“It’s good to see you again, Bernie.”
“Arthur.”
“A whole lifetime spent arresting criminals, and now I’ve become a criminal myself.” He chuckled wearily. “What do you think of that?”
“You could put a stop to it.”
“What can I do? I’m just a cog in Heydrich’s machine of death. The machine’s in gear, too. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to.”
“You used to think you could make a difference.”
“That was then. Hitler has the whip hand since the fall of France. There’s no one who dares to oppose him now. Things will have to go badly in Russia for us before that can happen again. Which they will, of course. I’m certain of it. But not yet. People like you and me will have to bide our time.”
“And until then, Arthur? What about these people?”
“You mean the yids?”
I nodded.
He tossed back his second drink and then shrugged.
“You really don’t give a damn, do you?”
Nebe laughed a wry sort of laugh. “I’ve got quite a lot on my mind, Bernie,” he said. “Himmler’s coming here next month. What do you expect me to do? Sit him down somewhere quiet and explain that this is all very wrong? Explain that Jews are people, too? Tell the Emperor Charles the Fifth and the Diet of Worms, ‘Here I stand, I can do no other’? Be reasonable, Bernie.”
“Reasonable?”
“These men—Himmler, Heydrich, Muller—they’re fanatics. You can’t reason with fanatics.” He shook his head. “I’m already under suspicion after the Elser plot.”
“If you don’t, you’re no better than they are.”
“I’ve got to be careful, Bernie. I’m only safe as long as I’m doing exactly what I’m told. And I’ve got to be safe if there’s ever going to be another opportunity for us to get rid of Hitler.” He poured his third drink in as many minutes. “Surely you of all people can understand that.”
“All I know is that you’re planning mass murder in this town.”
“So go ahead and arrest me, Kommissar. Christ, I wish you would. Right now I’d love to see the inside of a police cell back at the Alex instead of this ghastly frontier town.” He put down his glass and held out his wrists. “Here. Put the cuffs on. And get me out of here if you can. No? I thought not. You’re as helpless as I am.” He picked up his glass, drank it, and started another cigarette. “Exactly what did you tell those two bastards, anyway? Blume and Mundt?”
“Me? I said I didn’t come to Russia to kill old women. Even if they were Jews.”
“Unwise, Bernie. Unwise. Mundt is very highly thought of in Berlin. He’s been a party member since 1926. That’s even longer than me. Which counts for something with Hitler. You ought not to say such things again. At least not to the likes of Mundt. He could make life very awkward for you. You have no idea what some of these SS are capable of.”
“I’m beginning to have a clear idea.”
“Look, Bernie, there are others here in Byelorussia and in Germany who think the same way as me and you. Who are ready to move against Hitler when the time is right. We’ll have need of men like you. Until then, it might be best if you were to keep your trap shut.”
“Keep my trap shut and shoot some Jews, is that it?”
“Why not? Because you can take my word for it, shooting the Jews is just the beginning. After all, it’s hardly the most efficient method of killing thousands of people. You wouldn’t believe the pressure I’m under to come up with some other means of killing Jews.”
“Why don’t you just blow them all up?” I said. “Take all of the Jews in Byelorussia, assemble them in a field with a couple of thousand tons of TNT under their feet, and put a match to it. That should solve your problem very nicely.”
“I wonder,” said Nebe thoughtfully, “if that might work.”
I shook my head in despair and, at last, downed the schnapps.
“I’d like to be able to count on you, Bernie. After all we’ve been through. In Berlin. There’s no one in this godforsaken country I can really trust, you know. Certainly none of these other officers.”
“I’m not even sure I can trust myself, Arthur. Not now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen. Not now that I know what I know.”
Nebe refilled our glasses. “Hmm. That’s what I suspected, you mad bastard.” He grinned, bitterly. “You’re just about capable of doing it, aren’t you? Shooting your mouth off about the Jews when Himmler comes here to Minsk next month. Something like that. What am I to do with you?”
“I can be shot. Like some old Jew.”
“If that was all there was to it,” said Nebe, “then perhaps I’d make it happen. But you’re being very naïve, just like always. No German officer of RSHA gets shot without the Gestapo getting involved. Especially not a man with your background. Who was close to Heydrich. Who was close to me. They would want to interrogate you. To ask you questions that don’t have a yes-or-no answer. And I can’t afford that you might tell them something about me. About my past. About our past.”
I was shaking my head, but I knew he was probably right.
Nebe grinned and started biting his fingernails, which I noticed were bitten right down to the quick.
“I wish I could stop doing this,” he said. “My mother used to dip my fingers in cat shit to try to prevent me from doing it. Doesn’t seem to have worked, does it?”
“You’ve still got shit on your fingers, Arthur.”
“But I can see now it was me who was being naïve. About you. I need you out of Minsk before you open that stupid trap of yours when I’m not around to prevent it, and get yourself arrested. And possibly me, too. You’re too old for frontline duty. They wouldn’t take you. So that’s out.” He sighed. “I can see it’s going to have to be intelligence. There’s precious little of that to go around in this war, so you should fit in. Of course, they’ll think you’re a spy, so this will have to be a temporary attachment. Until I can think of something to get you safely back to Berlin, where you can’t do any harm.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” I said. “I’ll take my chances.”
“But I won’t. That’s rather the point I’ve been making.” He pointed at my drink. “Come on. Get that down and cheer up. And stop worrying about a few Jews. People have been killing Jews since the Emperor Claudius ordered them expelled from Rome. What does Luther say? That next to the devil there is no more bitter, more poisonous, more vehement enemy than a real Jew. And let’s not forget the Kaiser, Wilhelm the Second, who said that a Jew cannot be a true patriot—that he is something different, like a bad insect. Even Benjamin Franklin thought that Jews were vampires.” Nebe shook his head and grinned. “No, Bernie. You’d better pick another reason to hate the Nazis. There are any number of reasons. But not the Jews. Not the Jews. Maybe if there are enough pogroms in Europe they’ll get their fucking homeland, like that British idiot Balfour promised, and then they’ll leave the rest of us in peace.”
I drank the schnapps. What else was I going to do with it? People say all kinds of crazy things when they’ve had a drink—me included. They talk about God and the saints and hearing voices and seeing the devil; they shout about killing Franzis and Tommies, and they sing Christmas carols on a summer’s day. Their wives don’t understand them and their mothers never loved them. They’ll say black is white, up is down, and hot is cold. No one ever expects a drink to help you make sense. Arthur Nebe had taken several drinks, but he wasn’t drunk. Even so, what he said sounded crazier than any drunk I’d ever heard and ever hope to hear again.
I stayed at Lenin House for two or three weeks, sharing a seventh-floor billet with Waldemar Klingelhöfer, who was an SS-Obersturmbannführer—a colonel—in overall charge of the antipartisan hunts in the Minsk area.