Panorama (64 page)

Raw potato peels and rotten beets are dangerous to eat, so the lost ones suffer severe diarrhea, unable to hold in their stool, thus soiling themselves and their rooms. The prison doctor can provide some relief by saying they don’t have to work, but then they get less bread and still run the danger that they will be hounded out of the room and into slave labor. The miserable sick bay at the big camp is the only place where one is granted any special favors, and even then for only the most severe illness and wounds, while also having limited prospects of ever getting out alive. There is no bone char, nothing to stop the diarrhea, and therefore the patients suffer from monstrous hunger, they being pressed to get up and get to roll call, though often they can no longer stand on their legs, some of them even dying in the yard. But as long as one is alive two colleagues are sent to help the lost one, because he has to show up at roll call and stand there, even if he collapses into the dust, but the count must be correct, and it’s too much to expect of the section leaders to also have to count the prisoners in the stinking rooms of the infirmary, for it could be simply that someone has run off, which happens
regularly, as indeed there’s no trust here, not even the helpers can be trusted, which is why the section leader is so narrow-minded, and the count is often not right, there being always groups that have been commandeered elsewhere or sent off in the middle of the night, or someone has wandered off to the latrine and fallen in, or someone has died without being noticed.

Much can be withstood by sheer will, because one cannot give in and succumb to each day’s demands, but instead must remember what’s needed to supersede such hardship, be it a friendly word or a bit of encouragement for a neighbor in the room, on the way to work, as both provide strength to the slave. For it’s no longer just a rumor whispered in the latrine, but rather the truth, the Russians have crossed the Oder at Küstrin, the Americans have taken Frankfurt and are now marching on Bamberg, it will not last much longer. For many, this is of no help at all, because they are too broken, the smallest wounds fester straightaway, and everyone has such wounds from his slave labor, the limbs soon swelling, the body becoming discolored, nothing done in the infirmary, for there is no disinfectant, salve, or bandages. If one opens an infected wound, all that can be done is to wrap some paper around it, the pain soon following, blood poisoning soon whisking the lost one away.

Shrill whistles sound, as well as the air-raid alarm, but today it’s already too late for the morning dispensation of something to drink, though the light is on and the plunder remaining in the room is quickly gathered together, as everyone assembles outside on the square in the small camp, all the helpers there as well, the camp elders, the hall capo, who helps the supervisor of the lost ones in the underground factory, the camp scribe, the hall scribe, the hall translator, Jacques, a pleasant Frenchman, the horde of overseers who don’t work at all, the camp guards, and the section elders with their boys. Everyone is there and screaming at the mob of lost ones, all of you get into your groups, though since there are more attractive groups and less attractive groups, a wild tussle breaks out as each tries to get into a better one, the number of workers from the underground works changing daily, which results in a great deal of anxiety, for whoever is not able to slip into a position that will lead to good work has to join another group, which normally has to do heavy digging or carry heavy goods, these being commands from the big camp, where any lost one from the small camp is often
treated badly, since the overseers there want to teach those who have received the preferred jobs what it really takes to work hard. Each wants to avoid such trouble, as it involves being shoved around, threatened, and hit, all hell breaking loose, the camp guards and the overseers ganging up with their clubs, sticks, and lead cables swinging to each side of everyone’s head. Also, whoever is clever doesn’t shy away from this battle, because if one hangs back in the background and doesn’t fight for a spot in a better group he risks being put in the worst of groups, and that can be very bad, for tomorrow the blows will be worth it, as they only hurt for a while, but to slave away for an entire day in a bad group can mean death, even a miserably painful death.

Once all the groups from the little camp are divided up, they cross over to the big camp, where again they all report for roll call, the groups arranged in four rows, most of them carrying a flag with a number, the overseers swinging their batons, until finally the camp gate is opened. Milan, Étienne, and Josef stand in a row together, they having promised to stick together, though it doesn’t always work out, they sometimes being separated because of a beating, as now an order is barked out: “Attention! All together—march! Hats off!” The rows stream out of the gate, two lost ones counting them off, while as soon as the long lines of lost ones are past the gate they are made to stop. Without seeing the lost ones, a stranger would have no idea what kind of camp exists only a few steps away, the work on the railroad having only been started a few years prior without any great effort applied to it, though the site was cleverly chosen, the camp lying in a small, steep wooded valley, only part of which had been cleared, the woods even today rising up with thick pines just at the edge of the large camp, some of the huts even situated among the trees. Across from the camp a hill rises that is also partially covered by trees, mass graves dug into it halfway up, for there is no crematorium here, the mortality rate continuing to rise over time, two weeks ago there having been hardly more than twenty or thirty, while now it’s probably more like sixty, and soon it will be eighty or a hundred if the liberation doesn’t occur soon. In any case it will be too late, even tomorrow is too late for many, which everyone knows even at the work site, because of the need to replace positions, though what good does it do to have to keep sending more and more over to Langenstein? The supply
won’t last that much longer, even if the conspirators tirelessly ship over men, for they have no idea that their hour has come, even though they chatter on continually about the final victory, meaning by that the Conqueror’s victory. Recently Josef overheard a speech given to the sentries, someone wanting to cheer them up, telling them they should stay on their toes in front of the prisoners and not relax, the need for discipline needing to remain ever sharp. Nonetheless this doesn’t always seem possible anymore, for it’s rumored among the lost ones that more and more sentries have deserted their posts, while others steadfastly believe in the Conqueror and obey the conspirators above them, who order them to march the prisoners to their slavery while keeping their weapons trained on them, so that they can shoot if they need to, while when the lost ones are marching many sentries are sharp on their tails, making sure that whatever rubbish they pick up is ripped away from them, especially if it’s a piece of wood, beating the unfortunate ones with rifle butts and sticks if they do.

The path leading to the camp looks nice enough, some cherry trees there having blossomed, the breeze blowing through the forest, though it is cold and damp, the path muddy and wet, as you sink in with miserable soaking shoes, the mud clinging to them, each step even more laborious for your tired feet. Finally the funeral procession takes shape, the overseers and sentries again count the rows, the weapons brought to the ready, a whistle at last blowing to start the march, the hill with its mass graves now behind the procession, the march easier for the next two hundred meters that run downhill, each one obeying when “Hurry! Hurry!” and “Keep together!” are yelled out, such that the rows march on without interruption. Then a highway is reached and crossed, after which it gets tougher, the lost ones having to cross a small embankment as they pass along the floor of the valley, this being a rail bed for the narrow-gauge railway, as the walking gets more difficult and they stumble along, tottering, the procession unable to stick together, the front man having been lost, nor does it help that they are beaten because of it, as well as being prodded forever to “Hurry! Hurry!” and “Keep together! Front man! Keep it straight!” Though many are able to keep their balance, many fall, others trampling them, the sentries impatient. Finally they press past this stretch, after which they climb a bank, a steep embankment on which the narrow-gauge trains travel day and night
on several rails as they transport the white limestone and sandstone that thousands of slaves dynamited at Zwieberge before picking, shoveling, and loading it onto the small railcars.

Finally they reach an entrance to Zwieberge, though there are others, Josef knowing of at least three. They then pass by a dumping site, this being where the freight is loaded into the hoppers of the trucks, as well as into the larger cars of the narrow-gauge train, the ingress still small and not yet complete, it also being clogged with railcars to the right and left, leaving just enough room to pass by on foot on the uneven earth, someone having quickly shoved them back as continually they are pressed on, as it is better not to be at the back, for it’s much better at the front of the ranks, the best position just behind the leaders. The ingress is much too poorly lit with bleary lighting, as slaves work here, lost ones lost amid the muck and dirt, Josef thinking of the sufferings of the children of Israel in Egypt, how in the Bible it says that a new pharaoh will arise who knew nothing of Josef, but who observed the quick demise of those who hurried the lost ones on. The path leading underground is at least a kilometer long, Josef having counted the steps that run from the entrance to the ingress to the gathering spot in the underground hall, but he has already forgotten the number, it being inconsistent, since sometimes you have to take detours through side chambers. It is bitter cold in the passages, a damp, penetrating cold that the lost ones can’t protect themselves against, as it is strictly forbidden to wrap a blanket around yourself, though Josef does it nonetheless, there is no other way to stand it, this also the only way to prevent having your blanket stolen back in the camp. Josef keeps all of his necessities on him, as do others, no matter how forbidden it is to do so, but he’s not afraid and thinks about how he arrived here from the camp in Eichsfeld with a number of small items, gifts from a couple of good-hearted Germans from the village and the remainders of a package from Bohemia, some food, a razor, a bar of soap, a hand towel, an anthology of poetry that contained Nietzsche’s verse:

And this book of poetry is about all that Josef has had for so long, while here among so-called civilization there is almost no one to turn to, which is why he has to carry everything on his person, such as the little tin box made in Milan, a cigarette holder that Josef carved out of wood, a tiny piece of soap passed on by a Dutch civil servant, as well as a spoon, a pocketknife, a rag that serves as a scarf, but most important of all, Josef’s own notes, which he has stowed away in the tin box, some of them from the last camp, some he has secretly written down below the earth in Zwieberge.

Josef has certainly been plenty afraid to have the notes about him, he once having been stopped in the underground factory as a conspirator and an overseer were frisking people in search of stolen goods. Thankfully Josef had nothing they were looking for, though he did have a blanket wrapped around him, which he respectfully removed, but then the notes appeared and that was bad. The conspirator flipped through the pages and began to make out what they said, saying it was sabotage, a conspiracy and an uprising against the camp leaders and the Conqueror, saying to Josef’s face that all these words were intended against the Conqueror. Josef denied this, saying that it wasn’t against the Conqueror, though he said openly that they had to do with what went on in different jobs at the camp, but that he wasn’t scheming at anything, and he protested when the conspirator asserted things that were neither intended nor in fact there. At this the conspirator coldly threatened Josef, asking if he knew what the consequences were for all this. Yes, Josef knew, at which the conspirator said, “This will cost you your life!” Josef answered, “Yes, Herr Troop Leader, I know!” He took the notes and wrote down Josef’s prison number, 95714, though he didn’t do anything about the blanket, which the overseer was still concerned about, while even the pocketknife, which as a dangerous weapon Josef showed to those better armed, was returned to him. After that Josef figured his time had come, he not being surprised that when he returned to camp, number 95714 was called as they entered the gate, numbers always being called when any of the lost ones were seen as a threat of escape, or had stolen something, or committed some other transgression that needed to be pointed out. These prisoners always have to stand by the gate after the march back to camp before being ordered to see the section leader. Among those held back, Josef is the last and has to look on as his comrades are
whipped, after which the section leader asks him, “Why are you here?” Josef clicks his heels and relays with a firm voice and precise words what he has done. For a while the section leader looks intently at Josef, who doesn’t stir, and then finally says, “Aha, so you’re the note taker!” He takes the notes that are lying on the table and hands them over to the obviously surprised Josef with the words, “There! Next time don’t write such stupid stuff! But if you have to write, don’t let yourself get caught! Now off with you!”

Josef escaped the expected punishment and since then has enjoyed the heightened attention of the most powerful collaborators who make plans for his transport. On that day he was doubly lucky, for in the yard the lost ones were subjected to an intense body search, they being forced to hand over their coats and everything they had or were not supposed to have. After that there were random beatings, the worst offenders being those who went around with a blanket wrapped around them. Just after Josef had been let off by the section leader the search took place, so he behaved as if none of it had anything to do with him as he passed beyond the group in a wide arc and entered his hut from the back entrance, where there was no one who cared what he did. He still carried his notes with him, for he wanted to save them, as he wasn’t yet done with life, he wanted to survive, and now more than ever he wouldn’t let himself die, he wanted to bear witness to the existence of the lost ones. At the same time he could not grasp
why
he, and especially why
he
should survive. He feared that afterward life would be bleak and empty, nor did he know where he would go after the war, and therefore perhaps anything he could say would be senseless and would find neither acceptance nor sympathy, and he would be alone, without a wife, without a family, without friends or anyone, homeless, Bohemia no longer his homeland, yet where would he find a homeland? The world will seem strange, Josef no longer able to immerse himself in day-to-day life, a table, a stool, a bed, none of it will be a comfort. Josef just wants to sleep peacefully for once, to sleep forever, and he wants to be alone, to not have to listen to the iron rails, not have to wait for the next blow, not have to wolf down the sour, watery soup. Everything has become rotten and disgusting, everything is destroyed, mankind having dragged itself into the muck and done itself in, Josef only able to mourn the fact that no day will ever be untroubled again, for the eyes can find nothing beautiful to look at, the ears no pure music to
listen to any longer. Instead there will only be trains headed to Pitchipoi to the calls of “Faster! Away! Away! You greedy bastards, why don’t you just pack it in, you miserable assholes!” Poisonous gas wipes out the masses of people, the flames spit out of the chimney of the Red Cross! And yet Josef wants to live on, he wants to survive the curses raining down in so many tongues, for on those evenings where you are not forced to stay too long in the underground factory and are able to crawl out of the cavernous works, then the sunset is still there, the rays of the sun spread their red over the lit-up hills, the woods stand quiet, Josef senses the breath of approaching spring, the view opens up, something that cannot simply be forbidden, he having said so to Étienne and Milan, even pointing it out with his finger in order that it be noticed, though a lost one never wants to be noticed, for that’s too dangerous, any opinion, even the slightest word, allowing attentive guards to rush in, though fear no longer made any sense. If the oppressor wants to raise the cane, it no longer causes any fear, for there is now only everything to win and nothing to lose, though, indeed, one doesn’t want to be arrogant or foolhardy, since razor-thin is the path on which the lost ones stand, the precipice steep below them, and whoever wants still to be standing tomorrow has to take care today.