Gerstein, you’ve seen for yourself that we run a good operation here, he began, embarrassed, and Gerstein, smiling disarmingly, nodding at him like a schoolboy, thought: This monster wants a favor!
You won’t mention the engine problem to Berlin, will you?
Of course not, Herr Captain! That sort of thing can happen anywhere—
You’re a very understanding young man, and I won’t forget that. Now I want to ask you something else. What do you intend to do with the prussic acid?
As you advise me, Herr Captain, returned Gerstein in the most ingratiating tone he could wring out. Actually, this wasn’t so bad. Anything was better than sitting next to Dr. Pfannenstiel.
You’ll appreciate my motives in putting this to you: Heckenholt and all the others depend on me for their livelihood. As for Globocnik, well, between you and me, he’s been in trouble before, and he doesn’t want to get sidelined. None of us want to be sidelined here, Gerstein. Do you see what I mean? Now, here’s what I want you to do.
By your order, Captain!
I want you to tell those people in Berlin that we don’t need any modifications, at least not at Belzec (about Treblinka I don’t give a shit). Thanks to their interference, we’ve already been made to give up bottled gas, which worked perfectly well, believe me, back at the start of all this. They can complain all they like about supply problems. Well, in this life we all have supply problems. Bottled gas is what we used to carry out T-4, after the bleeding hearts decided that shooting wasn’t good enough for Germans. Well, they can all go to hell. Tell those assholes in Berlin that based on your technical expertise, diesel is more sensible than prussic acid—more rapid or more safe or whatever. Get those bureaucrats to leave us in peace. They’re not living in the real world. Do we have a deal?
Gerstein, knowing that every hour Heckenholt’s engine broke down was an hour when Jews would escape murder at Belzec, also knowing that the lethality of his sky-blue prussic acid crystals was far superior to that of carbon monoxide, smiled at Captain Wirth with charming frankness and said: I’m afraid the prussic acid has deteriorated in transit. It’s quite unstable, actually. I fear that we have no alternative but to bury it—
Good man! Gerstein, I’ll cut you in. Do you see that Ukrainian over there? I’ll make sure he has something for you.
Herr Captain, that’s not necessary—
But now Captain Wirth began to worry that Gerstein was holding out for more than a one-time payment in Jew-gold. All the prostitutes of Poland, so it seemed, had set up shop just beyond his railroad siding, not at all put out by the stinking black fog which overhung Belzec rain or shine; and his liaison officer Oberhauser, who enjoyed the occasional tryst with any Aryan-looking P-maiden, had reported to him that they kept raising their prices, doubtless because the treasures of Belzec were, at least from the standpoint of such sports, inexhaustible. (Captain Wirth had himself seen a blondish wench leading two of his Ukrainians into a sort of cave she’d made in the mound of Jew-clothes behind the locomotive shed. He’d had to punish her for that.) In his fear, Captain Wirth became grotesquely confiding, and soon, just for laughs, he was telling Gerstein all about Hadamar, my God, he’s talking about Hadamar, and later, when Captain Wirth kept telling him to take a few pounds of butter at least, not to mention a suitcase of “Wyborowca” vodka (in the end, Dr. Pfannenstiel was happy to relieve him of that), he kept staring as he smiled, like someone dazed by a glaring light, because Captain Wirth had told him how back in the glory days of Operation T-4—a very necessary endeavor, as he was sure that Gerstein knew, a challenging project, to get right down to it, a rewarding time, a procedure which, in spite of being classified Geheim, had been exposed and interrupted by those Christian swine whose fat asses we were saving in this war—he used to personally shoot mental defectives in the back of the head with his service revolver, because it wasn’t until ’41 that a genius thought up the system of false shower-baths. Gerstein, sympathetically astonished, wondered why an officer of his rank and quality hadn’t been assigned more help in the performance of this duty, to which Captain Wirth laughingly replied that in such close quarters, and considering that the targets were merely peaceful mental patients, not hardened Jews, one shooter was better than two, because two in the head is too much; two will practically tear the head off; and that was when it occurred to Gerstein that Captain Wirth, who was pale, bespectacled, and pinchfaced except when he explicated Operations T-4 and Reinhard, that Captain Wirth, who wore an Iron Cross, a metal sunburst and a death’s head cap, had in all likelihood killed everybody at Hadamar himself—which is to say, he was the one who’d murdered Berthe.
To his friend Helmut Franz he once said in his typically didactic fashion: The times leave me no choice but to seek knife-edge paths and live dangerously.—That was in the golden summer of ’41, when we were rushing deeper and deeper into Russia, and, following closely behind our soldiers, the colleagues of Kurt Gerstein were marching Jews on a one-way trip out of town. Gerstein didn’t yet know anything apodictically; he hadn’t been invited to Belzec. But he was an 
-man; he was on the knife-edge path. Futurity became a black tomb with an iron ring.
So now he’d pulled the iron ring; the pleasure wasn’t his.37 He dreamed that its blackness came off on his hands, and then…
He went home, to his father’s house. His wife was waiting for him. She offered her waxen cheek to be kissed. His father came slowly downstairs, greeting him with a sleepy Heil Hitler. The children were long in bed. There was dinner, a good dinner under the circumstances; Elfriede had done the best she could; and he wondered what the poor thing would have thought of him had she known that he’d turned down all that Jewish butter.
Below the portrait of his eldest brother, whom he scarcely remembered (fallen on the Westfront back in 1918), his father sat in the armchair, frowning at a feature in Signal magazine about three winsome young workers from the East (R-maidens from the look of them) who posed in knee-length skirts on the summer lawn of the Potsdam Palace, giggling. They have already adopted European fashions and have quickly learned the Western European style of hairdressing. On the facing page was another color photograph of tanks rolling onto an Italian freighter, the picture saturated with the Mediterranean hues of ocean and earth, everything summery. The caption read: “Supplies for Tunis.”
Ha! said the old man suddenly, remembering. I forgot to write you this, Kurt. Another Yid tried to steal our name! Another Goldstein. But this time they caught up with him. Do you remember when I complained about the last case back in ’33? And my complaint went unanswered. Well, this one they smoked out, thanks be to the All-Highest. Shipped him off!
Where did they catch him, father?
At the Technical University, right in Berlin if you can believe it! He was a cheeky one, not wearing the yellow star. His first name was something Russian. I suppose they’ll have to make an example of him. The things that go on nowadays! Although I remember another case, in which a certain Richard Goldstein of Hamburg…
37
As we read in Gottfried’s