There are times when I think of this and then go walking in the darkness beside the river. I see our hero slumped on his bed, his mind teeming with schemes of self-analysis, dreaming that by discovering himself he can discover the Camp. And I think that if it would not rouse the monkeys or cauterize my soul, I would heave my head back and laugh with such thunderous contempt that it would shake the drowsing vipers from their vines.
IN THE EARLY YEARS at El Caliz, before old age calcified my bones, I often wandered into the surrounding jungle. Across the river, the world was as it had been ten thousand years before, and from time to time I attempted that revery in nature that mystics and idiots are said to feel. I lay on the ground and dipped my face in the sweating soil. I swam naked in the streams. I wrapped my body in great, waxy leaves and baked it on the mud flats to the south. I put water lilies in my hair and rolled in the reeds of the delta. I drank cactus milk, sucked sugar cane, and chewed coffee beans. I waxed my hair with lemon juice and adorned myself with vines. I tried to lose myself in physical delight, join myself to the imagined rhythms of creation. While Dr. Ludtz obsessively cleaned his paltry arsenal or strung klieg lights about his cottage, I sank into the illusion that I could locate myself in nature by uniting with it, by shirking off my isolated humanness and becoming an instrument of immersion. But in doing this I only repeated the process that I had attempted once before in the Camp.
For Langhof, suddenly stricken with his own helplessness and venality, felt compelled to investigate the Camp by means of immersing himself within its horrors. He wanted to see the flames from the chimneys at noon and night, sunrise and sundown. He met the trains as they steamed their way up to the snow-covered platforms. He followed the huddled crowds to the mouth of the gas chambers and stood watching as they shuffled out of their clothes. He imagined himself as a kind of artist, observing the Camp from all angles, scribbling notes, conducting interviews. Somewhere in all of this he expected to find himself. The horror, of course, was unimaginable, but Langhof felt it his duty to record it with his senses. And so he monotonously and obsessively toured the Camp, barking commands from time to time so as not to rouse suspicion, and slapping his little riding crop against his boot, gently or viciously, depending upon who might be observing his activity. It was on one of his nightly journeys that he heard something move around the corner of one of the darkened barracks. He drew his pistol.
“Halt,” he commanded. “Halt. Don’t move.” He waited for a moment, then drew his flashlight from his pocket and beamed it toward the sound. One of the prisoners was standing with his back pressed against the barracks wall.
Langhof studied the small, bearded face, glowing in the yellow light. “What are you doing in the yard at this hour?” he asked.
The prisoner did not appear frightened. “Walking, the same as you,” he said.
“You are not permitted to be outside the barracks,” Langhof said.
The prisoner did not answer. He squinted into the light, but kept his hands pressed tightly to the wall.
“What are you doing out here?” Langhof repeated.
“You are Dr. Langhof,” the prisoner said.
Langhof stepped away slightly. “How do you know me?”
“You work in the medical compound,” the prisoner said. “So do I.”
“What is your name?”
“Ginzburg. Do you want my number?”
“Yes,” Langhof said, “I do.” He took out a pad and, as Ginzburg recited his number, Langhof pretended to write it down.
“Do you have it?” Ginzburg asked.
“Yes,” Langhof said. He replaced the pad in his uniform pocket. “You had better watch yourself, or you’ll end up being reported.” To his amazement, Langhof thought he saw a smile flicker across Ginzburg’s face. “Who do you work for?”
“The New Order,” Ginzburg said sardonically.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Langhof said. “Who is your superior in the medical compound?”
“Do you want to write it down?”
“Just tell me,” Langhof demanded.
“Dr. Kessler. He is your superior too, I believe,” Ginzburg said. He shielded his eyes from the light. “Could you put that flashlight away?”
Langhof turned the light off.
“Thank you, sir,” Ginzburg said.
Looking at the small figure before him, Langhof felt the absurdity of the pistol and dropped it back into his holster. “Get back to your quarters,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the vermin said.
Langhof turned, began to walk away, then heard the prisoner following from behind. He turned around. “What are you doing?”
“Going to my quarters, as you ordered, Dr. Langhof.”
“Don’t joke with me,” Langhof said, “Get to your quarters.”
“I’m on my way, Doctor. I live in the medical compound, the same as you.”
“I haven’t seen you there.”
“That may be,” the prisoner said. “You may not have noticed me.” He smiled. “I suppose all the prisoners look alike to you, but believe me, to the prisoners each of you looks different.”
Langhof stared at the vermin suspiciously. “What do you do in the medical compound?”
“Anything I’m told to, same as you,” Ginzburg said, and followed his reply with a small smile.
“Get that smile off your face,” Langhof said loudly.
The smile disappeared instantly. “Sorry, sir. A hazard of my profession.”
“Profession? What profession?”
“Before I came here, I was a comic,” Ginzburg said. “Nothing big, you understand. You would not have heard of me. Strictly small time. Smoke-filled clubs where the patrons chat constantly during the performance and sometimes throw cocktail olives at the performers.”
“And you haven’t lost your sense of humor, is that it?” Langhof said sternly.
“Not entirely.”
“Well, then, I would suggest that you keep it to yourself,” Langhof warned.
“I suppose I should,” Ginzburg said, “but I never learned how to act appropriately. I snicker at all the wrong times. Funerals. Weddings. During the High Holy Days. It was always embarrassing for my family.”
“There are people here who will teach you proper behavior,” Langhof said.
“I know. Have you ever heard of the swing?”
“Yes. You were tortured?”
Ginzburg laughed. “Everyone is tortured.”
“But not on the swing. Why you?”
Ginzburg grinned. “They were jealous of my good looks, I suppose.”
Langhof did not smile. “And I imagine that you laughed all the way through it.”
Ginzburg shook his head. “No. I cried. Screamed, really. I begged. I pissed my pants. I called my mother foul names. It was quite a show.”
“Always the performer.”
“A ham, I’m afraid.”
“The clown in hell,” Langhof said contemptuously.
“No, not that.”
“What, then?”
Ginzburg shrugged. “Who can answer such a question? But I’ll tell you this. I have learned to read a face perfectly. It comes from years of scanning audiences through all that cigar and cigarette smoke. I can tell the man who’s cheating on his wife. He’s always glancing over his shoulder. And I can spot all the virgins in the room. The girls always look happy; the boys always look miserable.”