I spent a lot of time with Partenau now. Sexually, he left me with an uncertain impression. His rigor and his National Socialist and SS enthusiasm could turn out to be an obstacle; but deep down, I felt, his desire must not have been more oriented than anyone else’s. In high school I had quickly learned that there was no homosexuality, as such; the boys made do with what there was, and in the army, as in prisons, it was certainly the same. Of course, since 1937, the date of my brief arrest for the Tiergarten affair, the official attitude had grown considerably harsher. The SS seemed particularly targeted. The previous autumn, when I arrived in Kharkov, the Führer had signed a decree, “On the Maintenance of Purity Within the SS and the Police,” condemning to death any SS man or police employee who engaged in indecent behavior with another man or even permitted himself to be abused. This decree, out of fear it might give rise to misinterpretation, had not been published, but in the SD we had been informed of it. For my part, I thought it was mostly rhetorical posturing; in actual fact, if you stayed discreet, there were rarely any problems. It all depended on not compromising yourself with a personal enemy; but I didn’t have any personal enemies. Partenau, however, must have been influenced by the hysterical rhetoric of the Schwarzes Korps and other SS publications. But my intuition told me that if one could provide him with the necessary ideological framework, the rest would come on its own.
It wasn’t necessary to be subtle: it was just a question of being methodical. In the afternoons, occasionally, if there was some free time, we would go out and walk about town, strolling through the little streets or along the quays lined with palm trees; then we would go sit in a café and drink a glass of Crimean muscatel, a little sweet to my taste, but pleasant. On the esplanade, we met mostly Germans, sometimes accompanied by girls; as for the men of the region, aside from a few Tatars or Ukrainians wearing the white armband of the Hiwis, we didn’t see any; in January, in fact, the Wehrmacht had evacuated the entire male population, first to transit camps, then to the Nikolayev Generalkommissariat: a radical solution indeed to the problem of partisans, but it must be acknowledged that with all those wounded or convalescent soldiers, they couldn’t take any risks. Before springtime, there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment, aside from the theater, or some movies arranged by the Wehrmacht. Even bacilli fall asleep in Yalta, wrote Chekhov, but this slow boredom suited me. Sometimes several other young officers joined us, and we would go sit on a café terrace overlooking the sea. If we found one—provisions from the requisitioned supplies were ruled by mysterious laws—we’d order a bottle of wine; along with the muscatel, there was a red Portwein, just as sweet but suited to the climate. Talk centered on the local women sadly deprived of husbands, and Partenau didn’t seem indifferent to this. In the midst of bursts of laughter, one of the bolder officers would accost some young women and, talking gibberish, invite them to join us; sometimes they blushed and went on their way, and sometimes they came and sat down; Partenau, then, cheerfully joined in on a conversation made up mainly of gestures, onomatopoeia, and isolated words. This had to be cut short. “Meine Herren, I don’t want to be a spoilsport,” I began on one of these occasions. “But I should warn you of the risks you’re running.” I rapped sharply a few times on the table. “In the SD, we receive and synthesize all the reports on incidents in the rear zones of the Wehrmacht. That gives us an overview of problems that you can’t have. I should tell you that having relations with Soviet, Ukrainian, or Russian women is not only unworthy of a German soldier, but dangerous. I’m not exaggerating. Many of these females are Jews, whose Jewish origins can’t be seen; that by itself is already risking Rassenschande, racial soiling. But there’s something else. Not only the Jewesses but also Slav females are in league with the partisans; we know that they make unscrupulous use of their physical advantages, and our soldiers’ trust, for espionage. You might think you can hold your tongue, but I can tell you that there’s no such thing as a harmless detail, and the work of an intelligence service consists of creating giant mosaics from minuscule elements that are insignificant if taken individually but, when connected to thousands of others, make sense. The Bolsheviks don’t go about it any differently.” My pronouncements seemed to be putting my comrades ill at ease. I continued. “In Kharkov, in Kiev, we had many cases of men and officers who slipped off to a rendezvous and were found horribly mutilated. And then of course there are the diseases. Our health services believe, based on Soviet statistics, that ninety percent of Russian females are afflicted with gonorrhea, and fifty percent with syphilis. Many of our soldiers are already infected; and these men, when they go home on leave, contaminate their wives or their girlfriends; the medical services of the Reich are horrified, and are talking of an epidemic. Such a profanation of the race, if it isn’t violently combated, can lead in the end only to a form of Entdeutschung, a de-Germanizing of our race and our blood.”
My speech had visibly affected Partenau. I didn’t add anything else; it was enough to disturb him a little. The next day, when I was reading in the sanatorium’s beautiful park of cypresses and fruit trees, he came to find me: “Tell me, do you really believe what you were saying yesterday?”—“Of course! It’s nothing but the truth.”—“But then how do you think we should manage? You understand…” He blushed, he was embarrassed but wanted to speak. “You understand,” he went on, “soon we’ll have been here for a year, without going back to Germany, it’s really hard. A man has needs.”—“I understand very well,” I replied in a learned tone. “All the more so since masturbation, according to all the specialists, also involves grave risks. Of course, some people argue it is only a symptom of mental illness, and never the cause; others, however, like the great Sachs, are convinced it’s a pernicious habit that leads to degeneracy.”—“You know your medicine,” Partenau said, impressed.—“I’m not a professional, of course. But I’m interested in it, I’ve read some books.”—“And what are you reading now?” I showed him the cover: “The Symposium. Have you read it?”—“I must confess I haven’t.” I closed it and held it out to him: “Take it. I know it by heart.”
The weather was getting warmer; soon we could go swimming, but the sea was still cold. You could sense spring in the air and everyone impatiently awaited its arrival. I brought Partenau to visit Nicholas II’s summer palace in Livadia, burned out during the fighting, but still imposing with its regular and asymmetrical façades and its beautiful Florentine and Arabic-style courtyards. From there we climbed the Sunny Path that leads, between the trees, to a headland overhanging Oreanda; one has a magnificent view of the coast there, of the tall, still snow-covered mountains dominating the road to Sebastopol and, way down below, of the elegant building made of white Crimean granite we had set out from, still black from the smoke but luminous in the sunlight. The day promised to be magnificent, the walk to the headland had us dripping with sweat and I took off my uniform jacket. Farther away, to the west, you could make out a construction perched on the tall cliffs of a promontory, the Swallow’s Nest, a medieval fantasy thrown up there by a German baron, an oil magnate, not long before the Revolution. I suggested to Partenau that we push on to this tower; he agreed. I started out on a path that ran along the cliffs. Below, the sea calmly beat on the rocks; above our heads, the sun sparkled on the snow of the jagged peaks. A delicious odor of pine and heather scented the air. “You know,” he said suddenly, “I finished the book you lent me.” For some days now we’d been addressing each other with the familiar