And now here he was, leaving his office after locking away papers whose existence was known only to three other men in the world -Hitler, Himmler and Kaltenbrunner. A limousine was waiting for him outside. The sentries saluted, the orderly flung open the door and Obersturmbannfuhrer Eichmann was on his way. Accelerating quickly, the powerful Gestapo limousine made its way through the streets of Berlin, passing policemen who saluted respectfully as they hurriedly changed the lights to green, and sped onto the autobahn. And then rain, mist, road-signs and the long smooth curves of the highway…

Smolevichi is full of quiet little houses with gardens; grass grows on the pavements. In the slums of Berdichev there are dirty hens running around in the dust, their yellowish legs marked with red and violet ink. In Kiev – on Vassilievskaya Avenue and in the Podol – there are tall buildings with dirty windows, staircases whose steps have been worn down by millions of children's shoes and old men's slippers.

In yards all over Odessa stand tall plane trees with peeling bark. Brightly-coloured clothes and linen are drying on the line. Pans of cherry jam are steaming on cookers. New-born babies with swarthy skin – skin that has yet to see the sun – are screaming in cradles.

On the six floors of a gaunt, narrow-shouldered building in Warsaw live seamstresses, book-binders, private tutors, cabaret-singers, students and watchmakers…

In Stalindorf people light fires in their huts in the evening. The wind blows from Perekop, smelling of salt and warm dust. Cows shake their heavy heads and moo…

In Budapest and Fastov, in Vienna, Melitopol and Amsterdam, in detached houses with sparkling windows, in hovels swathed in factory smoke, lived people belonging to the Jewish nation.

The barbed wire of the camps, the clay of the anti-tank ditches and the walls of the gas ovens brought together millions of people of different ages, professions and languages, people with different material concerns and different spiritual beliefs. All of them – fanatical believers and fanatical atheists, workers and scroungers, doctors and tradesmen, sages and idiots, thieves, contemplatives, saints and idealists – were to be exterminated.

The Gestapo limousine sped down the autumn autobahn.

30

Eichmann marched into the office, firing off questions before he'd even sat down.

'I've got very little time. I have to be in Warsaw by tomorrow at the latest.'

He had already spoken to the camp-commandant and the chief engineer.

'How are the factories getting on? What are your impressions of Voss? Do you think the chemists are up to it?' he asked rapidly.

His large white fingers – with correspondingly large pink nails – turned over the papers on the desk. From time to time he made brief notes with a fountain-pen. Liss had the feeling that to him this project was no different from any other – though it aroused a secret shiver of horror in even the most hardened hearts.

Liss had drunk a lot over these last few days. He was constantly short of breath and he could feel his heart pounding during the night. In spite of this, he felt that alcohol was less damaging to his health than the constant nervous tension that was the alternative.

He dreamed of returning to his research on important figures who had shown hostility towards National Socialism; of studying questions that, for all their complexity and cruelty, could at least be solved without the shedding of blood. Then he would smoke only two or three cigarettes a day and he would stop drinking. Not long ago, he had played a game of political chess with an old Russian Bolshevik; he had gone back home afterwards, fallen asleep without having to take any tablets and not woken up until nine in the morning.

A small surprise had been laid on for Eichmann and Liss during their tour of inspection. In the middle of the gas chamber, the engineers had laid a small table with hors-d'oeuvres and wine. Reineke invited Eichmann and Liss to sit down.

Eichmann laughed at this charming idea and said: 'With the greatest of pleasure.'

He gave his cap to his bodyguard and sat down. His large face suddenly took on a look of kindly concentration, the same look that appears on the faces of millions of men as they sit down to a good meal.

Reineke poured out the wine and they all reached for their glasses, waiting for Eichmann to propose a toast.

The tension in this concrete silence, in these full glasses, was so extreme that Liss felt his heart was about to burst. What he wanted was some ringing toast to clear the atmosphere, a toast to the glory of the German ideal. Instead, the tension grew stronger – Eichmann was chewing a sandwich.

'Well, gentlemen?' said Eichmann. 'I call that excellent ham!'

'We're waiting for the master of ceremonies to propose a toast,' said Liss.

Eichmann raised his glass.

'To the continued success of our work! Yes, that certainly deserves a toast!'

Eichmann was the only man to eat well and drink very little.

The following morning, wearing only a pair of underpants, Eichmann did his exercises in front of an open window. Through the mist he could make out the orderly rows of barrack-huts and hear the whistles of steam-engines.

Liss wasn't usually envious of Eichmann. He himself enjoyed an important position without excessive responsibilities. He was considered one of the most intelligent men in the Gestapo. Himmler himself liked to chat with him.

Important dignitaries usually avoided pulling their rank with him. He was used to being treated with respect – and not only within the Gestapo. The presence of the Gestapo could be felt everywhere – in universities, in the signature of the director of a children's nursing-home, in auditions for young opera-singers, in the jury's choice of pictures for the spring exhibition, in the list of candidates for elections to the Reichstag. It was the axis around which life turned. It was thanks to the Gestapo that the Party was always right, that its philosophy triumphed over any other philosophy, its logic – or lack of logic – over any other logic. Yes, this was the magic wand. If it were dropped, a great orator would be transformed into a mere windbag, a renowned scientist would be exposed as a common plagiarist. The magic wand must never be dropped.

As he looked at Eichmann, Liss, for the first time in his life, felt a twinge of envy.

A few minutes before his departure, Eichmann said thoughtfully: 'We're from the same town, Liss.'

They started to reel off the names of familiar streets, restaurants and cinemas.

'There are, of course, places I never visited,' said Eichmann, naming a club that wouldn't have admitted the son of an artisan.

Liss changed the subject. 'Can you give me some idea – just a rough estimate – of the number of Jews we're talking about?'

He knew this was the million-dollar question, a question that perhaps only three men in the world, other than Himmler and the Fuhrer, could answer. But it was the right moment – after Eichmann's reminiscences about his difficult youth during the period of democracy and cosmopolitanism – for Liss to admit his ignorance, to ask about what he didn't know.

Eichmann answered his question.

'What?' Liss gasped in astonishment. 'Millions?'

Eichmann shrugged his shoulders.

They remained silent for some time.

'I very much regret that we didn't meet during our years as students,' said Liss, 'during our years of apprenticeship – as Goethe put it.'

'You needn't. I studied out in the provinces,' said Eichmann, 'not in Berlin.'

After a pause he went on: 'It's the first time, my friend, that I've pronounced that figure out loud. If we include Berchtesgaden, the Reichskanzler and the office of our Fiihrer, it may have been pronounced seven or eight times.'