‘Of course.’
Boris got up from his chair. ‘You know, Bohdan was sure they’d come for him. Sat by the door, marking time. He’d given away all his worldly goods.’
‘His worldly goods?’
‘Yeah. His bowl, his spoon. His foot rags. You’re dropping off, Golo… Dream about Hannah,’ he said. ‘And the Old Boozer’s black eyes.’
I dozed for a minute or two. When I stirred and looked out, Boris was over by the mantelpiece, listening to the farmerboy, with his teeth bared and his chin up.
Friday came, so I hiked over the duney scrub, with its bubbled and knotted black hair, like wind-dried seaweed. Every eminence brought a fresh stretch of land into view, and your body hoped to see a beach, a shore, or at least a lake or a river, or a stream or a pond. But what you were confronted by was always the continuation of Silesia, the continuation of the great Eurasian plain, which stretched over twelve time zones and went all the way to the Yellow River and the Yellow Sea.
The ground levelled out, levelled out into what might have been a municipal facility in the square of some indigent township in the German north-east — two swings, a slide, a seesaw, a sandpit. There were small clusters of women on benches, one trying to read a flimsy newspaper in the wind, another knitting a yellow scarf, another extracting a sandwich from the shiny white folds of its greaseproof wallet, another merely staring into space, while time passed — Hannah Doll, with her open palms on her lap, staring into space, staring into time. Beyond, like spartan chalets, lay the pennanted Summer Huts.
‘Good afternoon to you, madam,’ I called out. She stood and I came up close and said, ‘I don’t want to sound histrionic but I was followed here and we are being watched. This is the truth.’ I forced a broad smile. ‘Seem at ease. Now where are those girls?’
I approached the slowly revolving roundabout. Affectingly, some might have thought, I had two bags of boiled sweets in my pockets; but they would now have to stay where they were. I asked,
‘When’s your birthday? I want to give you something. When is it?’
‘Years away,’ said Paulette.
‘I know what I’m going to call my children,’ said Sybil. ‘The twins’ll be Mary and Magda. And the boy’ll be August.’
‘Those are very good names.’
I backed off and felt Hannah draw near.
‘Can you feel the season changing, Frau Doll? Ah, the alerting zest of late September. I swear to you we’re being watched.’
She made as if to brighten. ‘Watched? And not just by the mothers? Well. What’ve you got to tell me, Herr Thomsen?’
‘It makes me wretched to give you bad news,’ I said with every appearance of gaiety. ‘But Bohdan Szozeck is no more.’
I expected her to flinch: in fact it was more like a jump, a spasm of expansion both upward and outward, and her hand flew to her mouth. Then she at once recovered, with a shake of her hair, and raised her voice, saying,
‘Paulette, darling, don’t bounce so hard!’
‘It’s what the seesaw’s for! It’s the whole point!’
‘Gently!… So he didn’t go to Stutthof?’ she asked, smiling.
‘I’m afraid he went nowhere,’ I answered, smiling.
And we retained our smiles, somehow, as I followed the narrative given to me by Boris Eltz: the mishap with the garden tool, the inevitable order to Prufer, the dispatch of the Punishment Commando. I said nothing of the gas, but she knew.
‘And the tortoise?’
‘Bohdan’s parting gesture. Apparently. This is in effect your husband’s version. At several removes.’
‘Do you believe all that? Bohdan?’
I shrugged stiffly. ‘Mortal fear does strange things.’
‘Do you believe any of it?’
‘You see their reasoning, don’t you? It mustn’t get about. That a prisoner can do that to the Commandant and live.’
‘Do what to the Commandant?’
‘Well. Hit him even by accident. Bohdan gave him his black eyes.’
‘Bohdan didn’t give him his black eyes.’ Her mirthless smile changed — it widened and tightened. ‘I gave him his black eyes.’
‘What would you rather?’ yelled Sybil from the distant sandpit. ‘Know everything or know nothing?’
‘Know nothing,’ I yelled back. ‘Then you have the fun of finding everything out.’
That same Friday I walked in the late dusk through the muddy alleys of Kat Zet III. Financed entirely by IG Farben, Kat Zet III had been put together, with a literalist’s care, on the model of Kat Zet I and Kat Zet II. The same searchlights and watchtowers, the same barbed wire and high-tension fencing, the same sirens and gallows, the same armed guards, the same punishment cells, the same orchestra bay, the same whipping post, the same brothel, the same Krankenhaus, and the same mortuary.
Bohdan had had a Pikkolo — this was Hannah’s designation. The word was ambiguous: unlike a Piepl, which meant bumboy and no mistake, a Pikkolo was often just a young companion, a charge, someone the older prisoner looked out for. In this case he was a fifteen-year-old German Jew called Dov Cohn. Dov was sometimes to be seen in the Dolls’ garden (and I had glimpsed him on the day I paid my first visit). Hannah said that Bohdan and Dov were ‘very close’… In common with the Buna-Werke, Kat Zet III was still under construction, and for now only a colony of builders was quartered there. According to the registrar in the Labour Section, Dov Cohn was to be found in Block 4(vi).
By this time, partly through induction, I had settled on what seemed to be the likeliest sequence of events. The morning in question: first, there is a serious altercation between husband and wife, during which Hannah deals Doll a blow to the face; over the course of the day, as the bruises pool and darken, Doll realises that he’ll be needing an explanation for his disfigurement; at some point Bohdan, perhaps in an act of clumsiness, attracts his notice; he invents the story of the shovel, and relays it, together with his instructions, to Lagerfuhrer Prufer, whose adjutant notifies the Punishment Commando… The only remaining mystery, so far as I could see, was the fate of poor Torquil.
My approach to Kat Zet III had been from the direction of the Buna-Werke, and I felt as certain as you could ever feel that I wasn’t being followed.
With my baton I rapped on the Block door and threw it open: a barn the size of two tennis courts, containing a hundred and forty-eight three-tier bunkframes with two or three to each berth. The heat of eleven or twelve hundred men gushed out at me.
‘Blockaltester! Here!’
The boss, an elder, fiftyish and well fleshed, emerged from his side room and walked hurryingly forward. I stated a name and a number and gave a sideways wag of the head. Then I stepped back into the lane, and exhaled. I lit a cheroot — to fumigate my nostrils. The smell in Block 4(vi) was a different smelclass="underline" it wasn’t the outright putrefaction of the meadow and the pyre, nor was it the smell diffused by the smokestacks (that of cardboard with wet rot, moreover reminding you, with its trace of charr, that human beings evolved from fish). No, it was the apologetic funk of hunger — the acids and gases of thwarted digestion, with a urinous undertang.
He stepped out, the boy, and not alone. Accompanying him was one of the Block Kapos, with his triangular green Winkel (denoting felon), his bare arms tattooed to the thickness of a sleeved singlet, his spiky pate a mere continuation of the stubble that framed his mouth. I said,