"Hurry up," Stefan said, stuffing his mouth with another cookie. "We gotta get back to work before the Kapo notices.”
I needed no further prompting. I tore off half of one cookie with my teeth and gobbled it, barely chewing before swallowing. The other half I ate more sensibly but still very quickly, the taste flooding me with a pleasure so intense that I felt woozy. A second cookie swiftly followed the first. The third was already between my lips when I stopped with a pang of guilt.
Vilmos. I’d almost forgotten Vilmos.
"What are you waiting for?" Stefan said. He had finished all of his cookies and was rubbing his mouth clean.
"I'll keep these," I said. “For a friend of mine."
"They might search you. They often search the new guys."
I might have asked Stefan to smuggle these cookies for me, but I didn’t want to put him in that position. Vilmos was my friend. If anyone was to risk his life to bring him this food, it should be me.
"How thoroughly do they search you?” I asked.
"Pretty thoroughly," Stefan said. "It can get demeaning."
I had until the end of the workday to figure out a solution. In the meantime, I rolled the cuffs of my trousers, stashing the cookies among the folds.
Stefan said, “That must be some friend."
"The best a man could wish for,” I said.
We hauled suitcases for a while, then switched to clothes. These we rolled into irregular bundles and took to a second warehouse, where more women prisoners were working. Some were tying strings around batches of trousers or shirts or dresses, while others were examining items for tears. And yet others were removing yellow stars from jackets, erasing their Jewish provenance before shipment to Germany.
"What is she doing?” I asked Stefan, gesturing toward a woman who was running her hand along the seams of a woman’s coat.
"Looking for hidden treasure," he said. "You wouldn’t believe where people hid money or jewels before boarding those trains. They knew the Germans would take anything that wasn’t concealed, and they hoped they’d be able to secure better conditions for their families wherever the Germans ended up resettling them.
That's what we all believed, right? That we were being resettled. We thought it was the same centuries-old story of Jews being driven out of one place and into another. Anyway, people sewed rings and pearls and rolls of currency into their clothes, their luggage. She"—he indicated the woman—“needs to make sure there's nothing hidden in that coat. And he”—he gave an almost imperceptible nod toward an SS guard who was eying the woman—“is making sure she does her job and doesn’t steal anything.”
We stepped out of the warehouse and into the sunlight. The day was another scorcher. Again I thought of Vilmos. How was he handling this heat? Was he still alive?
"What are you looking to buy from Ludwig, Adam?" Stefan asked. “Medicine? You got a sick relative or something?”
"A friend,” I said. "The same one I’m keeping the cookies for. I also want to talk to Ludwig about a boy named Franz, who used to work here. You know who I’m talking about?"
"A Dutch boy? Ludwig’s friend?”
"That's the one."
"I heard he was working for the Lageralteste.”
"He used to. He’s dead.”
"Really? How? I don’t imagine he was working too hard, and he must have been eating properly."
"Someone killed him. Stabbed him in the throat.”
Stefan stopped walking. "What do you mean, someone? Not a guard?”
"Have you ever seen a guard stab a prisoner?"
"No," Stefan said slowly. “So a prisoner killed him. Is that what you think?”
"That's right. Someone who had it in for him. Can you think of anyone like that?"
Stefan gave me a look. “Why are you asking this?”
"Because he was a boy, just fifteen, and someone butchered him. I want to know who did it and why."
"What are you, a policeman?”
"No. I used to be a lawyer. A criminal lawyer. But I don’t like murderers. Especially murderers of children.”
Stefan resumed walking. He didn’t speak again until we had both loaded ourselves with more clothes and were on our way back to the warehouse.
"There was someone," he said at length, "but not in Kanada.”
I stared at him. His expression was troubled. “Where, then?"
"Back in camp. Two weeks ago, I think. In the evening. I saw Franz and another prisoner talking by one of the blocks. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say the other prisoner was doing all the talking. Franz had his back pressed to the wall and the other prisoner was standing very close to him, their noses almost touching."
"What were they talking about?”
"I couldn't hear. Didn’t try to. But Franz looked distraught, and the other prisoner had a finger pointed at his face.”
"He was threatening Franz?”
"Could have been. I don't know.”
"That's all it was? Talk? No fighting?”
"None that I saw. I didn’t stick around for long."
"You didn’t think to intervene?"
"Why should I? Franz and I weren't friends. It was none of my business. You’re new here, so let me give you some advice: You try to break up fights in this place and you’re liable to get hurt.”
I thought of Cyuri and Hendrik, and how it was only a matter of time before I would have to deal once more with the latter.
"What did this other prisoner look like?" I asked.
"I only caught a fleeting glimpse of his face. I remember he had reddish stubble, and... something about his nose. Yeah, it was very big. Very thick at the base.” He looked at me. "What is it?”
"Nothing,” I said. But it wasn’t nothing. Because I had seen such a prisoner recently. I was sure of it. I just didn’t remember where or when.
24
“There he is,” Stefan said at some point in early afternoon. “That’s Ludwig."
I turned and saw a man enter one of the warehouses. Tall, young, with black stubble on his face. I continued unloading the truck, keeping an eye on the warehouse's door, and when Ludwig emerged some minutes later, I asked the Kapo for a latrine break.
"Make it quick,” he said.
I hurried after Ludwig and saw him slip between two warehouses. I glanced behind me to make sure the Kapo wasn’t watching and followed.
Here was a long passage bordered on both sides by warehouses and more tall piles of loot. There were no prisoners about, though. I didn't see Ludwig either.
Just then, my ears picked up a pair of faint voices from up ahead. A dozen more steps and I could tell one voice was male, the other female. They were speaking German; he with an Austrian accent, she with a Hungarian one.
"Not now,” came the female voice. “I have to go.”
"Just a little, my love. I can’t wait till later.”
I removed my clogs and padded forward on bare feet. The voices were very close now, off to the left, their owners hidden from view behind a mountain range of clothes.
I crossed to the other side of the passage and crept closer. Ducking behind a small stack of suitcases, I peeked at the couple whose voices I’d heard.
The man was Ludwig. The woman—no, girl was the better word, because she could not have been older than sixteen—was pressed against the side of a warehouse. Ludwig was standing very close to her, their bodies almost touching. One of his hands was on her waist, the other was cupping her cheek. She had one hand on his arm. Her other arm hung by her side.
"I have to go back, Ludwig," she said.
"Just a minute, Aliz,” he said. "Don’t I take good care of you?" And before she could answer, he edged even closer and kissed her long and hard on the lips. She didn’t resist, didn’t push him away, but neither did she appear to reciprocate his passion.