Finding Rebecca: A Novel of Love and the Holocaust (26 page)

“Where
is he?” the Sonderkommando said.

“I don’t
know. I don’t think there’s any SS left inside. Northen is finished.”
Christopher couldn’t see the Sonderkommando’s face in the dark, but he doubted that
he was upset about Northen. “Let’s try and make for the door.” The two men
stood up and felt their way along the wall towards the door, but it was over a
hundred feet away and there were eight hundred people in the changing room with
them. Christopher dared not speak aloud as he moved, and he could hear the
Sonderkommando whispering prayers under his breath. Then the doors flew open
and the harsh glare of searchlights penetrated the black.

“All
remaining SS guards and Sonderkommandos are to exit the changing room
immediately!” Christopher recognized the voice of Kommandoführer Kuntz, the
head of the detail that worked in Crematorium 3. The crowd parted and
Christopher dashed past the huddling masses of people and through the door
along with the Sonderkommando and several of his colleagues. It was nighttime
outside. There were ranks of SS men milling about, fully armed. Christopher saw
Lahm, his rifle pressed against his chest. There were several heavy machine
guns being moved down towards the door. Christopher put his hands on his
thighs, bent over, trying to catch his breath. Lagerkommandant Höss, the
head of the entire camp, was standing in front of him. Höss nodded
towards him and Christopher pressed the pistol back into his holster and
saluted. He heard the clump of a grenade going off in the changing rooms, then
the pounding of machine guns, which were almost loud enough to obscure the
screams of the people caught in the blood bath. Christopher stood alone in the
yard, the lines of SS men moving past him to join in the massacre, the
Sonderkommandos lined up at the side. He felt the rip in his uniform where the
bullet had almost hit. There was the sound of more gunshots and still the armed
SS poured down the steps into the changing room. Lagerkommandant Höss
stepped back towards him.

“You
were inside there, Rapportführer?”
 

“Yes,
Herr Lagerkommandant.” Christopher’s heart rate was slowing, his breathing
almost normal as he spoke.

“What
happened?”

“One of
the prisoners snatched Sturrmann Northen’s pistol and opened fire. I’m pretty
sure Northen is dead, Herr Lagerkommandant.”

“And how
close were you, Rapportführer?”

“I was
directly beside Northen, Herr Lagerkommandant.”

Höss
noticed the tear on Christopher’s sleeve, and reached out to touch it. “I see
you had a close shave yourself.”

“You
could call it that, Lagerkommandant.”

“Rapportführer,
I need to attend to this matter in front of us here, but I want to speak to the
officers here in the yard afterwards. Stay close by, I want you to stand with
me as I speak to them.”

Christopher
milled around the yard listening to the sounds of massacre for the next few
minutes. It was all over quickly. It was just a matter of killing them all. The
SS men emerged from the changing room, the smoke billowing around them, some
covered in blood. Christopher was ashamed at himself for his first thought was
of the cleanup operation in the changing room and how it would have to be ready
for the next day. It took several minutes for all of the troops to come out of
the changing room. Once they did, the Sonderkommandos went back down to herd
the few remaining prisoners, those who had managed to hide behind pillars to
avoid the carnage, into the gas chamber, for there was no escape for anyone
once they entered the changing rooms. Christopher walked towards the entrance
to the changing rooms in Crematorium 3. Kommandoführer Kuntz was standing at
the top of the steps looking down.

“This is
some mess,” Christopher said. “We’ll be up all night cleaning this up.”

Kuntz
looked around at him, seemingly surprised to hear him saying such a thing.
“You’re the new man in Canada? You were right there when it happened, right?”
He gestured down towards the changing room. “You’re lucky to be alive.” He
scratched at the tuft of hair underneath his hat. “Maybe not lucky, maybe you
were good.” He proceeded downstairs into what must have been a disgusting pit
of blood and gore. Christopher stepped away.

Fifteen
minutes later Christopher stood beside Lagerkommandant Höss as he
addressed the crowd of officers in front of him. Friedrich was there at the
front, along with Kommandoführer Kuntz of Crematorium 3, Kommandoführer Strunz
of Crematorium 4 and Kommandoführer Roehrig of number 5. There was a crowd of
about 20, with Breitner, Flick and Muller skulking at the back. All twenty
stood in rapt attention as Höss spoke.
 

“Tonight
is an example of what can happen when we let our guard down,” he began. “The
Jew is always looking for any chance to save itself, to inflict damage on us.
Let this be a lesson to one and all that a lack of vigilance will end in tragic
consequences. The death of a young sturrmann tonight should be a lesson to all
of us. His lack of alertness to the dangers the Jew presents was his undoing,
but conversely, Obersturmführer Seeler’s quick thinking and alertness in the
face of great danger is an example to us all.‚Äù Christopher felt Höss‚Äôs
hand on his shoulder and the shame of the warm feeling it gave him. “Without
Obersturmführer Seeler’s quick reactions this could have turned into a wider
tragedy. His instincts as an SS man were solid and served him when he needed
him most, these same instincts that every SS man in this camp should possess.”

Christopher
stepped back and Höss spoke for several more minutes about security
procedures, and then left as the Sonderkommandos marched back inside the
changing room to clean up the mess of blood and what remained of hundreds of
people who paid for and were promised safe passage to Switzerland. Their blood-soaked,
shredded clothes were piled on carts to be transported across to Canada, though
Christopher doubted they would find much that hadn’t been destroyed by grenades
and gunfire. The body of the man who had killed Northen was found and dragged
outside. He had died along with the others in the hail of gunfire. Christopher
wondered if it was a better or worse fate than the gas chamber. The result was
the same. His body was hung up in the men’s camp in Birkenau, a few hundred
yards away, with a sign around his neck that read, ‘
Look at me! See what happens to those who try to escape, and now the
other 800 on my transport are dead too!’

She was
from Slovakia, a small town near Bratislava, and Christopher didn’t notice her
at first. She was just one more of the hundreds of women he oversaw.
Christopher was walking through the warehouses in Canada, on the endless rounds
he made, watching the prisoners, watching the guards. There were twenty or
thirty women in the room, sorting through the enormous pile of clothes piled in
the corner. He felt the tug on his arm. She was probably around twenty years of
age, but it was hard to tell. Her face was creamy white skin leading up to high
cheekbones and piercing green eyes. Her brown hair was tied up at the back, but
came down in a curl at the front. There was a beauty to her that he had not
seen in a long time. Not in this place. The guard in the corner glared across
at her and went to shout something before Christopher held up his hand.
Christopher reached down and brushed her hand off the sleeve of his jacket.
Then she spoke in a whisper that only he could have heard. None of the other
women poring through the piles of clothes looked up. “Herr Obersturmführer, can
I speak to you?” Christopher looked back towards the guard, who was now looking
out through the open doorway at the rain driving onto the ground outside. Christopher
walked on. As he turned around, she was still gazing at him. “Herr
Obersturmführer, please.” Christopher walked back towards her. The guard was
still looking away.

“What is
it?” He pursed his lips. “You’ve no reason to be speaking to me. Get on with
your work.”

“Please,
Herr Obersturmführer, if I could just speak to you for a few seconds.”

Christopher
looked at her for a few seconds, her eyes were pleading with him. This was his
section after all. Why should he not be allowed to speak to his workers? “What
is it?”

“My name
is Martina Culikova, please to tell you that my sister is arriving on the train
this afternoon. She has her two children with her. Please, Herr Seeler, they
say you are a good man.”

“Who
says this?” he snarled, and thought to strike her across the face as much from
the real anger inside him as from the act of being ruthless and cruel. But his
hand remained steady at his side.

Her
green eyes dropped like stones and fear drew across her face. “It’s just that
she would make a wonderful worker. She was a seamstress back in Malinovo. She
arrives this afternoon.” Martina grabbed Christopher’s arm once more, pressing
her face into the sleeve of his SS jacket, the tears leaving tiny dark marks on
the grey. “Her name is Petra Kocianova, she arrives this afternoon.”

“How
dare you?” Christopher roared. “How dare you assume such things?” He felt the
red hue in his face rise and suddenly he was very hot. The other prisoners
glanced up from their work and Christopher could feel the guard staring. One
word from Christopher and he would kill her instantly. Just as easily
Christopher could kill her himself, just draw his pistol and fire. There would
be no judgment passed, just one more body to dispose of. Martina was shaking,
her whole body in convulsions as the waves of tears jarred her. The guard was
walking across, his pistol in hand. Christopher held up his hand and the guard
stopped. Christopher looked around the room. There were two other guards and
perhaps 25 other prisoners, all had seen and heard what happened. “Come with
me!” Christopher shouted, and took her by the arm. The lady next to Martina
whimpered and grasped for another overcoat, running her fingers through the
lining faster than Christopher had thought possible. The guards nodded and
re-holstered their pistols. Martina Culikova had stopped crying, as if resigned
to her fate. Her body gave out as Christopher dragged her and she fell but
Christopher didn’t stop. She got back to her feet to save herself being dragged
along the rough concrete floor. She was so light, like dragging a naughty
child. Christopher’s breath quickened as they stepped out into the driving
rain.

Christopher
was walking, dragging her behind, with no idea what to do next. He knew what he
would have been expected to do by both the prisoners and the guards. Where had
the prisoners gotten the idea that he was a good man? That was tantamount to a
death sentence here. There was no room for good here, no place for pity or remorse.
The rain ran down his face, mixing with his own tears. There were few people
around, just some prisoners scuttling about, pushing carts overloaded with
clothes, suitcases, porcelain vases, ragged human remains. None looked at him.
He could not bear to look back at her, but just kept walking, feeling the
weight of her behind him. He heard her try to speak, but couldn’t make out the
words. They went past several warehouses. Christopher peered in the open door
of each, but no one looked out. Satisfied, he dragged her around the side of
the second to last warehouse and she immediately fell to her knees and closed
her eyes. She raised her hands and took off the headscarf she wore and her
brown, straggly, filthy hair came free.

Christopher
looked around. There was no one. “Who told you that I was a good man? I am an
SS officer.” The feelings of anger and sympathy in him were almost impossible
to comprehend.

Martina’s
eyes popped open and she looked up at him, the rain running down the smooth
skin of her forehead in rivulets down the sides of her face. “They say you are
different,” she whispered.

“Who
says this?”

“The
ladies in Canada. They say since you arrived the executions have stopped. They
say that you are the one who handcuffed that monster, Frankl.” She was still
fully expecting to die. Christopher drew his pistol, his hand shaking so much the
gun almost slipped out and onto the ground. As she saw it, she shut her eyes
again. The pain in him was building again. It was almost unbearable.

“Why did
you approach me like that, in front of the other prisoners, the guards?”

“I had
to do something to save my sister and her children. I would rather die here
than not try.” She took a deep breath.

“What
was her name?” Christopher asked as he replaced the pistol back in his holster.

She
opened her eyes again. “Petra Kocianova, she’s from Malinovo, she’s coming with
her two sons, Patrik and Karel. If you could….”