Three days before New Year’s Day there was a heavy snow, and this time the snow stuck. Inspired by his Christmas party success, Thomas decided to re-invite everyone: “Might as well take advantage of this shack before it burns down too.” I asked Helene to tell her parents she’d come home late, and it was a really wonderful party. A little before midnight, the whole gang armed itself with Champagne and baskets of Dutch oysters and set out on foot for the Grunewald. Beneath the trees, the snow lay virgin and pure; the sky was clear, lit by an almost full moon, which shed a bluish light on the white expanses. In a clearing, Thomas cracked open the Champagne—he had supplied himself with a real cavalry saber, taken down from the wall of our weapons hall—and the less clumsy ones struggled to open the oysters, a delicate and dangerous art for those who don’t have the knack. At midnight, instead of fireworks, the Luftwaffe artillerymen lit their searchlights, launched flares, and shot off some .88-millimeter rounds. This time, Helene kissed me outright, not for long, but a strong, happy kiss that sent a rush of fear and pleasure through my limbs. Surprising, I said to myself as I drank to hide my confusion, I who thought no sensation was foreign to me, now a woman’s kiss overwhelms me. The others were laughing, throwing snowballs at each other and swallowing oysters from the shell. Hohenegg, who kept a moth-eaten shapka planted on his bald, oval head, had turned out to be the most skillful of the shuckers: “That or a thorax, they’re pretty much the same thing,” he laughed. Schellenberg had gashed the entire base of his thumb, and was bleeding quietly onto the snow, drinking Champagne, without anyone thinking to bandage it. Seized with happiness, I began running around and throwing snowballs too; the more we drank, the more frenzied the game became—we tackled one another by the legs, as in rugby, rammed fistfuls of snow down each other’s necks, our coats were soaking, but we didn’t feel the cold. I pushed Helene into the powdery snow, stumbled, and collapsed next to her; lying on her back, her arms stretched out in the snow, she laughed; when she fell, her long skirt had ridden up, and without thinking, I rested my hand on her bare knee, protected only by a stocking. She turned her head to me and looked at me, still laughing. Then I removed my hand and helped her get up. We didn’t go back until after we’d emptied the last bottle; we had to hold back Schellenberg, who wanted to shoot at the empties; walking in the snow, Helene held my arm. In the house, Thomas gallantly gave up his bedroom as well as the guest room to the tired girls, who fell asleep still dressed, three to a bed. I ended the night playing chess and discussing Augustine’s Trinity with Hohenegg, who had dunked his head in cold water and was drinking tea. So began the year 1944.
Speer hadn’t gotten back in touch with me since the visit to Mittelbau; in the beginning of January, he called to wish me a happy New Year and to ask me a favor. His ministry had submitted a request to the RSHA to forego deportation of a few Jews from Amsterdam, specialists in metals purchasing with precious contacts in neutral countries; the RSHA had refused the request, pleading the deterioration of the situation in Holland and the need to appear especially severe there. “It’s ridiculous,” Speer said to me in a voice heavy with fatigue. “What risk can three Jews dealing in metals pose to Germany? Their services are precious to us right now.” I asked him to send me a copy of the correspondence, promising to do my best. The refusal letter from the RSHA was signed by Müller but bore the dictation mark IV B 4a. I telephoned Eichmann and began by wishing him a happy New Year. “Thank you, Obersturmbannführer,” he said with his curious blend of Austrian and Berlin accents. “Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.” Then I explained Speer’s problem to him. “I didn’t have anything to do with it myself,” said Eichmann. “It must have been Hauptsturmführer Moes, he’s in charge of individual cases. But of course he’s right. Do you know how many requests we receive like that? If we said yes every time, we might as well just close up shop, we couldn’t touch a single Jew.”—“I understand, Obersturmbannführer. But this is a request from the Minister of Armaments and War Production in person.”—“Yeah. It must be their guy in Holland who’s a little overeager, and then little by little it reached the Minister. But it’s all just about interdepartmental rivalry. No, you know, we can’t agree. What’s more, the situation in Holland is rotten. There are all sorts of groups wandering around free, it just won’t do.” I insisted some more, but Eichmann was obstinate. “No. If we agree, you know, people will just say again that besides the Führer there isn’t a single anti-Semite of conviction left among the Germans. It’s impossible.”
What could he have meant by that? In any case, Eichmann couldn’t decide on his own, and he knew it. “Listen, send it to us in writing,” he ended up saying grudgingly. I decided to write directly to Müller, but Müller told me the same thing: they couldn’t make any exceptions. I was hesitant to ask the Reichsführer; I decided to contact Speer again, to see how much he really needed these Jews. But at the ministry they told me he was on sick leave. I made inquiries: he had been hospitalized in Hohenlychen, the SS hospital where I had been treated after Stalingrad. I found a bouquet of flowers and went to see him. He had requisitioned an entire suite in the private wing and had installed his personal secretary and some assistants there. The secretary told me that an old inflammation of the knee had flared up after a Christmas trip to Lapland; his condition was worsening, Dr. Gebhardt, the famous knee specialist, thought it was a rheumatoid inflammation. I found Speer in a wretched mood: “Obersturmbannführer, it’s you. Happy New Year. So?” I explained to him that the RSHA was maintaining its position; possibly, I suggested, if he saw the Reichsführer, he could have a word with him about it. “I think the Reichsführer has other fish to fry,” he replied abruptly. “So do I. I have to run my ministry from here, as you can see. If you can’t resolve the matter yourself, drop it.” I stayed a few more minutes, then withdrew: I could feel I was in the way.
His condition did in fact deteriorate rapidly; when I called back a few days later to ask after him, his secretary informed me that he wasn’t taking any phone calls. I made a few calls: apparently he was in a coma, close to death. I found it strange that an inflammation of the knee, even a rheumatoid one, could reach that point. Hohenegg, to whom I talked about it, had no opinion. “But if he passes away,” he added, “and if they let me do an autopsy, I’ll tell you what he had.” I too had other fish to fry. The night of January 30, the English inflicted on us their worst air raid since November; I lost my windows again, and part of my balcony collapsed. The next day, Brandt summoned me and informed me, amiably, that the SS-Gericht had asked the Reichsführer for permission to investigate me in connection with my mother’s murder. I reddened and leaped out of my seat: “Standartenführer! That business is a disgrace born from the sick minds of careerist policemen. I’m willing to accept an investigation to clear my name of all suspicion. But in that case, I ask to be put on leave until I’m found innocent. It would be inappropriate for the Reichsführer to keep a man suspected of such a horror in his personal staff.”—“Calm down, Obersturmbannführer. No decision has been made yet. Tell me what happened instead.” I sat down and recounted the events, sticking to the version I had given the policemen. “It’s my visit to Antibes that’s made them crazy. It’s true that my mother and I had been on bad terms for a long time. But you know what kind of wound I received in Stalingrad. Being so close to death makes you think: I said to myself that we had to settle things between us once and for all. Unfortunately she’s the one who died, in a horrible, unexpected way.”—“And how do you think it happened?”—“I have no idea, Standartenführer. I began working for the Reichsführer soon afterward, and I haven’t returned there. My sister, who went to the funeral, mentioned terrorists, a settling of accounts; my stepfather supplied a number of items to the Wehrmacht.”—“That’s unfortunately entirely possible. This sort of thing is happening more and more often, in France.” He pinched his lips and tilted his head, making the light play on his glasses. “Listen, I think the Reichsführer will want to talk with you before he makes a decision. In the meantime, allow me to suggest that you visit the judge who wrote the request. It’s Judge Baumann, of the Berlin SS and Police Court. He’s a perfectly honorable man: if you really are the victim of special malice, maybe you can convince him of that yourself.”