I left the reception around eight o’clock, on Brandt’s orders, without managing to say a proper goodbye to Dr. Mandelbrod, deep in discussion. With several other officers, I was driven to the Posen Hotel so I could pick up my things, then to the train station, where the Reichsführer’s special train was waiting for us. Once again, I had a private cabin, but of much more modest dimensions than in Dr. Mandelbrod’s car, with a tiny couchette. This train, called Heinrich, was extraordinarily well designed: in front, along with the Reichsführer’s personal armored cars, were cars made into offices and into a mobile communications center, all of them protected by flatcars equipped with antiaircraft weaponry; the entire Reichsführung-SS, if necessary, could keep working on the move. I didn’t see the Reichsführer get in; a little while after we arrived, the train started off; this time there was a window in my cabin, so I could put out the light and, sitting in the dark, contemplate the night, a beautiful, clear fall night, lit by stars and a crescent moon that shed a fine metallic gleam over Poland’s poor landscape. From Posen to Cracow it’s about four hundred kilometers; with the many stops required by alerts or blockages, we arrived long after dawn; awake already and sitting on my couchette, I watched the gray plains and potato fields slowly turn pink. At the Cracow train station, an honor guard was waiting for us, led by the Generalgouverneur, with a red carpet and a brass band; from a distance I saw Frank, surrounded by young Polish women in national dress carrying baskets of hothouse flowers, give the Reichsführer a German salute that almost made the seams of his uniform burst, then exchange a few animated words with him before they were swallowed up by an enormous sedan. We were given rooms in a hotel at the foot of the Wawel; I bathed, shaved carefully, and sent one of my uniforms to the cleaners. Then, strolling through the sunny, beautiful old streets of Cracow, I headed toward the HSSPF’s offices, where I sent a telex to Berlin to ask for news of my project’s progress. At midday, I attended the official lunch as a member of the Reichsführer’s delegation; I was seated at a table with several SS and Wehrmacht officers, as well as minor civil servants of the Generalgouvernement; at the main table, Bierkamp sat next to the Reichsführer and the Generalgouverneur, but I had no opportunity to go over and greet him. The conversation centered on Lublin, with Frank’s men confirming the rumor, in the GG, that Globocnik had been fired because of the epic scale of his embezzlements: according to one version, the Reichsführer even wanted to have him arrested and tried, as an example, but Globocnik had prudently accumulated a large number of compromising documents, and had used them to negotiate an almost golden retreat for himself to his native coast. After the banquet there were speeches, but I didn’t wait and went back to town to make my report to Brandt, who had established himself at the HSSPF’s. There wasn’t much to say: aside from the D III, which had immediately said yes, we were still waiting for the opinions of the other departments as well as the RSHA. Brandt told me to speed things up as soon as I returned: the Reichsführer wanted the project to be ready by midmonth.
For the evening reception, Frank had not skimped. An honor guard, swords in hand, uniforms streaming with gold stripes, formed a diagonal line across the main courtyard of the Wawel; on the stairway, other soldiers presented arms at every third step; at the entrance to the ballroom, Frank himself, in an SA uniform and flanked by his wife, a stout woman with her white flesh bursting out of a monstrous green velvet concoction, was welcoming his guests. The Wawel gleamed with all its lights: from the town you could see it sparkling atop its cliff; garlands of electric lightbulbs decorated the tall columns surrounding the courtyard, and soldiers, posted behind the guard of honor, held torches; and if you left the ballroom to stroll in the loggias, the courtyard looked as if it were circled by flaming rings, a well of light at the bottom of which the parallel rows of torches gently roared; on the other side of the palace, from the immense balcony jutting out of its flank, the city, below the guests’ feet, stretched out dark and silent. On a stage at the back of the main hall, an orchestra was playing Viennese waltzes; the GG officials had brought their wives; some couples were dancing, others were drinking, laughing, digging into the hors d’oeuvres on the overloaded tables, or, like me, studying the crowd. Aside from some colleagues from the Reichsführer’s delegation, I didn’t recognize many people. I examined the coffered, multicolored ceiling made of precious wood, with a polychrome head in relief set into each square—bearded soldiers, hat-wearing burghers, feathered courtiers, coquettish ladies—all contemplating vertically, impassive, the strange invaders below them. Beyond the main staircase, Frank had had other rooms opened, each one with a buffet, armchairs, sofas, for those who wanted to rest or be quiet. Large, handsome ancient carpets broke the harmonious perspectives of the black-and-white tiled floor, muting the footsteps that resounded elsewhere on marble. Two helmeted guards, swords drawn and held in front of their noses like English Horse Guards, framed each door leading from one room to the other. Glass of wine in hand, I wandered through these rooms, admiring the friezes, the ceilings, the paintings; the Poles, alas, had at the beginning of the war taken away Sigismond Augustus’s famous Flemish tapestries: they were said to be in England, or even Canada, and Frank had often denounced what he regarded as the looting of the Polish cultural heritage. Bored, I finally joined a group of SS officers talking about the fall of Naples and Skorzeny’s exploits. I listened to them absentmindedly, for a curious noise had come to capture my attention, a kind of rhythmic scraping noise. It grew closer and I looked around; I felt a bump against my boot and lowered my eyes: a multicolored pedal car, driven by a handsome blond child, had just rammed into me. The child was looking at me severely without saying anything, his chubby little hands gripping the steering wheel; he must have been four or five, and wore a pretty little houndstooth suit. I smiled, but he still didn’t say anything. Then I understood and stepped aside with a little bow; still silent, he began again to pedal furiously, heading toward a neighboring room and disappearing between the caryatid guards. A few minutes later I heard him come back: he was charging straight ahead without paying attention to people, who had to step out of his way. Having reached a buffet, he paused and extricated himself from his vehicle to get a piece of cake; but his little arm was too short; even standing on tiptoe he couldn’t reach anything. I went over and asked: “Which do you want?” Still silent, he pointed to a Sacher torte. “Do you speak German?” I asked him. He looked indignant: “Of course I speak German!”—“So you should have learned to say