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My interview with Helmut Knochen, the next day, only reinforced this feeling. He received me with a curious mixture of ostentatious camaraderie and condescending haughtiness. When he was working at the SD, I never saw him outside the office; of course, he must have known that I spent a lot of time with Best then (but maybe now that was no longer a recommendation). Whatever the case, I told him that I had seen Best in Berlin and he asked me how he was doing. I also mentioned that I had served under the command of Dr. Thomas, as he had; he then asked me about my experiences in Russia, while still making me subtly feel the distance between us: he, the Standartenführer in charge of an entire country; I, a convalescent with an uncertain future. He had received me in his office, around a low table decorated with a vase of dried flowers; he had settled into the sofa, crossing his long legs sheathed in riding breeches, leaving me to cram into the depths of a small and too low armchair: from where I sat, his knee almost hid his face and the vagueness of his eyes. I didn’t know how to broach the subject that concerned me. Finally, I told him somewhat at random that I was preparing a book about the future of Germany’s international relations, embroidering on the ideas I had picked up from Best’s Festgabe (and as I spoke, I picked up steam and began convincing myself that I really did intend to write such a book, which would make an impression and ensure my future). Knochen listened politely, nodding his head. Finally I slipped in that I was thinking of taking up a position in France to gather concrete experiences there, which would complete those of Russia. “Have you been offered something?” he asked with a gleam of curiosity. “I hadn’t heard.”—“Not yet, Standartenführer, it’s under discussion. It doesn’t pose any problems in principle, but the appropriate position would have to open up or be created.”—“With me, you know, there’s nothing for now. It’s a pity, the position of Specialist for Jewish Affairs was vacant in December, but it has already been filled.” I forced myself to smile: “That’s not what I’m looking for.”—“But you’ve acquired some good experience in that field, it seems to me. And the Jewish question, in France, touches very closely on our diplomatic relations with Vichy. But in any case your rank is too high: it’s at most a position for a Hauptsturmführer. What about with Abetz? Have you been to see him? If I remember correctly, you had personal contacts with the Parisian protofascists. That should interest the ambassador.”

I found myself on the wide, almost deserted sidewalk of Avenue Foch in a state of profound discouragement: I felt as if I were confronted with a wall—a soft, elusive, blurry one, but still just as insurmountable as a high stone wall. At the top of the avenue, the Arc de Triomphe still hid the morning sun and cast long shadows on the pavement. Go to Abetz? True, I could probably mention our brief meeting in 1933 as a reference, or have myself introduced by someone from Je Suis Partout. But I didn’t feel up to it. I thought of my sister, in Switzerland: perhaps a posting in Switzerland would suit me? I could see her from time to time, when she accompanied her husband to the sanatorium. But there were almost no SD positions in Switzerland, and everyone fought for them. Dr. Mandelbrod could probably have swept aside all obstacles, for France as well as for Switzerland; but Dr. Mandelbrod, I knew, had his own ideas in mind for me.