This was not possible, of course. One could not simply pick a kommando to join. And if I dared to ask, the Lageralteste might decide to kill both Vilmos and myself for my insolence.
When the selection was finally over and we could move and talk, Vilmos said, “Thank you, Adam."
"For what?”
"For carrying me around, and for splashing water over me. It helped. I’m sorry I cursed at you.”
I laughed. "I’ll accept your apology tonight at roll call, you understand? We’ll meet right here, okay? Right at this spot."
Vilmos nodded. “I’ll be here, don’t you worry. You just focus on solving this murder."
But I did worry. Because I knew how sick Vilmos was. I’d seen healthier men drop dead during a day of hard labor.
I grabbed Vilmos by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace. "You be smart today, okay? Save your energy as much as you can."
"I will. I promise. I’ll see you this evening."
He gave my shoulders a squeeze and let go. Then he walked away to join his kommando. I looked to where Mathias had been standing earlier, but he had gone. Then I turned and gazed at the knot of forlorn men who had been selected to die, trying to remember as many of their faces as I could. My eyes paused on one of them.
The Mumbler.
He hadn’t slipped the net this time. From a distance, it didn’t seem that he was aware of his impending demise. He was staring off into space, at what I couldn’t imagine, and his lips were moving incessantly. A last meal before death.
Why hadn’t I asked him his name yesterday? Now it would be lost forever. Another stone added itself to the mountain of guilt in my belly.
I turned away from the Mumbler. He was already dead. But Vilmos was still alive. Maybe in Kanada, I would find the medicine he needed.
And maybe I would learn something that would lead me to Franz’s murderer. I hoped so because now I had just two days to catch this killer. Two days before the Lageralteste killed me.
22
Before we set out from the men’s camp, the Kapo, a squat German Jew with a hardbitten face, had a few words to share with me. "You’re new, so you better listen. This kommando is one of the best. You’re lucky to be part of it. But there are a couple of rules. Follow them and you’ll do fine. Don’t and you’ll pay for it dearly. Understand?"
"Yes," I said.
"Good. First thing, work hard and do as you’re told. Second thing, don’t steal anything. You get caught stealing and you’re out like that"—he snapped his fingers—"no exceptions. Understand?”
"Yes”
"And you’ll likely find yourself in the strafkompagnie, hauling rocks back and forth from sunrise till sunset. You won’t last two weeks. That is, if they don’t shoot you on the spot. Understand?"
"Yes." The strafkompagnie, the penal work unit, was the hardest and most feared kommando in Auschwitz. The prisoners there worked longer hours, got less food, and had shorter breaks than any other kommando. It was an instrument of punishment, terror, and murder rather than a real work unit.
The Kapo said, "You speak German, which is good. It’ll make things easier for you. You wait here a minute." His eyes searched the rest of the men, and he beckoned one of them over. “This man is new. You show him the ropes, all right?"
The man nodded, and after the Kapo had moved out of earshot, he gave me his name. "I’m Stefan."
"Adam."
"Don’t worry about the Kapo. He’s not that bad. He just puts on a hard face for newcomers. Mind you, that doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want, but he doesn’t beat us for no reason and hardly ever shouts as well. No more than he has to in order to look tough for the Germans. How long have you been here?”
"Almost two months.”
"I’ve been here eight. Where’ve you been working till now?"
"Digging trenches to the east of the camp.”
He grimaced. "Hard work, eh?"
"Very.”
"Well, working in Kanada is better. And worse."
"Why worse?"
A cloud passed over his face. “You’ll see soon enough."
The Kanada section sprawled inside a fenced enclosure west of the men’s camp, past the gypsy camp and the hospital. Two of the gas chambers and crematoriums stood a little to its south, two more right by its northern edge.
The closer we got, the thicker the smell of burning flesh became. Above us loomed the smoking chimneys of the four crematoriums. Gazing up their length, I was reminded of Moloch, the Canaanite god described in the Bible, into whose fiery belly children were thrown as sacrifice.
How could a civilization as advanced as Germany have descended to such barbarism? This was a nation of poets, composers, authors, and architects. A people advanced in practically every field of human endeavor. How had they become such beasts? How could they justify this slaughter?
Stefan told me he’d come to Auschwitz from Czechoslovakia with his mother and brother. "Both dead, I’m sure. Mother was ill and my brother had a club foot. Walked with a cane. Not much use to the Nazis, either of them.”
He was twenty-four, unmarried, and had worked in the family’s stationery store. “Father was the one who opened the store. He died five years ago. I had plans of expanding the business, but now...”
He was short and had bright brown eyes and a wide mouth over a round chin. Thin, of course, but not as much as me. His complexion was better too. "The best thing about working here is the food,” he said. "All the luggage from the trains goes through here. You won’t believe what people packed. If only they knew, eh?" He pressed his lips together, his tone turning solemn. “Mother had made us sandwiches for the trip, but we ate them all on the way.”
My wife had done the same, I remembered. The food was all gone by the second day on the train. My daughters were weeping with hunger by the time we arrived.
"Generally, the guards have no problem with us eating what we find,” Stefan continued, “but it’s forbidden to take food back into camp."
"Do they search you?"
"Not every day, but pretty often. And if they catch you with anything, they beat you or worse."
The gate to Kanada stood open, manned by two SS guards with machine guns slung over their shoulders. Another looked down at us from the watchtower just inside the fence. We entered the compound, and one of the guards swung the gate closed. My breath caught in my throat as I got my first glimpse of Kanada.
There were three rows of large warehouses; I counted ten in the first row. Between them, leaning against the exterior walls in piles as high as the roof, was an incredible amount of property. Sacks, bundles, suitcases, boxes, briefcases, handbags, baskets, and what had to be tens of thousands of clothing items and shoes of varied styles and sizes. All flung together into messy mountains of loot.
"There’s not enough room in the warehouses,” Stefan said, following my gaze. "Not since the Hungarians started coming."
What I’d seen on the platform yesterday was but a fraction of what was mounded all around me. There had been the spoils of a single train. Here was the plunder of an entire people.