Here in the KZ, and in wartime, too, I’ve never entertained the thought of any kind of ‘misbehaviour’. I feel it would be utterly unGerman to compromise myself with a colleague (such as Ilse Grese), or with a colleague’s wife (Berlin would not be amused). And otherwise you’re seldom tempted, because so few of the women menstruate or have any hair. If you get desperate — well. The place in Katowitz is far too squalid, but the best 1 in Cracow is a German concern and it’s as clean as an operating theatre. None of that since my wife’s arrival, though. Ach, I’ve been the model, the ideal, the dream…
But now the situation has changed. And 2 can play at that game. Not so?
We do in fact have a piggery at the KL (a modest appendage to the Home Farm Station). And Alisz Seisser is a Tierpfleger — a veterinary nurse. Her uniform’s the same as that of the helpers in the Haftlinge Krankenbau: white linen jacket with a red stripe daubed on the back, and a similar paintstroke down the trousers. After having a good look, I tapped on the window of her surgery, and out she popped.
‘Oh thank you, thank you. Thank you for coming. It’s ever so good to see you, Herr Kommandant.’
‘Herr Kommandant? Paul, please,’ I said with a friendly chuckle. ‘Paul. No — you’ve been constantly in my thoughts. Poor Alisz. It must have been very difficult for you up in Hamburg. Were you in dire straits? Did the pension not come through?’
‘No no. Nothing of that kind. They nabbed me at the station, Paul. When I got off the train.’
‘That’s odd.’ On her chest she wore the black triangle of the Asozial. It had a letter sewn into it (this usually denoted country of provenance). ‘What’s that stand for when it’s at home?’ I asked with a grin. ‘Zambia?’
‘Zigeuner.’
I took a step back.
‘Well I can’t say I wasn’t expecting it,’ she blithely continued. ‘Orbart always used to say, If anything happens to yours truly, old girl, or if you up and leave me — you know, joking — then you’re in the soup, love. Sinti grandmother, see. And we knew it was in the file.’
This was a most unwelcome surprise. The Zigeuner had been workhouse fodder since the mid 1920s, and the Reichsfuhrer-SS’s Central Office for Fighting the Gypsy Menace, of course, had been active for quite a while (and I noticed that just the other day these people were dispossessed and stripped of all their rights). Obviously we’d need to tackle said menace at some point or other… Although there was a Gypsy family camp in KL2 (circus people, dance-hall proprietors and the like), they were classed as internees, tattooed but unshaven and not on the labour lists. So far as I was aware, Alisz was the only Zigeuner Haftling in the entire Zone.
‘Yes, so. I’ll still be doing all I can for you, Alisz.’
‘Oh I know you will, Paul. When they moved me from the Women’s Block I could feel your hand at work. The Women’s Block — it’s really the end. I can’t find words to describe it.’
‘… You seem well enough, my dear. The crewcut’s most becoming. And is that your phone number? Just joking. Nicht? Come on, Alisz, let’s have a look at you then. Mm. That suit’s not much help in these temperatures. You’ve the 2 blankets, I hope? And you’re getting the Tierpfleger ration? Turn around a moment. You haven’t lost any weight at least.’
She’s short in the Unterschenkel, Alisz, but she has a glorious Hinterteil. As for the other stuff, the Busen and such, it’s hard to say — but there’s certainly no argument about the Sitzflache.
‘You’re better off here, you know, than in the Ka Be. I wouldn’t want you in the Typhus Block. Or in Dysentery for that matter, dear.’
‘No, it’s not too bad at all. I’m a country girl, me. And the pigs are very sweet!’
‘And I hope, Alisz, I hope you’re being sustained by the sacred memory of the Sturmscharfuhrer. Your Orbart. He laid down his life, Alisz, for his convictions. And what more can we ask of a man?’
She smiled bravely. And again, for a moment, she took on that sacred glow — the holy aura of German martyrdom. Whilst she hugged herself and, with chattering teeth, hymned her sainted husband, I thought how very difficult it was to gauge a woman’s figure until her clothes came off. I mean, there’s an awful lot to go wrong.
‘Listen, Alisz. I have a message from my lady wife. She wants you to come to the villa on Sunday.’
‘The villa?’
‘Oh, it’ll raise an eyebrow or 2, perhaps. But I’m the Kommandant and we’ve a ready-made excuse. The girls’ pony. It’s got mange! Come and spend the afternoon.’
‘Well, if you say it’s all right, Paul.’
‘Hannah’s got some women’s things she wants to give you.’ I adjusted my greatcoat against the wind. ‘I’ll pick you up by car. And it’ll be steak, spuds, and greens.’
‘Oh, that would be handsome!’
‘A square meal. Oh yes. And a long hot bath.’
‘Ooh, Paul, I can hardly wait.’
‘Till noon on Sunday. Run along now, my girl. Run along.’
I don’t go out to the Meadow that often any more. Neither does Szmul. Well, he sometimes looks in around midnight, to make sure everything is processing as it should, and then goes back to his duties as a greeter. To have an exchange with Szmul, nowadays, you have to catch him on the ramp.
The first train had been dealt with, and the Sonder was seated on a suitcase, in the immediate glare of an untended arc light, eating a wedge of cheese. I came up on him from behind, aslant, and said,
‘Why were you on the very 1st transport out of Litzmannstadt?’
His jaw muscles stopped working. ‘The 1st transport was for undesirables, sir. I was an undesirable, sir.’
‘Undesirable? A little schnook of a schoolmaster like you? Or perhaps you teach a bit of PT.’
‘I stole some firewood, sir. To buy turnips.’
‘… To buy turnips, sir.’ I stood over him now, my jodhpurs planted well apart. ‘Where did you think you were being sent? Germany? To work in Germany? Why’d you believe that?’
‘They changed my ghetto scrip into Reichsmarks, sir.’
‘… Ooh. Clever them. Your wife wasn’t with you, was she, Sonder.’
‘No, sir. Exempted because of pregnancy, sir.’
‘Not many live births in the ghetto, I hear. Any other children?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So she missed that rather inelegant Aktion at Kulmhof. On your feet.’
He stood, wiping his greasy hands on his greasy trousers.
‘You were at Kulmhof. “Chełmno”, as you lot call it. You were there… Remarkable. No Jew gets out of Kulmhof. And I suppose they kept you on board because of your German. Tell me. Were you there at the time of the silent boys?’
‘No, sir,’ I lied.
‘Pity… Now, Sonder. You know who I mean by Chaim Rumkowski.’
‘Yes, sir. The Director, sir.’
‘The Director. The ghetto king. I gather he’s quite a “character”. Here.’
And I produced from my pocket the letter I’d received that morning from ‘Łódź’.
‘The stamp. That’s his portrait. He goes around in a wheeled carriage. Drawn by a spindly dray.’
Szmul nodded.
‘I wonder if you’ll live long enough, Sonderkommandofuhrer, to receive him here.’
He turned away.
‘Your lips. They’re always tensed and notched. Always. Even when you eat… You intend to kill someone, don’t you, Sonder. You intend to kill someone “e’er you go”. D’you want to kill me?’ I unholstered my Luger and pressed its barrel up against his resistant brow. ‘Oh, don’t kill me, Sonder. Please don’t kill me.’ The searchlight died with a crackle. ‘When your time comes, I’ll be telling you exactly what to do.’