HHhH Бине Лоран

78

In return for the transfer of the Sudetenland to Germany, the integrity of Czechoslovakia’s new borders was guaranteed at Munich by France and Britain. But Slovakia’s independence alters the deal. Is it possible to protect a country that no longer exists? The commitment was made to Czechoslovakia, not to the Czechs alone. This, at least, is how the British diplomats reply when their counterparts from Prague come to ask for their help. We are now on the eve of the German invasion, and it turns out it is perfectly legal for France and Britain to act like cowards.

79

On March 14, 1939, at 10:40 p.m., a train coming from Prague arrives at Anhalter Bahnhof in Berlin. An old man dressed in black gets off the train: balding, dull-eyed, droopy-lipped. President Hcha, who replaced Bene after Munich, has come to beg Hitler to spare his country. He didn’t take the plane, because he has a heart condition. He is accompanied by his daughter and by his foreign minister.

Hcha is fearful of what awaits him here. He knows that German troops have already crossed the border and that they are massing around Bohemia. The invasion is imminent, and he has come all this way only to negotiate an honorable surrender. I imagine he would be willing to accept similar conditions to those imposed on Slovakia: independent nationhood but under German protection. What he fears is nothing less than the total disappearance of his country.

So how surprised he must be, as soon as he sets foot on the platform, to be welcomed by a guard of honor. The foreign minister, Ribbentrop, has come in person. He gives Hcha’s daughter a beautiful spray of flowers. The procession that accompanies the Czech delegation is worthy of a head of state—which he still is, of course. Hcha breathes more easily. The Germans have put him in the best suite of the luxurious Hotel Adlon. On her bed his daughter finds a box of chocolates: a personal gift from the Fhrer.

The Czech president is taken to the chancellery, where the SS forms a guard of honor. By this point, Hcha is feeling much better.

His impression changes slightly when he enters the chancellor’s office. Hitler is flanked by Gring and Keitel, the hads of the German army, and their presence is not a good sign. Hitler’s expression, too, is not what Hcha might have hoped for after his lavish welcome. The little serenity that he had managed to recover quickly vanishes, and Emil Hcha finds himself sinking into the quicksand of history.

“I can assure the Fhrer,” he says to the interpreter, “that I have never got mixed up in politics. I have never had any involvement, so to speak, with Bene and Masaryk, and whenever I’ve been in their company I’ve found them disagreeable. I have never supported the Bene government, indeed I have always opposed it, so much so that after Munich I wondered if it was even a good idea to remain as an independent state. I am convinced that Czechoslovakia’s destiny is in the Fhrer’s hands, and that it is in good hands. The Fhrer, I am certain, is precisely the right man to understand my point of view when I tell him that Czechoslovakia has the right to exist as a nation. We have been blamed because there are still too many Bene partisans, but my government is doing all it can to silence them.”

Now Hitler begins to speak, and his words—according to the interpreter’s version of events—turn Hcha to stone.

“The long journey undertaken by the president, despite his age, can be of great help to his country. Germany is indeed ready to invade in the next few hours. I do not harbor a grudge against any nation. If this stump of a state, Czechoslovakia, has continued to exist, it is only because I wished it to, and because I have loyally honored my commitments. But even after Bene’s departure, your country’s attitude has not changed! I did warn you! I said that if you kept provoking me, I would utterly destroy the Czechoslovak state. And still you provoke me! Well, the dice have been rolled now… I have given orders to German troops to invade your country and I have decided to incorporate Czechoslovakia into the German Reich.”

The interpreter said of Hcha and his minister: “Only their eyes showed they were still alive.”

Hitler continues:

“Tomorrow at six a.m., the German army will enter Czechoslovakia from all sides and the German air force will occupy all the airfields. Two outcomes are possible.

“Either the invasion gives rise to fighting: in this case we will use brutal force to smash all resistance.

“Or the invasion will be allowed to occur peacefully, in which case I will grant the Czechs a regime that is to a large extent their own… giving them autonomy and a certain amount of national liberty.

“I am not moved by hatred. My only goal is the protection of Germany. But if Czechoslovakia had not given in to my demands at Munich, I would have exterminated the Czech people without hesitation, and nobody would have been able to stop me! Today, if the Czechs want to fight, the Czech army will cease to exist within two days. There will naturally be victims among the German army too: this will feed a hatred of the Czech people that will prevent me, out of self-preservation, from granting the country any autonomy.

“The world makes fun of people like you. When I read the foreign press, I feel sorry for Czechoslovakia. It makes me think of the famous quotation from Schiller: ‘The Moor has done his duty, the Moor can go…’”

Apparently this quotation is proverbial in Germany, but I don’t really understand why Hitler used it here, nor what he meant… Who is the Moor? Czechoslovakia? But in what sense has it done its duty? And where could it go?

First hypothesis: from Germany’s perspective, Czechoslovakia was useful to the Western democracies merely by existing, as it weakened Germany after 1918. Now that it’s fulfilled its mission, it can cease to exist. But this is, at the very least, inaccurate: the creation of Czechoslovakia confirmed the dismantling of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, not of Germany. What’s more, if Czechoslovakia’s duty was to weaken Germany, 1939 seems an odd moment to abandon it, with Austria annexed and Germany restored to power and becoming ever more threatening.

So, second hypothesis: the Moor represents the Western democracies, who did what they could at Munich to limit the damage (the Moor has done his duty) but who are from then on careful not to get involved (the Moor can go)… Except we can tell that, in Hitler’s mind, the Moor must be the victim—the foreigner that’s been used—and that means it’s Czechoslovakia.

Third hypothesis: Hitler doesn’t really know what he means; he simply couldn’t resist quoting something, and his meager literary knowledge did not provide him with anything better. He might perhaps have contented himself with a “Vae victis!” more appropriate to the situation, simple but always effective. Or he might simply have kept his mouth shut.

80

Faced with the Fhrer, Hcha caved in. He declared that the situation was very clear and that all resistance was madness. But it’s already two a.m., and he has only four hours to prevent the Czech people from defending themselves. According to Hitler, the German military machine is already on the march (true) and nothing can stop it (at least, no one seems very keen to try). Hcha must sign the surrender immediately and inform Prague. The choice Hitler is offering could not be simpler: either peace now, followed by a long collaboration between the two nations, or the total annihilation of Czechoslovakia.

President Hcha, terrified, is left in a room with Gring and Ribbentrop. He sits at a table, the document before him. All he has to do now is sign it. The pen is in his hand, but his hand is trembling. The pen keeps stopping before it can touch the paper. In the absence of the Fhrer, who rarely stays to oversee such formalities, Hcha gets jumpy. “I can’t sign this,” he says. “If I sign the surrender, my people will curse me forever.” This is perfectly true.

So Gring and Ribbentrop have to convince Hcha that it’s too late to turn back. This leads to a farcical scene where, according to witnesses, the two Nazi ministers literally chase Hcha around the table, repeatedly putting the pen back in his hand and ordering him to sign the bloody thing. At the same time, Gring yells continuously: if Hcha continues to refuse, half of Prague will be destroyed within two hours by the German air force… and that’s just for starters! Hundreds of bombers are waiting for the order to take off, and they will receive that order at 6:00 a.m. if the surrender is not signed.

At this crucial moment, Hcha goes dizzy and faints. Now it’s the two Nazis who are terrified, standing there over his inert body. He absolutely must be revived: if he dies, Hitler will be accused of murdering him in his own office. Thankfully, there is an expert injecter in the house: Dr. Morell, who will later inject Hitler with amphetamines several times a day until his death—a medical regime that probably had some link with the Fhrer’s growing dementia. So Morell suddenly appears and sticks a syringe into Hcha, who wakes up. A telephone is shoved into his hand. Given the urgency of the situation, the paperwork can wait. Ribbentrop has taken care to install a special direct line to Prague. Gathering what is left of his strength, Hcha informs the Czech cabinet in Prague of what is happening in Berlin, and advises them to surrender. He is given another injection and taken back to see the Fhrer, who presents him once again with that wretched document. It is nearly four a.m. Hcha signs. “I have sacrificed the state in order to save the nation,” he believes. The imbecile. It’s as if Chamberlain’s stupidity was contagious…

81

Berlin, March 15, 1939:

At their request, the Fhrer received today in Berlin Dr. Hcha, the president of Czechoslovakia [the Germans, it seems, still hadn’t officially ratified Slovakia’s independence, even though it was they themselves who’d orchestrated it], and Dr. Chvalkovsky, the foreign minister of Czechoslovakia, inthe presence of Mr. von Ribbentrop, the foreign minister. During this meeting, there was a very frank discussion of the serious situation created by events of recent weeks in Czechoslovakian territory.

Both parties said they were convinced that all efforts must be made to maintain calm, order, and peace in this region of central Europe. The president of the Czechoslovakian state said that, in order to attain this objective and to create a definitive peace, he had put the destiny of the Czech people and country in the hands of the Fhrer of the German Reich. The Fhrer acknowledged this declaration and expressed his intention of placing the Czech people under the protection of the German Reich and of guaranteeing the autonomous development of their ethnic life.

82

Hitler is jubilant. He kisses all his secretaries and tells them: “My children, this is the most beautiful day of my life! My name will go down in history. I will be considered the greatest German who ever lived!”

To celebrate, he decides to go to Prague.

83

The most beautiful city in the world is disfigured by outbreaks of violence. The local Germans are spoiling for a fight. Protesters march along Vclavsk nmst, the wide avenue overshadowed by the imposing Museum of Natural History. They are trying to spark a riot, but the Czech police have been told not to intervene. Acts of violence, pillage, and vandalism perpetrated by Germans awaiting the arrival of their Nazi brothers are war cries that find no echo in the silence of the capital.

Night swoops upon the city. An icy wind sweeps the streets. Only a handful of adolescent hotheads hang around to yell insults at the police on guard duty outside the Deutsches Haus. Beneath the Astronomical Clock in the Old Town Square, the little skeleton pulls its cord as it has done every hour for centuries. The bells toll midnight. The creaking of the wooden shutters is heard, but tonight, I bet no one bothers to watch the little figures march around the tower. They quickly go back inside: perhaps they will be safe there. I imagine clouds of crows flying around the sinister watchtowers of the dark Tn Church. Under the Charles Bridge flows the Vltava. Under the Charles Bridge flows the Moldau. The peaceful river that crosses Prague has two names—one Czech, the other German. It is one too many.

The Czechs toss and turn in their beds. They hope that if they make more concessions, the Germans will be merciful—but what concessions have they not already made? They hope President Hcha’s servility will move the Germans to pity. Their will to resist was broken at Munich by the betrayal of the French and the British. Now they have only their passivity to protect them from the Nazis’ bellicosity. What is left of Czechoslovakia has no greater aim than to be a small and peaceful nation. But the gangrene that infected the country in the time of Premysl Ottokar II has spread—and the amputation of the Sudetenland didn’t change anything. Before dawn, the radio broadcasts the terms of the agreement concluded between Hitler and Hcha. It is annexation, pure and simple. The news explodes like a bombshell in every Czech home. Day has still not risen when the streets begin to buzz with this rumor, and gradually the noise turns from a murmur to a clamor. People leave their houses. Some carry small suitcases: they will go to the doors of the embassies to ask for asylum and protection, which will generally be refused. The first suicides are reported.

At 9:00 a.m., the first German tank enters the city.

84

Actually I don’t know if it was a tank that first entered Prague. The most advanced troops seem largely to have driven motorbikes with sidecars.

So: at 9:00 a.m., German soldiers on motorbikes enter the Czech capital. Here they discover local Germans welcoming them as liberators, which makes them relax a little after several days of high tension. But they also see Czechs shaking their fists, shouting hostile slogans, and singing their national anthem, which is more worrying.

A dense crowd has gathered on Vclavsk nmst, the Czech equivalent of the Champs-lyses, and in the city’s main thoroughfares Wehrmacht trucks are soon blocked by the vast numbers of people. The German troops don’t know where they stand.

But this is far from an insurrection. Acts of resistance are limited to throwing snowballs at the invaders.

The main strategic objectives are achieved without a shot being fired: control of the airport and of the War Ministry. Above all the Germans control Hradany—the castle perched high on its hill, the seat of power. Before 10:00 a.m., artillery batteries are ranged on the battlements, aimed at the city below.

The only real problems are logistical: the most difficult test faced by German vehicles is the blizzard, and here and there we find broken-down trucks, tanks immobilized by mechanical troubles. The Germans also have problems finding their way in Prague’s maze of streets: we see them asking directions from Czech policemen, who answer obligingly—out of Pavlovian respect for the uniform, I suppose. Nerudova, the beautiful street decorated with banners that leads up to the castle, is blocked by a lost armored car. While the driver gets out to ask the way from a delegation of Italian diplomats, the soldier remains alone on his gun turret, his finger tensed on the machine-gun trigger, watched by the silent, gawking crowd that surrounds him. But nothing happens. The general in command of the German vanguard has nothing worse to complain about than acts of minor sabotage: a few slashed tires.

Hitler can prepare for a peaceful visit. Before the end of day, the city is “secured.” Troops on horseback move calmly along the banks of the Vltava. A curfew is decreed, forbidding Czechs to go outside after 8:00 p.m. The doors of hotels and official buildings are patrolled by German guards carrying long rifles with bayonets. Prague has fallen without a fight. The cobblestones of the city are stained with dirty snow. This is the beginning of a long, dark winter for the Czechs.

85

Passing the endless, serpentine line of soldiers marching along the icy road, a convoy of Mercedes cars makes its way laboriously toward Prague. All the most eminent members of Hitler’s clique are here: Gring, Ribbentrop, Bormann. And in the Fhrer’s own car, next to Himmler, sits Heydrich.

What goes through his mind when, after this long journey, they finally arrive at their destination? Is he struck by the mazelike beauty of the city of a hundred towers? Or is he too busy savoring the importance of his position? Does he grow irritated when the convoy gets lost in the city conquered by the Fhrer that very morning? Or is there, in his calculating brain, the first glimmer of an idea that his career will one day take him back to the former Czech capital?

Today, the future Hangman of Prague, whom the Czechs also nicknamed “the Butcher,” sees for the first time the Bohemian city of kings: the streets are deserted because of the curfew; the tire tracks of the German army are visible in the mud and snow on the roads; an impressive calm reigns. The windows on the high street reveal expensive glassware boutiques and delicatessens; in the heart of the Old Town stands the Opera House, where Mozart created Don Giovanni; the cars drive on the left, as in Britain. For the first time, Heydrich sees the snaking road that leads to the castle, gloriously isolated on its hill, and the beautiful and disturbing statues that decorate the main entrance, guarded by the SS.

The convoy enters what was until yesterday the presidential palace. A swastika flag flies over the castle, signaling the presence of its new masters. When Hcha returns from Berlin—his train still hasn’t arrived, having been conveniently delayed in Germany—he will se the servants’ entrance. I suppose he will feel the full ironic weight of the situation, having been so thrilled by the presidential welcome he received in Berlin. The president is now nothing but a puppet, and they’re making sure he knows it.

Hitler and his followers settle into their rooms in the castle. The Fhrer climbs the stairs to the first floor. There is a famous photo of him, hands leaning on the sill of an open window, contemplating the city below. He looks pleased with himself. Afterward he goes back downstairs and enjoys a candlelit dinner in one of the dining rooms. Heydrich can’t help noticing that the Fhrer eats a slice of ham and drinks a Pilsner Urquell, the most famous Czech beer—Hitler, who is a teetotaler and vegetarian. He keeps saying that Czechoslovakia has ceased to exist, and no doubt he wishes to mark the historic importance of this day—March 15, 1939—by departing from his usual eating habits.

86

The next day, Hitler makes this proclamation:

For a thousand years, the provinces of Bohemia and Moravia have been part of the German people’s living space. Czechoslovakia has shown its inability to survive, and today it is reduced to a state of complete dissolution. The German Reich cannot tolerate continual difficulties in this region. So, out of self-preservation, the German Reich is now determined to intervene. We will take decisive measures in order to establish the basis of a rational order in central Europe. Over a thousand years of its history, the Reich has proved—with the greatness and qualities of the German people—that it alone is qualified to undertake this task.

In early afternoon, Hitler leaves Prague. He will never set foot in the country again. Heydrich goes with him, but he will be back.

87

“For a thousand years, the provinces of Bohemia and Moravia have been part of the German people’s living space.”

It’s true that in the tenth century—that is, a thousand years earlier—Vclav I, the famous Saint Wenceslaus, swore allegiance to the no-less-famous Henry I, the Fowler, at a time when Bohemia was not yet a kingdom, and when the king of Saxony was not yet head of the Holy Roman Empire. However, Vclav was able to keep his sovereignty, and it wasn’t until three centuries later that German settlers came to Bohemia on a large scale—and even then, their arrival was peaceful.

So it’s true that the Czech and German countries have always been closely linked. It’s also true that Bohemia has been almost continuously part of the German sphere of influence. But it seems to me utterly wrong to talk about German Lebensraum with regard to Bohemia.

It was also Henry the Fowler—Nazi icon, idol of Himmler—who began the Drang nach Osten, the drive toward the east, which Hitler would claim as his inspiration in order to legitimize his desire to invade the Soviet Union. But Henry the Fowler never sought to invade or colonize Bohemia. He contented himself with an annual tribute. Even after this, there has never, as far as I know, been any German colonization forcibly imposed on Bohemia. The flow of German settlers in the fourteenth century was a response to the Czech sovereign’s demand for specialized labor. Finally, no one had ever before considered ridding Bohemia and Moravia of their Czech inhabitants. So it’s safe to say that the Nazis, once more, are political innovators. And Heydrich, of course, is in the thick of it.

88

How can you tell the main character of a story? By the number of pages devoted to him? I hope it’s a little more complicated than that.

Whenever I talk about the book I’m writing, I say, “My book on Heydrich.” But Heydrich is not supposed to be the main character. Through all the years that I carried this story around with me in my head, I never thought of giving it any other h2 than Operation Anthropoid (and if that’s not the h2 you see on the cover, you will know that I gave in to the demands of my publisher, who didn’t like it: too SF, too Robert Ludlum, apparently). You see, Heydrich is the target, not the protagonist. Everything I’ve written about him is by way of background. Though it must be admitted that in literary terms Heydrich is a wonderful character. It’s as if a Dr. Frankenstein novelist had mixed up the greatest monsters of literature to create a new and terrifying creature. Except that Heydrich is not a paper monster.

I’m all too aware that my two heroes are late making their entrance. But perhaps it’s no bad thing if they have to wait. Perhaps it will give them more substance. Perhaps the mark they’ve made in history and on my memory might imprint itself even more profoundly in these pages. Perhaps this long wait in the antechamber of my brain will restore some of their reality, and not just vulgar plausibility. Perhaps, perhaps… but nothing could be less sure! I’m not scared of Heydrich anymore. It’s those two who intimidate me.

And yet I can see them. Or let’s say that I am beginning to discern them.

89

On the borders of eastern Slovakia is a city I know well—Koice. This is where I did my military service: I was the sublieutenant responsible for teaching French to the Slovakian air force’s young future officers. Koice is also the town where Aurlia—the beautiful Slovak woman with whom I had a passionate five-year relationship, nearly ten years ago now—was born. And incidentally, it is, of all the world’s cities I’ve ever visited, the one with the highest concentration of pretty girls. And when I say pretty, I mean exceptionally beautiful.

I don’t see any reason why this should have been any different in 1939. The pretty girls stroll eternally on Hlavn ulica—the long main street that is the heart of the town, lined by gorgeous pastel-colored Baroque houses, with a magnificent Gothic cathedral at its center. Except that, in 1939, you also see German soldiers, who greet the pretty girls discreetly as they pass. Slovakia has indeed gained its independence—the prize for its betrayal of Prague—but it is an independence surveyed by the friendly, searching eyes of Germany.

Jozef Gabk sees all of this, walking up the grand main street: the pretty girls and the German soldiers. He’s been thinking it over for several months now.

Two years ago he left Koice to work in a chemical factory in ilina. He has come back today to meet up with his friends from the 14th Infantry regiment, in which he served for three years. Spring is late and the stubborn snow whispers under his boots.

The cafs in Koice rarely open onto the street. Normally, you have to go under a porch, then either up or down a staircase, in order to reach a well-heated room. Gabk meets his former comrades in such a caf that very evening. Reunited over pints of Zlat Baant (a Slovak beer whose name means “Golden Pheasant’), everyone is very happy. But Gabk hasn’t come just to make a social visit. He wants to know where the Slovak army is, and its position with regard to Tiso, the collaborator.

“The field officers have fallen in with Tiso; you know, Jozef, for them, the break with the Czech staff, it’s a chance to get promoted more quickly…”

“The army hasn’t protested: neither the officers nor the troops. It’s a new Slovak army, so they’ve got to obey the new Slovak government. That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

“We’ve wanted independence for years, so who cares how we get it! Tough shit for the Czechs! If they’d treated us better, maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation now! You know as well as I do that the Czechs always got the best jobs. In the government, the army, everywhere! It was a scandal!”

“Anyway, we had no choice: if Tiso hadn’t said yes to Hitler, we’d have been flattened like they were. And yeah, I know it’s a bit like being occupied, but in the end we’ve still got mre autonomy than we had with the Czechs.”

“In Prague, you know, German is now the official language! They’re closing all the Czech universities. They’re censoring all Czech culture. They’ve even shot at students! Is that what you want? Believe me, this was the best solution…”

“It was the only solution, Jozef!”

“Why should we have fought when it was Hcha himself who told us to surrender? All we were doing was obeying orders.”

“Bene? Yeah, yeah, but he’s fighting the war from London—that’s much easier. Us poor bastards are stuck here.”

“And all of this is his fault. He signed the Munich Agreement, didn’t he? He didn’t send us to fight for the Sudetenland, remember? At the time, our army might have been able to put up a fight—I say might have been!—with the Germans… But now, what could we do? Have you seen the numbers of the Luftwaffe? You know how many bombers they’ve got in service? They’d cut through us like butter. We’d be massacred!”

“I don’t want to die for Hcha—or for Bene!”

“I don’t want to die for Tiso either!”

“All right, so there are a few German soldiers hanging around the city. So what? I’m not going to pretend I like it, but it’s not as bad as a real military occupation. Go and ask your Czech friends!”

“I’ve got nothing against the Czechs but they’ve always treated us like peasants. I went to Prague once and they pretended they couldn’t understand me because of my accent! They’ve always despised us. Now let’s see how they get on with their new compatriots! We’ll see if they prefer the German accent!”

“Hitler got what he wanted. He said he wouldn’t make any more territorial claims. And us, we’ve never been part of the German zone. Anyway, if it wasn’t for him, Hungary would have swallowed us up, Jozef! You have to see things how they are.”

“What do you want? A coup d’tat? No general would have the balls to do that. And even if one did, what would happen afterward? We take on the German army on our own? You think France and England would suddenly rush to our aid? We spent a whole year waiting for them!”

“Listen, Jozef, you’ve got a steady job: go back to ilina, find yourself a nice girl, and forget about all this. We didn’t come out of it too badly in the end.”

Gabk has finished his beer. It’s already late, and he and his comrades are slightly drunk. Outside, it’s snowing. He stands up, waves goodbye to his friends, and goes to retrieve his coat from the cloakroom. While a young girl is serving him, one of his companions comes over. He whispers:

“Listen, Jozef, if you want to know, when the Czechs were demobilized after the Germans arrived, some refused to return to civilian life. Perhaps out of patriotism or perhaps because they didn’t want to find themselves unemployed, I don’t know. But anyway, they went to Poland and they’ve formed a Czechoslovak liberation army. I don’t think there are many of them, but I know there are some Slovaks involved. They’re based in Krakw. You see, if I did that, I’d be considered a deserter, and I can’t leave my wife and kids. But if I were your age, and if I were single… Tiso is scum, that’s what I think, and most of the other guys too. We haven’t all turned into Nazis, you know. But we’re shit-scared. What’s happening in Prague is terrible—they’re executing anyone who shows the slightest sign of protesting. Me, I’m going to try to live with the situation. I won’t overdo it, but I’ll go along with them. As long as they don’t start telling us to deport the Jews…”

Gabk smiles at his friend. He puts on his coat, thanks him, and leaves. Outside, night has fallen. The streets are deserted and the snow crunches beneath his feet.

90

On his way back to ilina, Gabk makes his decision. At the end of his working day at the factory, he says goodbye to his friends as though nothing is going on. But he doesn’t accompany them, as he usually does, to the bar on the corner. Instead he rushes home, where he takes not a suitcase but a little canvas bag, puts on two coats (one on top of the other) and his soldier’s boots (the most solid boots he owns), then leaves, locking the door behind him. He calls on one of his sisters—the one he’s closest to—and leaves her his keys. She’s one of the few who knows about his plans. She makes him tea and he drinks it in silence. He stands up. She holds him tightly in her arms and cries. Then he heads for the bus station, where he waits for a bus that will take him north, toward the border. He smokes a few cigarettes. He feels perfectly calm. He’s not the only one waiting on the platform, so nobody takes any notice of him despite the fact that he’s dressed too warmly for May. The bus arrives. Gabk dives inside and grabs a seat. The doors close again. The bus moves off with a roar. Through the window, Gabk watches ilina grow smaller. He will never see the town again. The Baroque and Romanesque towers of the old town stand out against the dark horizon that fades away behind him. When Gabk casts one last glance at Budatn Castle, located at the confluence of two of the three rivers that flow through the town, he cannot know that it will be almost totally destroyed in the years that follow. Nor can he know that he is leaving Slovakia forever.

91

That scene, like the one before it, is perfectly believable and totally made up. How impudent of me to turn a man into a puppet—a man who’s been dead for a long time, who cannot defend himself. To make him drink tea, when it might turn out that he liked only coffee. To make him put on two coats, when perhaps he had only one. To make him take the bus, when he could have taken the train. To decide that he left in the evening, rather than the morning. I am ashamed of myself.

But it could be worse. I spared Kubi a similarly fanciful treatment, probably because Moravia, where he’s from, is less familiar to me than Slovakia. It was June 1939 when Kubi went to Poland, from where he reached France—I don’t know how—and enrolled in the Foreign Legion. That’s all I have to say. I don’t know if he went via Krakw, the main rallying point for Czech soldiers who refused the surrender. I suppose he joined the Legion in Agde, in the south of France, with the first infantry battalion of exiled Czechoslovak armed forces. Or had the battalion, whose ranks were swelling daily, already become a regiment? A few months later it will be practically a whole division and will fight alongside the French army during the war. I could write quite a lot about the Czechs in the French army: the 11,000 soldiers, made up of 3,000 volunteers and 8,000 expatriate Czech conscripts, along with the brave pilots, trained at Chartres, who will shoot down or help to shoot down more than 130 enemy planes during the Battle of France… But I’ve said that I don’t want to write a historical handbook. This story is personal. That’s why my visions sometimes get mixed up with the known facts. It’s just how it is.

92

Actually, no: that’s not how it is. That would be too simple. Rereading one of the books that make up the foundation of my research—a collection of witness accounts assembled by a Czech historian, Miroslav Ivanov, under the h2 The Attack on Heydrich—I become aware, to my horror, of the mistakes I’ve made concerning Gabk.

First of all, Koice had since November 1938 been part of Hungary, not Czechoslovakia, and the town was occupied by Admiral Horthy’s army, so it’s highly unlikely that Gabk would have been able to visit his comrades from the 14th Infantry. Second, by May 1, 1939, when he left Slovakia for Poland, he had been working for almost two years in a factory near Trenn, so in all likelihood he no longer lived in ilina. The passage where I recount his last glance at the castle seems suddenly ridiculous. In fact, he never quit the army, and it was as a noncommissioned officer that he was working in the chemical factory, whose poducts were destined for military use. I also forgot to mention that before he left his job, he perpetrated an act of sabotage: he poured acid into some mustard gas, which apparently harmed (how, I’ve no idea) the German army. What a thing to forget! Not only do I deprive Gabk of his first act of resistance—a minor one, admittedly, but still courageous—but I also omit a link in the great causal chain of human destiny. Gabk himself explains, in a biographical note written in England when he put himself forward as a candidate for special missions, that he left the country straight after this act of sabotage because he would inevitably have been arrested if he’d stayed.

On the other hand, he did go through Krakw, as I’d supposed. After fighting alongside the Poles during the German attack that started the Second World War, he fled. Perhaps via the Balkans, like a great number of Czechs and Slovaks who went to France, crossing Romania and Greece, then reaching Istanbul, Egypt, and finally Marseilles. Or perhaps he went through the Baltic, which would seem more practical: leaving the port of Gdynia and arriving at Boulogne-sur-Mer, then traveling south. Whatever, I’m sure that this journey is an epic deserving of a whole book to itself. For me, the crowning moment would be his first meeting with Kubi. How and when did they meet? In Poland? In France? During the journey between the two? Or later, in England? That’s what I would love to know. I’m not sure yet if I’m going to “visualize” (that is, invent!) this meeting or not. If I do, it will be the clinching proof that fiction does not respect anything.

93

A train pulls into the station. In the immense hall of Victoria Station, Colonel Moravec waits on the platform, accompanied by a few other exiled compatriots. A man gets off the train: a serious-looking little man with a mustache and a receding hairline. It’s Bene, the former president who resigned the day after Munich. But today—July 18, 1939, the date of his arrival in London—he is above all the man who declared, the day after Hcha’s surrender, that the First Czechoslovak Republic still existed, in spite of the attack it had suffered. “The German divisions,” he said, “swept up the concessions torn from us by our enemies and by our allies in the name of peace, justice, and good sense, the gentle reasons invoked at the time of the 1938 crisis. Now the Czechoslovak territory is occupied. But the Republic is not dead. It will continue to fight, even from beyond its own borders.” Bene, seen by Czechoslovak patriots as the only legitimate president, wants to form a provisional government-in-exile as quickly as possible. A year before the Appeal of June 18, Bene is a bit like a combination of de Gaulle and Churchill. The spirit of the Resistance is in him.

Unfortunately, it is not yet Churchill who guides the destiny of Britain and the world but the vile Chamberlain, a man whose spinelessness is equaled only by his blindness. He has sent a lowly Foreign Ministry employee to welcome the former president. And the pen pusher’s welcome is not particularly warm either. Barely is Bene off the train before he is notified of the conditions of his exile: Great Britain agrees to grant him political asylum only on the express condition that he promises to refrain from all political activity. Bene, who is recognized as the de facto head of the liberation movement both by his friends and his enemies, takes the insult with his customary dignity. He, more than anyone else, will have to put up with Chamberlain’s contemptuous stupidity—and he will do it with absolutely superhuman stoicism. If for this reason only, his historical reputation is almost more imposing than de Gaulle’s.

94

It’s now fourteen days since the SS-Sturmbannfhrer Alfred Naujocks arrived incognito in the little town of Gleiwitz, on the German-Polish border in German Silesia. The operation has been meticulously planned; now he waits. Heydrich called him yesterday at midday to ask him to check the final details with “Gestapo” Mller, who came in person, and who is staying in the neighboring village of Oppeln. Muller is supposed to provide him with what they call the Konserve (“canned goods”).

It’s 4:00 a.m. when the phone rings in his hotel room. He answers, and is told to call back to Wilhelmstrasse. At the other end of the line, Heydrich’s shrill voice tells him: “Grandmother is dead.” This is the signal: Operation Tannenberg can begin. Naujocks rounds up his men and goes to the radio station that he plans to attack. But before the action starts, he must give each member of the expedition a Polish uniform. He must also receive the Konserve: a prisoner expressly freed from a concentration camp. This man, too, is dressed as a Polish soldier—unconscious but still alive, although Mller, following orders, has given him a lethal injection.

The attack begins at 8:00 a.m. The employees are easily neutralized, and a few gunshots are fired in the air as a matter of form. The Konserve is left lying across the doorway, as evidence of the Polish attack, and it is almost certainly Naujocks who finishes him off with a bullet in the heart (a bullet in the back of the neck smacks too much of execution, and a bullet in the head risks delaying identification), even if he will never admit it at his trial. Now they have to broadcast the speech in Polish, prepared by Heydrich. One of the SS guards, chosen for his linguistic abilities, is given the job of reading it out. The trouble is that no one knows how to work the radio. Naujocks gets a bit panicky, but in the end they manage to transmit it. The announcement is read out in a feverish Polish. It’s a short speech declaring that Poland, provoked by Germany, has decided to launch an attack. The transmission lasts less than four minutes. In any case, the transmitter is not powerful enough and, save for a few small border towns, nobody hears it. Who cares? Naujocks does, having been warned beforehand by Heydrich: “If you fail, you die. And me, too, perhaps.”

But Hitler has what he needs, and he couldn’t care less about the technical difficulties. A few hours later he makes a speech to the Reichstag deputies: “Last night, Polish soldiers opened fire for the first time on German soil. This morning, Germany retaliated. From now on, bombs will be met by bombs.”

The Second World War has just begun.

95

It is in Poland that Heydrich unveils his most devilish creation. The Einsatzgruppen are special SS troops, made up of SD and Gestapo members, whose job is to clean up the zones occupied by the Wehrmacht. Each unit is given a little booklet containing the necessary information: in tiny characters, on extrathin paper, is a list of all those who must be liquidated as the country is occupied. Not only Communists but also teachers, writers, journalists, priests, industrialists, bankers, civil servants, merchants, wealthy farmers… everyone of any note. Thousands of names are listed, with their addresses and telephone numbers, plus a list of known acquaintances—in case these subversive elements attempt to take refuge with parents or friends. Each name is accompanied by a physical description and sometimes even a photo. Heydrich’s information services have already achieved an impressive level of efficiency.

However, this meticulousness is probably a bit superfluous considering the behavior of the troops, who shoot first and ask questions later. Among the first victims of the Polish campaign are a group of Scouts, aged twelve to sixteen. They are lined up against a wall in the market square and shot. The priest who sacrifices himself to perform their last rites is also executed. Only afterward do the Einsatzgruppen take care of their real objectives: the merchants and local notables, who are, in their turn, lined up and shot. Essentially, the work of the Einsatzgruppen—a detailed written accont of which would take up thousands of pages—can be summed up in three terrible letters: etc. Until they reach the USSR, at least: at that point, even et cetera’s suggestion of infinity will not be enough.

96

It’s incredible. Almost anywhere you look in the politics of the Third Reich, and particularly among its most terrifying aspects, Heydrich is there—at the center of everything.

On September 21, 1939, he sends a personally signed letter to all the relevant services about the “Jewish problem in the occupied territories.” This letter concerns the roundup of Jews into ghettos, and orders the creation of Jewish councils—the infamous Judenrte—under the direct authority of the RSHA. The Judenrat is undoubtedly inspired by Eichmann’s ideas as Heydrich saw them applied in Austria: the key is to make the victims collaborate in their own murder. Despoiled yesterday, destroyed tomorrow.

97

On September 22, 1939, Himmler’s creation of the RSHA becomes official.

The RSHA—the central office of Reich security (Reichssicherheitshauptamt)—brings together the SD, the Gestapo, and the Kripo in one monstrous organization whose powers are beyond imagining. The head of this organization, nominated by Himmler, is Heydrich. Espionage, political police, and criminal police, all placed in the hands of one man. They may as well just have named him officially “the most dangerous man in the Third Reich.” In any case, this quickly became his nickname. Only one police force is not controlled by him: the Ordnungpolizei, the uniformed police whose task is to maintain order, is given to a nobody called Dalge, directly answerable to Himmler. It is a trifle compared with the rest, but Heydrich, in his thirst for power, is not the type of man to ignore it. All the same, it is a trifle, in my opinion—although it’s true that I don’t have Heydrich’s aptitudes or experience in these matters. Anyway, the RSHA hydra has enough heads to keep him busy. So now he has to delegate. He gives each of the RSHA’s seven divisions to a colleague who is selected first and foremost for his abilities rather than his politics—and this is rare enough to be worth mentioning in the lunatic asylum that is the Nazi regime. Heinrich Mller, for example, who is put in charge of the Gestapo—and who identifies so completely with his job that hereafter he is known simply as “Gestapo” Mller—is a former Christian Democrat: an affiliation that does not prevent him from becoming one of the Nazis’ most devastating weapons. The other RSHA offices are given to brilliant intellectuals: youngsters such as Ohlendorf (Inland-SD) and Schellenberg (Ausland-SD), or experienced academics like Six (Written Records). Such men contrast strongly with the cohort of cranks, illiterates, and mental degenerates who populate the Party’s higher echelons.

One minor branch of the Gestapo—a status that does not reflect its true importance, but it’s always better to remain discreet with such sensitive subjects—is devoted to Jewish affairs. Heydrich already knows who he wants to run it: that little Austrian Hauptsturmfhrer who did such good work before, Adolf Eichmann. At the moment he’s working on a particularly original dossier: the Madagascar Plan. The idea is to deport all the Jews there. An idea worth pursuing. First, it is necessary to defeat Britain, because sending the Jews by sea will otherwise be impossible. Afterward… we’ll see.

98

Hitler has decided to invade Britain. For a landing on the English coastline to succeed, Germany must first control the skies. Yet, in spite of Gring’s promises, the RAF’s Spitfires and Hurricanes are still flying over the Channel. Day after day, night after night, the heroic British pilots repulse the attacks of the German bombers and fighters. Operation Sea Lion, planned for September 11, 1940, is postponed first until the fourteenth, and then until the seventeenth. But on September 17, a Kriegsmarine report states: “The enemy air force is still not beaten, in any way. In fact, it is increasingly active. On the whole, atmospheric conditions do not allow us to hope for a period of calm.” So the Fhrer decides to delay Sea Lion indefinitely.

That same day, however, Heydrich—told by Gring to organize repression and purification in the immediate aftermath of the invasion—gives orders to one of his colleagues, Standartenfhrer Franck Six, former head of economics at the University of Berlin, now redeployed in the SD. This is the man Heydrich has chosen to settle in London and to command the specially formed Einsatzgruppen: six small units to be based in London, Bristol, Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, and Edinburgh—or Glasgow, if the Forth Bridge is destroyed before then. “Your task,” Heydrich tells him, “is to fight, by any means necessary, all opposition groups, organizations, and institutions.” In concrete terms, the work of these Einsatzgruppen will be as it was in Poland, and as it will later be in Russia: they are death squads, ordered to exterminate everything in their path.

But at this point the mission is complicated by the Sonderfahndungliste GB, the special search list for Great Britain better known as the Black Book. It is a list of some 2,300 people to be found, arrested, and delivered to the Gestapo as quickly as possible. At the head of the list, unsurprisingly, is Churchill. Among the other politicians, British and foreign, are Bene and Masaryk, representatives of the Czech government-in-exile. So far, so logical. But the list also contains the names of writers such as H. G. Wells, Virginia Woolf, Aldous Huxley, and Rebecca West. Freud is there, despite having died in 1939. And Baden-Powell, too, the founder of the Scout movement. In retrospect, the execution of the young Scouts in Poland is more than an excess of zeal: it’s a mistake because the Scouts are considered by the German secret services to be among the best potential sources of information. This is, altogether, a fairly weird collection of names. Apparently it was drawn up not by Heydrich but by Schellenberg. If the work seems rather botched, that might be due to the fact that Schellenberg was very busy preparing the attempted kidnapping of the Duke of Windsor in Lisbon.

So the list is rather comical, the duke’s kidnapping will fail, the Luftwaffe will lose the Battle of Britain, and Operation Sea Lion will never be launched. A few stray stones in the garden of German efficiency.

99

I’m still not sure about the veracity of all the Heydrich anecdotes I’m collecting, but this one is particularly unreliable: the witness and protagonist of the scene I’m about to describe isn’t even certain himself about what happened to him. Schellenberg is Heydrich’s right-hand man in the SD. He is a fierce, unscrupulous bureaucrat, but also a brilliant, cultivated, elegant young man whom Heydrich sometimes invites not only on regular trips to brothels but to spend evenings with himself and Lina, at the theater or the opera. So he counts almost as a close friend of the couple. One day when Heydrich has a meeting out of town, Lina calls Schellenberg to suggest they take a stroll around a lake. They drink coffee, talk of literature and music. That’s as much as I know. Four days later, after work, Heydrich takes Schellenberg and “Gestapo” Mller for a night on the town. The evening begins in a chic restaurant on Alexanderplatz. Mller pours the drinks. The atmosphere is relaxed, everything seems normal. Then Mller says to Schellenberg: “So, did you have a good time the other day?” Schellenberg understands immediately. Heydrich, white-faced, says nothing. “Do you wish to be informed of what happened on the outing?” Schellenberg asks him, speaking like a bureaucrat almost in spite of himself. And suddenly the evening plunges into strangeness. Heydrich hisses: “You have just drunk poison. It will kill yu within six hours. If you tell me the whole, absolute truth, I will give you the antidote. But I want the truth.” Schellenberg’s heartbeat races. He starts to describe the afternoon while trying to keep his voice from trembling. Mller interrupts him: “After the coffee, you went for a walk with the boss’s wife. Why are you hiding this? You do understand that you were being watched, don’t you?” But if Heydrich already knew everything, what would be the point of this drama? Schellenberg confesses to a fifteen-minute walk and gives an account of the subjects touched upon during their conversation. Heydrich remains pensive for a long time. Then he delivers his verdict: “All right, I suppose I must believe you. But give me your word of honor that you will never do anything like this again.” Schellenberg, sensing that the greatest danger is over, manages to conquer his fear and to reply in an aggressive voice that he will give his word after drinking the antidote because an oath extorted in such circumstances would be worthless. He even dares to ask: “As a former naval officer, would you consider it honorable to proceed in any other way?” Bearing in mind how Heydrich’s naval career ended, you have to admit that Schellenberg has balls. Heydrich stares at Schellenberg. Then he pours him a dry martini. “Perhaps I was imagining it,” Schellenberg writes in his memoirs, “but it seemed to taste more bitter than normal.” He drinks, apologizes, gives his word of honor, and the evening begins again.

100

During one of his many brothel visits, Heydrich has an inspired idea: open his own.

His closest collaborators—Schellenberg, Nebe, and Naujocks—are given the task of carrying out this venture. Schellenberg finds a house in a chic district of suburban Berlin. Nebe, who has worked for years in fashionable society, recruits the girls. And Naujocks takes care of fitting out the premises: each room bristles with microphones and cameras. They’re behind paintings, inside lamps, under armchairs, on top of wardrobes. A listening post is installed in the cellar.

The idea is brilliant in its simplicity: instead of going out to spy on people in their homes, get them to come to you. So it has to be a high-class brothel to attract a prestigious clientele.

When all is ready, Kitty’s Salon opens its doors and, thanks to word of mouth, is soon famous in diplomatic circles. The bugs work twenty-four hours a day. The cameras are useful for blackmailing clients.

Kitty, the boss, is an ambitious madam from Vienna: distinguished, competent, and devoted to her work. She loves being able to boast about her famous clients. The visit of Count Ciano, the Italian foreign minister and Mussolini’s son-in-law, drives her mad with happiness. I suppose there is also a fascinating book to be written about her.

Quite quickly, Heydrich starts giving visits of inspection. He turns up late, usually drunk, and goes upstairs with one of the girls.

One morning, Naujocks happens upon a recording of his boss. Out of curiosity he listens—I don’t know if there was a film—and, having had a good chuckle, prudently decides to erase the recording. I don’t have the details, but evidently Heydrich’s performance is laughable.

101

Naujocks stands in Heydrich’s office—he has not been invited to sit down—beneath an enormous chandelier whose point hangs ominously over his head like the sword of Damocles. His fate, he knows, hangs by a thread this morning. Heydrich sits before the vast wall tapestry embroidered with a gigantic eagle clasping a swastika. He bangs his fist on the solid wood table and the impact makes the photo of his wife and children jump.

“How the devil could you decide to record my visit to Kitty’s Salon last night?”

Even if he’d already guessed the reason for this morning’s summons, Naujocks turns pale.

“Record?”

“Yes. Don’t deny it!”

Naujocks makes a quick calculation: Heydrich has no material proof, because he took care to erase the tape. So he adopts what seems to him the most profitable strategy. Knowing his boss as he does, however, he is aware that he’s risking his life.

“But I do deny it! I don’t even know which room you were in! Nobody told me!”

There follows a long, unnerving silence.

“You’re lying! Either that or you’re getting careless.”

Naujocks wonders which of these hypotheses is, in his boss’s eyes, the most unforgivable. In a calmer and thus more disturbing voice, Heydrich begins to speak again:

“You should have known where I was. It’s part of your job. It is also your duty to switch off the microphones and tape recorders when I’m there. You didn’t do that last night. If you think you can make a fool of me, Naujocks, you’d better think again. Leave.”

Naujocks—the jack of all trades who, at Gleiwitz, started the war—is sidelined. It is thanks only to his remarkable survival instinct that he is not simply liquidated. After this regrettable incident, he will spend most of his time trying to keep his head down. In the end, this is not a very high price to pay for fucking with Heydrich: his boss, Himmler’s right-hand man, the SS number two, supreme leader of the RSHA, master of the SD and the Gestapo. Heydrich, the Blond Beast, who, through his ferocity but also through his sexual performances, is doubly deserving of his nickname. Or not, as Naujocks must snigger to himself in those moments of calm between the surges of fear.

102

The dialogue in the preceding chapter is the perfect example of the difficulties I’m facing. Certainly Flaubert didn’t have the same problems with Salammb, because nobody recorded the conversations of Hamilcar, father of Hannibal. But when I make Heydrich say: “If you think you can make a fool of me, Naujocks, you’d better think again,” all I am doing is repeating the words as reported by Naujocks himself. You could hardly hope for a better witness, for reporting a phrase, than the only other person in the room, who heard it and to whom it was addressed. That said, I doubt whether Heydrich really formulated his threat in that way. It’s not his style. What we have here is Naujocks recalling a phrase years after the event, which is rewritten by whoever’s taking down his dictation, and then again by the translator. But Heydrich, the most dangerous man in the Reich, saying, “If you think you can make a fool of me, Naujocks, you’d better think again”… well, it’s a bit lame. It is surely much more likely that Heydrich—a coarse man on a power trip, and angry too—said something along the lines of: “You want to fuck with me? Watch it, I’ll rip your balls off!” But what is my opinion worth compared with an eyewitness account?

If it were up to me, I’d write:

“Tell me, Naujocks, where did I spend the night?”

“I beg your pardon, General?”

“You heard me.”

“Well… I don’t know, General.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, General.”

“You don’t know that I was at Kitty’s?”

“…”

“What have you done with the recording?”

“I don’t understand, General.”

“Stop fucking with me! I want to know if you kept the recording!”

“General… I didn’t know that you were there!… Nobody warned me! Of course, I destroyed the recording as soon as I recognized you… I mean, as soon as I recognized your voice!…”

“Stop bullshitting, Naujocks! You’re paid to know everything, and especially where I am, because I’m the one who pays you! The instant I take a room at Kitty’s, you switch off the microphones! The next time you try to fuck with me, I’ll send you to Dachau, where they’ll hang you up by the balls! Am I making myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, General.”

“Now fuck off!”

That would, I think, be a bit livelier and more realistic, and probably closer to the truth. But it’s impossible to know for sure. Heydrich could be foulmouthed, but he also knew how to play the icy bureaucrat when the need rose. So, all in all, between Naujocks’s version, however corrupted, and mine, it is undoubtedly better to choose that of Naujocks. But I still think Heydrich would have wanted to rip his balls off.

103

From one of the high windows in the north tower of Wewelsburg Castle, Heydrich contemplates the plain of Westphalia. In the middle of the forest, he can just make out the huts and the barbed-wire fences of Germany’s smallest concentration camp. But his gaze is probably focused on the parade ground, where the troops of his Einsatzgruppen are being drilled. Operation Barbarossa will be launched within a week. Within two, these men will be in Byelorussia, in Ukraine, in Lithuania, and will be seeing action. They’ve been promised that they’ll be home again by Christmas, once their job is done. In reality, Heydrich has no idea how long this war will last. Within the Party and the army, everyone who knows about the operation is highly optimistic. The Red Army’s performances on the battlefield—mediocre in Poland, frankly rubbish in Finland—lead the Nazis to believe that the still-invincible Wehrmacht can achieve a rapid victory. Based on what he’s seen in the SD reports, however, Heydrich is more circumspect. The enemy’s forces—the number of their tanks, for example, or of their reserve divisions—seem to him to have been dangerously underestimated. But the high command of the armed forces has its own information service, the Abwehr, and it has chosen to ignore Heydrich’s warnings and to put its faith instead in the more encouraging conclusions of Admiral Canaris, Heydrich’s former boss. Heydrich, whose expulsion from the navy remains an unhealed wound, must be choking with rage. Hitler has declared: “The beginning of a war is always like opening a door onto a darkened room. You never know what’s hiding in there.” Implicitly, it is admitted that the SD’s warnings might not be baseless. But the decision to attack the Soviet Union has been taken, all the same. Heydrich watches with concern as the clouds gather over the plain below.

Behind him, he hears the voice of Himmler talking to his generals.

For Himmler, the SS is an order of knights. He considers himself a descendant of Henry the Fowler, the Saxon king who, by repelling the Magyars in the tenth century, laid the foundations of the Germanic Holy Roman Empire, and who then spent most of his reign exterminating Slavs. With his claims to such a lineage, the Reichsfhrer needed a castle. When he found this one, it was a ruin. He had to bring four thousand prisoners from Sachsenhausen, nearly a third of whom died during the renovations. Now, however, it towers imperiously over the Alme, which flows through the valley. Its two towers and its dungeon, connected by battlements, form a triangle whose point, turned toward the mythical land of Thule, birthplace of the Aryans, represents the axis mundi, the symbolic center of the world.

Here in the heart of the dungeon, in a former chapel renamed Obergruppenfhrersaal, Himmler is holding a meeting that Heydrich has been unable to get out of. In the middle of this great circular room, the highest SS dignitaries are gathered around an enormous oak table. It is round and seats twelve, of course, because Himmler wanted to reproduce the symbolism of the Arthurian legend. But the Reich’s quest for the Grail in 1941 is a little different from Perceval’s. “The final confrontation between two ideologies… the need to seize new Lebensraum…” Heydrich knows this mantra by heart, as do all Germans at the time. “A question of survival… pitiless racial struggle… twenty to thirty million Slavs and Jews…” At this point Heydrich, who is fond of numbers, pricks up his ears: “Twenty to thirty million Slavs and Jews will perish through military actions and the problems of food supply.”

Heydrich does not let his irritation show. He stares at the magnificent black sun inlaid with runes on the marble floor. Military actions… problems of supply… could they be any more evasive? Heydrich is well aware that with certain sensitive subjects one must not be too explicit, but a moment always comes when you have to call a spade a spade—and it seems reasonable to think that this moment has now arrived. Otherwise, through a lack of clarity in their orders, there is a risk that the men will mess things up. And he is the one who’s responsible for this mission.

When Himmler ends the meeting, Heydrich hurries through corridors cluttered with suits of armor, coats of arms, and paintings. He knows that there are alchemists, occultists, and magi here working full-time on esoteric problems, but he pays no mind to any of this. Two days he’s been stuck in this lunatic asylum! He wants to get back to Berlin as soon as possible.

But outside the clouds are massing in the valley, and if he waits too long his airplane won’t be able to take off. They escort him to the parade ground, where he has the honor of reviewing the troops. He dispenses with the long speech and dashes past the assembled ranks, hardly even glancing at the gang of assassins chosen to go and exterminate subhumans in the East. There are nearly three thousand of them and they are turned out impeccably. Heydrich dives into the plane that idles at the end of the runway. It takes off just before the storm breaks. In the sudden downpour, the troops of the four Einsatzgruppen start to march.

104

In Berlin, there is no round table and no black magic. The atmosphere is bureaucratic, and Heydrich studiously writes his directives. Gring has asked him to keep them short and simple. On July 2, 1941, two weeks after the launch of Barbarossa, the following note is sent to SS commanders behind the front line:

“To be executed: all Komintern functionaries, Party functionaries, people’s commissars, Jews occupying positions in the Party or the State, other radical elements (saboteurs, propagandists, irregular soldiers, murderers, agitators).”

Simple indeed, but also quite cautious—curiously so. Why specify that Jews occupying positions in the Party or the State should be executed when all such functionaries were to be executed anyway, Jewish or otherwise? Heydrich didn’t know then how ordinary soldiers would react to the demands of his Einsatzgruppen. It’s true that the famous directive signed by Keitel on June 6, 1941, and thus approved by the Wehrmacht, authorizes the massacres, but officially this is limited to political enemies. In other words, Soviet Jews are targeted only because of their politics. The redundant meaning in this note is like a trace of one final scruple. Naturally, if the local people want to organize pogroms, that will be discreetly encouraged. But at the beginning of July, there is still no question of openly pursuing the extermination of Jews simply because they are Jews.

Two weeks later, swept along by the euphoria of their victories, this embarrassment will have disappeared. While the Wehrmacht routs the Red Army on all fronts, while the invasion progresses even more easily than the most optimistic forecasts, and while 300,000 Soviet soldiers are taken prisoner, Heydrich rewrites his directive. The main points are reprised, the list lengthened, and a few details added (former Red Army commissars are now included, for instance). And finally Heydrich replaces “Jews occupying positions in the Party or the State” with “all the Jews.”

105

Hauptmann Heydrich is on board a Messerschmitt 109 whose cabin is embossed with the initials RH in runic lettering: this is his private plane and it is flying over Soviet territory at the head of a formation of Luftwaffe fighters. Whenever the German pilots spot columns of slowly retreating Russian soldiers below, they swoop on them like tigers and, lining up the columns of men in their sights, massacre them with machine guns.

Today, however, what Heydrich sees below him is not a column of foot soldiers ut a Yak. The Soviet plane’s plump silhouette is easily recognized. In spite of the enormous number of enemy planes destroyed on the ground by German bombers at the beginning of the offensive, the Soviet air force has not been completely eliminated, and there are still pockets of resistance: this Yak is proof of that. But the German planes are obviously superior, both in quality and quantity. No Soviet fighter in the current situation can hope to hold its own against the Me109. Imperious and vain, Heydrich orders his squadron to remain in formation. He wants to give his men a demonstration by shooting down the Russian plane on his own. He descends to the Yak’s height and glides along in its vapor trail. The Yak’s pilot hasn’t seen him. The object of the maneuver is to get closer to the target so that he can open fire at a distance of about five hundred feet. The German plane is much faster. The gap closes. When he can clearly make out the Russian’s tail in his sights, Heydrich shoots. The Yak beats its wings like a terror-stricken bird. But the first salvo hasn’t touched it, and in truth the pilot is not terror-stricken. He sends the plane into a dive. Heydrich tries to follow, but his turn is hopelessly wide in comparison. That idiot Gring claimed Soviet aviation was obsolete, but in that, as in almost all the Nazis’ assumptions about the Soviet Union, he was wrong. Admittedly, the Yak doesn’t measure up to the German fighters in terms of speed, but its relative slowness is balanced by an astonishing maneuverability. The little Russian plane keeps descending while continuing to twist and turn ever more tightly. Heydrich follows but can’t fix the enemy in his sights. It’s like a hare being pursued by a greyhound. Heydrich wants to claim a victory and paint a little plane on the fuselage of his aircraft, so he persists. What he doesn’t realiae is that the Yak, while constantly changing direction to evade his pursuer’s salvos, is not flying randomly but heading toward a precise location. Only when the explosions echo all around him does Heydrich understand: the Russian pilot has led him over a Soviet antiaircraft battery and he—the imbecile—has thrown himself into the trap.

A violent impact shakes the cabin. Black smoke pours from the tail. Heydrich’s plane crashes.

106

Himmler looks like someone’s just smacked him in the face. The blood rises to his cheeks and he feels his brain swell inside his skull. He’s just heard the news: during an air battle over the Berezina, Heydrich’s Messerschmitt 109 has been shot down. If Heydrich is dead, it is of course a terrible loss for the SS: brilliant man, dedicated colleague, et cetera. But the real worry is if he’s still alive: that could spell catastrophe. Because the plane crashed behind Soviet lines. Himmler imagines having to inform the Fhrer that his security chief has fallen into enemy hands. That would not be a pleasant meeting. He makes a mental inventory of all the information Heydrich possesses that is likely to interest Stalin. The answer makes him dizzy. And then there are things Heydrich knows of which the Reichsfhrer is unaware. Politically, strategically, if Heydrich talks, the consequences could be incalculable. Himmler can’t even begin to measure the potential magnitude of the disaster. Behind his little round glasses and his little mustache, he is sweating.

To tell the truth, that isn’t even the most urgent problem. If Heydrich is dead or a prisoner of the Russians, the absolute priority is to get hold of his dossiers. God only knows what they might contain, and about whom. All his files must be seized, in his office and at his home. To deal with Prinz Albert Strasse, he must warn Mller, who looks after the RSHA, along with Schellenberg. For Heydrich’s home, deal politely with Lina, but everything must be searched. Meanwhile, as Heydrich is reported missing, the only thing to do is wait. Go see Lina, to prepare the ground, and send orders to the front that he must be found, dead or alive.

One might reasonably ask what the hell the head of the Nazi secret services was doing in a German fighter plane above a Soviet combat zone. The answer is that, along with his SS duties, Heydrich was a reserve officer in the Luftwaffe. In readiness for the war, he had taken flying lessons, and when the invasion of Poland began, he absolutely wanted to answer the call of duty. As prestigious as his post as head of the SD was, he regarded it as a bureaucrat’s job—and since the country was at war, he had to behave like a true Teutonic Knight: he had to fight. Thus he found himself, first of all, as a machine gunner in a bomber. But unsurprisingly he wasn’t keen on this secondary role, so he took command of a Messerschmitt 110 on reconaissance flights over Great Britain, and then of a Messerschmitt 109 (the German equivalent of the Spitfire) in which he broke an arm taking off during the Norwegian campaign. I got hold of a slightly hagiographic book that describes admiringly how he flew planes with his arm in a sling. Afterward, he fought in battles against the RAF.

While this was happening, Himmler was already worrying about him like a father. I have before me a letter dated May 15, 1940, written from his private train (the Sonderzug Heinrich) and addressed to his “very dear Heydrich,” which shows just how solicitous Himmler was toward his right-hand man: “Give me your news every day if you can.” Knowing all he knew, Heydrich was a very valuable man.

Only two days later, Heydrich was picked up by a German “patrol”—his own men from Einsatzgruppen D—who had just liquidated forty-five Jews and thirty hostages. He’d been shot down by Soviet antiaircraft fire, crash-landed, spent two days and two nights in hiding, and finally crossed the German lines on foot. Returning home filthy and unshaven, he was also, according to his wife, quite unnerved by his misadventure, although it did give him what he’d wanted: the Iron Cross, first class—a highly respected medal in the German military. Following this glorious feat, however, he was never allowed to take part in any more aerial battles. Hitler himself, horrified in hindsight by the story of the Berezina, appears to have officially forbidden this. So, in spite of his efforts and his undeniable impetuosity, Heydrich never scored a single kill. His career as a pilot ended on this disappointing note.

107

Natacha reads the chapter I’ve just written. When she reaches the second sentence, she exclaims: “What do you mean, ‘The blood rises to his cheeks and he feels his brain swell inside his skull’? You’re making it up!”

I have been boring her for years with my theories about the puerile, ridiculous nature of novelistic invention, and she’s right, I suppose, not to let me get away with this skull thing. I thought I’d decided to avoid this kind of stuff, which has, a priori, no virtue other than giving a bit of color to the story, and which is rather ugly. And even if there are clues to Himmler’s panicked reaction, I can’t really be sure of the symptoms of this panic: perhaps he went red (that’s how I imagine it), but then again, perhaps he turned white. This is quite a serious problem.

I defend myself halfheartedly: it’s more than likely that Himmler had some kind of headache, and anyway, this thing about the swelling brain is just a cheap metaphor with which to express his fear. But even I’m not convinced by this. The next day, I delete the sentence. Unfortunately, that creates an emptiness that I don’t like. I’m not sure why, but I’m not at all keen on the segue from “smacked him in the face” to “He’s just heard the news.” Too abrupt: I miss the link provided by my skull metaphor. So I feel obliged to replace the deleted sentence with another, more prudent one. I write something like: “I imagine that his face, like a bespectacled little rat’s, must have turned red.” It’s true that Himmler’s fat cheeks and mustache made him rather rodentlike, but obviousl this phrase lacks gravitas. I decide to remove “bespectacled.” The effect of “little rat’s,” even without the spectacles, still bothers me. You can see the advantage of this option, however, with its cautious qualifications: “I imagine…,” “must have…” With a hypothesis openly presented as such, I avoid the clash with reality. I don’t know why I feel the need to add: “His face is flushed.”

I had this vision of Himmler red-faced and with a blocked nose (perhaps because I’ve had a nasty cold myself for the past four days) and my tyrannic imagination wouldn’t budge from this idea: I wanted a detail of this kind for the Reichsfhrer’s face. But clearly I wasn’t happy with the result: I got rid of it once again. I contemplated this nothingness between the first and third sentence for a long time. And, slowly, I began to type: “The blood rises to his cheeks and he feels his brain swell inside his skull.”

As usual, I think of Oscar Wilde. It’s the same old story: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.”

108

Heydrich, who I imagine settled comfortably in the back of his black Mercedes, presses his briefcase tightly to his knees. It contains probably the most important document of his career, and of the Third Reich’s history.