He said all this with a satisfied air. He wanted to shock me with his depravity. I had met criminals like him back in Hungary—those who embraced their roles as outcasts, as those who lived outside the boundaries of society. They were invariably cruel, violent, and utterly indifferent to the suffering of others.
"That's nice to hear," I said, feeling sick to my stomach and wishing like hell I could kill this despicable creature then and there. "But let’s get back to Franz, shall we? That's why I’m here."
"All right. What about him?”
"How did you and he get along?"
"I didn’t hate him, if that’s what you’re getting at. Though he did annoy me the first few days with his weeping."
"What was he crying about?"
"What do you think? Being here."
"He didn’t like being the Lageralteste’s servant?”
"No, he sure didn’t."
"Why not? I suppose he got good food and proper clothes."
"He didn’t enjoy what he had to do in order to get them.”
Otto was smiling again. A taunting smile, daring me to voice the conclusion I had already reached.
"What he had to do with the Lageralteste, you mean?"
He nodded slowly, the smile still plastered on his ugly face. I wanted to push him to the floor and wipe that smile off with my foot.
"Which was what you and Rolf and Mathias thought he was doing that night, the reason he wasn’t in this room?"
"Yes.”
The sick feeling in my stomach grew. I glanced across the room at the closed door. Beyond it was the Lageralteste’s room, where Franz had gone through hell the last few weeks of his life.
No one dared say it plainly. Not Mathias, not Rolf, not even Otto, though he came closest of the three due to his provocative nature. They all knew what the Lageralteste was, what he’d done to Franz, but all adhered to a code of silence. If they didn’t, they might incur the Lageralteste’s wrath, though he must have known full well that they were not ignorant of his proclivities.
It was strange, and a testament to the nature of these evil men, that the Lageralteste didn't feel the need to hide the murders he’d committed and eagerly flaunted his cruelty. But he didn't flaunt this particular perversion, and acted as though it was a secret.
Other prisoners must have known, including regular ones. I hadn’t been aware of it before I’d taken this case, but eventually, I supposed, word would have reached me. Now I understood the comment made by the Blockalteste after he’d hurled my new clogs at my chest, the one about my being too old to bend down with my trousers by my ankles.
The Lageralteste wasn't interested in men, just boys like Franz.
"It doesn't sound like you pitied him at all,” I said.
"Why should I? He had it better than most prisoners. He ate well and didn’t have to work too hard. So he had to do that one unpleasant thing—that's not too bad."
"Some would say it's the worst thing a boy could be made to do against his will."
"I wouldn’t know," Otto said. “I only have experience with girls."
My heart was beating slowly but very hard, thumping like a giant’s footfall. I felt very cold and very sad and gripped by the worst sort of anger, the sort that has no outlet or hope of resolution. I could do nothing to the Lageralteste. Just as I could do nothing to the SS personnel who had killed my family. I was merely a slave, after all. And I did not wish to die.
At that moment, I was grateful to have never laid eyes on Franz. Otherwise, I might have been tormented with images of him being molested by the Lageralteste.
"You said you didn't hate Franz. Did anyone else?” I asked.
"Nah. He was all right. Even stopped crying after a few days, which I guess means he was stronger than he initially looked. Rolf was indifferent to him, I think, and Mathias liked him. Tried to cheer him up.”
This did not surprise me. Among this sordid bunch, Mathias appeared to be the least cruel.
"Mathias always had a weak spot for the boys," Otto said.
"Oh? Did he also try to cheer Bruno up?"
"You know about Bruno, huh?"
"Yes. Including how he died."
It was like throwing bait in the sea and hoping a fish would nab it. I held my breath as I prayed Otto would bite.
"You have been busy,” he said. “Well, it could have been worse. Usually is. He’s never as gentle as he is with his boys. They're the only ones he strangles instead of beats to death."
He was slouching now, totally relaxed. Now that he believed I already knew what the Lageralteste did to his boys, all restraint on his speech had disappeared. He could talk freely now, without fear, relishing the effect he could see it was having on me.
"How long do they last, usually?"
"Until he gets tired of them. Then he starts hunting around for someone new. About six months, usually. But Bruno lasted just four."
"Why so little?"
"I don't know. It's none of my business. Anyway, they should be grateful. Six months, even four, is longer than most prisoners live. And most of them live much more poorly than they do."
"Did Franz know he was living on borrowed time?”
"I didn’t tell him."
"How many boys has it been till now?"
Otto looked at the ceiling, his lips moving silently. “Nine, including Franz.”
Nine boys, I thought, feeling as though I could drown in sorrow. Though why I should feel this way, I didn't know. Nine was a minuscule number compared to the wholesale slaughter that went on in Auschwitz, which included the murder of babies and small children, like my two daughters. Yet the sadness that now pressed upon me was so keen, it was as though my skin was about to tear under its honed blade.
"He killed all nine boys?" I asked in a disbelieving voice, though why I should have found this difficult to accept was a mystery.
"Well, not all of them," Otto said.
Of course. What a foolish question. After all, the Lageralteste hadn’t killed Franz. Which, I suspected, explained a portion of his rage. For this murderer hadn’t simply taken the living Franz from him, he’d also robbed him of his right to eventually murder Franz himself.
The Lageralteste’s words rang in my head, their terrible meaning now laid bare. / am king here. If I want something, I take it. If I want someone dead, I kill him. I kill him. No one else.
This case wasn’t about Franz, not as far as the Lageralteste was concerned. He didn’t care about him one bit. Franz had simply been another boy to exploit for his perverse pleasure. This murder wasn’t a crime against Franz, but against the Lageralteste and his absolute authority.
"I’m glad that at least one of you showed him some kindness," I said.
Otto sneered. "Don't let Mathias fool you. He’s no different than the rest of us. At least I didn’t kill my mother."
"Mother?"
"You heard me. He killed his own mother. Stepfather, too. He’s no better than any of us.”
Yes, he was. Because he’d tried to keep Franz’s spirit up. Bruno’s, too. And perhaps he’d done the same for the boys who came before them. He’d also brought me my new clogs. All these were acts of kindness.
I wondered why Mathias hadn't told me about his mother. Perhaps he’d been ashamed. Or perhaps if he’d told me about her, he couldn't have pretended all the people he’d killed were deserving of their fate. Though why he should have cared what I thought about him at all, I couldn't say.