Völkerschauplatz?”—“On a commercial basis. Only the research institute will receive government subsidies. For the park itself, we will create a public corporation to raise capital by subscription. Once the initial investment is amortized, the entry fees will cover the cost of upkeep. I looked into the Hagenbeck exhibitions: they made considerable profits. The Paris Jardin d’Acclimatation regularly lost money until its director organized ethnological exhibits of Nubians and Eskimos, in 1877. The first year, they drew a million paying visitors. That continued until the Great War.” The Reichsführer was nodding: “A fine idea.” He examined the model up close; Frank pointed out a detail to him from time to time. The little boy had begun to squirm, so I put him down: he got into his pedal car and fled out the door. The guests were also leaving. In one of the rooms, I found Bierkamp, as unctuous as always, with whom I talked a little. Then I went out to smoke under the colonnade, admiring the baroque splendor of the illuminations, of the martial, barbaric guard who seemed specially designed to bring out the gracious forms of the palace. “Good evening,” a voice next to me said. “It’s impressive, isn’t it?” I turned around and recognized Osnabrugge, the friendly civil engineer I had met in Kiev. “Hello! What a nice surprise.”—“Ah, there’s been a lot of water under the destroyed bridges of the Dnieper.” He was holding a glass of red wine and we toasted our meeting. “So,” he asked, “what brings you to the Frankreich?”—“I’m with the Reichsführer. And you?” His nice oval face took on a look that was both mischievous and knowing: “State secret!” He creased his eyes and smiled: “But to you, I can say it: I’m on a mission for the OKH. I’m preparing demolition programs for the bridges in the districts of Lublin and Galicia.” I looked at him, stunned: “For what earthly reason?”—“In the event of a Soviet advance, you know.”—“But the Bolsheviks are on the Dnieper!” He rubbed his pug nose; his pate, I noticed, had grown much balder. “They crossed it today,” he finally said. “They also took Nevel.”—“But that’s still far away. We’ll stop them first. Don’t you think your preparations are a little defeatist?”—“Not at alclass="underline" it’s foresight. A quality still prized by the military, I assure you. But in any case I’m just doing what I’m told. I did the same thing in Smolensk in the spring and in Byelorussia during the summer.”—“And what does a bridge demolition program consist of, can you explain it to me?” He looked mournfuclass="underline" “Oh, it’s not very complicated. Local engineers write up studies of each bridge to be demolished; I look them over, approve them, and afterward we calculate the necessary amount of explosives for the whole area, the number of detonators, et cetera, then we decide where and how to store them, on-site; finally we outline the different stages that will allow local commanders to know exactly when and where they should set the explosives, when they should set up the detonators, and under what conditions they should press the button. A plan, you know. So in case anything crops up, we wouldn’t have to leave the bridges for the enemy because we didn’t have anything on hand to blow them up.”—“And you still haven’t built any?”—“Unfortunately not! My mission in the Ukraine was my downfalclass="underline" the chief engineer of the OKHG South liked my report on Soviet demolitions so much that he forwarded it to the OKH. I was recalled to Berlin and promoted to the Demolitions Department—just for bridges, there are other sections that take care of factories, railroads, roads; airfields are the Luftwaffe’s responsibility, but occasionally we hold conferences together. So since then, that’s all I’ve been doing. All the bridges on the Manych and the lower Don, that’s me. The Donets, the Desna, the Oka, that’s me too. I’ve already had hundreds blown up. It’s enough to make you cry. My wife is happy, because I’ve gone up in rank”—he tapped his epaulettes: in fact, he had been promoted several times since Kiev—“but it breaks my heart. Every time I feel as if I’m killing a child.”—“You shouldn’t take it that way, Herr Oberst. After all, they’re just Soviet bridges.”—“Yes, but if it keeps up, someday they’ll be German bridges.” I smiled: “That’s really defeatism.”—“I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m filled with discouragement. Even when I was little, I liked to build things, when all my classmates just wanted to break them.”—“There’s no justice. Come, let’s go in and fill our glasses.” In the main hall, the orchestra was playing Liszt and some couples were still dancing. Frank was sitting around a table with Himmler and his Staatsekretär Bühler, talking animatedly and drinking coffee and Cognac; even the Reichsführer, who was smoking a fat cigar, had, contrary to his custom, a full glass in front of him. Frank was leaning forward, his moist gaze already misted over by alcohol; Himmler was frowning stiffly: he must have disapproved of the music. I clinked glasses again with Osnabrugge while the piece came to an end. When the orchestra stopped, Frank, his glass of Cognac in hand, got up. Looking at Himmler, he declared in a voice that was strong but too shrilclass="underline" “My dear Reichsführer, you must know the popular old quatrain: Clarum regnum Polonorum / Est coelum Nobiliorum / Paradisum Judeorum / Et infernum Rusticorum. The nobles disappeared a long time ago, and now, thanks to our efforts, the Jews too; the peasantry, in the future, will only grow richer and will bless us; and Poland will be the Heaven and Paradise of the German people, Coelum et Paradisum Germanorium.” His shaky Latin made a woman standing nearby titter; Frau Frank, sprawling not far from her husband like a Hindu idol, glared at her. Impassive, his eyes cold and inscrutable behind his little pince-nez, the Reichsführer raised his glass and wet his lips with it. Frank walked around the table, crossed the hall, and leaped nimbly onto the stage. The pianist jumped up and disappeared; Frank slid into his place and, with a deep breath, shook his long, chubby white hands over the keyboard, then began to play a Chopin Nocturne. The Reichsführer sighed; he blinked rapidly and puffed vigorously on his cigar, which was threatening to go out. Osnabrugge leaned toward me: “In my opinion, the Generalgouverneur is teasing your Reichsführer on purpose. Don’t you think?”—“That would be a little childish, wouldn’t it?”—“He’s annoyed. They say he tried to resign last month, and that the Führer refused again.”—“If I understood right, he doesn’t control much here.”—“According to my Wehrmacht colleagues, nothing at all. Poland is a Frankreich ohne Reich. Or rather ohne Frank.”—“In short, a little prince rather than a king.” That said, aside from the choice of music—even if you have to play Chopin, there are surely better things than the Nocturnes—Frank played pretty well, but used too much pedal. I looked at his wife, whose shoulders and chest, fat and flushed, were gleaming with sweat in her low-cut dress: her little eyes, set deep into her face, shone with pride. The boy seemed to have disappeared, I hadn’t heard the obsessive rolling of his pedal car for some time. It was getting late, some guests were taking their leave; Brandt had gone over to the Reichsführer and, calmly contemplating the scene with his birdlike attentive face, was standing at the ready. I scribbled my telephone numbers into a notebook, tore out the sheet, and gave it to Osnabrugge. “Here. If you’re in Berlin, call me, we’ll go out for a drink.”—“Are you leaving?” I pointed to Himmler with my chin, and Osnabrugge raised his eyebrows: “Ah. Good night, then. It was a pleasure seeing you again.” Onstage, Frank was concluding his piece, nodding to the beat. I made a face: even for Chopin, it wouldn’t do, the Generalgouverneur was really overdoing the legato.