It was the most incisive critique of the state of things in modern Germany that I had ever heard. Ohlendorf, a man scarcely older than I, had obviously meditated for a long time on these questions and had based his conclusions on profound and rigorous analyses. What’s more, I later learned, when he was a student in Kiel, in 1934, he had been arrested and interrogated by the Gestapo for his virulent denunciations of the prostitution of National Socialism; this experience had no doubt contributed to inclining him toward the security services. He had a high opinion of his work; he saw it as an essential part of the implementation of National Socialism. After the lecture, when he had suggested that I collaborate with him as a V-mann, I had the misfortune, when he described the tasks, of blurting out stupidly: “But that’s a snitch’s job!” Ohlendorf had reacted dryly: “No, Herr Aue, it’s not the job of an informer. We’re not asking you to squeal, we couldn’t care less if your cleaning lady tells an anti-Party joke. But the joke interests us, since it reveals the mood of the Volk. The Gestapo has perfectly competent services to take care of the enemies of the State, but that’s not the jurisdiction of the Sicherheitsdienst, which is essentially an organ of information.” In Berlin, after I arrived, I had little by little attached myself to him, thanks especially to the intervention of my professor, Höhn, with whom he had stayed in touch after Höhn had left the SD. We saw each other from time to time over coffee; he invited me to his house to explain the Party’s latest unhealthy tendencies, and his ideas for correcting and fighting them. At that time he wasn’t working in the SD full time, he was also conducting research at the University of Kiel and later on became an important figure in the Reichsgruppe Handel, the Organization of German Commerce. When I finally entered the SD, he acted, as did Dr. Best, a little like my protector. But his ever-worsening conflict with Heydrich, and his difficult relations with the Reichsführer, had weakened his position, which didn’t prevent him from being appointed Amtschef III—head of the Sicherheitsdienst—during the formation of the RSHA. In Pretzsch, there were a lot of rumors about the reasons for his departure for Russia; they said he had refused the position several times, until Heydrich, supported by the Reichsführer, forced him to accept it in order to shove his nose in the mud.
The next morning, I took a military shuttle and went up to Simferopol. Ohlendorf welcomed me with his usual politeness, which perhaps lacked warmth, but was suave and pleasant. “I forgot to ask you yesterday how Frau Ohlendorf is doing?”—“Käthe? Fine, thanks. Of course she misses me, but Krieg ist Krieg.” An orderly served us some excellent coffee and Ohlendorf launched into a quick presentation. “You’ll find that the work will be very interesting to you. You won’t have to worry about executive measures, I leave all that to the Kommandos; in any case, the Crimea is already nearly judenrein, and we’ve almost finished with the Gypsies too.”—“All the Gypsies?” I interrupted, surprised. “In the Ukraine, we’re not so systematic.”—“For me,” he replied, “they’re just as dangerous as the Jews, if not more so. In every war, the Gypsies act as spies, or as agents to communicate through the lines. Just read the narratives by Ricarda Huch or Schiller on the Thirty Years’ War.” He paused. “At first, you’ll mostly have to deal with research. We’re going to advance into the Caucasus in the spring—that’s a secret that I recommend you keep to yourself—and since it’s still a mostly unknown region, I’d like to gather some information for the Gruppenstab and the Kommandos, especially about the different ethnic minorities and their relationships among themselves and with the Soviet government. In principle, the same system of occupation will be applied as in the Ukraine; we’ll form a new Reichskommissariat, but of course the SP and the SD have to put their two cents in, and the better backed up those two cents are, the more chances they’ll have of being listened to. Your immediate superior will be Sturmbannführer Dr. Seibert, who is also the Group’s Chief of Staff. Come with me, I’ll introduce you to him, and to Hauptsturmführer Ulrich, who will take care of your transfer.”
I knew Seibert vaguely; in Berlin, he headed the SD Department D (Economics). He was a serious man, sincere, cordial, an excellent economist from the University of Göttingen, who seemed as out of place here as Ohlendorf. The premature loss of his hair had accelerated since his departure; but neither his broad bare forehead nor his preoccupied air nor the old dueling scar that gashed his chin managed to make him lose a kind of adolescent, perpetually dreamy look. He welcomed me kindly, introduced me to his other colleagues, and then, when Ohlendorf had left us, took me to the office of Ulrich, who seemed to me a fussy little bureaucrat. “The Oberführer has a somewhat loose vision of transfer procedures,” he informed me sourly. “Normally, you have to send a request to Berlin, then wait for the reply. You can’t just pick people off the street like that.”—“The Oberführer didn’t find me in the street, he found me in a Kasino,” I pointed out. He took off his glasses and looked at me, squinting: “Tell me, Hauptsturmführer, are you trying to be funny?”—“Not at all. If you really think it isn’t possible, I’ll tell the Oberführer and return to my Kommando.”—“No, no, no,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s complicated, that’s all. It will make more paperwork for me. However that may be, the Oberführer has already sent a letter about you to Brigadeführer Thomas. When he receives a reply, if it’s positive, I’ll refer to Berlin. It will take time. Go back to Yalta, then, and then come see me at the end of your leave.”