u.” He looked surprised: “As you like.” He pointed to the forest: “If I understood correctly, we should walk a kilometer till we reach a stream, then cross it. Everything beyond it, to the edge of the forest, is ours. Herr Leland will stay on this side.” He set out into the undergrowth. It was quite dense; we had to go around the bushes, it was impossible to walk straight; drops of water streamed from the leaves and splattered onto our hats and hands; on the ground, the dead, wet leaves gave off a strong odor of earth and humus—beautiful, rich, and invigorating, but it brought unhappy memories to my mind. A sudden burst of bitterness invaded me: so this is what they’ve turned me into, I said to myself, a man who can’t see a forest without thinking about a mass grave. A dead branch snapped under my boot. “It’s surprising that you don’t like hunting,” Speer commented. Absorbed in my thoughts, I answered without thinking: “I don’t like killing, Herr Reichsminister.” He gave me a curious look, and I explained: “It’s sometimes necessary to kill out of duty, Herr Reichsminister. Killing for pleasure is a choice.” He smiled: “As for me, thank God, I’ve done nothing but kill for pleasure. I’ve never been to war.” We walked a little more in silence, amid the crackling of branches and the noise of water, soft and discreet. “What were you doing in Russia, Sturmbannführer?” Speer asked. “You served in the Waffen-SS?”—“No, Herr Reichsminister. I was with the SD. In charge of security matters.”—“I see.” He hesitated. Then he said in a calm, detached voice: “We hear a lot of rumors about the fate of the Jews, in the East. You must know something about it?”—“I know the rumors, Herr Reichsminister. The SD collects them and I’ve read the reports. They have many different sources.”—“You must have some idea of the truth, in your position.” Curiously, he made no allusion to the Reichsführer’s Posen speech (I was convinced at the time that he had been there, but maybe he had in fact left early). I answered courteously: “Herr Reichsminister, for a large part of my functions, I’m compelled to secrecy. I think you can understand. If you really want some explanations, might I suggest that you address the Reichsführer or Standartenführer Brandt? I’m sure they’ll be happy to send you a detailed report.” We had reached the stream: the dog, happy, capered about in the shallow water. “Here it is,” Speer said. He pointed to a zone a little farther off: “You see, there, in the hollow, the forest changes. There are evergreens, and fewer alder trees, and some bay shrubs. That’s the best place to flush grouse. If you’re not shooting, stay behind me.” We crossed the stream in long strides; over the hollow, Speer closed his shotgun, which he had been carrying open under his arm, and shouldered it. Then he began walking forward, on the lookout. The dog stayed near him, its tail pointing. After a few minutes I heard a loud noise and saw a large brown shape fly up through the trees; at the same instant, Speer pulled the trigger, but he must have missed the mark, since I could still hear the sound of wings through the echo. Thick smoke and the acrid smell of cordite filled the undergrowth. Speer hadn’t lowered his shotgun, but everything was quiet now. Once again, there was the noise of wings among the wet branches, but Speer didn’t shoot; I hadn’t seen anything, either. The third bird took off right under our noses, I saw it very clearly, it had rather broad wings and a collar of feathers, and twisted through the trees with an agility surprising for its mass, accelerating as it turned; Speer pulled the trigger but the bird was too quick, he hadn’t had time to traverse and the shot went wide. He opened the gun, ejected the casings, blew on it to get rid of the smoke, and pulled two cartridges out of his jacket pocket. “Grouse are very difficult to hunt,” he commented. “That’s why it’s interesting. You have to choose your weapon well. This one is balanced, but a little too long for my taste.” He looked at me, smiling: “In the spring, it’s very beautiful, during the mating season. The cocks clack their beaks, they gather together in clearings to strut and sing, displaying their colors. The females are very dull, as is often the case.” He finished loading his shotgun, then raised it before starting off again. In dense places, he cleared a path for himself between the branches with the barrel of the gun, without ever lowering it. When he flushed another bird, he pulled the trigger right away, a little in front of him; I heard the bird falling and at the same time the dog leaping and disappearing into the brush. It reappeared a few seconds later, the bird in its mouth, the head hanging down. It set it down at Speer’s feet, and he put it away in his bag. A little farther on, we came out into a clearing in the wood covered with yellowing tufts of grass and opening out onto the fields. Speer took out his chocolate bar: “Would you like some?”—“No, thanks. Do you mind if I take the time to smoke a cigarette?”—“Not at all. It’s a good place to rest.” He opened his gun, put it down, and sat down at the foot of a tree, nibbling on his chocolate. I drank a swig of brandy, handed him the flask, and lit a cigarette. The grass I was sitting on was wetting my pants, but I didn’t mind: hat on my knees, I rested my head against the rough bark of the pine tree I was leaning against and contemplated the calm stretch of grass and the silent woods. “You know,” Speer said, “I entirely understand the requirements of security. But more and more they are in conflict with the needs of the war industry. Too many potential workers are not deployed.” I exhaled the smoke before replying: “That’s possible, Herr Reichsminister. But in this situation, with our difficulties, I think priority conflicts are inevitable.”—“But they should be resolved.”—“Indeed. But in the end, Herr Reichsminister, it’s up to the Führer to decide, isn’t it? The Reichsführer is only obeying his orders.” He bit into his chocolate bar again: “You don’t think that the priority, for the Führer, as well as for us, is to win the war?”—“Certainly, Herr Reichsminister.”—“Then why deprive us of precious resources? Every week, the Wehrmacht comes and complains to me that Jewish workers are being taken away from them. And they’re not being redeployed elsewhere, otherwise I’d know it. It’s ridiculous! In Germany, the Jewish question is resolved, and elsewhere, what importance does it have for now? Let’s win the war first; afterward there will always be time to resolve the other problems.” I chose my words carefully: “Perhaps, Herr Reichsminister, some people believe that since the war is taking so long to be won, some problems ought to be resolved right away…” He turned his head to me and stared at me with his keen eyes: “You think so?”—“I don’t know. It’s a possibility. Can I ask you what the Führer says about it when you talk to him?” He bit his lip pensively: “The Führer never talks about these things. Not with me, at least.” He got up and brushed off his pants. “Shall we go on?” I threw away my cigarette, then drank a little more brandy and put the flask away: “Which way?”—“That’s a good question. I’m afraid, if we cross to the other side, we might come across one of our friends.” He looked toward the back of the opening, at the right: “If we go that way, we should come back toward the stream. Then we can go back the way we came.” We started off, walking alongside the edge of the wood; the dog followed us a few steps away, in the wet grass of the meadow. “Actually,” Speer said, “I haven’t thanked you yet for your help. I appreciate it a lot.”—“It’s a pleasure, Herr Reichsminister. I hope it’s useful. Are you satisfied with your new cooperation with the Reichsführer?”—“To tell the truth, Sturmbannführer, I expected more from him. I have already sent him several reports on Gauleiters who refuse to close down useless companies for the sake of war production. But from what I can see, the Reichsführer is content to forward these reports to Reichsleiter Bormann. And Bormann of course always sides with the Gauleiters. The Reichsführer seems to accept it quite passively.” We had reached the end of the clearing and were entering the wood. It began to rain again, a fine, light rain that soaked through our clothes. Speer had fallen silent and was walking with his gun raised, concentrating on the bushes in front of him. We walked along this way for half an hour, to the stream, then retraced our steps diagonally, before returning again to the stream. From time to time I would hear an isolated gunshot farther away, a dull sound in the rain. Speer pulled the trigger four more times and shot a black grouse that had a beautiful ruff of feathers with metallic glints. Soaked to the bone, we crossed the stream again, heading toward the house. A little before the park, Speer spoke to me again: “Sturmbannführer, I have a request. Brigadeführer Kammler is in the process of building an underground installation, in the Harz, for the production of rockets. I would like to visit these installations, to see how the work is coming along. Could you arrange that for me?” Taken by surprise, I replied: “I don’t know, Herr Reichsminister. I haven’t heard about it. But I’ll make the request.” He laughed: “A few months ago, Obergruppenführer Pohl sent me a letter to complain that I’d visited only one single concentration camp and that I had formed my opinion about prisoner labor employment with too little information. I’ll send you a copy. If they make difficulties for you, just show them that.”