands too, and with blood, red and yellow, the colors of the country of Baden, the eggs, also fragile. Here, all the time, I instinctively protected my stomach with my arms. That's the simplest answer to the question why nobody, but nobody resists when he is beaten: he simply covers himself, instinct reacts, each one protects the most vulnerable place. In the cellar of the “Königshof”, Ille put her arms in front of her face. Why the most vulnerable place? It's not true, be sincere, it's the most precious place that we instinctively protect, the head is just as vulnerable - well, well, you have

therefore protect the belly, not the head! Be honest ! Don't tell yourself stories, they'll have to stop, they're already panting. Dostoyevsky was also beaten in the House of the Dead, he never talked about it, why not? You can read it between the lines of his Memoirs, but he does not say so. Can the blow, bare force, violate a taboo? A male taboo? A human taboo? Is human dignity the taboo? Would my dignity be harmed because I am beaten? Not mine, maybe Ille's. Oh ! God, are they going to beat Ille too? Of course not, the Americans don't beat women, don't kid yourself, of course, they will beat Ille, with delight, it's still going to be added — her dignity, bah! his dignity — it cannot be harmed any more than mine, but mine is destroyed, defiled, strangled if they beat Ille — mine, mine, not Ille's — my God, is that will they never stop?

I was on the ground, they picked me up violently. I staggered. I was even supported, charitably, right and left. The steelworker put the amulet under my nose, the little bracelet Ille had given me one day; she was so superstitious, she had sewn the poor little silver chain into a little silk bag and I had to promise her I would always carry it. - What is this ? asked the steelman, who still had a little foaming at the mouth.

"An amulet!" I say painfully. "What does that mean?" "That must bring me luck!" I wiped my lips, I had spat out my teeth; with my tongue, I felt the holes in my jaws. The steelworker threw the bracelet on the ground and trampled it slowly, voluptuously. But he was wearing rubber boots; so he took a gun and, with the butt, crushed

the amulet; when she was completely flattened, he pushed her aside with his foot. They all looked at me quizzically.

The steelman sitting on the bench had not moved the whole time. He had his legs stretched out, his hands in his pockets, and he was chewing gum. He was apparently the highest ranking officer. Slowly and distinctly, I say: — You are no gentleman! He burst out laughing. He slapped his thighs and shouted:

— No, no, no! We are Mississippi-boys! The man at the typewriter handed me a sheet with the order to sign. I was in the process of pulling up my pants, I approached and immediately received a blow. I was resolved not to sign anything that I had not read. It was a certificate that I had eighty marks on me. I couldn't remember at all if I'd had Ille's money on me; they started hitting me on the head again and the disgusting yelping began again: Maksnell! Maksnell!They stimulated themselves with these cries, and I signed. In the blink of an eye, I was outside; I didn't even have time to grab my suitcase. The sergeant shoved a few random things into my arms and kicked me. I ran towards the others, those who had already "passed". She was now all alone. I gave her a look that should have reassured her, I don't know if I succeeded. The sergeant called him; she took her bag and walked quickly, on her high heels, towards the barracks. The sergeant grabbed her arm and pushed her towards the door. As far as I could see, he didn't kick her. For a moment, I felt drained. I closed my eyes as if to concentrate all my faculties in hearing. I forced myself to open them again when I heard nothing. The soldiers at the window weren't shouting, but they were jostling each other more than before. newcomers

pushed the first ones aside or raised themselves on tiptoe so that they could look over the heads of the others. What was happening to Ille? What were we doing in Ille? The soldiers were screaming, leaning forward, staring eagerly. What were we doing in Ille in this barrack? There were at least six men. I seriously calculated how long it took six men to rape Ille and if it was possible, until a red wave washed over me: Why was I standing there? Why didn't I rush there without worrying about what might happen to me? What did I imagine? What wouldn't they dare? What ? Yes, of course, at that moment, I lost my dignity forever, man's most precious possession. Since Adam, it was the duty and the dignity of the man to protect the woman. For ten years, I had been able to protect Ille. Now it was neither. For the healthy mentality of the countries of the East, the vanquished loses both liberty and woman. During the First Abyssinian War, the Ethiopians castrated Italian prisoners. At that moment, I was morally castrated. I know nothing, I was a coward by reasoning. The alternative was posed again, the atrocious alternative of the past twelve years, to act like a fool or a coward. Nothing had changed. They were equal. Their victory was worthless, and neither was our defeat. I myself was worth nothing. Until that day, Ille had been able to esteem me. Never again, never again would it be between Ille and me as in the past. He could forget, not me. the atrocious alternative of the past twelve years, to act like a fool or a coward. Nothing had changed. They were equal. Their victory was worthless, and neither was our defeat. I myself was worth nothing. Until that day, Ille had been able to esteem me. Never again, never again would it be between Ille and me as in the past. He could forget, not me. the atrocious alternative of the past twelve years, to act like a fool or a coward. Nothing had changed. They were equal. Their victory was worthless, and neither was our defeat. I myself was worth nothing. Until that day, Ille had been able to esteem me. Never again, never again would it be between Ille and me as in the past. He could forget, not me.

He went out, she no longer had her suitcase. Between her arms she carried a tiny pile of clothes; she headed straight for me. His face was all red; none of the Americans were shouting anymore, but they all followed her with their eyes. She sat down next to me and said aloud and carelessly: — Just imagine, one of them even gave me back my bottle of perfume.

!

I looked at her fixedly. She gave me a small oblique smile. She no longer had a belt, the dress was buttoned askew, her stockings were falling off. But the small silver chain, her amulet, still surrounded her ankle. The sergeant came out and shouted something. Immediately a tall, fairhaired man appeared, wearing white breeches and a large-checked civilian jacket. He says :

— I am the interpreter. U-turn left, walk! I saw the camp in front of us. A gate lined with barbed wire opened, we went through it. Right next to the gate stood a blond young man in white breeches, with a black shirt, baring his neck. He was my killer. He smiles at me. He says :

"I knew we were to meet again, sir. Knoblauch! This is the right address, here!

As a friend, so to speak, he put his arm on my shoulder and smiled even more. He says : — In the camp itself, there is no beating; here you are among decent men! He stared at Ille, then at me, and noticed:

"Madame your wife?" How ? All my respect ! Surely born Zwiebelduft2? It was still dark when I woke up. I had slept well. For three months, my sleep was excellent. But I woke up because Count Plettenberg, who had his bed on the second floor next to mine, got up like every morning, to do gymnastics. At the beginning, he had done his exercises with dumbbells, in front of the barracks and in broad daylight. But the camp had protested vehemently—looking at it, the Americans could believe that we

still ate too much! Count Plettenberg was a sculptor and had received from the Führer the mission of adorning the Linz bridge with characters from theNiebelungen;details as stupid as the German debacle were in no way capable of distracting his mind from his lofty task. All day long he was bent over his sketches and everyone could be convinced that this bridge would have been an astonishing monument. Every day the Count had very serious conferences with Mr. Wegener, who occupied the bed above his and who, an engineerarchitect, was to direct the construction work of the camp. He was interned because he had kicked one of his Italian workers in the buttocks. “Me, I thought he was an ally and that it was allowed! " he said. He was a simple, calm man who devoted himself to his work with the same pedantic zeal as the Count. The entire camp anxiously followed its activity when it came to building a new kitchen, as it was hoped to be able to draw conclusions about a possible dissolution of the camp. “Foundations like for a station! said Mr. Wegener on returning from his talks with the American engineer, thus provoking a paralyzing emotion. Below Count Plettenberg was the bed of Dr. Schreiner, an old, white-haired doctor. In a fatal and atavistic move of patriotism, he had allowed himself to be tempted to accept the rank of an honorary leader of the SS. He was probably the most cultured man in the barrack, a knight of the old school, who supported his detention with great resignation. Below me slept Mr. Rotfuchs, an economic lawyer by his civilian profession and, in military life, a captain of Alpine chasseurs. We had become friends the first night, and that friendship had yet to be troubled, which was no small thing.

thing in this camp. When I asked him why he was interned, he replied: “It's Ulrike's fault! Ulrike was his little girl; at the time of his birth, the happy father had an announcement inserted in all the accessible newspapers, including theSchwarze Corps;student, he had one day, with all his corporation, adhered to the SS At the camp of the prisoners of war, he had armed that he belonged to the alpine hunters. It was the truth, but the Americans had then leafed through a huge black-bound book, found his name among the advertising clients of theSchwarze Corpsand instead of releasing him like his comrades, they sent him to the internee camp. When I stood up, I could see his black hair sticking out of his sleeping bag. He still had his sleeping bag. On this point the Americans were absolutely methodless; they took off one's shoes, they gave another a pair that wasn't his: a peasant I didn't know from Adam or Eve was wearing my pajama pants, but they had left me Jacket. I saw by chance that the camp saddler, a former concentration camp capo, cut my beautiful Bolle bag and made it into a revolver pocket for Lieutenant Baybee, the camp commander, the famous mississippi-boy. They had taken everything from Rotfuchs except his sleeping bag. The bed below Rotfuchs was empty; the senior official who had occupied it had been in the infirmary for a few days: he had diphtheria and it was said that he was very ill. I was lying down and looking at the beams of the roof, very close to me. I had chosen the last bed because I thought that downstairs there was more dust: on the other hand, all the smells rose towards me. Our room had been designed for sixteen people, we were fortytwo. The beds were three-tiered, but they were iron beds with metal bases: in all the other

huts, there were only planks. In addition to the beds, there was a long white wooden table and two benches of equal length in the room. It stank, it stank terribly. I wondered what, apart from hunger and degradation, was normally the hardest thing to bear in this camp. It was doubtless the intimate common life, with all that it entailed. It was absolutely impossible to be alone, even for a second. There was no corner, not the slightest little place where you didn't see anyone else and where you weren't immediately approached by someone. When two prisoners went away to be alone, they found themselves together. The average age of the internees in this camp was fifty-one. With my forty-three, I could therefore count myself among the young fools ingambes. In our room, only Rotfuchs, Plettenberg and one of the teachers were younger than me. Mr. Anker, a prison guard in Straubing, was the oldest. He was the only one with a fixed job: he took care of the internal service in perpetuity. One could be sure that the room was clean, as clean as the cells of its prisoners had been in the old days. I was very glad Mr. Anker had the experience of being on the other side of the gates, but he didn't seem to see a fundamental difference between his past life and the present. He looked like a medieval stone gargoyle; its type must have survived the centuries.

Mr. Alinn was almost the same age: rather a wooden gargoyle. It was obvious that Mr. Alinn was going to die soon, he was already a skeleton. “Me, I will not thaw

! he said, "I'm badass, I'm from Westphalia!" But he didn't have many chances. Mr. Scheuermann and the two teachers were also doing part of this room. Hartwig, the paratrooper, had fled. An escape was not very difficult, but it did not make sense for older people who had families and homes and who were convinced that the mistake of their arrest would become apparent as soon as the trouble was taken. ask a few questions. Hartwig was young, without family, originally from Danzig. The Americans made no effort to take it back. They only got roll call, which took six hours of standing; as expected, the usual percentage collapsed. Curiously, they were neither the old men nor the women, but the men in their prime; the old men were surprisingly strong; when they fell, it was for good, and, in general, the women resisted much better than the men.

From our room, only M. Volta, district chief of Brünn, fell. It was quite clear that Mr. Volta would be handed over to the Czechs. We knew, and he knew that, practically, he was already dead. But he stubbornly refused to look for a way to escape. Most of the time he squatted cross-legged on his third-floor bed, a symbol of Oriental resignation. He was apparently very oppressed that he had not prepared the fate that awaited him for an even greater number of Czechs. The vast majority of the room, however, was made up of the inhabitants of the small town of Passau, which had been divided into two clans of equally fanatical Nazis. One half of the population had gathered information on the other, so that the Americans, on finding the files, had only had to take everyone on board. In our hut, those of Passau

determined the general level just by their number. The atmosphere was characterized by an impenetrable haze of Bavarian dice, for Bavarians are hard-headed, and complete lack of control of physical functions. What the Americans called "food" necessarily had irrepressible organic eects. But the dean of the chamber obtained at least, thanks to an authoritative order, that the natural event was not accompanied by unnatural jokes. The dean, Dr. Friedrich Weber, former head of the Reich Veterinarians, was a tall, thin man with cold green eyes and a low voice; he was probably the only convinced National Socialist in the room who had the reputation of possessing at least the personal integrity of the fanatics. He had a lot of excellent qualities, and it turned out that even his absolute lack of humor had a positive meaning. He maintained an iron discipline to which even freer spirits submitted; it was the only way to make misery and narrowness somewhat bearable. Presently, Schroeder, the camp leader's replacement, was going to go from barrack to barrack to set the alarm clock. He was the only one to have a watch, not privately owned, of course not! It had belonged to a peasant, the leader of a local group, from whom the Americans had taken it, then placed it at the disposal of the camp leader, because it was clearly unfit to cause a sensation among the golden youth of Sioux-Falls (South Dakota). ). The siet of the camp leader organized the day. That day, it was my turn to get up first in my "ray". Slowly, and quietly, I got dressed on my bed. I took out my pants which I used as a pillow. I was like broken; the straw was old, the strands broken. With every move, they fell on Rotfuchs. He could

protect it by tucking my head in my sleeping bag, but I was losing too much straw. So I kept myself from moving, even while sleeping, which was very tiring. My shoes were tearing and smelling terrible. I had no more socks. I no longer had a second shirt; the only clothes the Americans had provided us with were black Italian shirts, they didn't even cover the navel, and white breeches, also of Italian origin. The fabric of these garments was extremely strong, but in the water it became stiff like a board and unwieldy. The Italian army had lived, suffered and fought in these shirts and breeches! This circumstance inspired us with charitable and conciliatory sentiments with regard to our former allies. As the days grew cooler, the Americans allowed internees to wear their own trousers; but in order to report us as internees, we had to put the white breeches over the trousers. Adult men thus dressed looked extremely ridiculous. I preferred to shiver.

It was tiring to move, lying on the bed. I was very tired. The hunger didn't hurt. At first you were sick at heart, but it soon melted away into this curious lassitude which, far from being numbed, made the mind more lucid. The body, however, was in no way capable of following the impulse of the will. To go down, I rolled to the edge, then, seeking support with my foot, I let myself fall. Thus, the effort was reduced to a minimum. We know. Quickly, I climbed over the bench, groped for the door as quickly as I could and got out of the whole barracks first. It was very important because it was a question of arriving at the pissoir before the big crush. But I was far from being the first. A long queue was already waiting. There was a pit, above the pit a pole and above

above the pole, oh supreme luxury, a small awning. Next to the pit, whose perch was already entirely occupied by gray-skinned, sullenlooking internees, was the gutter for small needs. There was room for four men at a time, and as the queue was always very impatient, the custom had developed that one did not stand still but continued to walk to the right; it squirted more, but it felt like it was going faster, a triumph of the German methodical spirit.

Most arrived bare-chested, a chion in hand, ready to launch themselves, immediately after the first necessities, into the fight for the taps. Just before approaching the channel, I exhaled deeply to inhale immediately, my nose turned away from the pit; I kept the pit as long as possible, the gutter stank even more than the pit. Both were heavily covered in chlorine. Chlorine was the only thing in abundance; Americans were strong believers in hygiene, but they didn't give us toilet paper. Around three long tables, each surmounted by eight taps, people crowded every morning to wash. Most just filled an old tin can with water and washed away. Almost no one had soap. Rotfuchs, who for a time had had the "job" of carrying the buckets of coal to the kitchen, had, on this occasion, managed to steal a piece of soap and a razor from the cook. He shared the loot with me, we shared everything. I had a piece of mirror. We si for the call. The internees began to move, very slowly, at the pace of the camp which had quickly been established, a very weary step. Alert young Americans must have found it very amusing.

We, on the other hand, did not find alert young Americans at all amusing. You apparently had to have an extremely well-developed sense of humor to understand American humour, which manifested itself only in screeching, yelling and boxing. Oh ! what a pleasure, if they had been able to strike down one of their comrades! What a pleasure also for the one who was on the ground! He squirmed and laughed to throw himself immediately, with six others, on the next one, oh, what fun! I understood that there too reigned a code of honor: beatings harmed dignity as little as in children. Perhaps they really would have enjoyed it if one of us had ever resisted them; probably, they despised us so excessively because they were not able to understand that at home,

Rotfuchs called me one day, all excited, to show me how the commandant of the camp, the huge and vigorous Robertson, was quietly giggling one of the sentries, a puny little GI, right, left, following all the rules of the game. 'art. This was inconceivable to Rotfuchs, who had only looked with concentrated hatred at Second Lieutenant Hollingworth when he had knocked out his teeth. Through careful research, Rotfuchs had been able to learn the names of the guys who had beaten him; they were the same ones who had "heard" me, Lieutenant Baybee (the mississippi-boy), Second Lieutenant Hollingworth (who was foaming at the mouth), Sergeants Remy and Cohen and "Doc" Furst who was not a doctor, but a kind of nurse. From time to time he appeared in the women's barracks with an insecticide sprayer and asked the ladies to undress so that he could

indulge in his more or less hygienic desires. The men apparently did not need this care. In the meantime, the guard had changed several times, but the fighting continued. All those who entered this camp were first beaten; the Americans called itoverwork. Even internees transferred from another camp (where they had already received their share) were not exempt. Generals who came from POW camps were also beaten. Besides, the Americans cut off their boots, like that, for no apparent reason. The fact that the commander's dog frolicked about for days adorned with a Knight's Cross certainly had a reason, though soldiers the world over hardly approved of it. Robertson's real henchman, when he didn't feel like punching himself, was Sergeant Wislowski, an American of Polish origin. When he appeared at the camp, the nurses prepared a kind of stretcher, because whoever was "undertaken" by the sergeant was ripe for the infirmary. But, O mystery of the human soul! he never failed to visit his victims and bring them a piece of chocolate. It was this sergeant I had to fear the most. I did not go like the others to the place where the roll call took place; I always stood behind the corner of one of the barracks to wait for the column of women. They arrived last and left first. Sergeant Wislowski watched them regularly from his room; I knew the places where he couldn't see me, but sometimes he followed the women behind the barracks to catch the husbands who were looking for an opportunity to exchange a few words with their wives. We were perhaps five or six couples and we took care not to be several in our hiding places.

The moment when the column of women rounded the corner of the barrack was for me the most exciting second of the day. He was firmly convinced, or she claimed at least, that, despite everything, his intervention during my arrest had had some good effect. Each time she saw me, she invited me to recognize that her presence, that being together was a joy. Knowing how much she cared about it, I reluctantly admitted it. But it made life harder. What for me could be a small accident of life, for her certainly had the meaning of an important decision of fate. Her presence therefore reminded me daily, hour by hour, what a bastard I was, capable of surviving the constant degradation she suffered. strange fact,

Among the first women who approached in a closed column, walked Mrs. Flocken, the chief medical officer of the camp. As soon as she had entered the camp, Ille had spoken to the first woman she saw: she was a slender, slender woman, with very well-groomed, almost white blond hair; she wore tortoiseshell glasses that brought out large, piercing gray eyes; despite her reduced clothing (white panties and a scarf over her chest), she seemed very sure of herself. “Where are we? Ille had asked. Briefly and harshly, the woman replied, “Camp Natternberg, near Deggendorf. She immediately turned to me and asked, "The teeth?" There are dentists in the inrmerie! And she was off on her high heels. In the infirmary worked in eet two excellent dentists,

certainly occupied the best specialists. They promptly fixed my teeth. They complained that the Americans had left them the instruments but no material to replace the teeth, so they had to make do with what they could "put aside" when the American patients brought their own material. These dentists were indignant that a woman was the chief medical officer of the camp, but they had to admit that the most essential medicines had been provided thanks to her, who spoke very good English and had an extremely energetic attitude towards Live Americans. The doctor waswar criminal. I had gone to see her for my rheumatism and to ask her to have an eye on Ille. But Mrs. Flocken was not a woman for women, and women did not like her. She treated them with great disdain, and only when I told her that He thought like her did she become more attentive. There were about eighty doctors at the camp and about one hundred women. Mrs. Flocken therefore possessed one hundred and eighty bitter enemies, but she held her position. She massaged my arm without much consideration. I asked him bluntly: "What are you being blamed for?" She jumped. “Why do you want to know? — "Because I have the impression that it is mainly external things that harm you." She continued the massage, then after a while she said, "I'll tell you!" My case is very simple. My husband is me, we had both done our medicine in Heidelberg. When the war broke out, my husband was mobilized into the Todt organization. I continued to work in the office. But we were a very good team and my husband got me called to the OT as well. We worked together. Then my husband died in a plane crash. I was transferred to a

another OT camp One day, the management asked for inmates from a concentration camp as workers in a very difficult construction company. One thousand five hundred people were sent to us, men and women, whom I had to examine as to their physical capacity. People were in a terrible state. I sent them all back and gave a report to the concentration camp administration, pointing out that it was a very exhausting job for which only strong and healthy men could be employed. Already the next day a senior SS leader came to see me. He thanked me for my frank report, explained that the concentration camp was in a period of organization and that we had no experience yet in using prisoners for various jobs. He begged me to examine with particular care the people we sent, to accept only those who were really suitable and to send back the others without scruples. I asked what we were going to do with these. He assured me that they were being sent to an invalids' camp. Henceforth, I was extremely severe in my choice; I also fired people who were healthy but not strong enough to endure this very hard work without danger. After about six months, I was transferred. A year later, I learned by chance that all the people I had fired had probably been gassed. The only thing I could do was to refuse to work in a camp where concentration camp inmates were employed, which I s. " - " And then ? » to accept only those who were truly able and to dismiss the others without scruples. I asked what we were going to do with these. He assured me that they were being sent to an invalids' camp. Henceforth, I was extremely severe in my choice; I also fired people who were healthy but not strong enough to endure this very hard work without danger. After about six months, I was transferred. A year later, I learned by chance that all the people I had fired had probably been gassed. The only thing I could do was to refuse to work in a camp where concentration camp inmates were employed, which I s. " - " And then ? » to accept only those who were truly able and to dismiss the others without scruples. I asked what we were going to do with these. He assured me that they were being sent to an invalids' camp. Henceforth, I was extremely severe in my choice; I also fired people who were healthy but not strong enough to endure this very hard work without danger. After about six months, I was transferred. A year later, I learned by chance that all the people I had fired had probably been gassed. The only thing I could do was to refuse to work in a camp where concentration camp inmates were employed, which I s. " - " And then ? » I also fired people who were healthy but not strong enough to endure this very hard work without danger. After about six months, I was transferred. A year later, I learned by chance that all the people I had fired had probably been gassed. The only thing I could do was to refuse to work in a camp where concentration camp inmates were employed, which I s. " - " And then ? » I also fired people who were healthy but not strong enough to endure this very hard work without danger. After about six months, I was transferred. A year later, I learned by chance that all the people I had fired had probably been gassed. The only thing I could do was to refuse to work in a camp where concentration camp inmates were employed, which I s. " - " And then ? »

- " And then ? Either the Americans will believe me, and I'm free, or they won't believe me, and I'll be hanged! » She says it very objectively, so the alternative seemed compelling. She suddenly remarked: "Besides, I'm telling you all this only because you bear a certain resemblance to my husband." If he was still alive, I wouldn't have

never found in such a situation! " I shut up. What could I say, me? Finally, I asked him to take off his glasses. She gave me an earful look, then she complied with a brusque gesture. The transformation of his face was evident. The slightly fixed expression in the gray eyes was completely gone. She looked a little distraught, with a veil of shyness. Hastily, she put her glasses back on. I advised him to take them off in case of a trial. But she said, “No, because then I wouldn't see anything. » (She was sentenced to death at Dachau. I don't know if she was hanged.) “Do you want me to call you sick? she inquired politely. “The infirmary is right next to the women's barracks. I can do it without scruples; here, almost everyone is ripe for nursing. But I declined her offer, she had so many enemies in camp who wouldn't forgive her for the slightest misstep. That day, she saw me and cried out to me:

"Wislowski is up front!" I thanked her with a nod. The women passed, two by two. Almost towards the end of the theory, Ille walked, arm in arm, with Mme Brass, whom Ille and I loved very much. She was a tall, somewhat rough woman, a Sudeten German; her husband, mobilized in the Wehrmacht, had advised her during her last leave to flee towards the west at the approach of the Russians; she had to borrow Wehrmacht trucks with her five-month-old baby. Mrs. Brass had taken this advice and the last vehicle that let her in was an SS truck. It dropped her off in a village in Bavaria. When the Americans occupied the locality, peasants denounced it as having arrived with the SS. It was probably hoped to get rid of the refugees in this way. During its

arrest, she had wanted to take her baby, but the Americans told them that the child would be better cared for than at the camp. She had to leave the baby "under a pear tree" as she said. She did not know where he was now or where her husband was, any more than he knew where he was to look for his wife and child.Arrestreport:"S.S. Officer. » He had become very attached to Mrs. Brass. She wore her blue silk dress, she did not follow the somewhat frivolous fashion for breeches and scarves. The dress was still fairly well preserved: in the women's enclosure, she put on her light bathrobe that the Americans had left her. But she was obviously out of stockings and her shoes had burst. She had painted her lips, as always; she smiled, as always, when she saw me. She was terribly thin. She had always taken care of her figure; much to her chagrin, the fat had landed in the "wrong places," on her hips, when she followed her penchant for gluttony. Now her hips had completely adapted to the rest of her body.

At a distance of two meters, I accompanied him to the meeting place. Sullen, I asked: - How's it going ? I was careful that those were my first words of the day. He says: - Thanks very much. I have a card today. Come and eat at fence ! "I don't want that!" I said. You must eat your rations alone. "You know I can't stand these dishwater soups." Besides, I darned your socks, you can come and take them! "Could you make me a washcloth?" I asked.

— I still have a piece of very soft fabric, it could be fine, Mrs. Brass suggested.

- And then you have to x me a board to my bed! Ille said. - I'll see if I can get out of the workshop, I promised. "And how do you feel?" - In manure would still be an understatement! - In manure, we are all there! said Mrs. Brass briskly. Flocken did a throat swab at Ille! "Diphtheria?" I asked, startled. - No, a little tired, that's all! He squeezed Mrs. Brass's arm and frowned at her. "Get into bed right away!" — No, said Ille, otherwise I won't have my card! - This afternoon ! I said. We had arrived. The men, about four thousand, had already lined up, divided into Blocks. The women moved to the right wing. I rejoined the Block of my barracks behind the ranks. The camp was not large, a square of about four hundred meters. The barracks were very close to each other, only the meeting place had enough space to allow some movement; a small place in front of the gate was reserved for the walk of the women, at fixed hours only; women were disadvantaged in everything. The camp had fourteen barracks, eleven large and three small. I lived in barrack number 5, one of the small ones, which contained only three rooms for forty-two men and, in addition, the two rooms reserved for the management of the camp, an office and a bedroom. The little hut where the infirmary was, and the two women's huts were specially fenced. They were located near the eastern enclosure separating the camp from the barracks where the American guards lived, from the rest

also very cramped. The tower sentry standing in this corner had a view of the entire women's quarters, except for one corner, separating the compound from the next barracks. It was where I sat when I wanted to talk to Ille “through the fence”. The ground was very clayey: if the weather was dry, it became hard, dusty and cracked; if it rained, it turned to sticky mud. The peasant prisoners were delighted with the quality of the land. They often stood along the compound and gazed intently at the lush fields surrounding the camp. They were enraged when Americans drove their cars through cultures, either to turn around or to take a shortcut. Our peasants could not understand that the Americans knew fields stretching as far as the eye could see, where it did not matter if one or the other corner yielded less, since there were so many of them,—in America. One corner of the assembly square almost touched the road. There were always people there looking towards the camp; they were for the most part the parents of the internees of Lower Bavaria who, after long research, had never learned where their husbands and fathers were detained; we weren't allowed to write and received no mail. Newcomers had said that the camp had the reputation among the population of a “starvation and brutality camp”. These facts had therefore spread. This filled us with a certain satisfaction. "It was the right address, here," said my assassin, "nobody will be able to say later that he had ignored what was happening in the American internment camps!" If the people on the road displeased the local guard, he shot them in front of their feet with his machine gun, and everyone fled. Sometimes MPs arrived in fast jeeps and picked up people, women for the

mostly. It was said at the camp that they put them for ten days in the prison of Deggendorf.

The call lasted a long time. The head of the camp, a robust man of a certain age, an Austrian artillery officer by the name of Heiss, passed in front of the ranks and had each barracks head announce the number of internees present; if the count was correct, the second in command, Schroeder, was to report to the commander. This one was never in a hurry. From time to time someone fell. It wasn't very well seen until the commander was there; this disturbed the ranks, the unfortunate man had to be taken to the infirmary, the roll call lasted even longer. When the commander was present it was different; those who fell were counted, that was all.

Cardinal Faulhaber had once tried to visit the camp. But the American commander forbids entry to this prince of the Church. The cardinal had to content himself with following the barbed-wire enclosure and blessing the kneeling local group leaders from outside. A little later, the bishop of Regensburg arrived, a round man like a dumpling. He didn't bless his flock outside, he blessed the American sentry guarding the entrance and simply walked past the dumbfounded guard. The entire camp then crowded around him. It was a very clear victory for the Catholic Church—even the SS admitted that Catholicism had "things going for it." The first clergyman to visit the camp was an evangelical pastor. He did it as awkwardly as possible. He immediately began by telling us about the immense guilt that crushed us. None, in fact, wanted to hear that. Most had no sense of this complicated notion of "

guilt ". We asked for someone else to be sent to us, but no pastor showed up. The first Catholic priest was very skilful; he brought a small harmonium on a handcart. A nun with rosy cheeks and a maternal smile, wearing a large white cornette, first entertained us with a little music, without disdaining a few cheerful tunes. The priest said mass, then he announced when it was possible to go to confession and declared that to begin with he would confine himself to those from whom he could convey greetings to the family. But he only came a few times; it was said that he had agreed to take out letters. One day, he was apprehended, searched and immediately arrested. In his place came the young parish priest of Michaelsburg. He didn't take out letters; on the other hand, he had an excellent memory. When he was seen walking through the camp murmuring, everyone knew that he never read his breviary but that he learned the letters by heart. He had been a paratrooper and a prisoner of war; in the end, he was the camp's only true friend. He rode his bicycle nearly every day, drenched in sweat; there t everything to help us, and that was not little. The Protestants were on their own. An interned pastor took care of worship; a host of lay preachers among high officials and generals came to his aid. The Red Cross remained invisible, it was as if this costly institution did not exist. It is true that we did not know at all how to classify ourselves. We were called "internees", but even internees were protected by the Geneva and Hague Conventions. We wondered if we were defendants, but those too had certain fairly well-denied rights which were not in question with us. The Americans made us understand that we were in no way prisoners of war, whereas a lot of generals and members of the general staff,

but also officers and men of the Wehrmacht, even the men of the Waen-SS, insisted with vehement obstinacy on the fact that they were prisoners of war. We had the camp leader ask if we were concentration camp inmates; the camp leader stormed out, but there were actually a lot of former concentration camp inmates among us. Absolutely incapable of learning which category we belonged to, we finally contented ourselves with the certainty that we were in any case the victims of a pretty and perfect hypocrisy.

This camp was truly a faithful image of Germany. We were, so to speak, representing the collective. The camp was organized by concentration camp kapos, who had been retained by the Americans when those camps were dissolved. These were almost exclusively common criminals who were suspected of having, as kapos, committed crimes against humanity. Most of them had spent eleven to twelve years in the concentration camp and had extensive experience of camp life. They immediately occupied all the lucrative positions: they were in the kitchen, in the material depots, in the laundry and in the workshops that worked for the Americans; the Americans also preferred to employ them for personal services. They supported each other and thus dominated the camp. Every day they met for small secret conferences. Their leader, an energetic man, had occupied an important post in the hierarchy of prisoners at Dachau and Mauthausen. He jealously saw to it that each newcomer submitted to the organization created by the men of the concentration camps, which was done without much resistance since each saw himself at first alone in front of a solidly established power. Those of which was done without much resistance since each saw himself at first alone in front of a solidly established power. Those of which was done without much resistance since each saw himself at first alone in front of a solidly established power. Those of

concentration camps knew everything, they exchanged their information daily, they had the ear of the Americans. They ruled the barracks with massive threats and small gifts that they had plenty of from their jobs with the Americans. Whoever had the courage to make an enemy among them immediately found himself the enemy of all the others. Their power was elusive, but it was power. The terror they exercised was felt only in decisive things, but it was terror.

The great malleable mass was made up of the local group leaders. Among them, there were hardly any intellectuals, with the exception of the teachers who, in the small villages at least, had been the only ones to have the time necessary for all the writing work. This category of men was completely stunned. They did not know how to occupy themselves, they were prey to the cares of home, family, work, they took care not to upset the Americans, they let themselves go without restraint and they had, so to speak, no of camaraderie. Between the lower hierarchy of the party and the Waen-SS reigned a deep hostility. The SS, almost all officers of the Waen-SS, were with a few exceptions young men. They came from all parts of Germany, no longer had contact with their families and those who came from the East did not even know if their families were still alive. They were the most disadvantaged internees. But they were the real backbone of the camp. Appeals to their camaraderie were always successful. They behaved quite well, they kept as much good humor as was possible under these circumstances. They didn't hate Americans, they despised them. One day, columns of American tanks were passing on the road to Natternberg;

all the Waen-SS commented with extreme competence on the dierent types and their handling. I thought I could read voluptuous thoughts on the features of my assassin. I say : “I know what you wish for now! And I was thinking of the intoxications of power in our age of civilization. He looked up in surprise and asked: " Me ? - Yes ! I wish a small period of mud in front of Moscow! And then, at night, a nice little frost and, the next day, you need dynamite to pull the tanks out of the ground. And then, for three days, a delicious little breeze, which passes - huiiii, huiiii! — over the icy plain. And wait: not us, the Americans! » I knew very well that in my heart of hearts I was making very summary judgments, but the categories were really very distinct. What was most striking about the people of the SD and the Gestapo functionaries was undoubtedly their character as servile subordinates. Among them were people who were known to have been charged by the Americans with very serious crimes. But if one looked at them more closely, if one entered into contact with them, it was dicult to imagine in them a brutality exceeding the lowest level of the intoxication of power. They were possessed by the idols of shit and the report: that was their bewilderment.

Among the officials of the Gestapo, however, were also old officials of the judicial police who had been transferred there. I met a former employee of my father whom I willingly believed had done everything to perform the abhorred service as correctly as possible. It is true that the idea of revolting against the order of a superior agitated him desperately; with a dying look, he said: "Monsieur, your father wouldn't have understood it either!" » It was obvious that Americans and Germans were far from having the same conception of the honest profession of civil servant. There was no doubt that for the Americans, the government advisers were the sinister elements who had suggested their diabolical proposals to Adolf Hitler. Senior officials represented the third largest group of internees. There was a crowd of presidents of all kinds, ministerial advisers, general prosecutors, first burgomasters, directors, etc. The senior officials formed the “evangelical community”; they were the spiritual elite of the camp, terribly clumsy in matters touching daily life, but perpetually discussing, down to the worst subtleties, the causes and eects of the German debacle.

It was undoubtedly due to the progress of humanity that with the prejudices of the military caste, its advantages also disappeared. If the

machines, the spirit of the material, the plan, the organization can win, if the country which has the richest raw materials automatically thinks itself the noblest, it is logical that with the spirit of the battlefield, the act also changes. If things could win, and not men, it was logical that the vanquished were also things, and the generals humans like the others. Simple soldiers, GIs who felt strong with the greatest number of tanks and the most abundant raw materials, royally amused themselves by playing generals. One could only hope that they would bring this laudable habit back to their blessed country and thus their generals would experience what they tolerated as long as they were defeated adversaries of the same rank. . What is entered as a liability must also be entered as an asset; what these lost in honor, those lost in respect; since with fear, respectful fear disappears, all temples crumble.

According to their own desire, the generals lived apart from the others, at least as far as sleeping was concerned, in a barrack of their own. But they lived in the same degradation, and it would have been difficult to spot them in the great gray mass gathered for roll call. They were indeed very disappointing. If one could easily imagine that this local group leader had been the terror of his village, this Gestapo official a bloodthirsty torturer, that this judge had been able to decide the life and death of a man and this ambassador of the life and death of entire peoples, it was at least as difficult to imagine that this ragged man, who stooped so eagerly to pick up a cigarette butt, had had the ability to inscribe, with letters of blood, his name in the annals of history.homo sapiens:do not give him anything to eat and no

soap for washing, and you will not find any that in a very short time does not look like our chivalrous adversary, General Dwight D. Eisenhower in the same situation. The little group of strangers was almost lost in the crowd. Among them, Ukraine struck hardest; it gathered around the Archimandrite of Cracow, the product of Rosenberg's brilliant policy. This archimandrite was an extremely dignified and at the same time extremely comical figure, an old man with a long silvery beard, dressed in a dress buttoned from top to bottom, with a rather flirtatious cut; gossips claimed that you could very well hide a second container there for the distribution of meals. On his chest he had worn, but not for long, a huge golden cross. Gossip claimed that the pious man had traded her for a thousand American cigarettes, only to receive a hundred in the end. The Archimandrite was the only one not to respect an unspoken law of the camp. During occasional visits from senior American steelworkers, no one was trying to gain personal advantage. The Archimandrite, however, approached the foreign god each time with deep bows, to offer him a petition, naturally without the slightest eect. But the worthy old man regularly celebrated very impressive masses where bass voices of a bewitching velvety were heard singing magnificent. The Ukrainians were very attached to him. They were professors and students from Lemberg and Krakow who disliked the Germans but hated the Poles deeply. They were very dignified and cultured and lived sadly apart. Some Dutch, Danes and Belgians, who had served in the Waen-SS, disappeared completely among the Volksdeutsche, likewise no one was trying to gain personal advantage. The Archimandrite, however, approached the foreign god each time with deep bows, to offer him a petition, naturally without the slightest eect. But the worthy old man regularly celebrated very impressive masses where bass voices of a bewitching velvety were heard singing magnificent. The Ukrainians were very attached to him. They were professors and students from Lemberg and Krakow who disliked the Germans but hated the Poles deeply. They were very dignified and cultured and lived sadly apart. Some Dutch, Danes and Belgians, who had served in the Waen-SS, disappeared completely among the Volksdeutsche, likewise no one was trying to gain personal advantage. The Archimandrite, however, approached the foreign god each time with deep bows, to offer him a petition, naturally without the slightest eect. But the worthy old man regularly celebrated very impressive masses where bass voices of a bewitching velvety were heard singing magnificent. The Ukrainians were very attached to him. They were professors and students from Lemberg and Krakow who disliked the Germans but hated the Poles deeply. They were very dignified and cultured and lived sadly apart. Some Dutch, Danes and Belgians, who had served in the Waen-SS, disappeared completely among the Volksdeutsche, likewise The Archimandrite, however, approached the foreign god each time with deep bows, to offer him a petition, naturally without the slightest eect. But the worthy old man regularly celebrated very impressive masses where bass voices of a bewitching velvety were heard singing magnificent. The Ukrainians were very attached to him. They were professors and students from Lemberg and Krakow who disliked the Germans but hated the Poles deeply. They were very dignified and cultured and lived sadly apart. Some Dutch, Danes and Belgians, who had served in the Waen-SS, disappeared completely among the Volksdeutsche, likewise The Archimandrite, however, approached the foreign god each time with deep bows, to offer him a petition, naturally without the slightest eect. But the worthy old man regularly celebrated very impressive masses where bass voices of a bewitching velvety were heard singing magnificent. The Ukrainians were very attached to him. They were professors and students from Lemberg and Krakow who disliked the Germans but hated the Poles deeply. They were very dignified and cultured

and lived sadly apart. Some Dutch, Danes and Belgians, who had served in the Waen-SS, disappeared completely among the Volksdeutsche, likewise to hand him a petition, naturally without t

only a few red Spaniards among the concentration camp kapos. There were also a few Frenchmen, formerly delegated by the Darlan government as officials of the compulsory labor service in Germany. They were polite, cultured, helpful men, who were very popular everywhere and who had only the desire to remain in this camp as long as possible, at least until the beautiful country had calmed down and France had returned to that reason in which she usually boasted.

Then, of course, there were those unhappy existences that belonged to no group, the quite a number of people that the Americans had arrested "just like that", under the rubricsecurity threatif they hadn't found another reason. As I was part of it, I tried to make them understand, and me too, that we would be taken care of last because we did not belong to any category. It was obviously much harder to prove that we had no intention of overthrowing the American military in the near future than to deny that we had committed war crimes. I broke into a cold sweat thinking that while I had threatened the security of the Allied Military Government so far, I had no chance of convincingly declaring that I had come to love the United States military. , now that I knew her.

And then, of course, there was also the National Socialist group. It was a very small group, about the percentage it represented in Germany. They kept their distance, convinced that even without them, history would prove them right. They watched things happen with a certain calm, without ever complaining, which surprised no one, because, as Ille said, they were Nazis, therefore less sensitive!

I used to tell stories while we waited for the commander. It was quite tiring because you had to speak loudly, especially when it was windy. I was about to tell one when Dr. Weber exclaimed: - Silence ! Commander ! But it wasn't the Commandant, who was approaching with Sergeant Wislowski, it was Second Lieutenant Jameson, the "little lieutenant." Wislowski went to the right wing, to the women, and started counting. With his pencil he touched every woman in the first row on the chest, which he did not do with the men. Bored, the second lieutenant waited for the end of this procedure. Jameson was a slender, still very young, handsome man; he was not particularly feared, although he too obviously had his tic. We had never understood that the American individualism so exalted consisted above all in the fact of each having his personal whim and giving it free rein. The individual freedom of the American oers manifested itself in the following way: each began by declaring null all the regulations introduced by his predecessor and by prescribing an equal number, but all different and new. With one, the American flag had to be hoisted every morning to be lowered in the evening, each time with all the military formalities required. Another suddenly had the idea of having a second l of ordinary, symbolic iron placed four meters inside the enclosure, which no one was to cross. As many found this place very convenient for drying their laundry, this officer inspected this area from time to time, from outside, and if the wind had torn off any piece of linen, he ordered the respective owners to go and fetch them. It was an exquisite joke, for the sentries at the guard towers fired immediately, and as the American flag had to be hoisted every morning to be lowered in the evening, each time with all the military formalities required. Another suddenly had the idea of having a second l of ordinary, symbolic iron placed four meters inside the enclosure, which no one was to cross. As many found this place very convenient for drying their laundry, this officer inspected this area from time to time, from outside, and if the wind had torn off any piece of linen, he ordered the respective owners to go and fetch them. It was an exquisite joke, for the sentries at the guard towers fired immediately, and as the American flag had to be hoisted every morning to be lowered in the evening, each time with all the military formalities required. Another suddenly had the idea of having a second l of ordinary, symbolic iron placed four meters inside the enclosure, which no one was to cross. As many found this place very convenient for drying their laundry, this officer inspected this area from time to time, from outside, and if the wind had torn off any piece of linen, he ordered the respective owners to go and fetch them. It was an exquisite joke, for the sentries at the guard towers fired immediately, and as a second iron l of ordinary, symbolic iron, which no one was to cross. As many found this place very convenient for drying their laundry, this officer inspected this area from time to time, from outside, and if the wind had torn off any piece of linen, he ordered the respective owners to go and fetch them. It was an exquisite joke, for the sentries at the guard towers fired immediately, and as a second iron l of ordinary, symbolic iron, which no one was to cross. As many found this place very convenient for drying their laundry, this officer inspected this area from time to time, from outside, and if the wind had torn off any piece of linen, he ordered the respective owners to go and fetch them. It was an exquisite joke, for the sentries at the guard towers fired immediately, and as

many old gentlemen were not agile enough, they stayed on the floor. A few knocks also strayed onto the barracks, and it was no fun living near the fence. Second Lieutenant Jameson's hobby was cleanliness. At almost every call, he expressed to the camp leader his contempt for unclean Germans. But it wasn't the cesspools full to overflowing, nor the mud after every rain, nor the kitchen trash ever removed by the Americans, but only and only the little ones. He stirred for each l he saw dragged on the ground; excited, he pointed to it with his finger and, in a harsh voice, he called the nearest barracks which were to throw themselves like a single man on the object of his displeasure. He had gotten everyone to get into the habit of continually looking for s, eyes lowered; and in fact, the number of ls was astonishing when you paid attention to it, and God knows where they could have come from. But Second Lieutenant Jameson had one good quality: he didn't beat; we knew that he never took part in a beating and we esteemed him for that. Now he listened to Wislowski's report, compared his figures with those of the camp leader, expressed his annoyance at seeing the Germans leaving "dirt" everywhere, and left. The women left first; as soon as their column had reached the corner of the barracks, the camp leader broke the Blocks which, dispersed, made their way back to their rooms. Usually I hurried in the hope of catching up with the women, but that day Wislowski was following them. So I stayed where I was while the others waited for breakfast. expressed his annoyance at seeing the Germans leaving "dirt" everywhere and left. The women left first; as soon as their column had reached the corner of the barracks, the camp leader broke the Blocks which, dispersed, made their way back to their rooms. Usually I hurried in the hope of catching up with the women, but that day Wislowski was following them. So I stayed where I was while the others waited for breakfast. expressed his annoyance at seeing the Germans leaving "dirt" everywhere and left. The women left first; as soon as their column had reached the corner of the barracks, the camp leader broke the Blocks which, dispersed, made their way back to their rooms. Usually I hurried in the hope of catching up with the women, but that day Wislowski was following them. So I stayed where I was while the others waited for breakfast.

I never entered the barracks at this hour. I practiced a sort of mental hygiene. The distribution of bread—one loaf for twelve men— took place in forms which certainly could not remain without lasting influence on the

character. We were no longer given the hard, dark German army bread, but American white bread that looked like it had been sunk once or twice by German U-boats; it was either very crumbled, or damp, or green with mould. It was impossible to share it fairly. I had asked Rotfuchs to take my piece and the small ladle of oatmeal soup and keep them for me, which was all the easier since we only had one bowl between us. Aside from me, a certain number of other internees applied themselves to the same kind of hygiene, and we were soon suspected of wanting to form a sort of 'club of lords'. Those who preferred to wait outside for the problematic act of distributing bread soon got to know each other; they were a proud and somewhat snobbish elite who, sure of their moral stability, easily tended to turn the simple victory over a little malaise into a great virtue which automatically led to others. We therefore agreed to shave every day, not to wear panties over our pants, not to pick up cigarette butts (for my part, I even quit smoking completely), and to use familiar terms only if we really felt friendship. Because the tone of the camp, which had been created very quickly, could not suit us. This kind of forced democracy of the same misery which inevitably had to lead to the lowest common level, did not please us. "Here, we are all equal!" », this motto of the vilest selfishness could not convince us. We were not the same at all, only the circumstances against which we had every reason to defend ourselves, wanted to make us equal.

It is true that thesplendid insulationof the "lords' club" was only possible because the characters, undoubtedly of sovereign intelligence but of an absolute lack of

manual, submitted to the tyranny of a benevolent acolyte who was willing to share the wealth of his practical gifts with the less gifted. I was very lucky to find my excellent Rotfuchs who always watched for a time my very tentative attempts to clean the mess tin or make my bed, only to then step aside with gentle firmness and accomplish what I did not. could ever have done to his satisfaction. I never understood what could incite my Rotfuchs to take care of me with such charity, but no doubt he felt the happiness of a smiling and helpful superiority, which I gladly bestowed upon him. I was happy for the gift of such an altruistic friendship and I sincerely loved this perfect comrade. Wolf Ackva's helpful companion, on the other hand, was not such a simple case. Ackva had cigarettes, good American cigarettes; he had the best "job" in the camp: he played the piano in the Americans' mess. It was part of his mental hygiene not to smoke those cigarettes in the barracks. He couldn't pull a buoy without greedy smokers inhaling the smoke noisily and waiting for the butt with humble eyes. Ackva therefore thought at first that the desire to serve him, which this little man with short legs and broad shoulders, with a low and bumpy forehead, and a red and fat neck, so crudely showed, was due to very transparent reasons. But he was soon to find that this man did not smoke and had no other vices. He served Ackva in silence, with the eyes of a faithful dog, he made his bed and his housekeeping and he waited with motionless patience when Ackva painted his portrait. He was the executioner of Prague. Ackva was fascinated by this man. He posed it from all angles, again and again, as if to find by a precise line the mystery of this forehead, this

deaf resignation, and to fix in the dark and dull eyes all the atrocious helplessness, going as far as the abandonment, of the brutality. An actor by profession, Ackva was very gifted in the most diverse fields of art. He was the only one who had succeeded in making contact with the Americans. They had asked him what his name meant, and he joked that it stood for "Kodak"; this name stuck with him. He wore a very neat blond goatee that the first commander categorically ordered him to shave. Kodak refused. One day he had to make for an American officer a drawing of the camp seen from one of the guard towers. He then noticed that an inscription inside these towers recommended to the GIs not to have pity on the internees and to always remember that they kept only a band of assassins. Kodak protested to the commander: he was not an assassin. The Americans found it very funny: precisely he was one. Only after violent arguments did he learn why. He wore a beard. So he wanted to make himself unrecognizable. So he was an assassin. And it was for this reason that bearded men, mostly distinguished officials of a certain age, were thrashed with particular eagerness. They were naturally camouflaged assassins. And Kodak was not called Kodak or Ackva! “I told them that I was Bormann and that with me they had taken a big game! Kodak said furiously. " And then ? I asked. “And since that time, I don't know if they don't really take me for Bormann! he said bitterly. mostly distinguished officials of a certain age, were thrashed with particular alacrity. They were naturally camouflaged assassins. And Kodak was not called Kodak or Ackva! “I told them that I was Bormann and that with me they had taken a big game! Kodak said furiously. " And then ? I asked. “And since that time, I don't know if they don't really take me for Bormann! he said bitterly. mostly distinguished officials of a certain age, were thrashed with particular alacrity. They were naturally camouflaged assassins. And Kodak was not called Kodak or Ackva! “I told them that I was Bormann and that with me they had taken a big game! Kodak said furiously. " And then ? I asked. “And since that time, I don't know if they don't really take me for Bormann! he said bitterly. I don't know if they don't really take me for Bormann! he said bitterly. I don't know if they don't really take me for Bormann! he said bitterly.

“At first,” says Kodak, “I admired them. They were so incredibly secret! But I thought they were going too far; they have a particular way of surrounding themselves with mystery. They refuse to reveal why we don't get toilet paper, when

we will finally be allowed to write, what they are going to do with us… They laugh and answer with stupid platitudes. Finally, I found the n word of the story: they don't know anything about it themselves! Worse still: they are not interested. They are so secret because they hide from almost everything. I have a much richer vocabulary than them. About sixty words wear them out, but "fuck" is worth another sixty. »

"And what do you say to that?" Recently, Krebs came to the mess, the head of the CIC here, a lawyer in New York. None of the officers of "our" company spoke to him. No sooner had he left than Robertson said: “I can't smile at Hitler, but he did a good thing: he killed the Jews. » — « Stop! I exclaimed. “It is precisely because the Germans killed the Jews that we are here! " - " Fake ! Robertson said. “You are here because you didn't kill all the Jews! » “How to understand them? exclaimed Kodak, "how to understand the Waldeck case!" Waldeck had been the first interpreter in the camp, he spoke English very well and the Americans gave him complete freedom. He bought for them the china, the antiques, the jewelry that they wanted to send home, and he bought at unbeatable prices. And, whole nights, he got drunk with Americans. In camp he was feared and despised. His real name was Valdec and he was Czech. Sandro Mach, the Minister of the Interior of the Slovak government of Tiso, was among us. He had a relative in Germany, a jewelerwatchmaker with whom he had deposited some jewels. As he smiled a lot at the lack of tobacco, he gave a piece of paper to Valdec ordering the watchmaker to give the wearer jewels worth about a thousand cigarettes. Valdec went to this relative in the company of Second Lieutenant Hollingworth, my friend with

frothing at the mouth, put the jewels back on and passed them to Hollingworth, who, of course, did not give Mach a single cigarette. Everyone at camp knew that Americans liked that kind of stage fright. Mach manages in a mysterious way to expose the scam. Hollingworth was arrested on the ship that was to take him back to America.Stars and Stripes, the US Army newspaper, published the story; therefore the Americans must have been aware of what had happened. But night after night, Valdec and the new commander, Robertson, got drunk together. Yet the day Hollingworth was sentenced to four years in prison, Robertson got up without saying a word, staggering a little, knocked Valdec out and then arranged him in person and with undeniable skill. Then he put him under arrest; after hanging around the camp for a few more weeks, avoided by everyone, Valdec was handed over to the Czechs (Stop-Report:"Gestapo agent”). To the next number ofStars and Stripesalready, we could read that he had been shot "during an attempt to escape." Mach obviously didn't have his cigarettes. Kodak exclaimed: "And Robertson had on his arm one of the watches that Valdec had given him from his share of the booty— on the arm of which he knocked Valdec unconscious!" » From all the guard towers, we heard the music of TSF The towers were luxuriously installed, with telephone, TSF, stoves and pin-up girls. All day the radios were blaring.Don't fence me in!said Kodak, pointing to one of the towers from which strident syncopations emerged which immediately melted into soft, languorous chords. " Pardon ? I asked. — “Don't fence me in!This is their latest tune. It means: “Don't lock me up! " - " Attractive ! " I said. "Are they thinking of anything?" " - " Not at all ! » says

Kodak. “It would be a fundamental mistake to assume that they ever think anything. » Kodak was one of the few internees who had been called in for questioning. Everyone had been told they needed to be "heard" in camp, and everyone showed an amazing willingness to put up with all the inconveniences of camp life in the eager hope of being heard. Each was convinced that the moment he could explain his "case", everything must immediately change. For some time now, a CIC had been installed in the camp, but no constructive mind was able to discern according to what principles, what system and in what order these interrogations took place. All those who had been called were, as soon as they left the infirmary, questioned assiduously. They all said the same thing, but it was impossible to form a logical idea. At the latest after the third question, blows rained down. Kodak claimed there was always "something true," but it was extremely difficult to grasp the focal point in the maze of American designs. Old Mr. Alinn said that “Ivan the Terrible,” a Yugoslav CIC officer, read his arrest warrant and asked, “So you know Poland started the war? What do you know about concentration camps? Mr. Alinn had politely replied that he still remembered very well the creation of the first concentration camps; that had happened in the time of his youth, the English had instituted them in the war against the Boers. When Mr. Alinn came out of the infirmary, he was arrested for two weeks and he lost his “job”; the old gentleman had done such a fine job:

"Ivan the Terrible" claimed to have been in a German concentration camp where nine bullets were pierced in his body. We admired his vigorous constitution, which nevertheless allowed him to “finish” his delinquents on his own. His real name remained a mystery. Precisely, Kodak was driven home. When the doctor found out, she only said, "Prepare the stretcher for Kodak!" But Kodak came back quite unscathed. He recounted: “When I entered, he immediately approached me like a tiger. He looked into mine and asked, “Why are you afraid? I say, "Why should I be afraid?" — "Aren't you afraid of my eyes?" — "No, no, since they are brown!" I love brown eyes, my wife has exactly the same beautiful brown eyes as you! " - " And then ? " - " Nothing. I could leave. He was probably amazed that I had spoken to him in turn. » "But that's completely insane!" I exclaimed. "No, no," said Kodak, always obstinate when it came to Americans. “It's not crazy. They take care! » It was Kodak that brought usStars and Stripes. For a long time, it was the only newspaper that informed GIs and internees about events happening in the world. It was a very funny newspaper; at first we thought it was some sort of humorous journal published by the Allied Military Government, but Kodak swore it was dead serious. He often read it to us in our barracks, translating as he went along. He obviously relished it. "Listen, kids," he said. "Here we are told that the Germans of Spain are now interned in the fortress of Hohenasperg, the very prison where the Germans had confined the twofamous german composers Franz Liszt and Ludwig van Beethoven. »

We speculated in silence. It was very simple: they had confused Friedrich List and Franz Liszt, the poet and musician Schubart and Franz Schubert, and from Schubert to Beethoven, there was only one step. Finally, Rotfuchs thoughtfully said, "I remember, it was after the battle of 'Reverse!' Smiling, Kodak adds: “Of course, when we took the three thousand Vosges prisoners! » Silence, a long silence for Lower Bavaria. Lower Bavaria will get along. A gray voice asked: “Ts ts, why were the Nazis able to lock up Beethoven? We looked up and sent a silent prayer to heaven, for Doctor Apfelboekh. Doctor Apfelboekh was a veterinarian, SA brigade leader and ministerial adviser to the Bavarian Ministry of the Interior. All in all, Doctor Apfelboekh was a good man. Hardly had I reached camp when Ludin came to greet me. We didn't know each other personally, but for eighteen years we had always heard a lot about each other. Ludin was one of the Reichswehr officers involved in the Ulm trial, the only defendant who joined the party and who became a high SA leader. We had many memories of friends and prisons in common. I liked him. Now he relished as usual when everyone was fighting over bread in the barracks to wash themselves undisturbed; he was the envied owner of a great sponge. He let the water run over his naked body and nodded to me. It was hissplendid insulationand we respected it. We told each other a nice stereotyped phrase from the camp: "Excuse me, perhaps one day you will have four or five hours for me, I would like to tell you very briefly about my case!" Everyone had their case. When the questionnaires were distributed for the first time, - it was the first sign that perhaps we were going

do something sensible with us—the camp is buzzing with excitement. Then, faced with the one hundred and thirty-one questions, everyone sank into a dull reection. No one yet knew what all this was going to be for, but the questions undoubtedly seemed nasty, especially those that seemed to stray from the regions of objective curiosity. Questions like number 21: "Have you ever officially or unofficially separated from a Church?" or number 108: "Which political party did you give your vote to in the November 1932 elections?" alternately caused shivers of horror or waves of indignation. What remained was a very great uncertainty that did not allow anyone to be rocked in the good faith of innocence, not even to old and loyal social democrats. Very quickly, the agitation resumed, reminiscent of the buzzing of disturbed insects. “How should I answer this question? I will very briefly tell you my case! Rotfuchs said, for example: "I have the Iron Cross first class, do I have to say that I still consider myself a decent man?" — "That is absolutely essential!" " I said. "You all have to attach coins, otherwise the Americans will have the whole wrong idea!" — "For heaven's sake, no!" shouted Kodak. “Be as brief as possible! I wouldn't be surprised if after some time, the Americans had a second questionnaire filled out just to compare, and woe if the answers are not all the same! I strongly advise you to make a double! » (He must have been right.) « You say so! remarked some. "You weren't in the party!" You simply write everywhere “without object”! But I wanted to prove to them that not everything was so simple, even in my case. I pledged to respond in a way

exhaustive to any question that concerned me even slightly. It became a kind of fun. Night after night, I would go from barrack to barrack and provide an "attachment" when someone threw a question at me. Sometimes I spoke for three hours. The most requested answers were those to questions 24, 29, 41 and 125. My mischievous little assassin wanted to be informed about question 19. Question 116 and the "Remarks" did not interest anyone. It was not very tiring for the mind; I was simply telling what came to mind about the question asked. But it was a big physical effort. I had had a sore throat for several days, and when I tried to speak a little louder, all of a sudden, nothing but hot air came out. After answering a more important question,

It was the first time I spoke in public. I didn't know it was so easy to get crowds excited. It is true that I was always looking for a face for which I spoke. Most of the time it happened to be that of Judge Lehmann, formerly Judge General of the Wehrmacht. The illusion of really being before the president of a court was extremely stimulating. I met him that morning and took the opportunity. — You have now heard almost all my answers to the questions of the questionnaire, General, I said. If you were president of an American court, how much would you charge me? - Seven years ! he said without hesitation.

(But alas, it was he who was sentenced to seven years, a little later, at Nuremberg.) As soon as the second-in-command had signaled the start of work, I went to my barracks. The camp was bustling. rotfuchs

had already dipped my bread in the soup. It was only a few spoonfuls. My throat hurts badly, but I quickly took out my bowl and Rotfuchs immediately went to clean it. Those who didn't have a “job” went back to bed. The weather no longer encouraged sunbathing. Rotfuchs and I went to the carpentry workshop. He was in an open shed where some wood was stored, where there were a few workbenches and the tool box. It was not easy to get a job in the carpentry. “Jobs” were rare, and those that were pleasant, all taken by the kapos; they worked in the Americans' kitchens, in their barracks, and in the workshops where they made and repaired objects that the Americans "bought" with a few cigarettes. Not more than about eight hundred men out of the four thousand had not been managed to work, and each time there was a change of commander, the camp leader had to put up a fierce fight for meal cards, for only the one who worked received soup. at noon. Aside from worries about family and personal future, it was actually inactivity that weighed the most on the camp. In the carpentry, it was fashionable not to be too eager; it was necessary to make the work last so that the greatest possible number obtained cards. There was only a little wood; they made beds, tables, stools and benches, and picture frames and cases for the Americans. Each GI had pictures of their home that they wanted to see framed. Each ocier asked for boxes to be able to send things to America, rather voluminous boxes. Every morning, the "boss" had the work given to him by the Americans, with the required measurements, and then he distributed it.

Ludin, Rotfuchs and I worked together in the carpentry. The boss was Mr. Badigruber; he directed the workshop with an iron hand and a coarseness surpassing even Prussian customs. I had assured him that I had worked as a carpenter for several years: he did not believe me, and yet it was true; I had learned the trade during my detention. Rotfuchs asserted that he could do everything: Badigruber did not believe him; and indeed, Rotfuchs knew how to do many things, but he understood nothing of carpentry. Ludin said frankly that he understood nothing of it, and M. Badigruber believed him; but of the three of us Ludin was by far the most skilful, and we were finally accepted because, declared the stern Mr. Badigruber, at least one of us had told the truth. A Croatian general sat on the toolbox. He was even ruder than Mr. Badigruber, but we couldn't understand him because he was swearing in Croatian. When the boss had called and handed out the jobs, the old general with the tanned skin and gray mustache handed out the tools under a wave of abuse, for he had no other way of remembering the faces. than by insulting them. He had spent nineteen years of his life in prison and he took us for cozy shits who did not want to understand that this camp was a real stay in sana, compared to Serbian, Italian, Bulgarian, Albanian, Romanian, Hungarian and Greek. We were saloon patriots who had to be hanged one of these days to finally teach us the seriousness of life. (He was hanged.) Then came Mr. Schönwetter who distributed the wood. He, for his part, found this camp a hellish prison. He was Obersturmbannführer of the SS and the conditions that prevailed in this camp plunged him into an abyss of despair. “No one knows better than me how a camp should be organized! he shouted. And indeed he knew it; he had been a camp commander

concentration in Belgium. "At home," he cried, "the kitchen was tiled!" And we shaved the hair of each newcomer, and we took him to the baths! Also tiled! You call that hygiene? At home, everyone had their own sheets! White as snow! He knows us: “I always had the meat we received ground immediately. Everything was put in the soup, nothing was lost, everyone had exactly his share. The soup had eyes like that! Like that ! » Ludin liked to listen to him. For example, he asked her politely if when she left, young girls dressed in white had paid her the honours. But Mr. Schönwetter did not understand the joke. “But just think! I had no women in my camp! Not like here! I would never have tolerated such crap! » Ludin made boxes. He had started with a chessboard, then he had made a box for the miniatures which he also sculpted himself, then he had started to pack wooden suitcases for those of his friends who, recklessly, expected to be released soon. . Fearing for his meager reserves of wood, Badigruber had strictly forbidden the manufacture of these extremely sought-after suitcases, but he let Ludin do it. This was the most popular man in the camp and he made his "boxes" in an exemplary fashion. Rotfuchs nailed down tables, stools and benches for the barracks. The three of us had begged Badigruber not to give us work for the Americans. I was helping Rotfuchs and it must have been my fault that our furniture was all rickety. I realized that Badigruber preferred that I watch him work. So I started telling him stories. And finally, he expressly authorized me to stay in the carpentry; I could go from place to place and tell stories. We

noticed that I made the work last; once again, spirit had triumphed over matter. Rotfuchs and I exchanged a look, then each snuck out a plank, the hammer and some nails, Rotfuchs snatched a small saw from his neighbor, and we slipped away. Mr. Badigruber assembled a complicated frame under the admiring gaze of the spectators, Mr. Schönwetter told a story to the patient Ludin; we rounded the corner; only the general jumped out of his crate and hurled the most arrogant Croatian insults behind the tools that were disappearing with us. Near the women's barracks, in front of the compound, stood the two camp policemen. Ille was sitting on an extremely rickety little bench that I had made for her; she was hemming a washcloth. We walked through the gate. - Workers ! we said, showing our tools. The two policemen remarked with a smile: — As if by chance, if Wislowski shows up, the wind will took away your permission! Wislowski, he was the danger. A few days before, I had spoken to Ille through the fence. Mrs. Brass had suddenly passed by, murmuring, "Wislowski!" Wislowski knocked out anyone he found at the fence. He shouted, “Go away! I hesitated, for Wislowski must have seen us already. " Go away ! begged Ille. "Do you want me to have to see how you are beaten up?" It does nothing to me! I withdrew behind the hut, my heart was beating and I thought I was suffocating, I felt so humiliated. Before Wislowski could utter a word, I heard Ille say in her softest voice:It's Sunday today, sir!»Wislowski muttered angrily, "Sunday or Monday, that's all the same!»Immediately after, Ille called me. Wislowski was gone. He was smiling, but I was sick

of rage, shame, and self-loathing. I said, "Now I can't even give you the chocolate that Wislowski always brings to his victims!" He smiled. He was always smiling. Mrs. Brass had told me that the Americans called her “Miss Smiling”. The American rounds came every night to the women's barracks, to "control." In men, they never controlled. Ille told me that in the beginning, the women were very scared, especially when the GIs were drunk, which often happened. But they contented themselves with the most bizarre amusements. One of them never failed to suddenly seize Ille's foot under the blanket, shake it friendly and say: "Good night, Miss Smiling!»,what Ille rightly considered a tender American tribute. He smiled at our approach and said:

'Can you imagine, just now, Lieutenant "Little L" was there. I remained seated, of course! All internees, even women, were required to get up when an American officer passed. He refused to follow this order. This was her form of resistance, and she did well, although I was still very afraid for her. - And then ? I asked. — Silent, he showed the threads that I had sown while sewing. She couldn't sew. Mrs. Brass was genuinely amused by his preposterous attempts to wield a needle. - And then ?

“Well, I looked at him like I didn't understand him. He had a way of raising an eyebrow and staring in astonishment that had often exasperated me. - And then ?

"And then the two nice policemen from the camp ran up and picked up the ls. And Jameson disappeared. He got up, she staggered and turned pale.

- What do you have ? I asked. "Nothing," Ille said, "only I don't feel very well." "You're going to bed right away!" "After the meal," said Ille. But I behaved well! Recognize, please, I behaved well! she added in a suddenly pitiful voice. She had to be rented, she needed it from time to time. - Yes yes ! You behaved better than me! And it was true. The women behaved in a magnificent way. In front of the women's fence, the men insulted each other with the most filthy words; they were dirty, unshaven, ragged, they let themselves go without restraint, they pissed against the corners of the barracks without caring about the women, they fought over the cigarette butts that the Americans threw on the ground. "Will you ever be able to esteem men again?" I had once asked the women. Mrs. Brass said, “Oh! we pay no attention to it! » We entered Ille's hut. The average age among women was lower than among men. The older women had belonged to the party hierarchy, there were women from Gauleiter, leaders of women's associations and some from the Passau SD. But the main contingent consisted of young girls, secretaries in senior Reich and party services, SS nurses and concentration camp guards.

The day before Ille's birthday, I had once again gone to the fence. He had come there with a young girl

of a gentle but somewhat vulgar beauty. Saddened, I said to Ille: "Tomorrow, I won't be able to bring you the peas and the pigeons for your birthday!" Pigeon with peas had been Ille's birthday meal since childhood; I had always respected his penchant for the most curious rites, and even during the war, when it was a little difficult, I had prepared his birthday meal for him. He comforted me with a smile. When, the next morning, I came to bring her my wishes, she was crying. 'Just imagine,' she said, 'the young girl heard what you said last night. She's a concentration camp guard. She iswarcriminal. Probably, she will be hanged! " - " How ? said I, "this tender and gentle youth?" — "You should see," continued Ille, "how crazy the Americans are about her." But she treats them like dogs. Every night she has to go to the commander's kitchen. Lieutenant Baybee used to call a few obliging women into the kitchen at night, where he offered them food and drink, cigarettes and other things that the cooks sleeping next door could describe with great humor. “Just imagine,” said Ille, “last night, coming back from the kitchen, she threw a can of peas and a can of pigeons on my bed, saying: 'For your birthday! He said, sobbing: "And guretoi, I ate them!" I was so hungry! Is it awful? »

I consoled Ille by saying that it wasn't terrible at all. The young girl was now in charge of Ille's interior service, with the words that have become classic: “You other Jews, you will see that we wish you well! » Another concentration camp guard had also gone to great lengths for Ille. She was a very blond, somewhat beefy Berliner, whom everyone called "Lotteken." She

shared her views on the world and on life with unwavering Berliner logic. “What do you want me to do if they put me out at Siemens, and then they put me in compulsory service, and then they put me in concentration camp guards! I have nothing to do with it, if in the morning, when I open the door, corpses fall on me! There was always an old Jewess who came near the fence because her daughter was inside. What do you want me to do but drive her away! And then the old woman starts crying, real tears, as if she were a woman like me! »

Lotteken did everything under the motto “What do you want me to do? ". She told me she knew a lot more about what happened in the concentration camps than an American court could ever learn. Ille said to Lotteken: “But imagine, Lotteken, if I had fallen into your hands? Lotteken said, "What do you want me to do?" Me, I wouldn't have done anything to you, at most a few donuts in your face from time to time. Lotteken was also very popular with Americans and she wisely shared everything she received. Ille led us to his bed and showed us where to fix the boards. She had a bed in the bottom row; she lay down immediately and I sat down next to her. The bed was very hard. He says with a small smile: "You know I can't sleep on straw!" She had removed the straw and preferred to lie on the boards covered with a single folded blanket. Mrs. Brass was sleeping next to her. The women were already used to my visits, they received friendly signs. But, opposite, in the bed on the top floor, a blond head appeared immediately, then a young girl stood up and undressed with disconcerting rapidity. It was Yvonne. There

first time Rotfuchs and I came, the same thing happened. He had said: “No vanity! She does this every time a man comes in, ie a German, she doesn't like Americans. Yvonne was Parisian, she had left some brothel and had followed the German troops. She said she liked the Germans. And where she loved, she showed it. Yvonne was known throughout the camp. Even the sourest ladies loved him. She was magnificent. In Ille's room also lived "the bitch", the extremely surly and hysterical wife of a former Nazi minister. The bitch made the lives of other women hellish, with her always quarrelsome voice, her screaming accusations, her gossip and her dismissive remarks. The first time she attacked Yvonne, the pretty little person rushed at her and scratched her face. Since then, Yvonne had only to get up in bed for the bitch to shut up and hide under the blanket. Yvonne was a godsend.

Her naked and pink chest erect, she begged:

- Me too a board! - Yes, you will! Rotfuchs promised, and Yvonne went back to bed with

a small sigh. Americans treated foreigners even worse than Germans. They were almost always beaten during interrogation. Catherine, a Dutchwoman, continued to exercise her nursing profession. She was tall, slim, pretty, very clean and very blond. I asked her one day if she too had been beaten. She lifted her white blouse under which she wore only the obligatory white panties. She pulled her panties up only a few centimeters; his skin was covered with blue and brown streaks. She says, “They stripped me naked and I had to kneel on a bench. Then Yvan le Terrible asked me how many Americans

I had had the fatal injection. I said, "But I was an assistant at the SS dentist!" So Ivan tipped the bench, I fell and they started beating me. Then I had to kneel again and Ivan asked if I hadn't always pushed the wheel a little deeper when the sick were American prisoners. I said, “But I was a technical assistant! And they went back to typing. »

Gisela was not beaten by the Americans. She was Norwegian, also an SS nurse, a tall, rough young woman, very blond, very pink and robust. Gisela was led into the room at the bench. Ivan the Terrible yelled at him, "Tell the truth or we'll beat your ass!" Dismissively, Gisela replied, "You'll fall over if you see my ass!" Gisela was driven back to the camp. The risk had seemed too great to them. Outside and inside, the women's barracks had exactly the same set-up as the men's, but they seemed much brighter, they were certainly cleaner, and, on top of that, they smelled good. The brave women of the women's organizations had ceaselessly occupied themselves with the embellishment of their "homes"; there were doilies, little pictures; the electric bulbs were lined with paper shades decorated with dried grasses and the shelves with festoons. The bowls were placed on paper napkins and trivets on which silhouettes were pasted. I always stayed as long as possible in the women's barracks. Nonchalantly, Rotfuchs dropped his hammer every three minutes on his plank, but, with all his art, he never succeeded in preventing the plank from shaking at the end; he had to come back shortly to fix it properly. From time to time, the second nurse,

Eugenie, a slightly deformed old girl, with a lot of soul, stuck her nose in the barracks to report that Sergeant Wislowski was still in the American department; for the moment, no danger. But, nally, she said that a truck had stopped in front of the gate and asked to enter. It was an important event! Rotfuchs immediately went to the information. When he returned, he was plagued with questions: Was it the supply truck, and what was the load? It was a truck loaded with clothes. Rotfuchs was seized with concern and we left.

Rotfuchs immediately disappeared. He had to be present when we unloaded the clothes. The whole camp was talking. Were they winter clothes? Did that mean we would have to spend the winter in camp? It was time to go to the carpentry so as not to miss the roll call when the meal cards were distributed. Doctor Weber was not easy as head of the room. He was keen on National Socialist fairness which included, among other things, the obligation for cardholders to give up part of their ration, in order to protect their comrades from catastrophic weakening. According to a precisely established order, each “worker” had to share with a “non-worker” so that the nonworker carried out the division while the worker had the right to choose his share. Dr. Weber was very keen to ensure that as many of his men as possible got a meal card, and in proportion his room did indeed have many more workers than the others. As a result, part of the workers received all of their food in turn. All morning Dr. Weber was busy making his lists.

For Rotfuchs and me, it was a "bad day", that is to say, we had to share the soup. And, to make matters worse, it was the “Wehrmacht soup” from seized stocks; it was quite pleasant in taste, but far too thin and badly prepared; moreover, each worker received only half a litre. This time, I couldn't practice my hygiene, I had to take the part of Rotfuchs who had disappeared. And that day, Count Plettenberg was my partner, while Rotfuchs' partner was Dr. Schreiner. So I asked him to share. Although it was almost impossible to argue with this charming old gentleman, Count Plettenberg succeeded in doing so. I had immediately climbed into my bed, I was very tired. Dr. Schreiner had given me medical advice to lie down as much as possible, because that spared the most “calories”. I didn't like that word. The Americans had divided the world into calories and it hadn't become any more beautiful.

Finally, Dr. Schreiner handed me my soup. I complained of sore throat; the doctor climbed up and looked at my throat with a preoccupied air. But he only said, "Coated," and, despite the pain, I ate everything down to the marked line for Rotfuchs. I was about to go back to bed when it arrived. He was panting under the weight of the clothes; he had been the first to unload and grabbed the best bits for his room. Dr. Weber instantly requisitioned everything and drew up a list to “equitably” distribute the trousers and tunics. The room was debating the possible meaning of all this: there were summer and winter clothes, all from the Wehrmacht. But there were no shoes there, which would have been particularly necessary. Eventually, I received thick padded camouflage pants and a light canvas summer tunic. The next moment, the

second in command communicated to us the commanding officer's order to put on these clothes without delay. What did that mean again? Rotfuchs was eating his soup. He scratched with the spoon and that infuriated me. I was about to protest when I caught the distress in his eyes. I understood, got up painfully to put on my clothes and climbed over the benches to go with Rotfuchs to the women's enclosure. But Dr. Weber held me back, pointing to my chest, and said: "This must go!" I looked at my tunic. On the chest was still the "escutcheon", the stylized eagle holding in its grays the swastika. The insignia had been detached from all the other tunics. Rotfuchs laughingly remarked that he called it “restorative justice”; I had to wear this thing one day, but like everything in my life, I was wearing it a little too late. Doctor Weber, correct to the last rung of the gallows, insisted: the order was formal. The order was in effect formal, no one was allowed to wear the old badges and especially not when they featured the swastika. But it seemed to me too painful to detach this crest so solidly embroidered and, moreover, I thought that nobody would notice it, except for lice of regulation like Doctor Weber. But everyone noticed.

- All my respect ! — Take it off, said Kodak, otherwise Wislowski will screw you up!

- Do not touch it! Ludin said. It's American booty. You have not no right to lightly damage objects belonging to Truman! One of the generals said, closing one eye:

- It still looks good! It was nothing! I dragged myself to the women's compound. Ille and Mme Brass were waiting for me near the barbed wire. When I arrived, I saw that Ille had tears in her eyes. It was the third time I had seen her cry at the camp. She says : "Just imagine, I just said to Berthe: 'It's curious, if the guy who goes there was not so miserable and degraded, one would think that Ernst will be like that in twenty years! And Berthe looked at me with horror and… and… (she was sobbing) it was only then that I saw that it was you! She couldn't calm down. I blamed the change on my odd clothes. Rotfuchs t notice my crest in Ille. — Don't take it off, she said, I'd rather you wear it last, rather than another. She passed me a bowl. I didn't want to take it; every day it was the same shameful comedy; I knew I would eventually accept it, and Ille knew it too. Like every day, she says to me: — The women have all contributed! I assure you it's not only from me. You know that all of us can't stand this ugly stuff! Please take it, otherwise I'll throw it away! I took it and ate. Rotfuchs stood beside me, his eyes burning, his head on fire, and said embarrassedly: "I know I'm a pig, but hunger...I wouldn't have never thought that hunger could turn a man so quickly into a pig! Yvonne stormed out, a bowl in her hand. "And I'm going to have my board?"

She was obviously ready to undress at once, and Rotfuchs struggled like Ulysses with the nymph Calypso—Penelope was waiting at home—and Rotfuchs threw himself on the bowl.

Suddenly, the doctor passed the corner and rushed to Ille. She ordered him to go to bed. Turned to me: "He's got diphtheria, there's no doubt about it!" And you, open your mouth a little to see! I opened my mouth. Mrs. Flocken looked at it and said:

“Come closer to the light. And exhale through your mouth! I pressed my head against the barbed wire, turning my face to the sun, and exhaled. She says :

- I thought so! Coating, and smell of rotten! Diphtheria, you too ! Come on ! In bed !

"Flocken," I begged, "that doesn't make sense, and besides, I can't

more see Ille! Mrs. Flocken was almost crying with rage.

— The infirmary is overcrowded and I am not getting any medications. You would have to go to the inrmerie, like Ille. I should isolate you immediately, and I don't have a contagious barracks! Lie on your bed and don't talk to anyone! But immediately! Mrs. Brass approached and shouted:

- Attention ! Wilowski! But Wislowski did not come to us. He stood at the gate screaming. The guard came out of the barracks, cars arrived. There was a lot of activity at the gate. Rotfuchs was the first to understand what was happening. - That was why the clothes! Inspection! Senior officers descended, the commander ran in front of the visitors shouting orders. Rotfuchs stuttered: - Fast ! Alert ! Mrs. Flocken took off. I ran to the two camp policemen to warn them. They rushed immediately. They

knew what they had to do, since the camp had been preparing for this moment! Rotfuchs and I walked slowly back to our barracks. Rotfuchs took off his jacket and shirt. He gazed at his chest sullenly. - Basically, I'm still pretty strong looking! he said to regret.

He had been a great sportsman and really always looked appetizing; Yvonne noticed it right away. - Pull over completely to the bottom! I advised him.

I, too, took off my tunic and my black shirt. With me, it was already different. I had lost at least forty pounds. The skin hung in gray folds. Of all the barracks, the internees had access. All were shirtless. I saw the blind coming, wearing the yellow armband with the black dots on the bare arm; I saw the one-legged men coming whose prosthetic appliances the Americans had removed and burned; I saw the footless man coming, they carried him as they always carried him when he had to relieve himself; I saw the spine-sick men coming from whom the Americans had taken off their corsets; suddenly it was clear how many invalids were forced to live in this camp. And I saw Mr. Alinn coming. Mr. Alinn looked extraordinary. The old gentleman had no more flesh at all, he was only skin and bones. I tell him to stand next to the photos of Mauthausen that the commander had had nailed to a barrack wall. I finally saw the Archimandrite coming; his beard flowed over his flowing robe. He held a memoir in his hand. And already, the Americans were passing through the gate. The commandant accompanied the illustrious visitor. Disappointment ! he was not a general, but "only" a colonel; a gentleman with the glazed face, typical of older Americans, with the rimless glasses and the

knife-thin mouth, lined with many dazzlingly white false teeth. Making countless bows, the Archimandrite approached and made the sign of the cross as a blessing. The colonel didn't even look at him. The major took the brief and handed it to his deputy who placidly passed it to another officer who got rid of it in his turn; it ended up getting into the hands of Wislowski, who formed a roll of it, slapping his thighs from time to time. Only the generals had not undressed. They were dressed in their gala uniforms; the darker spots on their tunics betrayed the faded splendor of the decorations. The cut uppers of the boots hung down like in the lansquenets of the Middle Ages. But the fine cohort of warriors did not even reach the colonel who passed very quickly in front of all the groups, without looking, either to the right or to the left. The doctor manages to approach him. She congratulated Wislowski who wanted to block her way, she whirled through the suite, jumped up to the colonel, stopped him and began to speak without wasting a second. She spoke in a strong, energetic voice. Her blonde hair was flying, her glasses were flashing, she was speaking English and the Colonel listened. Immediately, the camp leader rushed over. Immediately, the generals set off. Immediately the doctors approached and immediately the crowd of debased people formed a tight circle around the colonel. Alone, Mr. Alinn stood stiff as a board, next to the photos of Mauthausen. He didn't need to speak, his appearance was sufficiently eloquent. I couldn't understand what Ms. Flocken was saying, but Kodak understood.

"She tells him everything!" She's great ! And just now he added, smug, they're still playingDon't fence me in! The Colonel had put his hand to his ear and was listening, his head bowed; his icy gray eyes stared into the distance, as if absent, his smile seemed frozen; he looked extraordinarily like Truman. He said nothing. The major looked like a stubborn schoolboy; he wanted to say something, but the colonel signaled him to be quiet. He then ostentatiously put his hand back in his pocket and chewed his gum more vigorously than ever. Wislowski sneered and played with the Archimandrite's memoir. "What does she say now?" I asked very excited, because the Colonel seemed to betray interest. — She talks about diphtheria and what we don't get from medications ; she says… (Kodak was getting enthusiastic) she's really very clever! She asks that we give her more bandages, that it is impossible for her, from one "interrogation" to another, to treat people enough to put them back in a condition to be "questioned"! The Colonel was silent. When the doctor had finished, he set in motion like a locomotive and sped off. Respectfully, the internees retreated. The Colonel didn't care about anyone. He went into a barrack and came out immediately. He crossed the camp street; at the latrines, he suddenly turned around—and the whole camp with him—and went to the barracks which served as an infirmary, still followed by the camp. He came out immediately and went into one of the women's barracks, and came out immediately. She, too, was prepared for the possibility of an inspection. She had asked me if I thought it useful for her to approach the inspector during a possible visit to tell him, with all the weight of her rather graceful personality: "Sir, I am Jewish!»I wasn't judging

it was useful, on the contrary, and I despaired of ever being able to make him lose his faith in this idiotic magic formula. I advised him with sarcasm to call on the moral support of a rabbi, since on this point at least the Americans had shown themselves to be quite tolerant. Terrified, Ille refused this suggestion. But it was not this reasoning that made her give up on her intention; only, she understood that it was indecent, considering the general state of the camp, to ask for advantages for her particular case. She noticed it herself, and that gives me pleasure. The colonel spoke to no one. He got back into his car and only then did he say a few words to Robertson and drive off. The commandant followed him with his gaze, then he dismissed his guard, nodded to Wislowski and disappeared with him into his barracks. Shortly after, Wislowski passed through the gate and headed for the camp leader's room. He still held the Archimandrite's idiotic memoir in his hand. A few seconds later, the second-incommand came out and went from barrack to barrack, saying, “Extraordinary call! » I had intended to return once more to Ille, but now I set out for the meeting place. The doctor rushed past, coming from the gate. Suddenly she turned around and said curtly: - You, go to bed, and immediately! Her face was on fire. I say : "But I want to know what's going on!" "Nothing is happening at all!" she cried, furious; it happens that I am relieved of my post, that is all! And she set off with a resolute step. I went back to my room, scrambled up and lay down. I felt very bad.

I did not stay alone for long. Dr. Zechner entered with a bang. Doctor Zechner had been an SS doctor at Mauthausen; he was an Austrian and an ambitious servile. I couldn't smile at him. He carried a small kit and looked around. Seeing me, he asked me: "Who allowed you to stay in bed?" “Doctor Flocken! "Doctor Flocken has absolutely nothing to allow, she is relieved of his duties. Now I'm the camp doctor! Come on ! On call ! Forcing myself to calm down, I say:

"Would you like to speak in another tone, doctor!"

- Oh! he said with a recoil movement, you are probably one of the little darlings of the Flocken? And you pretend to be sick? We will see that right away. Open your mouth, I'll take a throat swab! He took a piece of iron l with a cotton ball from his case, stuck it in my throat and scratched very hard. I understood that he wanted to torment me, but I said nothing; it hurt terribly. He placed the l of iron in a test tube and said: - Come on! Come down now! "Doctor," I said, "I will only do it if you have the courage to come back with your friend Wislowski!

He does not say anything. He closed his bag and left. My throat was burning. I choked and spat. The doctor came in and asked if Zechner had been there. I nodded; she approached the bed and I opened my mouth. She stared at it without saying a word. She took off her glasses, looking straight ahead.

"Finally, I have a barracks for the contagious." Tonight you take your business and you will come. He is already nearby. Don't you

worry about nothing at all. If Zechner grumbles in the slightest, you put a fist in his face. No, she added with a sudden smile, tell Rotfuchs! He will take care of it! "Rotfuchs," I said painfully, "is very pleased with your good opinion. The doctor put her glasses back on and said:

"Now I must go down to roll call." Robertson gets paid a beating! - What ? I croaked, scratched. — Yes, she said, he is replaced. Tomorrow there will be another troop here. So he's taking revenge for everything I said to the colonel!

She left. Under the door she stopped and said very calmly:

"Let us try to understand the Americans!" Let us try to understand the Americans! Let us try to understand the Germans! Let's try to understand the world! It happened in alphabetical order. The first to return were MM. Alinn and Anker. They were panting. They told me that the Americans had lined up in two rows, armed with truncheons. Every man had to run between the rows —Maksnell! Maksnell!—and the faster he ran, the fewer blows he took. Bad outlook for older gentlemen. - And women ? I asked. - They are waiting ; Apparently they have to wait until n. Gradually the others arrived; the old people were in a sorry state. Wislowski stood in the middle, between the two rows, and accompanied each man a few paces, typing zealously. At the end was Jameson, he wasn't typing. Suddenly they came back in droves. The call had been stopped. Stopped at the letter “L”. Ludin had been called. Ludin did not run. He went there

at camp pace. They were beating him, he was not running. Arriving at Wislowski's, he lost one of his hooves. He turned back and fished it out with his bare foot. Wislowski chased after him, kicking like a madman. He dropped his truncheon. Ludin bent down, picked it up and handed it to Wislowski. The latter dropped it again and continued to beat him with the Archimandrite's memoir. Ludin continued on his way at a camp pace. Jameson took the brief from the sergeant who was beside himself. The camp burst into an immense laugh, as if delivered, the entire camp from L to Z. Robertson broke ranks, turned and left.

Ludin, brave old Ludin! Let's try to understand the world! Ludin understood this. There were fierce discussions in the room. My assassin came on purpose to amuse me with the story of his martyrdom during roll call. He hadn't had any luck, his name, which incidentally was false, began with a K. He told me to write down the story. Ever since he knew who I was, he treated me with great condescension, as if the unfortunate circumstance that he hadn't been able to shoot me obliged me to perform special services as a columnist. I liked him well enough, his elegant cynicism amused me. "The old elk no longer inhabits these Germans!" he said. There's no

enough deaths! We should have presented the colonel with a nice little pile of corpses! It makes eet. Since these people can't see blood!... Rotfuchs wrapped all my stuff, including the straw, in a blanket and carried it to me in the infirmary. I was really very dejected and Rotfuchs consoled me: - Imagine that you are freed now! my old man, you would cross the portal on the gums!

Mrs. Flocken assigned me a bed while Rotfuchs watched desperately for Dr. Zechner to appear. Faithful to the principles of the "lords' club", I dragged myself from one bed to another to present myself to the sick. Most knew me from my “questionnaire”, but I knew almost no one. Only old senator Veiel, from the Reichsnanzhof, rose from his bed to greet me. The doctor says: “Gentlemen, I can do nothing for you. No care. However, tomorrow, you will all be vaccinated against diphtheria!

I say that in this case, his firmness had nevertheless paid off. But the doctor said irritably: — Yes, the serum is simply consumed at the hospital in Deggendorf! I pity the children if an epidemic breaks out. "You mustn't be unfair, doctor!" Veiel said. - And then what ! she roared. It's typically American! They fight the symptoms, and too late moreover, instead of attacking the root of the evil! She left, angry. At the door, she turned. - Go to bed immediately! From your bed you can see that of Ille; she's just opposite, at the window of the women's infirmary. He gave me a nod of his head smiling. She was in the room she had previously occupied. The women who were not sick had to change barracks. At dinner she sent me half her bread via Catherine, claiming categorically that her sore throat prevented her from eating that hard, dry stuff. Of course, the patients had no diet. I too had a sore throat, but I ate anyway. The others discussed long and painfully the notion of "guilt".

". As a result, everyone refused personal guilt. Alone, Doctor Veiel suddenly said in a calm voice: - Whether ! I am guilty ! I know perfectly well why I am here, and I accept it.

- YOU ? I asked, surprised. Precisely you? The old gentleman, one of the few humanists in the camp, who was esteemed for his great culture and his honesty, persisted: - Yes ! I walked into the party when I wasn't there at all strength !

On September 15, 1946, I was walking towards the Huberhof through the Adelholzen valley, passing by the viaduct. At the place where Taddée had died, I left the road for the steep path at the edge of the wood. It was hot ; I took off my jacket, which had become much too large. My torn shoes leaked dust and I was not wearing socks. Formerly, I had no trouble climbing the hill; that day, I was breathing hard with every step. I didn't meet anyone. The leaves of the oak were beginning to turn yellow, the splendor of the Bavarian autumn was unfolding. I had always taken the last end of the path in one go, just before Reiten, but that day I attacked it hesitantly. This time, I was not expected. A few more steps and Reiten rose before me in the valley. I saw the Huberhof with its red roof and the little vegetable garden where Ille had planted her herbs. In the orchard, the pears had already been picked, much too early; next to the vegetable garden, a piece of land was planted with corn. This was new. In the field, a man was working, his back bent. I went down to the house; the man sat up for a moment, I recognized my brother. The plants were almost as tall as he was. I approached and said: The plants were almost as tall as he was. I approached and said: The plants were almost as tall as he was. I approached and said:

"You picked the pears too early!"

My brother said, breaking an ear of corn and without looking up:

"Yes, because of the thieves!"

Then he sat up and looked at me, dazed. Suddenly he exclaimed:

"He!" He! and rushed home. The next moment Ille ran out; she had put on a little weight, but her features had remained hard, too bad, and she was wearing a dress that I didn't recognize. She jumped on my neck; a little embarrassed, I looked over her shoulder at Pablo, who had appeared in the doorway. So Pablo was also there, and Hilde and my nephew Michel, and Nanni, and the hens, and in the barn, the cows were mooing. Everyone was there except me. I was still very far away, I enjoyed the sentimentality of the return, the spiritual freedom, the voluptuousness of abandonment, the dark pride towards those I loved. I wallowed in the wrong they did me, those who had all returned. "Why have you already picked the pears?" I asked. "I had to," replied Ille; because of thieves! You can not imagine all that is happening now in Siegsdorf. In our peaceful village, we are no longer sure of our lives! Imagine, the Poles shot our neighbor on his own farm. They attacked him at night. And after locking the women in the cellar, they killed him, they looted the house. They came with trucks! - Polish ? I asked. - Polish ! confirmed Ille. The Americans let them! "But," I said, "not our Poles!" They don't hurt anyone! - You speak ! Ille said. They do anything when we let them TO DO !

"They seem like ordinary men," said Hilde. "And what happened here?" I asked. "Nothing at all," said Hilde, and Ille added:

“We have really wronged Hilde! Do you remember the last day, when they came to fetch me, you said to me again: "I hope you don't imagine that you will ever be able to return to the Huberhof!" With your reassuring sentences, you have always been a great comfort to me! - Recount ! I say to Hilde, tell! "I must tell you," Hilde began, "it really wasn't funny when Ille said to me like that, coldly: “Make your own way! I immediately alerted the captain and Diewald. They went to great lengths, first with the Americans—but back home, no one ever knows what the others are doing—and then with the new prefect of Traunstein. The latter said that you would come back one day, that the Americans did not arrest anyone without good reason! "He probably came back from a concentration camp," I said. - Not even ! He was probably a member of one of these groups stupid “resistance”… You know, you can't imagine how many people suddenly want to have done resistance! Even in Siegsdorf there were some who claimed to have been formidable resistance fighters, and no one had ever noticed a thing. People like the captain, who really risked something, are totally dismissed, sacked, but those who left when they were needed, now have the upper hand! Hilde was exasperated. She added:

"Why didn't you tell us you weren't married?

'Apart from Pablo,' I said, 'no one knew! Understand… — Yes, said Hilde, of course. But when we informed in Kitzbühel, the Americans claimed to know nothing about a couple of that name. And when Pablo came and briefed us...

- Minute ! I said. Paul? "Yes," said Pablo. I was taken prisoner at Schwerdte and transferred

in a camp in the Eifel. For weeks we rolled around on the bare earth… "Did they beat you too?" I asked. - Obviously ! It's a strict custom! But at least was released fairly quickly when I was able to prove that I was never in the party. So I took one of the first coal trains that passed to come here. "Suddenly he was in front of the house!" said Hilde. This did given a shock! I had always hoped Ille would be there before him. How to tell him? He was so cheerful, he even still had his backpack on, he was tanned and I wanted to quickly prepare a bath for him because I thought he would have done the same. And then he came into the house. After only a while, he asked, "And Ille?" So I had to tell him!… "I thought at first that Ille had gone out to run errands!" said Pablo, and Ille added:

— Just imagine, Pablo didn't say anything when Hilde told him. But Hilde told me that at night he got up all the time and walked around the house as if looking for me. "Of course," said Pablo, "I tried everything to find out where you were. I really believed that the only diculty was to know under which name Ille was in the files. This went on for quite a while, until I understood that the fault was not at all with the dierent names, but with the fact that there was no file! - Yes ! cried Hilde. Americans called it everything merelyThe man who searched his bride! "It's true," said Pablo. I've been to Heidelberg and Frankfurt to the highest authorities, but nobody knew anything. He

is also curious to note that at the end, I was the comic figure and not McNearny who made people stop without even knowing what would happen to them afterwards. "Typically American!" said my brother indignantly. I was surprised. When we had last seen each other, he had spoken very warmly of the Americans. - What's wrong ? I asked. "The Russians took me when I was in the military hospital in Mecklenburg. First, we were dragged from place to place for no reason. Then our nurse gave me a tip. I had leg ulcers. He told me to apply a piece of copper to it. Then it became terrible! Look at ! He rolled up his pants; her legs were covered with scary blue and brown spots. He added with a laugh: "That looked terrific!" The Russians taxed us according to our working capacity. Seeing my legs, they released me right away. "I knew very well," I said, "that one day you would learn 'chic' and

the soldier's "fold"! "You moron!" said my brother. Why don't you have me gave me the tip when they mobilized me to the Traunstein regiment? Leave me alone with your game of soldiers! When I was in Courland, in the snow, and the Ivan was gliding towards us... - Stopped ! I said. For war stories, we won't be ripe only in five years! My brother was silent, vexed, living example of the spiritual situation in Germany. Everyone had been through so much that no one wanted to understand that no one wanted to listen.

"But you will recognize," said Ille, "that I held myself in a magnificent! "I agree," I said. Pablo, you can be proud of your progress! "We are married," said Ille. We got married soon my return ! - Oh! I say, my congratulations. "Yes, thank you," said Ille. You told me yourself — allow me to remind you — that if I got out and Pablo was there, we had to get married right away so you wouldn't have to worry about me anymore! 'Yes,' I said. "You will also recognize," continued Ille, "that I was right, time, to immediately reveal our secret to these gentlemen Murphy and Sullivan! - It was the most egregious stupidity I have ever seen! — For me, said Ille, it was very good! This experience did not not hurt. First, I finally knew a few Nazis personally; secondly, I always said to myself that it was the ransom that I had to pay after the fact for the twelve years when everything went so well for me. And thirdly, I would have blamed myself for the rest of my life if I hadn't tried everything... - How are you ! I said.

"You know," Ille went on, "now I see why things have gone wrong. Major Brunswick in Kitzbühel, — do you remember? - I had the very clear feeling that he realized his gae. So I made a mistake! He really intended to free me! That's why he asked me if I had any friends in Kitzbühel who could welcome me. But I was insolent, too insolent! I thought, "They dragged me here, take me home!" And when I gave it to him to understand, he

thought it was not worth it. He thought, "Let others deal with this case!" And he just sent me to Natternberg! - Obviously ! said my brother. This man was a soldier. It is use in the army! "It's the custom among the Americans!" I said. - You are unfair! Ille intervened, and she continued, very much at her ease:

But we don't blame you! You still live in camp psychosis! "If the Americans had behaved properly, I don't wouldn't have it, I said sullenly.

"You're really unfair," Ille went on. You can't make responsible an entire people for the crap of a few bastards! Bastards are everywhere! - Exactly ! I exclaimed stubbornly. We are made responsible for our bastards, and what are they sending us? Theirs ! "And Patton?" Ille shouted. You will recognize that Patton was a chic

kind ! “Yes, Patton!… "You have no idea," Ille said to the others, "how much everything has

changed as soon as Patton learned what was going on in the camp and lost his patience! Do you remember the day you went to the infirmary? The afternoon Flocken briefed the colonel from his headquarters who had come to inspect? Suddenly it started to work. The next morning already, I thought it was the end of the world when Catherine distributed scrambled eggs for breakfast! Scrambled eggs ! Obviously made of powdered eggs, but still! - And at lunch, hash! I say smiling.

"And immediately," said Ille, "the internees began to grumble when they were given hash three days in a row. You too grumbled, admit it! You were of the opinion that there were too many potatoes in the hash! And the arguments, every time we distributed the C rations, you know, the little boxes that you just have to heat up in the kitchen. So everyone wanted chicken rice, and whoever got bacon soissons walked around the camp crying and blaming the cruelty of his fate! And the K rations! These packets of ham and eggs, cakes and chocolate, and sweets and gues, and toilet paper, and cigarettes! Cigarettes ! 'Yes,' I said. Patton was truly an exception. At first, we were very skeptical when we were told that Patton was the most popular American general, much like Rommel back home. But indeed, Patton was suddenly more popular at camp than Rommel! "And," cried Ille, "that he fired Robertson, perhaps it wasn't Nothing ? When the beatings stopped overnight, maybe it was nothing? And when they vaccinated us against diphtheria and against typhoid? And when they installed a scale where we had to weigh ourselves? And the weight was controlled! - You forget the releases! I say insidiously. "Yes, the liberations!" You have no idea the buzz in the camp, when the news broke that the local party leaders were going to be freed! “The local chiefs, of course…” I said. "And then what?" said Ille. From all we heard, the General Patton was a man of common sense, a realistic and reasonable soldier… (She turned to my brother to say: I beg your pardon, but it exists!)… and his decision to release

first of all the local chiefs, precisely them, was undoubtedly dictated by the idea that it was necessary to start with the little people!

— Yes, I said, the Nazis reasoned much the same way

! He was offended. She asked: "And Schlick?" The new commander, what do you have against him?

"Nothing," I said, "nothing at all." He was a brave man, military career ... (I turned to my brother to say: I beg your pardon, but it exists!) ... he was not a West Point ocier, but out of the ranks. He was laughing. She was launched; she was happy to share with me the memory of events that others did not yet know. She enveloped me in sympathy like a warm coat. Excitedly, she exclaimed: "And Jameson?" Lieutenant "little l"! He was the only one the old troop not to be relieved. Suddenly there was no question of ls! When we wanted to get up in his path, he even made a sign to remain seated. Suddenly it started working! Thanks to Schlick! And Yvonne! This story with Yvonne! — Yes, I said, Yvonne! "Can you imagine," said Ille, "we had in the hut a Luxemburger who poisoned our existence. One day, Yvonne gets up and gives him a masterful gig. The Luxembourger complains to Schlick. He summons the women and asks who the culprit was. Then Yvonne comes forward and says, “Me. And Schlick asks him why. Yvonne says: “She said: German pigs! And I love the Germans! And who says: German pigs, I beat him! Schlick smiled and said, "The Germans are pigs!" For Yvonne, hearing that and rushing at the commander was one. Schlick couldn't take it anymore

laughing ; he had every difficulty in defending himself against Yvonne's blows. He broke ranks and nothing happened to Yvonne!

"Yvonne!" I said putting tenderness in my voice. Long live Yvonne! "A little French crane," said Ille, "wouldn't allow us to treat the Germans of pigs! We admit it! It's not very appealing to us! But recognize that Schlick was a nice guy, and Patton too, recognize it! - Oh! Yes ? I say, and what happened to Patton? THE Americans reproached our generals for having followed Hitler's madness. And what happened to the only American general who didn't want to follow Morgenthau's folly? Patton was overthrown, sacked, because of his humane, honest and politically reasonable attitude towards the internees! There was no other reason! We could check ourselves inStars and Stripes. We had already wanted to sack him when in Italy, he had killed a GI he thought was a tire-au-anc. He was sacked for good because he didn't want to smile that the prisoners were beaten! Let us try to understand the Americans! And when, soon after, he had this car accident, the great majority of the internees were firmly convinced that he had been murdered by the Jews of Morgenthau. Obviously it's stupid, but popular logic joins in its conclusions the only really determining reality. And indeed, no sooner was Patton dead and buried than it all started again. The local chiefs were recaptured, the beating resumed, and we were hungry again. Captain Schlick was relieved of his duties as was Robertson. And all of a sudden, the exact day the women left the camp…remember? Just a year ago today.

"Yes," said Ille, disconcerted.

— You know, Pablo, I said, it was the most terrible day for me. of all my detention! "It was for me the most terrible day of my entire detention, Ille said. Unexpectedly, it was announced: "All the women are transferred!" We didn't know where or why, we feared the worst. We were packed and shipped like postal parcels, with this difference that on the parcels, there is an address. I had diphtheria, I had to stay isolated, the throat swab was always positive. The most terrible was the separation from Ernst, but you will agree that I held myself in a magnificent way! "Never before," I said to Pablo, "have I seen Ille so pale and so desperate. For her as for me, it was worse than the day when she found herself in front of the commandant's barracks without knowing what was going to happen. In fact, she didn't know yet, that day, what the Americans were capable of, but since then she had had time to learn it. "It was terrible," said Ille, "more terrible than the day I was in front of the commandant's hut, knowing that at that moment Ernst was knocked out!

"You know, Pablo," I continued, "the fast little covered trucks were already waiting outside. And no one knew where or why the women were going. The Americans and the entire camp were at the compound and watching… I didn't know what to say to Ille, I was mortally afraid that she would ask me to console her. He approached and said: "Let's dance once again the children of Bolle!" And we danced the children of Bolle, under the gaze of the whole camp, including the Americans. We danced the children of Bolle until the MPs started shouting:Maksnell! Maksnell!When I saw you on the truck, Ille, in your little blue dress, the box on your knees, when I saw the trucks leave and,

standing under the guard tower, I was watching you, this little blue spot which was disappearing, so I thought: “Now everything is gone, I will never see Ille again! » — When the car started and my eyes were looking for, and when I recognized you because of the crest on your tunic, I thought: "Now everything is gone, I'll never see Ernst again!" » "Did you hear the gunshot?" I asked. When the GI on the guard tower ordered me to get away from the compound, I flew into such a rage that I shouted at him, "You're pissing me off, you bastard!" So he shot me. Rotfuchs grabbed my arm and dragged me violently behind the barracks. — I heard the shot. I didn't know what it meant, I thought, "If only the ball had been for me!" On the truck, passing by this road that our imagination had so often followed, I thought I was dreaming. How many hours had we not remained under the guard tower, right up against the barbed wire, imagining ourselves outside, happy and cheerful, and emerging from this horrible nightmare… the day when we would be “free”. Apart from myself, I had sometimes feared being freed alone, without you, lost in the unknown region, without the slightest idea - with my notions of geography! — from the four cardinal points, without knowing how to find the Huberhof, without identity papers, in short, without anything at all, brutally delivered to the dangers of life after detention and illness. The time had come. I wasn't even walking, I was rolling around, if not comfortably, at least sitting on a bench; I didn't know where I was going, but I desperately hoped it was finally a place where knowledgeable people would tell me why I was there. After half an hour, the trucks stopped in front of a large building outside the small town of Straubing. With the usual methods

we got off much faster than we had come up. An unspeakable terror seized me when I read on a plaque at the gate: “Maison centrale de Straubing” and next to it, another, smaller one: “Camp de transit de Straubing”. But I didn't have time to think about the terror that the word "central house" inspired in me. We were passed through the porte-cochere, dark and cool, into a courtyard bathed in sunlight. At the entrance, a guard of the house whispered to me, seeing my defeated face: “You will all be freed. You are only here for that! I felt an insane joy and hope welling up inside me; but once in the yard, seeing the menacing cell building, fear gripped me again. "You'll never get out of here again." Why would I be taken to the courtyard of a remand center to be released? It would have been much simpler in Natternberg, but the guard said so…” I tried to put on an impassive face when three American oers entered the yard. Like so many times, we were put in three rows, and as always, the feeling came over me that all this was unworthy of me, that basically, I had nothing to do here. The oers began to read names and the conscripts had to go to the other side of the yard. Once again, I was seized with the erenated joy of finding myself among the chosen ones who would stay in their place and be able to go home. But to my terror, it was the "mild cases" that went to the other side, and suddenly there were only four of us: a war criminal who was said to have sent several thousand Jews to the gas chambers, two concentration camp guards and me. Again, panic seized me; I must have committed a horrible crime one day, I didn't know which one, but most of them didn't know it any more than I did; no matter how, it must have been so atrocious that they were going to lock me up with the other three for the rest of my life. But

while I was still thinking, I heard my name called. Stunned, I joined the bulk of the women and the three others followed me. Once again, nothing had happened; just another step towards complete nerve eritation. For hours more we remained in the yard, aimlessly, periodically disturbed by harmful orders which were forcefully revoked each time. Night had nearly fallen when we were finally led inside the house. All the same, I must have been a real bilboquet, because, on entering the house, I had to think back to the lmThe Casilla Trial, noting, with a kind of satisfaction, that our decorations had been very "real", exactly similar to the central house of Straubing. I leave it to Berthe Brass, whom my "hardness and my insensitivity" once again overwhelmed. They waited for us in a corridor, behind closed gates, and I really had the feeling that I was locked up. It was a good feeling to prepare us to enter the prison. My first entry had been that of Natternberg where I had been stripped naked to look in the most impossible places for things that I could have hidden. I was desperately thinking about the best way to pass the moment when the Americans were goingoverworkmy person. I resolved to talk a lot with the American who would be in charge of visiting me, to divert him from too thorough an examination, and I was almost consoled by the thought that the months of detention had certainly not made me any better and that the hunger and diphtheria had made me very, very thin. But who knows the tastes of foreign tribes? We walked two by two into a brightly lit room. I was with Eugénie, this shy nurse. At the sight of us, a very fat American stood up, eyed us knowingly, and said, pointing to me, "I'll take this one!..." For the n-th time in those months, my heart stopped. to beat and I put myself

immediately to speak. I spoke like a torrent: I was in a remand center for the first time, very curious, hi, hi! but what we could scratch, and I was so glad to be able to talk to a cultured man… I had pulled out my most chastised English and was handing out “Sirs” galore, and the fat guy got really distracted and was lenient. Thanks to my talkativeness, he gave me back all my business, apart from the little game of hopscotch you had given me for my birthday at Natternberg. He says that was stupid and throws it away. I was furious! A few days later, the fat guy suddenly appeared in my cell, in the middle of the night, to chat with me. I tell him that the prison always made me too sad to chat with a man. Promising, he then exclaimed: “In my arms, you will forget prison! He was a "Mister Smith" from New York, and he kindly informed me that he was going to visit again the following night. But the next day, I once again had what you always called “the shameless vein of Ille”: my fat man was transferred.

An extremely gruff German guard handed us some blue-andwhite checkered linen and led us to a cell. When he opened the iron door to number 199, I glanced briefly and said, "No!" shrill, trying to escape. But he had already grabbed me by the arm and pushed me mercilessly into the cell, locking the door of it, despite my cries and tears. It was the psychological moment when all my countenance collapsed. I learned for the first time in my life what it is like when you think your heart is going to break. Until that day, there had always been someone to take care of me, first my father, then all of you. You protected me, you killed the spiders for me, during storms and wars, you reassured me, saying that nothing was going to happen to me. At that moment, I realized for the first time

that I had to overcome all alone the terrible threats of life. Despite the welcome and the hunger and all the crap, everything had been more harmless in the camp, more provisional, less serious. We saw a lot of people talking to you, we saw a landscape and even “real” men in freedom, who passed on the road, on bicycles. Here, I was all alone, completely without you, and it was serious! I cried out, I was unleashed, panting with fear and despair, and I only came to my senses little by little only when I saw Eugenie also start to cry. I had to think about what you had told me so often: that detention is not overcome by physical force, but by intelligence. I decided to take your bookThe Forsaken like a kind of cookbook where your experiences were the recipes, starting with the sentence where you say that prison forms a world apart, subject to its own laws, impossible to understand if you don't manage to abstain from any comparison with the "outside world". For several more days I felt like something had to happen, but nothing happened. And I understood that it was better not to expect anything. I also understood that you were right to say that it was above all important to get it into your head as quickly as possible that you were living in your own domain. Nothing there; if I didn't want to break down inside, I shouldn't forget for a second that I was in a prison and that I had to overcome this fact. I tyrannically refused poor Eugénie, so submissive, even the slightest arrangement of the cell that the women were always looking for, and here even more than in the camp, to try to settle down "comfortably", to forget where they were. . Despite your advice, I couldn't walk up and down, it made my heart ache;

hunger. These long days when I stayed in bed were interrupted only by meals and walks. During the half-hour walk in a tiny and desolate courtyard, Americans armed to the teeth, machine guns aimed, watched our winding path. The first time, I almost thought with satisfaction: "Here, now that's it, we're all going to be shot!" Talking was strictly forbidden, but we talked anyway, with closed lips; with a little exercise it was fine. As I had been arrested in the summer and had no possibility of giving any news, I had to walk around in December still in my little blue dress, despite the cold, and with my broken shoes. Americans care a great deal about health, and fresh air is an essential part of that.

During these walks, Emmy Goering3noticed me. She was also there, with little Edda and her sister Elsa, and her niece, and her nurse, who hadn't wanted to leave her, even there. Emmy Goering noticed me because I had blue cheeks and legs and red lips, because my fat Mr. Smith had indeed left me my lipstick. Besides, whether you like it or not, I have to tell you one thing: I certainly always feared, during these long years spent with you, that one day someone would come looking for me. But I had always hoped in the bottom of my heart that it couldn't be so bad, that I would manage to talk like a woman to men, to use all those little tricks that we women have, even in these case there. Then, in the camp, I suddenly had a terrible revelation. Although the men had shown themselves in the camp in a quite different light, since they were deprived of their power, the fact was obvious that it would have been useless, in the face of these Gestapo agents, to have recourse to of the woman. Well, in none

American, I never had that feeling. Listen to me: when they were alone, when they didn't get together to prove to each other by their shouting how “smart” they were. My impression was particularly clear at the showers. At Natternberg, too, we had been taken to the showers one day, after Colonel de Patton's visit; at first, I was very embarrassed to parade naked in front of the two SS boys who were in charge of the heating; but they remained seated motionless, their faces expressionless, their eyes cold, as if they were looking through all these naked women. At first this was very pleasant to me, but suddenly the agonizing thought struck me that they must have looked with the same expression at the women who were sent to the gas chambers! In Straubing, Americans went to the showers at any time,

He took a deep breath and continued:

— This is precisely the point that makes me among you now and to be able to tell you — with calm serenity, I hope — what happened. One day, we had to fill out a questionnaire with more than a hundred questions. In the large courtyard, tables had been laid; pencils, paper and questionnaires were distributed. To start, I took a very small piece of pencil. Already an American officer appeared, a lieutenant still quite young, blond and small. It was whispered that his name was Metzner, that he was the new commander and at the same time the new chief of the CIC, a big vegetable therefore that everyone saw coming with respectful fear. The lieutenant announced to begin with that it was strictly forbidden to steal paper and pencils and that he would punish offenders with fifteen years in prison.

But I had already put my pencil away. I had the impression that the lieutenant was looking at me with a particular severity. It only remained for me to look at him too with the big eyes quite astonished at the innocence personified. Then he said very forcefully that the questionnaire had to be filled out in accordance with the truth and that he would lock up those who lied for fifteen years... But the more he repeated this threat of fifteen years, the more I realized that he was not taking Seriously, those idiotic spiels that we had been told so many times, that he exaggerated them, so to speak ironically; I liked it. I fill in my sheet quietly; I could without fear put everywhere “without object”, and I enjoyed this distraction. The little lieutenant strutted about like a rooster in the barnyard and it seemed to me that his scrutinizing gaze rested on me more often than on the others. At the end, he approached and asked, "So you don't know what to write?" I say: "I have already ni!" I say this with a grain of pride, and obviously it was wrong; for with that, I was sent back to my cell and the distraction was also denied. But after the lights went out, the bolts were suddenly pushed back and an American guard asked my name, compared it with an arrow, and ordered me to follow him. I was sent back to my cell and the distraction was also over. But after the lights went out, the bolts were suddenly pushed back and an American guard asked my name, compared it with an arrow, and ordered me to follow him. I was sent back to my cell and the distraction was also over. But after the lights went out, the bolts were suddenly pushed back and an American guard asked my name, compared it with an arrow, and ordered me to follow him.

" " The pencil ! I thought, "the tiny bit of a pencil!" And I found that the good Lord was exaggerating all the same a little by punishing me so promptly for such a tiny sin. At the same time, I begged the good Lord to make it really only a pencil. If there was nothing else, I was of the opinion that I had already sufficiently atoned for the sin. To my surprise, the lieutenant was leaning alone against the balustrade of the now deserted hallway overlooking the courtyard. My guardian handed me over to him in a very martial way, so martial that he even took a hand out of the

Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.com

poached. The lieutenant looked at me quietly and asked, "How come you are here?" I took a breath and said, "Do you really want to know?" In that case, I will tell you; but it's a long story and I'm telling it for the first time. The lieutenant put his arms on the balustrade and said, "Talk as long as you want, I have plenty of time, but please don't lie, otherwise..." Before he could continue, I said very quickly. "Otherwise, you'll lock me up for fifteen years!" He laughed, looked at me with interest, and said, "So go ahead!" » I also leaned on the balustrade; we looked into the dark courtyard and I told my story. From time to time, I had to stop when I felt my voice losing its firmness. But then he was still looking straight ahead, and so I could pull myself together. My story finished, we remained silent for a moment longer. Finally, he said, “I believe you! But I will scrupulously verify everything you have said, and when I find that everything is true, I promise you that I will do everything to free you! He said again, "What can I do for you right now?" I asked him to take me out of the cell during the day and allow me to work. He asked me what I had learned and laughed a lot when I answered candidly: “Nothing. He then asked me to come to his office, the next day, to file files and type small reports. What I liked most was that he didn't offer me cigarettes. When the guard took me back to my cell, I felt so abandoned that I ran very quickly after the lieutenant, to the great delight of my soldier, to ask him: "But you really won't forget me anymore?" He answered just as quickly, but with great seriousness: “No, certainly not! » but with great seriousness: “No, certainly not! » but with great seriousness: “No, certainly not! »

Of course, I had spoken to him about life in Natternberg and he had replied:Forget about it, oh! forget it!But he had to think about it. The next morning already, he declared publicly that if we were in a central house, we were not convicts but internees. And he ordered the cells to be opened during the day; he allowed us to talk during the walk; he encouraged us to organize conferences and found a small orchestra… The tide had turned. At Christmas, he even gave us a very good meal. Life was becoming bearable again. We even started laughing and talking nonsense again. I deeply regretted not having met Emmy Goering sooner. Among all the women I had known during my detention, there were many with whom I got along very well, but none knew how to create an atmosphere like her that allowed mutual comfort. Maybe because we had both lived so isolated. We naturally asked ourselves questions about our lives. Alas! there was nothing historic about the result: we came from two different worlds, but both of which were clearly not of this world. The central house of Straubing was not of this world either. During the day, I worked in the CIC office with a young man named Rosenthal who was Metzner's replacement. I could talk to him and I took advantage of it to tell him what was happening in Natternberg. He says :Forget about it, oh! forget it!It seems to be a magic formula of the Americans. I told him how many honest people I had met at the camp and in the Straubing power station. I tried to interest him in the fate of those whom I knew had been snatched up by unfortunate chance or by the stupidity of American methods. Rosenthal listened to me with exemplary patience, but one day he allowed me to read

in the files. Since then, I know that I was too small for the great eras and that I probably always will be. I simply no longer dared inform Rosenthal on behalf of "honest" people. It was horrible, especially the files of those for whose innocence I would have put my hand in the fire. The bitch's locker was white as snow, this disgusting person was really just an unpleasant shrike, and nothing more. But many were those that I no longer dared to look in the eye! I despaired of all my criteria, of all the criteria in the world; when I went to bed in the evening, I often felt the desire not to wake up again, quite simply not to continue living, and in the morning, when I woke up, I wished in any case never to be a judge. When the interrogations began, I was indeed among the first heard. A commission from the CIC came to Straubing on purpose and the interrogation was not pleasant at all. People weren't friendly for a penny, they asked cutting questions and every once in a while I gave a look of distress to Rosenthal who silently attended, his face closed, never giving me an encouraging glance. I told them that I had come to Trier with the Romans and that after 1933 I had learned to my amazement that my beloved father had been a jew cursed scum and that I was more or less what there was more odious in the world. I told you that you had told me that the Jewish question had to find its solution by the mind, by a profession of faith and in no way by the biological chance of birth. If I considered myself German, I was German and submitted to the fate of the Germans. And I told how everything had developed by itself, how we ignored all the legislation and how simple it was as long as we remained consistent. So they asked me about you. I said that at the time of the assassination of

Rathenau you had been nothing more than a rogue—I beg your pardon, but I really agree with this—and that you had thought you were acting in the direction of a great evolution, and how desperate you were when you saw that the evolution was in reality quite different. They harassed me with irrelevant questions, such as: were you very happy to see me intervene during your arrest? And I say you had grumbled awfully; because, of course, I had always maintained that I was German and when I said for the first time that I was Jewish, very badly took me from there!… Then, I felt that the decisive question was going to come. The most caustic, probably the leader of the illustrious company, suddenly asked, leaning forward: "And you?" You were very happy to learn that Rathenau had been shot? "I was so perplexed, this question was so typically CIC, that I simply answered, "Yes." » This answer had the eect of a bomb. These gentlemen jumped up from their chairs and stared at me, dazed. The chief had a very hoarse voice when he exclaimed: “Ah! And why ? And very small, very modest, I said: "Because that day, I didn't have class!" So they sat down again, and Rosenthal opened his mouth for the first time to ask, "How old were you then?" I say, "Ten years!" So they started laughing and I was able to leave. Then Metzner came to see me. He was in despair. He told me that he had tried everything to help me, but now he couldn't do anything for me, he was transferred. He recommended me to Rosenthal, his successor. And I waited three months. Nothing happened. Eventually, all of the inmates who were not accused of anything were allowed to write a request for release. Rosenthal, whom I harassed with questions to find out when I would be released, went on a trip and came back very depressed. He had intervened with the highest American authorities, he was furious at the slowness of the device

administrative. Finally, on March 13, a flesh-and-blood colonel from McNearny's headquarters arrived at Straubing. Rosenthal yelled like only an American sergeant can yell with his colonel. He banged his fist on my file and yelled that such things were really only possible in the US Army. The colonel was quite sheepish and stammered "sorry" in the chain. Finally, he said that I could be released immediately. And then, in his best German, he asked me: "And… were you used?" I was stunned, but Rosenthal laughed and explained to me that the colonel, who didn't know German, wanted to know if I had been heard. An hour later, I was in front of the gate of the central house and was contemplating my certificate of release. It read: “Reason for release: witness in the Rathenau area. » I'm glad, she added, that it all turned out like this. I paid my ransom. And I'm especially happy that I have nothing left of it. Recognize that there is no more reason to despair! Recognize that in the face of catastrophe, the Americans could not have acted otherwise; Admit it: after all, it's not the bastards who command everywhere, but it's goodwill. I'm glad there was a Patton and a Schlick, a Metzner and a good boy like Rosenthal... "I don't know," I said sullenly. When I hear the word " America,” I cannot help but see Second Lieutenant Hollingworth’s face!… — Forget about it, oh! forget it!said Ille in a low voice. She looked at me pleadingly, as if it really mattered to her. For me, that was not the case. Americans didn't interest me at all. Being objective with them meant defending them, and I felt they were big enough to do that themselves.

I was much more interested in the National Socialists. The fact was

— and it became very clear after the debacle — that, despite the ninety-nine percent plebiscites in favor of Hitler and despite the ringing façade of unity, two worlds had clashed in our country, two worlds who knew nothing about each other, except, perhaps, what the criminal records of one and the gossip of the intimate meetings of the other revealed. The few National Socialists I had known personally were not interesting; they spoke official jargon. At the camp, I saw them all together, and they no longer spoke jargon. It is true that the choice was quite difficult. When the Americans decided to sift everything they had thrown into the same pot several times through a sieve, about as many categories emerged as there were in the Jewish pot. Not having passed the latter through a sieve was the biggest fault of the "terrible simplicators", after that of boiling the entire contents until it was pureed. There was the large, fairly compact bloc of local party group leaders; but everyone will understand that it was vain to try to obtain useful information from it. There was the equally large and even more compact block of the Waen SS. No doubt it was worth looking into more closely, but I had no right to do so. These men became ever more hardened as the pressure of a terrible diamation increased, leaving them ultimately no choice but to retire on their honor as private soldiers. I could have told them that it was hardly possible to maintain this particular honor since women and children had been on the roofs, between two waves of assault, to rid them of canisters of phosphorus, but I didn't. I didn't have the right: I had not seen a single incendiary bomb burn. By

against, I could tell them, and I tell them, that this hardening would probably only result in transforming the "spirit of the front" of the First World War into the spirit of the "Steel Helmet", and probably would not this step very fruitful. The large and by no means compact group of senior officials did not cause much concern. No one doubted that these intelligent and sober men would soon be called upon, even without the crystallization of a new conception of the State, to reform the cadres of the bureaucracy, thanks to their professional qualifications. Almost all counted on it with a beautiful naturalness: the bureaucracy has always been the ideal ersatz state. Finally, there was the small group of early fighters who later occupied important positions in the party hierarchy.

But among all these groups there were a few individuals, perhaps one in a hundred, who did not for a moment try to deny that they were true National Socialists. They were young and old men, whose lives had been determined by the phenomenon of National Socialism. They had tried to live it consciously. They were men who stood apart from the endless discussions whose almost exclusive subject was the problem of guilt, in the sense that it was sought and quickly found in everyone else. It was inevitable that a very considerable part of it should be attributed precisely to those who had remained convinced National Socialists. Their indifference to these accusations could only have been interpreted as unrepentant stubbornness, if they hadn't been very intelligent, well-educated men who were surprisingly open to all of life's problems. There was no denying that they were animated

of true patriotism and their dress was always exemplary. If anyone could shed light on burning issues, it was them; questions of history as well as questions of responsibility vis-à-vis their own criteria, not to mention the important questions of the nature and reality of a force which had been able to transform the order of the world until in its deepest ramifications. This force had to continue to act if it were of the domain of the spirit, and this point precisely had to be cleared up.

It is true that I considered myself legitimate enough to ask these questions, since they came after other questions. The day the women left, Ludin had asked me to speak in front of a small circle on question 41 of the questionnaire. It seemed easy to me to make it understood that the problem of a profession of faith in favor of National Socialism had never seemed imperative to me. A priori, I had been of the opinion that the only goal of the great national movement, after the collapse of 1918, should be a renewal of the conception of the State which would be revolutionary in its methods, but conservative in its nature. . Even before the crucial moment when Adolf Hitler arose in the national movement, I therefore logically had to consider as an infamous betrayal of the true purpose, any attempt to shift the decisive emphasis from the state to the people, from authority to the totality. Historically, nothing could bridge the gap between the two opposing conceptions of the nation, seen by the people and seen by the state. This fact had unfortunately been veiled by the troubling circumstance that the propagators of the idea of the people used the same vocabulary, thus claiming that their point of view represented the renewed conception of the state.

I used to. How many times had I not, during the last few years, been obliged to explain to astonished fellow citizens why it was impossible for me, more perhaps than for another, to adhere to National Socialism. One can only ever betray one's own idea; Hitler's betrayal began the moment he appeared, with the attempt to borrow the Führer principle from the arsenal of authority and have it legitimized by the totality, with the attempt to call himself up by the people and to appeal to God, to proclaim the idea of the people in order to penetrate the reality of the State, instead of proceeding inversely. It therefore seemed easy to me to pose in my turn the question which had always imposed itself during all the dissensions within the party: What engages, ultimately, the idea or the will of the Führer? Each time, by supreme decision and by the common will of the partisans, the Führer's will had prevailed. Perhaps it was futile to analyze whether the decision was right or wrong, but now the Führer was dead. The argument of delicacy no longer played and there only remained the question of knowing what could remain of the idea. Obviously, the question was insidious. Nor had the authoritarian state materialized: it had been overthrown in its first attempt, Schleicher's plan. But it had not been so definitively discredited, as to its idea, as National Socialism. If this foundation contained the germ of renewal, like that of 1918, it was important to plant it in the soil of goodwill. Disappointment ! It appeared, in this miserable barracks, that the good will which had characterized these men had not been fired for an idea. It was precisely the absence of ideas, the absence of logical rigor in the methods and the plan that

had attracted. By renouncing action dictated by a theory, a spiritual unity, National Socialism had offered its adherents the attractive possibility of being able to establish themselves in the voids thus created. Productive minds, who felt the need to set themselves tasks, had had plenty of time to make up for this lack. Ludin told me that Hitler had told him one day that the Führer did not have the task of instructing, but of establishing feelings. This startling reflection was perhaps typical of his way of thinking; in reality, however, he had turned away from it, at least in one point, the central point of his thought: by developing, inMein Kampf, his conception of the “idea of the people”. Whatever the sentiments he tried to express, there was no doubt that by making his racial doctrine the fundamental and decisive principle of National Socialism, he wanted to instruct. Anyone who now adhered to National Socialism must have known that the discussion, if it remained open on certain points, was closed with regard to this particular point. It was already closed very early, at the beginning of evolution, and this dogma was moreover the only one to be unconditionally maintained until its negative end. In this camp, I had not heard a single cynical remark about the physical extermination of the Jews, except from the Americans. At Nuremberg, the files of the accusation piled up; these materials must have crushed me as much as these men and all the other internees in the camp. Of course, I had to assume that more than one of them would be personally affected by the accusation, and it seemed logical to me that these men should be subject to the same arbitrariness that they themselves had imposed before. One could not expect to see justice emerge from the still of the rapid trials of the people's courts, any more than from the hundred thousand pages of the document of

Nuremberg. What mattered was not the size of the fault, but where it entered into life. This must have been exactly the point where duty clashed with conscience; and everyone felt it that way. Whatever paths had led the individual to the movement, everyone had been aware of the existence of the Jewish problem. But practically, it hardly came within the framework of the individual task. However, he constantly intervened in all sectors. In these cases, the individual found himself, when the time came, faced with a question of appreciation, namely what was the relationship between the measure ordered, in its “insusance”, and the performance of the general task. Almost always, this “insusance” was moreover recognized, but it was not understood as a stage in the evolution of a process.

It is difficult to deny the character of National Socialism; it is hardly possible to see in it anything other than a "phenomenon", a disproportionate and proliferating product of life. The possibility of being enslaved by a phenomenon had to be created by the same elemental forces which gave rise to the phenomenon. I had been very fortunate to experience very consciously the period when the phenomenon began to produce its effects. Almost all the interpretations dealt with the negative factors that had contributed to it: the aftermath of the collapse, the distress of the youth and its ardent desire to achieve its own form, the bankruptcy of the ruling strata and the degradation of ideas in the power. But all these interpretations failed before the will to do better, resulting from the sum of the negations.

authentic had manifested itself. Ludin was the best man in the camp and at the same time the best National Socialist I knew. Ludin came from a family where humanism, liberalism and culture were an intact tradition. He had very consciously chosen to serve in the Reichswehr because it seemed to him to offer the most real possibilities of safeguarding the influence of traditional virtues. In his view, the educated ruling stratum had gone bankrupt. His early fondness for National Socialism and his involvement in the Ulm trial had basically no political causes, except those motivated by the historical and moral situation in general. The liberal bourgeoisie which had originally been the asylum of these virtues seemed to him too weakened biologically to be able to accomplish its mission in the crisis. He saw other younger forces springing up and it seemed to him his duty to transmit lasting values to them. When he was offered, after his detention, the possibility of realizing his ideas in the SA, he accepted without hesitation. All the personal conicts he had to face thereafter took place on this plane and could only be resolved on this plane. I asked him point-blank why he had remained a great leader of the SA after June 30, 1934. He answered me with the same aggressiveness as his reasons had been those which had prompted him to join the SA in the past: he had sought opportunity to exert a pedagogical influence in a grand style, to promote, by example, male virtues such as camaraderie, delicacy and loyalty. June 30, 1934 had in no way modified this task, it had at best deepened it. I objected that these virtues, certainly very laudable, were a conditionsine qua non natural to any community, and moreover, the pretension vexed me which made him

assuming anyone not in the SA was disloyal. He noticed me when my own life proved that for decades the moral element was no longer natural. A question seemed to impose itself on me, namely, what were, in his opinion, the aims which the education of the SA must have served, and Ludin surprised me by answering quite simply: "Socialism!" » Ludin was quite serious. Obviously, delicacy, camaraderie and loyalty were essential to any fruitful solidarity. However, the fact that a mass movement as vast and as meticulously organized as the SA confined itself to wanting to create only the preconditions, called doubts as to its general ideas. Did we have a clear idea of the concrete and economic achievements of socialism? Was it not rather believed that the task of elaborating "socialism", of realizing it eectively, fell to another group, so to speak, to another body? It was not known which one, but the Führer would surely get there, and if he did not get there, the fault lay solely with the haste of events and the intervention of the war…

Of course, I had to agree that among the innumerable possibilities of making a conscious contribution to the current of the National Socialist movement, the one chosen by Ludin was quite honorable. I only doubted that such a task would be safe for a man. Until the end, Ludin was proud to have been a leader of the SA precisely since it was they who, in the eyes of the great passive mass of the population, had most clearly ceased to be a shock troop of the revolution to become the most innocuous instrument of power. Towards the end, even the DCA and the NSV had had more concrete tasks than the SA.

leaders of SS groups pointed out to him that, at least in the eyes of the Americans, their insignificant charges were as important as his high rank in the SA. I did not know what Ludin was accused of. His arrest card simply mentioned “Nazi leader”. During the French campaign, he had commanded a battery, then he was appointed Minister Plenipotentiary in Slovakia. He told me that he had taken his task in Slovakia terribly to heart, an extremely arduous task. But he had always felt attracted by the Slavic peoples much more than by the "rotten West", and he was proud to have been able to spare, precisely for the Slovaks, many things which, as a result of the occupation and war, would necessarily have led to dierends. He spoke with great respect for the prelate Tiso, who had been the president of Slovakia, and one would have thought that the fate of Slovakia was more painful to him than that of the Reich. “You know”, he said to me, “There are so many things that I have to settle with myself first! » Perhaps that was why any discussion of National Socialism became fruitless at some point: everyone had so many things to settle with themselves. I probably wouldn't have attached myself to Ludin if he hadn't intervened decisively and on many occasions in my life at the time. Each time I saw him approaching my barracks at pace, I knew he was coming for an official reason, concerning camp life. The demoralization had reached its peak since the departure of the women, which had, so to speak, opened a new era. The camp had entered a dangerous state of decomposition, a veritable concentration camp psychosis where the general good behavior dissolved easily, where the will to survive too easily crushed the obligation to overcome. We had learned that

Mrs. Flocken had not been relieved of her duties because she had informed Colonel de Patton, but because Robertson could produce charges against her which other camp doctors had gathered and passed on to the Americans. The camp regulations, dictated by the Americans, did not provide the least moral support. Ludin proposed to create an "arbitration commission" which would attack on its own authority, and outside the official hierarchy of the camp, the establishment of a spirit of "loyalty". I was skeptical; it did not seem probable to me that there were still enough potential forces in the camp to be able to impose, in spite of the Americans and the will to live, measures intended solely to reinforce morale. But Ludin says: - You know, here, almost everyone has something to hide. But there's one thing he won't be able to hide: whether he's a decent guy or not. It will show up right away. And indeed, it revealed itself immediately. In Mrs. Flocken's case, accusers and defendant appeared on demand and argued bitterly over the concept of “doctor's professional honour”. To understand this thing, it was necessary to have recourse to several voluminous expert opinions which all differed in their conclusions. Finally, the doctors were advised with a gentle insistence to concern themselves a little more with more general notions of honor and they were invited, accuser and accused, to assume the service of barrack doctor for a month, even without a meal card. . Other cases were solved with a little common sense or humor, but the decisive case could not be solved that way. The camp leader had relieved of his duties a former kapo who had taken advantage of his "job" with the Americans to develop significant stage fright. But in accordance with the wishes of the commission, the chief had given up

warn the Americans. The Kapo believed himself strong enough to be able to complain to the Americans, and Second Lieutenant Mutz, the new commander and successor to Captain Schlick ordered, without worrying about the reasons of the camp leader, that the Kapo be restored to his duties. functions. The latter refused to appear before the arbitration board. It had no executive authority. Remembering a beautiful custom in use among cadets, I proposed to pronounce the anathema against him. Judge Lehmann gave the following definition: “refusal of small services”. The decision was posted on the blackboard. I was not very sure that the simple call for solidarity was enough to enforce a measure that required an eort from everyone. On roll call, I had noticed two members of the Waen SS, veritable "wardrobes", tall and strong as oak trees. They watched, smiling kindly, the little Americans who were busy counting far below them. I asked these two cabinets to enforce the decision, after making sure that they had really got into their heads the meaning of the word "arbitration", because usually, they were turned towards more "solid" things. ". Thus, it happened that the mission of my two cabinets was crowned with success thanks to their simple attentive presence at the door of the barrack in question. The Kapo remained without the small services that we rendered each other; the terrible narrowness and the lack of indispensable objects made its isolation very noticeable. After making a grandiloquent mockery of the commission, he ended up appealing to another form of solidarity, that of the kapos. During an extremely lively nocturnal meeting, held near the latrines, the chief of the kapos decided to send a delegation to the commandant. To everyone's surprise, the two emissaries soon returned quite bewildered and well beaten. They hadn't been able to reach the commandant; THE the two emissaries soon returned rather bewildered and well beaten. They hadn't been able to reach the commandant; THE the two emissaries soon returned rather bewildered and well beaten. They hadn't been able to reach the commandant; THE

sergeant who had stalked with the kapo in question had thought that the case was getting too big and had settled it in his own way. This incident broke the domination of the kapos and from then on, any man guilty of irregularities was relieved of his duties. Soon enough, the kapos submitted unconditionally to the discipline of the camp. The "refusal of small services" had to be declared only this one and only time. From that day on, it was enough to close the decisions, especially since they always tended towards an amicable settlement. Gradually, the blackboard thus became a kind of plastered newspaper. Everyone could bring to the attention of the others manifest inaccuracies which did not necessarily call for a decision by the commission. Kodak communicated on the blackboard a "conversation between navvies" that he had overheard: First digger: "Say, you have my pickaxe, give me back my pickaxe!" » Second digger: "What, your pickaxe?" Moult! First: "I made a notch in it, camel!" » Second: “Permit! You idiot, talk to me politely! I am general! » First: “You piss me off! I'm chairman of the board! One day the internee Schmith was accused of stealing from his comrades. It turned out that this nineteen-year-old boy, a member of the SS "Hitlerjugend" division, had stolen with a whole "gang" of JH and SS enough material, including an entire barrack, to build a theatre. With serious admonitions, the commission pointed out to the young offender how reprehensible his action was, and then anchored in its judgment the decision that, in view of the recognized fact that the

theater was built with material stolen from the community, no entrance fee was to be charged. Kodak and I were ashamed; we were the only ones to have a professional relationship with art, Kodak as an actor and me through literature and cinema, and the initiative to create a theater did not come from us! But our day was busy. Every evening, I gave lectures, and for some time on other subjects than the questionnaire. I talked about American literature, modern painting, cinema, and I even recounted whole films that I had seen during performances reserved for people in the trade. I was very proud to manage to take an hour and a half to narrate a film of this length. Kodak, for his part, recited poems, especially theHornof Rilke that I absolutely couldn't hear anymore. Soon, in each barrack, entertainments were organized. Ludin set up chess tournaments, there were shorthand and foreign language lessons, even a conference on international law found an audience of two men who were by then considered idealists living in the moon. The theater was packed every night. A few violins and an accordion, smuggled in by the parish priest of Michaelsburg, enabled the formation of a small orchestra. Proud of a changing of the guard, Kodak even managed to steal the piano from the Americans' mess. This act was all the more meritorious in that he lost his “job”.

The Americans did nothing to encourage this development. The new commandant incorporated such a popular establishment as the theater into his disciplinary system. One day, unhappy with something that had nothing to do with the theater, he simply forbade it. Following the protests of the head of the camp, he declared himself ready to have a discussion with the internees, in accordance with his

instructions. He chose the theater as the meeting place, sat down on the stage and invited people to speak freely. A man stood up and asked in atrocious English to finally allow the mail. Second Lieutenant Mutz smiled and said simply:You know, I was in Lidice!» The interpreter explained to the internees what this word meant. The audience was oppressed by this revelation; but then she asked the interpreter what had to do with the courier. The interpreter shrugged. Mutz insisted on more questions, and they were asked, but to each he answered with a smile:You know, I was in Lidice!»until the assembly left the room, while Mutz, certain that he had done a good deed, declared himself ready to renew such fruitful discussions as often as desired. The only lasting achievement of Patton's intervention was permission to receive a food parcel once a week, but which was not to contain any missive. The people of Lower Bavaria, whose families had never discovered the address, were the only ones to receive them. After the distribution, on Wednesday, they hugged the parcels to their hearts, rushed into the barracks and instantly devoured the contents. Few were those who had retained enough modesty to slip their heads under the covers before eating, when fellow Aames asked them for a small bite. On this occasion, the arbitration commission suffered its first setback. When the rumor spread that they were deliberating there on a possible centralization of the parcels to distribute them to the community, Lower Bavaria stood up as one man;

depths of his being: "I'd rather crush the package under my feet! » Towards the New Year, the CIC was relieved. During the interrogations, we no longer beat. The CIC was composed of MM. Sichel, Singer, Stolper and Georgy. I had succumbed to the psychosis of the camp like all the others. She expressed herself in particular in the hope that the interrogation which would reveal the innocence of each would be immediately followed by the release. Only Kodak remained skeptical. He got his wisdom from conversations with Americans and spouted it from time to time with an imperturbable face: "The American administration is the slowest in the world", or: "Among the Americans, every GI can arrest anyone, but only the supreme general can liberate! These phrases gave him a reputation as a sadist. When I was called, I repeated the heated speech I had prepared. But everything happened differently. Lieutenant Sichel came to look for me in the room where I was waiting with other sad figures. Passing through his office, he asked me in his dry, slightly mocking way: - You know who I am ? "Of course," I said quickly. Sichel, son of the wine merchant Sichel, in Mainz. My father always bought his wine from your father, he was very happy with it!

Sichel already had his hand on the handle of his door; but he turned abruptly, went to the next door and said: - Enter here !

Sichel was the head of this CIC and I had upset him. In this second room was Mr. Singer, a very amiable young man, but who was only a sergeant, and therefore even farther from the supreme general than the lieutenant. Mr. Singer was biting his fingernails. After a while, he pulled out a large form and began to fill it in.

taking up the directions on my arrest note that Sichel had given him with other papers. Then Mr. Singer leafed through a document whose character I could not recognize, and suddenly he asked: "Do you know Miss Dorothy Thompson?" - Oh ! yes, I replied, surprised. He smiled kindly and continued: "Did you know that Miss Thompson is a congressman?" "I didn't know that, but it makes me happy. This me lets hope that one day, the crap that goes on in this camp will be discussed before Congress! Mr. Singer raised his hand and said:

— Forget about it, oh! forget it! Then he leaned back in his chair and asked: "Why didn't you join the party?" I was always surprised to hear this question, even from the National Socialists. I replied: - It's that I did not enter! "We want to know the exact reasons!" Why does you, precisely you, did not join the party? I reconsider for a moment. I knew I had a unique chance there. It took me about five hours to get prot. I took my penny and began, in the way that corresponds to my way of telling: "According to you, if I had joined the party, I would have become

less Gauleiter, right? - Yeah! said Mr. Singer eagerly. — Well, I became a screenwriter, it allowed me to win about three times a Gauleiter! This seemed to convince Mr. Singer. Admiringly, he says:

— Oh ! that's OK! I nodded amiably and was about to give a long explanation, but Mr. Singer had already got up and said: - How are you. That's what we wanted to know. You can dispose! He says it without a shadow of irony. My explanation had indeed known to him. But I almost despaired of ever being able to reasonably explain anything to these people. Instead of leaving, I tell him very quickly and begging: "But admit that I'm here because of business." Rathenau! - Oh ! no, cried Mr. Singer. At home in America, we strictly adhere to the principle ofnot bis in idem! "Then why are you keeping me here?" Mr. Singer put his hand on my shoulder and said by way of solace: - Oh ! we will find something! That was all. I could dispose. I had simply been caught in the cogs, and now they had me. I was not the only one. One day, trucks brought nearly two hundred new internees. All from the Landshut region. They didn't know why they had been arrested. We asked them if they had been in the party, they said no. We asked each one in particular his profession and whether he had been in the Wehrmacht. One was a doctor, the other a pharmacist, a third paymaster, and a fourth nothing, but nothing at all except a first-class soldier assigned to a general staff. Kodak solved the riddle. It was so simple, far too simple for the German mind! At Nuremberg, the prosecution had just demanded that the General Staff of the German army be declared a criminal organization.

Thereupon, the “Resident Ocer” of Landshut had examined the questionnaires and had arrested all those whose rank included the mention “staff”. Staff doctors, staff pharmacists, staff paymasters, first-class staff soldiers! It had indeed happened that way. After five days, the small error was cleared up. But they were in the camp, and they stayed there. At the camp was also Sandro Mach, the Minister of the Interior of Slovakia, a devious old fox and a bad campmate. He had not yet been questioned when Ludin was called. I met Ludin in the little square in front of the gate. He was wearing his gray anelle suit, exactly the same as mine. He looked nervous and I tried to console him; I knew the farce of these interrogations. Moreover, Ludin was in the "automatic" category of "Nazi leaders", but no reproach had been leveled against him. He had often spoken to me cheerfully of his activity in Slovakia; he had many friends there, also and especially among those who were not, like Mach, official representatives of Slovak National Socialism. One day he told me about his arrest. He had presented himself voluntarily. When he saw that some Slovak friends were already arrested, he decided to go to the camp in Austria and ask to be admitted. The American sentry wanted to chase him away, even when Ludin tried to make himself understood by saying "NaziMinister" while pointing to himself. An American officer he had spoken to finally let him in with a shrug. When Ludin was interrogated, the men targeted by the Nuremberg indictment, like the concentration camp officials, had already been transferred to Dachau. In the camp only the “automatics” and those who “threatened security” remained. Ludin had no reason to be nervous. even when Ludin tried to make himself understood by saying "NaziMinister" while pointing to himself. An American officer he had spoken to finally let him in with a shrug. When Ludin was interrogated, the men targeted by the Nuremberg indictment, like the concentration camp officials, had already been transferred to Dachau. In the camp only the “automatics” and those who “threatened security” remained. Ludin had no reason to be nervous. even when Ludin tried to make himself understood by saying "NaziMinister" while pointing to himself. An American officer he had spoken to finally let him in with a shrug. When Ludin was interrogated, the men targeted by the Nuremberg indictment, like the concentration camp officials, had already been transferred to Dachau. In the camp only the “automatics” and those who “threatened security” remained. Ludin had no reason to be nervous. In the camp only the “automatics” and those who “threatened security” remained. Ludin had no reason to be nervous. In the camp only the “automatics” and those who “threatened security” remained. Ludin had no reason to be nervous.

I was still in the square when Ludin returned. He held a few sheets of paper under his arm and a pencil in his hand. He was asked to write acurriculum vitaeand to make a statement regarding the “Mach case” and the “Tiso case”. After being arrested in a convent, President Tiso found himself in another camp; THEStars and Stripesfrom Kodak had taught us. But Mach was with us. "They're smart, the Americans!" I exclaimed, laughing. You can concert your deposition with that of Mach! Ludin looked at me thoughtfully. Finally, he says:

- Yes, I could! For the next three days I did not speak to him. He was sitting in his corner and writing. I didn't have time to take care of him, I had to do theatre. I didn't feel quite capable of it, but the entire camp was unanimous in declaring that I was the only one who knew how to play Mephisto. I played him about twenty times, a cheerful and goodnatured devil, and only the Archimandrite always crossed himself when he met me. I continued to work in the carpentry with the quiet assurance of a skilled man, while waiting for someone to come and ask me to take charge of the rather complicated business of the theatre. When called upon, I staged a comedy written in camp and asked Ludin to play a part in it. But he had refused—his first refusal! — because the role was too silly. I was eating when I saw Ludin heading for the gate. I ran after him. He wasn't nervous anymore. "What did you write?" I asked him. He replied with a smile: "It's easier to lie using the truth!"

It was one of my favorite phrases that I had learned from my old master Luetgebrune, who was then also in a camp at Ludwigsburg. I asked Ludin if he had spoken with Mach. He answered : “He didn't let me talk. - What an idiot ! I say with conviction. - Leave him ! He is angry with the whole world and especially with himself-

even ! I couldn't help but tease him: "Here are the people you worked with!" But Ludin said calmly: 'We couldn't choose them, they chose us. The sentry signals Ludin to pass. In the evening, after curfew, Ludin was still not back. I was very anxious. In the afternoon, jeeps had left and arrived, and when evening came, the light was burning in the CIC barracks. I decided to watch Ludin. Something must have gone wrong. Such prolonged interrogations were a bad sign. I remembered everything I knew about him. He was the only internee whose fate touched me closely, perhaps because he never gave in to the easy way. His reputation was very good; in none of the despicable affairs of June 30, 1934 and the persecutions of the Jews, had his name been mentioned. I saw in a minister plenipotentiary to the government of a protectorate little more than a postman with a particularly handsome uniform. One day I had asked Mach what he thought of Ludin. Sullen and gruff, he replied: "A good man." But in politics, a good man is not good! This sentence seemed to me to testify much more against Mach than against Ludin, but myself,

I had often enough become angry precisely because of his kindness. He was close to my heart and I was worried about him.

It was nearly midnight when I saw movement in front of the CIC barracks. I slipped outside and waited in the shade of a tree. Ludin, accompanied by two American oers, approached the gate. I didn't know them, they must have arrived in the afternoon. At the gate they stopped. Suddenly the two oers saluted Ludin militarily and extended their hand to him; it was unheard of. They followed him with their eyes; I could not go to meet him without leaving the shadow. The two officers said a few words to the sentry, then one of them went through the gate in his turn and went towards the barracks of the head of the camp. I called out to Ludin and asked excitedly: - What is going on ? Ludin came to me. When the steelman had disappeared, he turned his face towards me and said placidly:

"Now I'm 'War-criminal'!" I remained dumbfounded. The steelman came out of the barracks and passed quickly close to us. A moment later, the camp leader came out in his turn and headed for Ludin's barracks. "He's looking for me," said Ludin. I have to get back to my barracks. But I held him back and called the camp leader. On seeing Ludin, he said:

- Oh! here you are ! I was going to your house! What is going on ? AT

Just now, an unknown officer came to order me not to assign you to any outside service. You are strictly forbidden to pass the gate! Ludin repeated:

"Now I'm 'War-criminal'!"

"But you were heard only as a witness!" I say very agitated.

Ludin looked at us, first me, then the camp leader. Without raising his voice, he said: — I was the Reich Minister in Slovakia. The Slovaks have trusted the Reich. I took on myself the responsibility for everything that happened in Slovakia! - But it's madness! I cried, desperate. The Reich does not exist more !

The camp leader, an Austrian major, suddenly took up his usual position, much to our chagrin, vis-à-vis the American officers. But he kept silent. The lenses of his glasses shone. Kindly, Ludin says: - THANKS. I would like to go to bed now. The camp leader turned around without saying a word and left. I accompanied Ludin. Plaintive, I say to him:

"Ludin, how was that possible?" With simplicity, Ludin replied: 'I submitted my statement. They read it immediately, passing sheet after sheet. When they had finished, the lieutenant said to me: “Do you know that this is your death sentence? What should I answer? I am silent. Then I had to wait alone. They brought me coffee and cigarettes, but of course I didn't touch them. Then two officers, probably from some central CIC, came to question me until now. But I couldn't change anything I had written. We had arrived at his hut. I exclaimed: "Why didn't you tell me about it before?" He signs me to lower my voice. Then he resumed:

“You couldn't have changed that. I had to get over it all alone. But I think I was able to help Tiso and Mach a lot with my testimony. I owed it to them! - And you ? I asked with a shudder, are you paying the bill?

- Me ? Yes. They will probably hang me. He says it calmly. I stepped back. An immense rage seized me. I shouted: - What madness ! Don't play comedy! Suddenly he smiled and said: - Yes, I play comedy. Tomorrow I come to the rehearsal. The role is really stupid, but I will play it! He gave me a friendly nod and disappeared. Ludin played an absent-minded professor bullied by his wife. He played it very well. When he wasn't rehearsing, he stayed behind the scenes to learn his lines. I approached him and said: — I reconsidered. It is absolutely impossible that we grant your extradition. You were a diplomat; they will not dare run this risk since all over the world, diplomats are protected by a special right! — Yes, he said, shaking his head, it was a very beautiful world, is not it ? And he went back to learning his role. Since then, I occupied Ludin at the theater as much as I could. We had both given up our “job” to be able to devote ourselves entirely to the stage. This didn't cause us to lose our meal card, but we didn't care. It was amazing to see the many talents that were revealed at camp and the great goodwill that supported our eorts. But after a while, it became impossible for me to find myself in all the business

theaters and I asked Ludin to assume the administration, which he accepted. Not far from the Natternberg camp was the Plattling POW camp. It was much bigger than ours, and at night we could see its lights. We knew that Waen SS, Hungarians and above all a large number of Russians from Vlassow were interned there. One evening we saw rockets going up and soon after we heard gunshots. During the night, our guard, an armored company, was alerted and left with its tanks. When they returned the next morning, we only learned that Plattling's Russians had mutinied. A few days later, we again heard the sound of the chains of the armored vehicles which had made another sortie. I went with Ludin to the compound. The tanks did not return, they continued on their way. Two tanks still flanked a truck loaded with many prisoners in gray uniforms. We waved and called to each other, but not a single one answered. They didn't even turn their heads.

"They're Russians!" says my neighbor, a Ukrainian student from the suite of the Archimandrite. With ill-contained rage, he continued: — The Germans have no right to complain about Hitler. He their

gave what he had promised them. But we Ukrainians, and Hungarians and Slovaks, we have been betrayed! I was scratched. Ludin must have heard every word. I hardly dared look at him. He does not say anything. Motionless, he stared at the road. A few days later the Natternberg camp was transferred to Plattling. The guard company was relieved and the new commander, an Italian-American, made it easy for himself. He called the camp chief and told him how many trucks he

could make available. In four hours, the entire camp was to be moved. What would not be moved then would remain in the camp. It was exactly the tone that had to be taken with the Germans. The enthusiasm of finally being able to show what we were capable of drowned out any complaints about the changes in habit which were always very painful, even if it was only a change of bed or barracks. I left my business to my dele Rotfuchs and ran to Ludin to ask him to help me transport the theatre. But he had already started packing the accessories and even the seats. Pleading, I ran from truck to truck for space, but to no avail. Five minutes before the deadline expired, the camp was transferred; only one truck was missing. Three minutes later, he walked through the gate. Solitary, Ludin sat enthroned on an immense mountain of theatrical props; he had forgotten absolutely nothing, nothing that I had already considered lost. He had just forgotten to be accompanied by an American sentry. He had wandered around the area on his own. When I realized this, I immediately asked him why he had not taken advantage of this unique opportunity to escape. He looked at me in astonishment, then he said: - Hey, I did not even notice! I was only thinking to our theater areas! The new camp could accommodate forty thousand men. Ten large blocks closed in themselves lined the road to the camp. After us, the internment camp of Hersbruck arrived, accompanied by the “barrack of the Nuremberg witnesses”; then came the ranks of the Waen SS from Dachau. Each block remained under the administration of the old camps, but was placed under the orders of Plattling's camp leader, a Sturmbannführer SS

named Neumann, former leader of the Socialist Labor Youth. I knew him from his activity before 1933. Neumann had organized the Plattling camp. When he learned that I was in charge of the theatre, he very proudly showed me his. It had six hundred seats and absolutely magnificent facilities that took my breath away. I suppressed a tremor and criticized the lack of a turntable. Turning pale and imploring my approval as it were, he showed me all the facilities he had created, such as the possibility of organizing a university and painting exhibitions. As I leave the theater block, I say: - Not bad ! Heaving a sigh of relief, he asked me: "Do you really like it?" - Yes not bad ! I say nodding my head. He then made a sovereign gesture and said:

- Do me the pleasure of accepting it as a gift! It was one of the happiest moments of my life. Two days later, the first performance took place. There was a premiere every Saturday, not counting all the shows in the different blocks. I had boasted to Neumann of our exploits. With gnashing of teeth, I learned that each side had its theatrical group which had tackled its task with at least as much zeal and success as ours. I gathered the different groups together and my knees shook as each proudly revealed to me that they had had particular success withFaust, just like ours! But everyone was unanimous in affirming that I was the best Mephisto and the orchestra always greeted me with the motif of the devil from Gounod's "Marguerite". Dunckelberg founded the various orchestras as I did the theater groups. He then had an orchestra almost unique in Germany at the time. He

began his first concert with theUnfinished Symphonyby Schubert and L'Arlesienneby Bizet. The commanding officer, a second lieutenant of Irish origin, was only interested in the roofing felt. Countless times he asked us if we had had enough. He was always ready to ask for more. But there was enough. The commandant became the benefactor of the region's construction industry. Poles guarded us. They had the reputation of being particularly formidable. But it wasn't true. The Nuremberg charges encouraged them to obtain certificates from the internees certifying that they had treated them well. The appeals were suppressed, the camp was organized. A commercial school was founded. The local chiefs didn't care; they had first crossed the camp, looking sad; then they had looked at the ground, this good clay soil, and finally, they had started digging and turning the earth. Soon there were vegetable gardens between the barracks… From the Natternberg CIC, only Second Lieutenant Georgy had come with us to Plattling. The interrogations were closed. He often went to the camp without anyone knowing why. He visited the theater and the painters' studio; I left the conversation to Kodak. Georgy strutted proudly when the first ones were freed, as if he had something to do with it. But the releases were messy. Names were called, groups gathered at the gate, and no one understood why some were released while others, belonging to the exact same category, remained interned. For a few days, the camp buzzed, then the releases were suspended, to start again a little later, in short bursts, and stop again. There was no system. It was very

detrimental to the theatre; sometimes program changes were necessary at the last minute. In the end, I only choose “safe” people. I had an audience of war criminals and the main actors were big culprits. Behind the scenes, I had arguments to settle. “Come and decide between us! Mister the prefect of police always takes my breasts! — "What, your breasts, Obersturmführer!" These are mine, I made them myself! » One day, the camp leader showed me a log sheet and asked me if it could help me. It was a real authentic certificate, at that time the only valid paper "outside". I seized it with both hands, rushed to Ludin and handed it to him. Then we skirted the enclosure, looking for a possible passage. The camp, with its Nuremberg barracks, was ridiculously badly guarded. Any resolute man should easily succeed in escaping. But the fugitives were rare and all domiciled in the eastern zone. No one seemed to believe that the Americans had any serious intention of punishing all "war criminals", no one seemed to believe that, guilty or innocent, he could be condemned. But I knew that Ludin was not fooling himself, that he was aware of the fate that awaited him. I knew how attached he was to his wife and his six children; I was happy: with this certificate, no one could stop him. He listened to me carefully, looked carefully at the barbed wire and said it was a great temptation; he wanted so badly to see his family again!

- So go! I exclaimed. Again tonight! He says he feared he no longer had the courage to return to the camp after seeing his family. - But you are crazy ! I shouted. You don't think about it!

“Of course,” he replied. I have to give my statement in the trial against the Slovaks! And besides, I don't want my children

can ever say that their father did not answer for the cause he had served. I left him there and ran to the theatre. In the evening, he was on stage to play.

I found no rest. During the intermission, Kodak had broadcast the news through the loudspeakers it had installed. He retransmitted the report of the official announcer of Nuremberg, Gaston Culmann. What the loudspeaker was bawling had nothing to do with justice or politics, it was pure hatred. I looked at Ludin. He listened, his face closed. After the end of the show, I held him back. We followed the enclosure of the block of the theater without worrying about the sentry who yelled at us while swearing when we were lit by his lantern. I told Ludin what had happened to the Russians in this camp. I showed him the block in question and the location of the camp leader who had observed everything. The Russians had a block for them. The dean of the bloc was the last Latvian Minister of War, a general. One day, a Soviet commission came to the camp and demanded the shit of the Russian internees. This file was in the hands of the Latvian general who refused to hand it over and who even forbade access to the bloc to the Soviets. A few days later they returned and demanded from the Americans the extradition of a large number of Russians whose names they gave, claiming that they were deserters from the Red Army; the Latvian general was among the names cited, although he had never served in the Red Army. The extradition attempted by the Americans failed. The Russians barricaded themselves in their barracks, they "mutinied" by resisting violence without violence, declaring that they were going to commit suicide rather than submit to extradition. This happened on the night when we had seen from Natternberg the rockets overhead.

above the Plattling camp. Then a senior American officer arrived and promised the Russians that they would not be handed over to the Soviets, but settled somewhere in southern Europe. The Russians were jubilant; they were allowed to move freely in the camp and some were even allowed to go unsupervised to Plattling to make purchases there. They thought they were safe. “One night,” the camp leader had told me, “I was awakened by a noise I had known from countless Russian nights: the sound of tank chains. I left my barracks and saw the American tanks leave the road and encircle the camp. Concerned, I went to the gate where I saw, lit by the lantern, the American soldiers approaching a mountain of truncheons. Everyone takes one. Then, shod in their "invasion shoes", the rubber boots, they passed noiselessly along the road to the other end of the camp. I ran through the blocks, weaving through the barbed wire dividers. The Americans occupied the block of the Russians. They slipped into the barracks. I learned later that they had always posted themselves two beside each bed. On a siet they began to type, uttering shrill cries; with theirMaksnell! Maksnell!disgusted, they chased the surprised sleepers from their beds and for a moment ceased to rain down blows even at the gate. We put the Russians on the trucks, each of which was followed by a tank. So they left at dawn. » The camp leader added: “The Americans who returned from this expedition seemed very depressed. Our SS harassed them with questions. The Americans never said anything, but this time they hinted. In the Bavarian Forest, on the Czech border, the Russians had been handed over to the Soviets. It was said of certain American soldiers that they had seen Vlassov's Russians hanging from the trees. The SS lined up along the

compounds lining the road to the camp and as soon as they saw an American, they started screaming and thrashing about. They shouted: “Do what you want with us, but what you did to the Russians is the most infamous ignominy in history!” » I ran to the theater to take in the room that the camp leader had wanted to put at my disposal the truncheon he had found in the block of Russians. It was a long stick, hard as iron, with nice grooves, made of a mass of which I could not deny the material, a special wood or super-hard rubber. I showed the truncheon to Ludin and said: "With an instrument like that, Wislowski beat you up!" You don't not recognize? (I shouted:) They saw the Russians hanged and everything goes on as if nothing had happened. For the Americans, the Russians of Vlassov were not patriots who wanted to liberate their fatherland! For the Americans, they were only cowardly deserters, criminals! For Wislowski, you were not the Reich Minister but a simple criminal! The Reich Minister! I don't want them to hang him in Slovakia as if he were a simple criminal, and everything will go on as if nothing had happened! Ludin was very pale. He spoke with difficulty.

"It's not that I don't want to fight for my life!" I will do everything

to prove that our policy in Slovakia was not criminal! And if they have to hang me, I must first testify for the Reich and the men who believed in it! I was exasperated. I felt the evil thought penetrating him more and more. Since we had been in Plattling, he had become more and more isolated, as if he feared that his friends might change his mind. He arrived punctually every morning at the theater, rehearsed, acted and refused no work. But as soon as he had finished it, he retired to his barracks, away from the mediocre agents.

of the Gestapo among whom chance had made him fall. He carved miniatures for his game of chess or lay on his bed with his arms crossed under his head. He was hardly sentimental; only once did he show me pictures of his wife and children. He seemed to particularly like his eldest, Tille, no doubt, because he had the absurd idea that heredity showed itself above all in the eldest son. But whatever he might still hope for, it was obvious that he was detaching himself a little more each day from everything that could have kept him on this earth. Since the "Nuremberg barracks" had been in the camp, the eternal discussion had revived. She had arrived at the last stage, that of the counter-attack. Ludin no longer took part in these discussions, as if they had been able to shake his decision by accounts where the injustice of one answered the injustice of the other. The tireless moderator of the discussion was the Dean of the camp, Count Schwerin-Krosigk4. The fighting-spirited old gentleman collected documents and materials on everything that had happened since May 1945. I sent him people who had specific testimonies to bring. I knew very well that the account injustice against injustice was false. There resulted only one proof: that, wherever a will sets out to transform the world, injustice is inevitable, but it was good to prove it. The Count gives lectures; he strove with all his might to establish everything that had happened here or there. He spoke like an academic historian, with a quiet, pleasant, cultured voice. In sentences chosen and ready for marble, he recounted the unfortunate page, from his entry into the cabinet as a minister, from the days of Brüning to the horror of the n. Under the gloomy lamp, he recounted without raising his voice that he had seen in the Gulf of Flensburg the boats filled with the rotting flesh of the prisoners of the concentration camps; he told without raising the

voices the last days of the German government, the negotiations of capitulation, as a scientist would relate the stages and the conclusions of his research. I in turn told Ludin what I had heard. Baton in hand, I stood near the enclosure, lit by the lantern, and told how the Reich government, Doenitz, Schwerin-Krosigk, the last ministers and secretaries of state, generals and admirals, knowing that all was nor, no longer fought with the Western allies except for the lives of the millions of refugees who came from the East, through the lines of the Americans and the English, and how these lines hardened, closed. Then had begun the diabolical game for the unconditional capitulation which was to penetrate like a violent wedge into the living river of the hunted. And when the last government of the Reich had done everything to carry out the conditions of the capitulation, howling and braying mobs, overexcited, had suddenly entered the premises of the government where were the ministers, secretaries of state, generals and admirals of the Reich with whom, the day before, they had negotiated from power to power, respecting custom; these mobs thrashed them, chasing them through corridors and stairways into the courtyard where photographers were already standing ready. They tore off their pants; the dignity, the majesty of the last human values were blindly and unconditionally dragged through the mud; the government of the Reich, of which only a mass of trembling, tortured and degraded old men remained, fell prey to the hysterical and exultant raillery of the world. negotiated from power to power, respecting customs; these mobs thrashed them, chasing them through corridors and stairways into the courtyard where photographers were already standing ready. They tore off their pants; the dignity, the majesty of the last human values were blindly and unconditionally dragged through the mud; the government of the Reich, of which only a mass of trembling, tortured and degraded old men remained, fell prey to the hysterical and exultant raillery of the world. negotiated from power to power, respecting customs; these mobs thrashed them, chasing them through corridors and stairways into the courtyard where photographers were already standing ready. They tore off their pants; the dignity, the majesty of the last human values were blindly and unconditionally dragged through the mud; the government of the Reich, of which only a mass of trembling, tortured and degraded old men remained, fell prey to the hysterical and exultant raillery of the world. the majesty of the last human values were blindly and unconditionally dragged through the mud; the government of the Reich, of which only a mass of trembling, tortured and degraded old men remained, fell prey to the hysterical and exultant raillery of the world. the majesty of the last human values were blindly and unconditionally dragged through the mud; the government of the Reich, of which only a mass of trembling, tortured and degraded old men remained, fell prey to the hysterical and exultant raillery of the world.

"I don't want to," I yelled, "I don't want the Minister of Reich also sinks in the same mud, in Slovakia! The game is

nor, the others no longer play. Whoever wants to continue to respect the rules is not a hero but a madman! I shook Ludin, I was unleashed. And Ludin says:

"But the Reich is still alive!" As long as a man can think, he stays alive! I wrestled with him like Jacob with the angel, but I stayed with my hip dislocated. The Americans seemed to intend to shake up all the internees, so to speak according to the centrifugal principle, until the elements had separated. No sooner had Plattling been granted internment camp status than the entire camp was transferred to Langwasser. The Polish guards left the doors of the American wagons open. They had not wanted to allow us the transfer of our theater which we thought of transporting in a special wagon; but they ended up giving the authorization with the somewhat enigmatic remark: “Well then, you'll see!…” The SS men who had provided the theater with the lighting and the stage service left with us in another wagon. They amused themselves by counting the opportunities for escape. Every time the train slowed down around a bend, and it happened often, they evaluated, with expert faces, the chances, the infallible chances. When I asked them why they talked about it all the time without really getting started, one of them replied: “But we are so curious! Ludin smiled at me. The train stayed overnight at Langwasser station. While the internees had taken away all the objects they had received or made, and that was no small thing, I had always confined myself to collecting the blankets. With blankets, any hole could be made habitable. I had nine. Ludin wore as always, when he left the camp, his gray suit which gave him

had become too wide. He had in his hand a suitcase he had made himself. I spread a few blankets on the split floor of the wagon, we went to bed covering ourselves with the rest of my blankets. In the night, Ludin suddenly said to me: 'I've often thought about what you said about Hitler (he corrected himself immediately :) from the Führer. I didn't want people to talk about him like that because I didn't want to give the impression that I was looking for such a simple solution to throw all the guilt on him, to hide behind him. The other day, when Kodak read Heine's page describing the scene where he saw the Emperor Napoleon for the first time, I must have thought that France has never fully recovered from this man, that despite the glory of his name throughout the world, true French patriotism cannot consider Napoleon as a great figure in the history of France. I must have thought that already then, a man had risen to weld the unity of Europe and that he failed, that Europe, France, the Revolution, everything failed because the genius was autonomous , too excessive. I must have thought that all his greats, his marshals and his diplomats, were small, great only by him; that the plan was that of Napoleon, not that of France. When I try to realize what I saw in the Führer, I fail to see him as my Napoleon. Certainly, it is he who made me great; the tasks he assigned to me would never have fallen to me in my own strength. Perhaps they were also beyond my strength, I often asked myself the question; but who knows his limits? I just had to give everything I had to master my tasks, that's all a man can do. But that wasn't why I followed him to the end. It was because I believed until the end that you really had to accomplish what I was doing, not because of the greatness of the When I try to realize what I saw in the Führer, I fail to see him as my Napoleon. Certainly, it is he who made me great; the tasks he assigned to me would never have fallen to me in my own strength. Perhaps they were also beyond my strength, I often asked myself the question; but who knows his limits? I just had to give everything I had to master my tasks, that's all a man can do. But that wasn't why I followed him to the end. It was because I believed until the end that you really had to accomplish what I was doing, not because of the greatness of the When I try to realize what I saw in the Führer, I fail to see him as my Napoleon. Certainly, it is he who made me great; the tasks he assigned to me would never have fallen to me in my own strength. Perhaps they were also beyond my strength, I often asked myself the question; but who knows his limits? I just had to give everything I had to master my tasks, that's all a man can do. But that wasn't why I followed him to the end. It was because I believed until the end that you really had to accomplish what I was doing, not because of the greatness of the the tasks he assigned to me would never have fallen to me in my own strength. Perhaps they were also beyond my strength, I often asked myself the question; but who knows his limits? I just had to give everything I had to master my tasks, that's all a man can do. But that wasn't why I followed him to the end. It was because I believed until the end that you really had to accomplish what I was doing, not because of the greatness of the the tasks he assigned to me would never have fallen to me in my own strength. Perhaps they were also beyond my strength, I often asked myself the question; but who knows his limits? I just had to give everything I had to master my tasks, that's all a man can do. But that wasn't why I followed him to the end. It was because I believed until the end that you really had to accomplish what I was doing, not because of the greatness of the

Führer, but because of the German people. No one will be able to challenge me, because no one can read my thoughts; but it is so. I only met him very rarely. I believed that he wanted me well and that he understood me. In everything he said to me, he gave me to believe that he understood me, anticipating, so to speak, my objections as if he already knew them. He had overcome them and had the right to ask me to overcome them in turn. Only once did I meet him, in a tragic situation where not only my life but also my faith was at stake. On June 30, 1934, I was called to Bad Wiessee. Shortly before, I had spoken openly of the hopes we placed in Roehm. On the way, I was stopped with other SA leaders by the Führer's column. We were very surprised to learn what had happened. We were lined up and the Führer reviewed us, one by one, with a look that for the first time I, too, experienced as "magical." Hitler does not say a word. Only, when he was in front of me, he said: "Ludin", in a neutral voice and as if absorbed in his thoughts. I did not know if I was thus condemned to die or to live. I was doomed to live.

Ludin was silent. I knew what he should have said next. Ludin had immediately taken his car to drive his former comrade Scheringer to safety, this comrade who, after the trial of the Reichswehr in Ulm, had joined the Communist Party and whose life was to be extremely threatened after these events. But Ludin said nothing about it. After some time he said: — I haven't found the right measure for him yet. Maybe will I never find her; perhaps even History will never find it. Sometimes I took him for a genius and sometimes I feared that we were led by a madman. Sometimes he seemed demonic to me, sometimes sick. But all this ain't fair no more

than your reference to "lemures". When I try to find a denition, it seems to me that he was "out of the way", a man who couldn't stand the light because he was shadow, because he came and talked about the shadow, pushing back into the shadows all that pushed towards the light... "And despite everything...

"And in spite of everything," interrupted Ludin, "I couldn't detach from him. I only felt that he was a man with a destiny, a man of destiny who had always seemed like a big shadow to me too. And since I wanted to live in the service of the destiny of the Germans, he had to identify with them. I couldn't choose him, he was there; nor could I choose my people, they were there. It was all there, with all the faults and all the weaknesses, and I had to love him with all his faults and all his weaknesses. If I made myself guilty, it was out of love. After a long silence, Ludin added again: "You know, you can break your oath once, and I did that at time, as an officer in the Reichswehr, and it cost me terribly, but you can't break it a second time. - But we must be able, I said diligently, we must! "Come on," said Ludin calmly; you could make a murder, but not a second! The next day we had to line up in front of the train. Ludin and I tried in vain to get to our theater props. The carriage was closed and the sentries turned us back. Our column set off, anchored by the Americans. We started down a concrete road, which led to the camp, and from there the Americans began to push us. They started screaming, then kicking and kicking us. I covered my head with my blankets; they were

heavy and I felt like a walking mushroom. I could only see a tiny bit of the road in front of my feet, but at least I was protected from the blows that I only heard hailing on the blankets with a dull thud. In front of me, an old man fell. His cap was torn off and I recognized Professor Reinhardt, Bayreuth's first violinist. Americans continued to beat him, but two more GIs rushed to pick him up. "Hey, hey, there are some decent guys among them too!" I thought. But the next moment I saw the two charitable soldiers unfasten the violin which the professor had attached to his package. The road was several kilometers long. We were whipped as we passed through the gate. On the wide road to the camp, we had to line up in alphabetical order. A tall, obese lieutenant arrived with a list. It was Lieutenant Kaltenbach, the CIC officer at this camp. For sixteen years he had been a boxing teacher in Chicago; a man of heart and humor. Of course, he had no idea what we had just been through. He would say "My children" and make little jokes when a name on the list seemed to him to be appropriate, and the prisoners, those poor mistreated sausages, laughed! The call lasted for hours. When the letter M was reached, the first group was detached and taken to one of the distant Blocks which lay to the right and left of the camp road. I saw Ludin disappear with the others. Then Mr.

My Block was separated from that of Ludin by a cross street with a double barrier. There was hardly any possibility of passing from one Block to another, nor of penetrating as far as the theatre, a large and very beautiful theater which was in the main Block. Kodak was working on it, I saw it passing by from time to time

on the way to camp. He then made me friendly signs and we chatted for a while. I learned that our theater props had been unloaded and piled up, but left to rot in the rain. The Block where I was staying had a large number of barracks. They were still quite new and almost bare. I was happy with my covers. The only possibility of walking was near the enclosure. I spent hours and hours there. In the evening, after nine o'clock, it was forbidden to leave the barracks. This was particularly painful for old gentlemen who were unsure of their bladders. If they tried to reach the latrines at night, the sentries would shoot. These gentlemen then remained for hours at this place, without daring to leave before dawn. The head of Block complained to the commander. Lieutenant Clifton gave instructions not devoid of humor: sentries were forbidden to fire inside the camp, and every internee had the right to lodge a complaint on condition,firstly, to indicate the exact time;second, to indicate the name of the sentry andthird to bring the casing collected inside the enclosure. In fact, the sentries were no longer shooting, they were throwing stones. The Nuremberg-Langwasser camp finished me off. I was going around in circles, near the enclosure, realizing, with a feeling of shame, that I was exhausted. The hunger started again. In Plattling, we had eaten the leftover food from the prisoners of war. Here the rations became as minimal as in the early days of Natternberg. All thoughts focused on food. All discussion had ceased. The dejected internees lay in the barracks or stood in the waning sun and stared intently at the main food depot of 3earmy, on the other side of the road, where under huge rubber tents, the crates

were piling up. By favorable wind, the sweet scent of dried fruits reached us. The depot was guarded by niggers, kind-hearted boys who got along wonderfully with our SS "You second choice, me second choice," the niggers would say, and they shared with us as much as possible. But they were fearful; if they were caught, their fate was not to be envied. The indefatigable SS had organized a sewer brigade which went through the drains, under the road, as far as the tents and which brought back the stolen crates by the same route. The disappointment was great when they caught, for example, boxes of potato flakes; and one day the camp was flooded with pepper. But these expeditions also took n. A stormy rain filled the drains and some men of the brigade drowned. That camp finished me off. I had nothing to do. I was apathetic and completely indifferent when I was told to come to the Main Block for a "final interrogation". A hundred internees were waiting there. I only knew old Mr. Alinn with whom I entered the camp. But everyone knew me. I had to think back to Mr. Georgy who had said to me one day, in passing: “I know why you organize all this bullshit at the camp! You are looking for the forty thousand readers for your next book! I replied: “The idea is excellent! But why don't you kill me? You should know that if I get out of here alive, I will one day publish all the shit that happened in these camps, giving all the names! He replied with a smile: “Oh! by then none of us will be in the game anymoreArmy!»

Mr. Alinn was called before me. Mr. Kaltenbach leafed through his

file and asked:

"Are you still of the opinion that the Poles have started the war? I was very curious to hear the answer of this stubborn old Westphalian. Mr. Alinn swallowed hard and said: — I must admit that I expressed that opinion. But meanwhile, I have been armed the opposite on several occasions.

- Dumbass ! said Mr. Kaltenbach. Roosevelt started the war! And in 1933 already! You can leave !

I will never allow myself to doubt the word of an American officer. Mr. Kaltenbach addressed me with the question:

"Why didn't you join the party?" "Because I didn't know him well enough!" - Oh ! said Mr. Kaltenbach, we should have released you a while ago.

year already! You can leave ! But I couldn't leave yet. Once again the sieve shook. Only the Waen SS remained in Langwasser. All the others gathered on the road to the camp. I found Ludin, Rotfuchs and Count Schwerin-Krosigk. Kodak remained in Langwasser. On the way to the station, we were beaten and chased away as on the day of our arrival. The carriage doors were closed. Americans guarded us. We almost suffocate in the closeness and the warmth. At the train stops, some particularly amusing GIs had fun filling tin cans with urine and throwing them at us through the skylights. On the way to the camp of Regensburg, we were driven out as on that of Langwasser. The fallen men were picked up by the charitable inhabitants of the suburbs. But soon, a truck came to take them back. In Regensburg as in Nuremberg, we were hungry, but we had more space.

One day I saw jeeps arriving with Czech soldiers. I ran to Ludin. But he already knew. Slowly, a few men, busy with their business, came through the gate, provincial councilors who had served there. We had called their names, Ludin's was not there. Ludin followed them with his eyes and said: - The next time… I daily expected to be released. I was doing absolutely nothing. I no longer even walked along the enclosure. Then the SS from the camp theater asked to see me. They had heard of my activity in Natternberg and Plattling. The theater was in an old factory. The room was wider than long and concrete columns fragmented the view of the stage. But the SS were very proud of it and asked me to take on the noble task of directing...Faust! I say it didn't make sense, since I was going to be released. But the SS burst out laughing, saying: "Everyone believes that!" I was ashamed and accepted.

The next morning, I was called at the gate with all my business: Maksnell! Maksnell! I took nothing. I considered it a matter of honor not to take anything that belonged to the Americans. I distributed all my blankets and put on the gray suit, much too baggy now, that I had on when I was arrested, and my torn and worn shoes. A hundred men were assembled at the gate, the same men who had undergone the "final interrogation" at Nuremberg. We were called in alphabetical order. For each, the procedure lasted about ten minutes. When Mr. Alinn had passed, I asked him to

show me his release certificate. It was a mimeographed sheet, bearing the names of that hundred men and the signature of a Mr. Plummer, Lt. Col. Adjutant General, by Command of Major General Milburn. In mind, there was nothing other than the order to release the interested parties listed below. Raison :Release of erroneous arrestees. So I was released because I had been arrested by mistake. I was going to wait my turn for hours. I galloped back into the camp and rushed to Ludin's. With blankets, he had built a kind of cave that protected him from his neighbors. I found him lying on his bed. I tore the curtain of blankets and said in a breath: - Get up ! Dress yourself ! The Czechs are here! Ludin stood up immediately. He was very pale. I handed him his clothes and he dressed carefully. We did not exchange a word. But when he stood in front of the mirror, pensively passing his hand over his chin as if pondering the usefulness of shaving, I said very quickly: - Leave it, come! We headed for the gate. I say : “Be careful. It is very simple. Presently, when we will call my name, you will shout "Present! ". You take my release certificate. It does not contain any mention of identity. We wear the same suit, Friends don't know you and none of the others will betray you. Also take the money, about eighty marks. This will take you far enough already. You will simply exit through the portal: understood? Ludin stopped, gave me his hand and said:

- You know, you're a good boy ... I interrupted hastily.

"Don't worry about me!" I will wait about eight days. Then, when the staging ofFaustwill stick, I'll simply show up to ask why I haven't been released yet. By then, you will be gone! Ludin still kept my hand in his. He says : - In this case, we will have to separate! "Yes," I said; Well, good luck ! "It will be fine, don't worry... He slipped his arm through mine and said as he continued to walk:

- Later, when you have passed the gate ... I stopped, but I t advance with a gentle pressure. - ... then do not forget me. Don't forget what I'm about to tell you now: I have always acted according to my conscience. It hasn't always been easy, but I will persist! Whatever they might come up with against me, it's nothing that I've really been responsible for. If I have to die, it's not because I'm guilty but because I'm here for the Reich. I'm glad I can do it. Do not forget it ! The pace was faster than I had expected. My name was called. When I walked through the portal, Ludin was no longer where I had left him. I walked along the enclosure, from the outside, on the road. Thousands were inside, watching me. Among them, Ludin, among a thousand masks, a face. A few days later, Hanns Ludin was delivered to Czechoslovakia. The accusation was based on the fact that the separation of Slovakia had not been recognized by international law. The prosecution overlooked the fact that after this separation, a series of great nations had represented themselves by diplomats to the Tiso government. The Soviet Union, in particular, was represented there by a Legation like the Reich, until

outbreak of war between Germany and Russia. The prosecution denied the Reich Minister diplomatic status; she claimed that he had been the agent of an enemy power with a government of traitors. Hanns Ludin was sentenced to death. In Czechoslovakia, people did not execute by hanging, but by strangulation. On January 20, 1948, the rope was put around the neck of Hanns Ludin, who was terribly thin in his far too baggy gray suit. Slowly, the executioner tightened her. Hanns Ludin smiled for twenty minutes. His last words were for his wife, for his son Tille, then the cry: - Long live Germany !

The statements on this form are true and I understand that any omissions or false or incomplete statements are oenses against Military Government and will subject me to prosecution and punishment. THE INDICATIONS MADE ON THIS FORM ARE TRUE. I KNOW EVERYTHING OMISSION OR FALSE OR INCOMPLETE STATEMENT REPRESENTS AN OFFENSE TO MILITARY GOVERNMENT ORDERS AND EXPOSES ME TO PROSECUTION AND SANCTIONS.

Signed/Signature

September 1945 to September 1950

Date/Date

CERTIFICATION OF IMMEDIATE SUPERIOR

(Certify that the above is the true name and signature of the

individual concerned and that, with the exceptions noted below, the answers made on the questionnaire are true to the best of my knowledge and belief and the information available to me. Exceptions[if no exceptions, write “none”.].)

CERTIFICATE FROM THE IMMEDIATE SUPERIOR

I CERTIFY THAT THE ABOVE NAME AND SIGNATURE ARE AUTHENTIC. WITH THE EXCEPTION OF THE FOLLOWING POINTS, THE ANSWERS GIVEN IN THIS QUESTIONNAIRE ARE ACCURATE, AS FAR AS I CAN JUDGMENT FROM MY CONSCIOUSNESS AND MY INFORMATION. EXCEPTIONS: (ENTER “NIL” IF NONE).

See Attachment. Attachment Ernst Rowohlt

Unfortunately, I am not able to enter “nil” there. The author of this Questionnaire has, in several of his answers, doubted his quality as a writer. I believe he is a writer, and even a good writer, and that is precisely what authorizes me to edit Ernst von Salomon's Questionnaire. I would also like to emphasize the fact that, contrary to the author's opinion, I have indeed read all his books, although this is not necessarily my habit vis-à-vis the other authors in my house. I have also read this Questionnaire and acknowledge

that in the passages which speak of the editor of Ernst von Salomon, the sweat beaded on my brow. I see myself in a completely different way. I only console myself with the idea that I also see the author quite differently; and I am convinced that all the characters that appear in this book see each other differently. Obviously, I cannot decide whether the answers given in this questionnaire are correct. But I can decide if they are sincere. As far as I can judge from my conscience and my information, they are sincere. It is an attitude dictated by character; therefore, it is impossible for the reader to subscribe to everything that is said in this Questionnaire. Myself, I am most of the time the last to agree. But thank God I have been looking in vain for forty-three years for an author with whom I can agree in all things. I cannot therefore be of any help either to myself, or to the Military Government, or to all those who play a part in these pages. But as far as the purpose of this book is concerned, I accept no responsibility: I did not invent the Questionnaire!

Signed/Signature

Editor

Social Position Official situation January 15, 1951

Date/Date

MG/PS/G/9a (Rev. 15 May 45).

1. In French in the text (N. d. T.). 2.Zwiebelduft:onion odor (N. d. T.). 3. Goering married secondly actress Emmi Sonnemann. 4. Minister of Finance in the von Papen, Hitler and Doenitz cabinets.

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Original title :

DER FRAGEBOGEN ©Rowohlt Verlag GmbH, Hamburg, 1951. ©Éditions Gallimard, 1953, for the French translation, and 1982, for the preface.

FROM THE SAME AUTHOR

At Editions Gallimard THE CITY, 1933 (The Imaginary noh172). THE QUESTIONNAIRE, 1953 (The Imaginary noh681).

THE DESTINY OF AD A man in the shadow of History, 1963 (L'Imaginaire noh471). THE BEAUTIFUL WILHELMINE, 1967.

ERNST VON SALOMON THE QUESTION SHEET

Translated from the German by Guido Meister Foreword by Joseph Rovan In 1951, when West Germany was still living under the Occupation Statute - less than six years after the collapse of the Hitler regime, less than two only years after the founding of the Federal Republic - a writer who, as a child, had enjoyed great success during the days of the Weimar Republic, and of whom the general public had not heard anything since 1933, published a big novel that very quickly became what, at the time, was not yet called a "bestseller". Ernst von Salomon, the author, was then forty-nine years old.The question sheet appeared as a book of impenitence. The idea of using the outline of the famous questionnaire, drawn up by the Americans to take the former Nazis through the infallible trap of innumerable questions, to tell one's own life story and denounce the imbecility of the victors, to show and demonstrate that they were no better than the vanquished, to denounce the injustices and bad treatment inflicted on the Germans, this idea was if not brilliant, at the very least clever and funny.The question sheetseemed to break with all conformism and raise his indictments against the Nazis as well as against the Americans. Its ambition and its ambiguity made “Fragebogen” the most discussed book, the first really discussed book, of the German post-war period. It was translated into the main languages. The German edition, in its successive forms, exceeded 250,000 copies.

Joseph Rovan

This electronic edition of the book The

question sheetby Ernst von Solomon was carried out on March 25, 2016

by theGallimard Editions. It is based on the paper edition of the same book (ISBN: 9782070770267 - Edition number: 128284). Code sodis: N28536 - ISBN: 9782072281556. Edition number: 199510.

Composition and production of the epub:IGS-CP.