Until the Ostfront stabilizes… Captain Günther kept saying now. He had begun registering Jewish property in the last marches of Bohemia. The former owners marched past Prague’s powder-tower, whose bas-reliefs of matronly virgins and froglike knights were all black and old. Then off they went to Theresienstadt, to wait until Auschwitz’s ovens had room for them. As for Gerstein, he grew haggard trying to learn the contents of more secret documents. This was his honor, you might say. His comrades were disappointed, because he couldn’t find time to accompany them to the cinema to see Lisca Malbran. Mostly he shuttled between Prague and Berlin, but I seem to see him at Dachau, where Russian prisoners got frozen for experimental purposes, their falling body temperatures being measured with rectal thermometers; and he was likewise at Birkenau, where his 
comrades collected the most interesting skulls of Jewish-Bolshevik commissars, coding them, then affixing labels as colorful as Mussolini’s decorations. (There was Berthe again. Her eyes resembled those of the Italian princess who died in the brothel of Buchenwald.) I find him pacing the sidewalk below the Deutsches Haus in Prague, with wreaths and swastika buntings fading moment by moment above his head; now here came the transport: fifteen Green Minnas whose barred high windows showed him only darkness; he knew from experience that as many as fifty prisoners could be packed in, if their packers didn’t care about a few suffocations, so that meant that a possible seven hundred and fifty more victims of Hitler had just now (at 1145 hours) passed this street corner and vanished while he’d pretended not to count them; they must be bound for the Petschek Palace, where the Gestapo operated; his quest called him there to observe the incoming traffic, but moderation forbade him. Traversing and transecting Europe Central with his top-secret manifests for the delivery of Zyklon B, he sometimes had time to inhale the gloomy yet somehow satisfying smell of old church-stone soaked with five hundred years’ worth of incense, breath, and the steam from fresh-baked sacred bread. Instead of relief, his prayers brought him only desperation. How could he deny that with knowledge came sin and death, that his quest to learn the truth had infected him with horror, that he was now an accomplice until he saved the Jews?—But he had clean hands.
In 8.42, his horrid visions like heel-claps echoing in an old church, he sought out the Papal Nuncio in Berlin to bear witness. Monsignor Orsenigo would not see him, perhaps on account of the Siegrunen flashing on a shield on the side of his dark helmet. Leave bad manners to their own quarrel, his father always used to say, but Kurt Gerstein, who still had much to learn, persisted until they begged him to go away in God’s name. When he emerged from the legation, pale and twitching, a policeman began to follow him, and then another policeman on a bicycle came after the first. He changed direction, ducking around a wall whose poster, a little torn and grimy, for it was last month’s “Word of the Week,” displayed the compulsory Jewish star, with the explanation Who wears this symbol is an enemy of our people. The two policemen continued to follow him. His first thought was to knock on Bishop Dibelius’s door, but he disdained implicating anybody in his own doom. (What I can do is almost nothing, Dibelius had said.) Desperately he leaped aboard a tram and rode three stops toward Wannsee; that was how he shook them. (Captain Wirth dined with him at Auschwitz and said: You need stronger nerves, my friend.)
He paid a call on the Swiss press attaché, who sniffed at him and said: Of course I’ll relay your story to the bureau, Herr Gerstein. But in the first place, it’s unbelievable; and in the second place, if you take a look at the map of central Europe, you’ll see that Switzerland is not a very large country, but the Reich is growing all the time, so please don’t expect to read your anecdote in the newspapers tomorrow.—Gerstein turned on his heel.
Once more he attempted to meet with Monsignor Orsenigo, but that gentleman, they told him, was away at the Vatican. So at extreme peril to himself he conveyed a note to Dr. Winter, legal adviser of the Archishop of Berlin. There came no answer.
Day after day, dangerously neglecting his own duties, he paced before the gates of the Swedish embassy until he saw Baron von Otter emerge. Frau Hedwig’s twins expected him to come and speak to their Hitler Youth chapter on the topic of German chivalry, but he was going to be late. At the corner, two Gestapo men sat in a Mercedes-Benz watching. Gerstein rushed at his acquaintance, wrung his hand, asked in a quivering voice whether anything had come of the story he’d told.—Of course I made a report, his acquaintance replied, glancing at the Mercedes uneasily. It has already had a great influence on the relations between Sweden and Germany.
Thanks be to God!
And now please excuse me, Obersturmführer Gerstein. I must attend to my official duties…
Baron, I beg to inform you that they’re now opening all the mass graves in the East, to destroy the evidence. Write this down, please: -Standartenführer Paul Blobel is their incineration expert—
Herr Obersturmführer, are you insane? Those men over there—
That winter they were in a broken-windowed, sandbag-walled nightclub in Minsk, a city now belonging to our Reich, which was why with the exception of certain specialists who were needed for the war effort the Jews there had already been apprehended and rendered harmless, and Gerstein, who to the astonishment of his comrades had just declined the present of a huge glass jar of malt syrup, which his wife would have gratefully received, was thinking: What is my life? A lovely blonde R-girl who’s so slender I could wrap my arm around her waist twice, she lounges against the wall or carefully squats down to pass tiny cold transparent glasses of “Kazakhstan” vodka to the Wehrmacht officers who are playing billiards in the sunken room; she is glowing with her youth, burning her youth instant by instant, wasting it here. What should she be doing with it? What should I have done with mine? Mine is gone, burned out. And she is as slender and blonde as this candle she’s lit for me, the candle with its slender blonde flame which ever so gently sways as her head does, its expression as unreadable as hers. She’s Aryan; she’s one of us; she’s beautiful; she should be with one of us. That’s what they say. But the flame eats the candle whether it touches another wick or not. (Don’t you want to watch the show, Gerstein? We’re just about to cram the gas chamber full of naked women!—But they seem so innocent!—Ha, ha! How sly they are!—And his heart screamed out; far away, in Kuibyshev, Shostakovich heard the scream in his nightmares and saved it for Opus 110.) She squats down, and places another vodka glass on the ledge by the billiard-players. The liquid trembles. It’s clearer than ice, more silver than water. Her face is blank. Is she bored or afraid? She wants to go home. If she had enough to eat I suppose she wouldn’t be here. Then what would she do with her beauty? Does she even know? It’s night, and the snow is dark and dirty outside—snow in the shell-cratered streets, dark houses plastered with tattered eagle-and-swastika announcements of regulations and reprisals, then more snow, frozen garbage, swastika buntings flapping and creaking unseen in the night wind, and somewhere, probably in a narrow alley heaped roof-high with rubble, Berthe’s ghost glides, forever invisible to those shivering, blue-faced German soldiers who await another grey dawn. She’s not Berthe; I know that. She lays her hand upon her cheek. She gazes down at the billiards. I expect her to yawn. Her hips barely bell out. Her legs seem to come all the way up to her chest. Her breasts are modest but firm. She’s streamlined like a German airplane. This blonde woman-metal shoots through the air, consuming itself with a magnesium flame. The flame is steady. She faintly smiles. A player whirls his billiard stick like a propeller; he would fly, too, if he could, but he’s too fat and old. Youth will win. Youth is her firm, almost flat buttocks which swell out from her only with the most subtle and aerodynamic roundedness. And her face—a fully perfect blank blonde stone! Those Greek caryatids, they’re female without being human. That’s what she is. Maybe I don’t want to be human. I want to be her. I want to eat her like caviar. But if I could eat her goodness, it would only melt away on my tongue.