I left it at that, realizing that the reasons Olaf gave me his soup were unimportant. What was important was that my benefactor held onto his benefactor as long as possible.
Weeks passed, and Olaf became more confident and stout. I was beginning to gain back a few pounds, too. As we were sleeping head to foot one night, Olaf anxiously tossed and turned, waking me up every few minutes. He even picked my nose with his little toe. The next morning when the Blocks separated into Kommandos, Olaf stared at me, then shook my hand instead of waving as he normally did. He didn’t utter a word, but I knew in my gut that I was seeing him in the camp for the last time. A good friend was leaving me.
That evening, before all the Kommandos had returned to camp, the bell for assembly was rung. When the rumor reached me that a Häftling had escaped, I knew it was Olaf and I silently wished him luck. After a half an hour of standing at attention, the Lagerkapo hurried along the ranks.
“172649!” he called out.
My heart began to dance a polka. What did he want with me?
“Hier,” I replied.
“Los schnell, zur Schreibstube.” (Come along quickly to the administration office.)
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he said pulling me by my sleeve.
Like a basset hound chasing a greyhound, I tried to keep up with the Lagerkapo’s long strides as he led me across the Appelplatz.
Gentle warmth greeted us as we entered the administration barracks. I took off my cap. The Häftlinge typing at desks didn’t dare look up at us. There was a contingent of SS mulling about, which made me extremely apprehensive. As a Häftling, one did everything possible to stay far away from the men in green uniforms. The Lagerkapo knocked at a door, then opened it a crack.
“Herr Arbeitseinsatzführer, der Häftling 172649 ist da.” (Labor Deployment Officer, prisoner 172649 is here.)
“Rein mit ihm.” (Get him in.)
As the Lagerkapo led me into the office, a Häftling brushed against me on his way out. Even with his face covered with blood, I recognized him—Olaf’s Kapo. Olaf had repeatedly told me he was a mean Schweinehund (pig dog). In escaping, the Norwegian had managed to kill two birds with one stone. The prick’s red Kapo armband was gone. He was now just another nobody.
The Lagerkapo closed the door behind me, and it sank in that the Kapo’s battered face was not a good omen.
The Arbeitseinsatzführer’s office was small and his enormous mahogany desk made it seem even smaller. The officer was sitting behind it with his shirt unbuttoned and his forehead glistening with sweat. His baby-pink bald head was at odds with his deeply tanned face. I had seen him duck into my Block for perfunctory inspections and speed by in a motorcycle sidecar, but I had seen the officer this close only once before, and that was on my first day in the quarantine Block.
He leaned forward, his hairy chest touching the desk, and fixed his blue eyes on me. Like a mouse hypnotized by a snake, I stood motionless by the door. I was afraid to look into those transparent eyes, but I didn’t want to look down either, for fear of its being misconstrued as an admission of guilt. He grimaced, which was evidently intended as a smile, and waved me to a chair. I had never heard of a Häftling sitting down in the presence of an SS officer—or any SS, for that matter. He spoke to me in excellent French, but with a harsh German accent.
“I have been to France, in Bordeaux, to be precise. I love French wine and have the highest respect for French culture,” he cordially told me.
Why the niceties from this member of the “Master Race,” I mused? I played meek, not uttering a word. One false move could cost me my life.
“How’s the food in the camp? I hope the work isn’t too rough.”
No reason to respond to that, since he knew as well as I did that the lice in the bunks were better off than we were.
“What would you think of becoming a Kapo?”
The Arbeitseinsatzführer was underestimating me.
“Well, there are prisoners who’ve been here longer. Wouldn’t they be more entitled?”
“It isn’t seniority, but aptitude that counts. Besides, I’m the one who appoints these positions. Think what it would be like to have better food and a warm Block to sleep in. But to become a Kapo you’ll have to tell me where Olaf went.”
This was why Olaf never shared his plans with me. It wasn’t that he distrusted me; he had no idea how well I would hold up under interrogation and possible torture. Hell, the Norwegian did me a favor. Having knowledge of a planned escape and not reporting it would have been as damning as making the escape. I continued to play the fool that the boche believed I was.
“Which Olaf?”
“You know very well, the Norwegian who shared your bunk.
Where was he planning to go?”
“I don’t speak Norwegian.”
The Nazi’s face hardened, but he restrained his anger.
“Olaf speaks perfect German and so do you. The job of Kapo doesn’t interest you?”
“Yes, it does, but I honestly do not know anything.”
“You cannot sleep in the same bed with someone for a month without knowing something,” he shot back.
The Arbeitseinsatzführer got up and began to twirl a braided leather whip that had been lying on his desk. I jumped to my feet, but he pushed me back into the chair with the handle of his whip.
He paced silently. My eyes followed him like a cornered rabbit.
What now? He sat down in front of me on the edge of the desk and glared.
“And what would you think of a trip to the Stehbunker?”
The Stehbunker was a solitary confinement cell no bigger than a coffin.
“That wouldn’t bring Olaf back because I don’t know anything.”
The veins in his forehead swelled. “I don’t know! I don’t know!
All the bastard can say is ‘I don’t know!’”
He swung the whip down on the edge of my chair. I felt as if I had received an electric shock. My right hand began to burn terribly. The blow had crushed my middle finger. Drops of blood oozed from under the nail. Instinctively, I closed my other hand over the injured finger to ease the pain.
The boche went around his massive desk and picked up a lavishly framed photograph that had overturned. He handled it like a sacred heirloom. I figured it must be a photograph of his family, but it was a portrait of “the god with the mustache.” The officer looked at me with fixed, dull eyes. He seemed to be deep in thought. Was he thinking up some refined torture or a better trick to make me squeal? I’ll never know, because the telephone rang. He snatched the receiver. I felt like a boxer momentarily saved by the bell.
“Hello? Yes, it’s me. Where? Krakow? What? Dressed in civilian clothes. But the description and identification number correspond? Good. Tried to escape. Dead? Shot on the railway platform.
Excellent. Do I want to see the body? Certainly. Get it here as quickly as possible before it can stink up the place.”
With a little smile on his lips, the Arbeitseinsatzführer dialed three numbers. “August, you can stop the search.”