I still had to see Oswald Pohl, the big boss of the WVHA. He received me, in his offices on Unter den Eichen, with expansive cordiality and chatted with me about Kiel, where he had spent many years in the Kriegsmarine. It was there, in the Kasino, that the Reichsführer had noticed and recruited him, in the summer of 1933. Pohl had begun by centralizing the administration and finances of the SS, then little by little had built up his network of companies. “Like any multinational, we’re very diversified. We’re in construction materials, wood, ceramics, furniture, publishing, even mineral water.”—“Mineral water?”—“Oh! That’s very important. It allows us to provide our Waffen-SS with drinkable water throughout all the territories in the East.” He said he was particularly proud of one of his recent creations: Osti, the East Industries, a corporation set up in the district of Lublin in order to put the remaining Jews to work for the SS. But despite his geniality, he quickly grew vague as soon as I wanted to talk to him about the Arbeitseinsatz in general; according to him, most of the effective measures were in place, it was simply a matter of giving them time to take effect. I questioned him about the criteria of selection, but he referred me to the functionaries in Oranienburg: “They know the details better. But I can guarantee you that ever since the selection has been medicalized, it’s going very well.” He assured me that the Reichsführer was fully informed of all these problems. “I don’t doubt it, Obergruppenführer,” I replied. “But the Reichsführer has put me in charge of seeing what the points of blockage are and what possible improvements there might be. The fact of having been integrated into the WVHA, under your orders, has entailed considerable modifications in our system of National Socialist camps, and the measures that you ordered or encouraged, as well as your choice of subordinates, have had a massively positive impact. The Reichsführer, I think, simply wants now to obtain an overall picture. Your suggestions for the future will count enormously, I don’t doubt that for an instant.” Did Pohl feel threatened by my mission? After this soothing little speech, he changed the subject; but a little later, he became animated again and even went out with me to introduce me to some of his co-workers. He invited me to come back and see him when I returned from my inspection (I was to leave for Poland soon, and also to visit some camps in the Reich); he followed me into the hallway, putting his hand on my shoulder in a familiar way; outside, I turned around, he was still waving his hand, smiling: “Bon voyage!”
Eichmann had kept his word: when I returned from Lichtenfelde at the end of the afternoon, I found on my desk a large sealed envelope marked GEHEIME REICHSSACHE! It contained a bundle of documents accompanied by a typed letter; there was also a handwritten note from Eichmann inviting me to his place the next evening. Driven by Piontek, I went to buy some flowers first—an uneven number, as I had learned to do in Russia—and some chocolate. Then I had him drop me off at the Kurfürstenstrasse. Eichmann had his apartment in a wing of his office building, intended too for single officers passing through. He opened the door himself, dressed in civilian clothes: “Ach! Sturmbannführer Aue. I should have told you not to come in uniform. It’s a very simple soirée. But that’s fine. Come in, come in.” He introduced me to his wife, Vera, a small Austrian with a discreet personality, but who blushed with pleasure and gave a charming smile when I handed her the flowers with a low bow. Eichmann had two of his children line up, Dieter, who must have been six, and Klaus. “Little Horst is already asleep,” Frau Eichmann said.—“He’s our latest one,” her husband added. “He’s not yet a year old. Come, I’ll introduce you.” He led me into the living room where there were already several men and women, standing or sitting on sofas. There were, if I remember correctly, Hauptsturmführer Novak, an Austrian of Croatian origin with firm, angular features, quite handsome but curiously arrogant; Boll, the violinist; and some others whose names I have unfortunately forgotten, all colleagues of Eichmann’s, with their wives. “Günther will come by too, but just for a cup of tea. He rarely joins us.”—“I see you cultivate the spirit of camaraderie in your section.”—“Yes, yes. I like having friendly relations with my subordinates. What would you like to drink? A little schnapps? Krieg ist Krieg…” I laughed and he joined in with me: “You have a good memory, Obersturmbannführer.” I took the glass and raised it: “This time, I drink to the health of your charming family.” He clicked his heels and bowed his head: “Thank you.” We conversed a little, then Eichmann led me to the sideboard to show me a photograph framed in black, showing a man, still young, in uniform. “Your brother?” I asked.—“Yes.” He looked at me with his curious birdlike air, particularly accentuated in this light by his hooked nose and protruding ears. “I don’t suppose you ran into him, over there?” He mentioned a division and I shook my head: “No. I arrived rather late, after the encirclement. And I didn’t meet many people.”—“Oh, I see. Helmut fell during one of the fall offensives. We don’t know the exact circumstances, but we received an official notification.”—“All that was a hard sacrifice,” I said. He rubbed his lips: “Yes. Let’s hope it wasn’t in vain. But I believe in the Führer’s genius.”