Chapter 53

The evening of February 28, 1933

Dressed in my SS general’s uniform, my hand was about to knock on the door of Weiss’s sister’s house when a black car raced around the corner on two wheels. It came to a sudden stop. Two SS officers jumped out, guns drawn. They loped up the steps by twos, only to find me standing on the top step.

“Halt!” I ordered. “Where are you going?”

When they looked up, they stopped short, clicked their heels, and stood at attention. “Heil, Hitler,” they shouted.

I returned the salute. “Answer my question.”

“We have orders to search this house, Herr Obergruppenführer.”

“Then I presume you are looking for Bernhard Weiss.”

“We just came from his place,” stammered the one to my left. “How did you know?”

“You’re two steps behind,” I said. “I came here after I found his place empty. I wanted the pleasure of arresting that bastard myself. There’s a debt he owes for jailing me under false pretenses a couple of years ago. The trouble is he’s not here.”

“Did you look everywhere inside?” the other asked.

I glared down at him. “Are you insinuating that I do not know what I am doing?”

The two stood flat-footed. Mute.

I demanded their names. “I would like to make certain both of you receive a commendation for discovering that this Jew has a sister here in Berlin.”

They saluted without comment, turned, and started down the steps. Then the more assertive one stopped and asked, “Forgive me, Herr Obergruppenführer, but do you mind if we take a look anyway? Then we can write a fuller report.”

I could have used my rank to order them to leave, but that might have aroused suspicions.

“Certainly. Go inside and check my work. Make certain you include my name in your report, noting that an Obergruppenführer did a thorough and complete job searching the house for this Jew. I will wait for your report with great anticipation.”

The second man took his comrade’s arm. “Horst, what are we doing? Obviously the Obergruppenführer has spared us a waste of time.”

After their car disappeared, I trotted to both corners to make certain no others lurked about. I returned to Weiss’s sister’s house and surveyed the street one last time before knocking.

The door opened.

“I am to meet Bernhard Weiss at this address.”

March 1, 1933

The passage to the border, the confrontation with the guards, the drive to Prague, and the ensuing discussion with Weiss pressed the time for my return to Berlin before I was missed. The drive from Prague was an endurance race that ended when I collapsed in my bed.

Hours later, refreshed and showered, I dressed in my SS uniform . . . ready to report to the Chancellery. As I adjusted my tunic, I studied the reflection that stared back at me. Nothing is pure, I thought. Nothing can be perfect. Facing myself, I made a resolution: as long as Wolf and the party continued to improve the lot of the German people, I would endeavor to help. But—I resolved—if the balance shifted, no promise to Weiss would bind me to stay. Then, as if the person in the mirror was my witness, I raised my right hand and swore to uphold this contract with myself. For that moment, I was at peace.

What the mirror did not reveal was the unreliability of scales to weigh practicality against morality—or the irresistible impulse to use a thumb when taking that balance.