Lilac Girls (14 page)

As I stepped closer to the table where Fritz held court, groups of men stopped their conversations and stared as I passed. I was used to being among men from medical school, but
one
woman colleague would have been nice. I found Fritz and his three companions sitting, bellies extended, sharing what seemed like postcoital cigarettes.

“Ah, Herta,” Fritz said. “Care for lunch?” He motioned to a plate piled with fatty pork chops, and I stemmed a wave of nausea.

“I am vegetarian,” I said.

The man next to him stifled a laugh.

Fritz stood. “Where are my manners? Let me introduce you. At the end of the table there, we have Dr. Martin Hellinger, toast of the SS dental world.”

Dr. Hellinger was a beetle-browed fellow, with wire-rimmed glasses and an endomorphic body type whose blood sugar had apparently dipped so low he could barely acknowledge me. He penciled in answers to a crossword puzzle from a newspaper.

“Next, Dr. Adolf Winkelmann, visiting from Auschwitz.”

Winkelmann sat in his chair as if poured there. He was rotund, with skin like wormholed wood.

“And this is the famous Rolf Rosenthal,” Fritz said, indicating the weaselly, dark-haired fellow sprawled out in the chair at his left. “Former navy surgeon and our gynecological wunderkind.” Rosenthal leaned forward into his cigarette and looked at me as a cow merchant considers a purchase.

The slam of a screen door caused the doctors to turn, and the blond guard I'd seen from Koegel's window stepped into the dining hall. She was taller than she'd appeared from above. Finally, a fellow female.

She ambled over to our table, her steps heavy on the wooden floor, riding crop tucked in one boot, cap off, hair rolled up off her forehead per the fashion of the time. Though a young woman, nineteen years old or so, her complexion already hosted a colony of sunspots and freckles. Perhaps the result of farm labor?

Fritz draped one arm over the back of his chair.

“If it isn't the lovely Fräulein Binz. Pride of the Ravensbrück charm school.”

Fritz did not stand to greet her and the other doctors shifted in their chairs as if suffering a cold wind.

“Hello, Fritz,” Binz said.

“Don't you know you're not allowed in the officers' canteen without permission?” Fritz said. He lit a cigarette with a gold lighter, his hands white and almost incandescent, as if dipped in milk. Hands you might expect to see on a famous pianist. Hands that had never touched a spade.

“Koegel wants me to get your medical staff and my girls together.”

“Not another picnic,” Rosenthal said.

“He suggested a dance…” Binz said.

A dance? A great fan of dancing, I was interested in that.

Rosenthal groaned.

“Only if Koegel throws in a case of French claret,” Fritz said. “And only if you staff it with some attractive Poles. Those Bible girls barely speak.”

“And only bring the
Aufseherinnen
under one hundred kilos,” Rosenthal said.

“You will come, Fritz?” Binz lit a cigarette.

Fritz waved one hand in my direction. “Binz, say hello to your new roommate. Dr. Herta Oberheuser, may I present Dorothea Binz, head of the punishment bunker. Also trains most of the
Aufseherinnen
for the entire Reich right here.”

“Woman doctor?” Binz said. She sucked her cigarette and looked me over. “That's a new one. Happy to meet you, Doctor. Good luck with this group.”

She addressed me informally, using the word
du
instead of
Sie,
which struck me as inappropriate, but no one else noted this.

“Thank you, Fräulein Binz,” I said, walking her to the canteen door.

“Never thank an
Aufseherin,
Doctor,” Fritz said. “Bad precedent.”

Binz let the door slam behind her and strode out onto the
platz.
She discarded her cigarette, not even half-smoked, flicking it onto the cobblestones with her thumb and forefinger. It was clear Binz was not the friend I was seeking.

After lunch, I walked with Fritz and Dr. Hellinger toward the utility block, where new prisoners were processed. On the way I saw every
Häftling
in uniform wore a colorful triangle on her sleeve, just below her number.

“What do the colored badges mean, Fritz?” I asked.

“Green triangle is a convicted criminal—mostly from Berlin, rough sorts, though some are here for breaking insignificant rules. Many
Blockovas
wear this. Purple is Bible girl—Jehovah's Witness. All they have to do is sign a paper saying they put Hitler above all else, and they can walk free, but they won't—crazy. Red triangle is political prisoner. Mostly Poles. Black is asocials: Prostitutes. Alcoholics. Pacifists. The letter sewn inside the triangle indicates nationality. Jews get two triangles put together to make a star. Himmler's idea.”

We walked to the utility block, along a line of naked women waiting outside. The women all appeared to be Slavs of some sort, of all ages and body types. Some were visibly pregnant. When they saw the male doctors, some shrieked, and all tried to cover themselves.

“These women need clothes, Fritz,” I said.

Once inside, we stood in a quiet corner to talk. “Here's how we do our selections,” Fritz said. “First, Hellinger looks for and records all silver or gold fillings and bridgework. Then we choose those least fit to work. If those two things line up, the prisoner is chosen. A prisoner too sick to work with a mouthful of metal goes on this list. We tell them anything but the truth.”

“And the truth is?” I asked.

“Express bus to heaven, either the gas van or Evipan. Gasoline if we run out. After that, Hellinger extracts the Reich's payment. We'll do Evipan today.”

I hugged my waist. “I thought the prisoners needed to work.”

“Old ladies can't pull a concrete roller, Herta.”

“Few of them are that old and the ones that are can be put to work knitting. And the pregnant ones need to be off their feet.”

“It's German law. No child can be born at a camp. And a certain percentage needs special handling. Otherwise this place will be too crowded, and I don't know about you, but I'm not crazy about typhus. And besides, some of them are Jews.”

The reeducation-camp label was a front. How could I have been so naïve? My nausea returned.

“I need to go to my room and unpack,” I said.

“You were fine with the cadaver lab at school.”

“They weren't breathing, Fritz. I'd rather not be involved.”

“Rather not? You won't be here long with that attitude.”

“I'm just not comfortable with all this. It's so, well, personal.”

The thought of administering a lethal injection was too abhorrent to dwell on. Would we inject into the arm? Lethal injections were barbaric and bound to be psychologically damaging for those administering them.

I touched Fritz's hand. “But cyanide is quick and quiet. Mixed with orange juice—”

“You think I like this?” Fritz asked, drawing me closer. “You do what you have to here. The alternative for them is
Vernichtung durch Arbeit.
”

Death by labor. Planned starvation.

“It's orders. Direct from Himmler. They all get just enough calories to keep them alive to work for three months. Slow extermination.”

“I can't…”

He shrugged. “They'll die anyway. Just don't think about it.”

Fritz approached the line of naked women and clapped his hands, and they huddled together like horses in a barn.

“Good day, ladies. Any of you who are over fifty years old, have a temperature above forty degrees, or are pregnant, step to the side, and we'll make sure you get a rest, after your typhus inoculations. I can only take sixty-five, so step up now.”

The women talked among themselves, some translating Fritz's instructions into other languages, and soon volunteers emerged. “Here, this is my mother,” said one young woman as she prodded an older woman forward. “She has been coughing so hard she cannot work.”

“Of course,” Fritz said.

One obviously pregnant, dark-skinned girl with brown, heavily lashed eyes like those of a dairy cow came forward and smiled at Fritz, her arms crossed, resting on her swollen belly. In minutes Fritz had his sixty-five candidates, and he instructed a guard to accompany them to the
Revier.
At least they went along calmly.

“Since when is there a vaccine for typhus?” I asked, keeping my voice low, in case some of the prisoners understood German.

“Of course it doesn't exist. On average sick
Häftlings
only live fourteen days, so we're simply hastening the process. It's far more humane than other methods.”

Fritz led us to my new workplace, the
Revier,
the prisoner medical clinic, housed in a low-slung block identical to the rest. The front reception area opened onto a large room filled with cots and bunk beds, crowded with patients, some lying on the bare floor, some in advanced stages of disease. One
Häftling
hosted such an abundance of adult lice, her short hair was white with them, and she had scratched great patches of her skin raw. Not a quality operation.

A young prisoner-nurse named Gerda Quernheim greeted us. Gerda, a pretty, chestnut-haired girl from Düsseldorf, had attended the School of Midwifery there. She was an excellent nurse, but even Gerda couldn't handle the
Revier.

Fritz led us down the hall, past a large meat locker, not unlike Heinz's.

“What is this?” I asked, touching the door, cold and damp with condensation. I brushed away a flash of
Onkel
Heinz's face.

“Cold storage,” Fritz said. “Gebhardt's.”

Fritz led me to a back room, painted a soothing, pale green, two stools and a tall lab table the only furniture. The light caught the silver barrel of a syringe, one of three laid out on the table, certainly not sterile. A gray rubber apron hung on a wall hook swayed with the breeze as we entered. The windows in that part of the building were painted white, like cloudy cataract eyes. It felt claustrophobic, as if we were snowed in.

“Why are these windows painted over?” I asked.

“Gebhardt is a freak for privacy,” Fritz said.

“Honestly, Fritz, I am tired from the train today.”

“Take half a pethidine if you have to,” Fritz said, his brow creased. “Would you rather take last call? Shooting-wall duty.”

“
Shooting
wall?” I said. “Perhaps this is better.”

“
Much
tidier. The first is the hardest; trust me. Like jumping in a cold lake.”

Two
Aufseherinnen
brought in the first prisoner from Fritz's selection, a surprisingly spry older woman wearing only wooden clogs and a blanket over her shoulders. She tried to speak to Fritz in Polish through a jumble of confused teeth.

Fritz smiled. “Yes, yes, come in. We're just preparing the inoculations.”

He tied on the rubber apron.

“Kill them with kindness,” Fritz said. “Makes it easier for all.”

The
Aufseherinnen
led the old woman to the stool. Over my shoulder I watched Gerda load a 20-cc hypodermic syringe, drawing enough yellowish-pink Evipan into the barrel to kill an ox.

“We painted this room pale green since it soothes patients,” Fritz said.

The
Aufseherinnen
removed the blanket, wrapped a towel around the woman's face, and held her left arm out as if preparing for a venous injection.

“Injections were not my forte in medical school,” I said.

One of the
Aufseherinnen
pressed her knee into the old woman's back to thrust her chest forward.

Fritz pressed the heavy syringe into my palm.

“Look, you are doing them a favor,” Fritz said. “Think of them as sick dogs needing to be put down. Do this well, and they won't suffer.”

The woman must have seen the needle, for she began to fight the guards and flailed her freed arm. That would be all I needed—Fritz telling Koegel I couldn't handle a syringe.

I backed away, a milky drop at the tip of the needle. “I'll try it tomorrow.”

“Here,” Fritz said, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “We'll do it together.”

He covered my hand that was holding the syringe with his and placed the fingers of my other hand on the woman's skin, above the rib cage. The guards used her arms like a straitjacket, and Fritz slid my fingers down the torso, to the fifth rib space.

“Close your eyes,” Fritz said. “Feel it? Just below the left breast.”

I pressed my fingers deep into the warm, crepey skin.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Almost done.”

Fritz placed his thumb over mine on the plunger, guided my hand to the spot, then helped me plunge the needle in. I felt the pop as it punctured the rib space.

“Stay with me now,” Fritz said, his lips soft against my ear. “Breathe.”

Fritz pressed our thumbs against the smooth knob with steady force, sending the Evipan straight to the heart. The woman reared back, but the guards held her in place.

“Steady, now,” Fritz said, his mouth close to my ear. “Just fourteen seconds. Count backward.”

“Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…”

I opened my eyes and saw the towel fall from the woman's face, her lower lip pulled down in a hideous grimace.

“Eleven, ten, nine…”

The woman struggled, and I took deep breaths to fight a wave of nausea.

“Eight, seven, six…”

She reared up as if in cardiac distress, then fell limp and unresponsive.

Fritz released me.

“She was a quick one,” he said. “You're drenched.”

One of the
Aufseherinnen
dragged the old woman off to the side of the room. Gerda left to fetch the next subject.

“Gerda is Rosenthal's girlfriend,” Fritz said, as he made notes on a clipboard. “He did a termination on her. Keeps it in a jar in Gebhardt's refrigerator. She picks pet
Häftlings
to treat with a warm bath, complete with flowers. Combs their hair and tells them sweet stories before she brings them here.”