Spark of Life (11 page)

The corpses in front of Sections B and C had been loaded. “Get on!” shouted Strohschneider. “D’you want a sermon as well? Chuck those stinkers up!”

“Come,” said Berger.

This morning Section D had only four corpses. There was still enough space for the first three. But then the truck was full. The Veterans were at a loss to know where to put Lohmann. The other corpses lay on top of each other as high as they could go. Most of them were rigid.

“On top!” shouted Strohschneider. “Shall I help you find your legs? A few of you climb up, you lazy swine! That’s the only work you still have to do. To load and to croak.”

They could not lift Lohmann onto the truck from below. “Bucher! Westhof!” said 509. “Come on!”

They laid the corpse back on the ground. Lebenthal, 509, Ahasver and Berger helped Bucher and Westhof to climb up onto the truck. Bucher was almost up when he slipped and swayed. He groped for a hold; but the corpse to which he held was not yet rigid. It gave, and they slid down together. The corpse sliding down without resistance looked terribly submissive, as though it consisted of nothing but joints.

“Damn it!” shouted Strohschneider. “What kind of a stinking mess is this?”

“Quick, Bucher! Once more!” whispered Berger.

They panted and pushed Bucher up again. This time he succeeded in holding on. “First the other one,” said 509. “It’s still soft. It’s easier to push up.”

It was the body of a woman. It was heavier than corpses in the camp usually were. She also still had lips. She had died, not starved. She still had breasts, not skinny sacks. She was not from the women’s division that bordered on the Small camp; in that case she would have been thinner. She probably came from the exchange camp for Jews with South American immigration papers; there, families were still together.

Strohschneider had climbed down from his seat and seen the woman. “Getting randy, you rams, eh?”

He bellowed with laughter at his joke. As a kapo of the corpse-bearing gang he didn’t have to drive the car himself; he did it simply because it was an automobile. He had formerly been a chauffeur and drove whenever he could. He was always in good humor when sitting at the wheel.

It took eight of them to get the soft body finally up again. They trembled with exhaustion. Then, while Strohschneider spat tobacco juice at them, they lifted Lohmann up. After the woman, he was very light.

“Fasten him tight,” whispered Berger to Bucher and Westhof. “Hook his arm through one of the others.” They succeeded in pushing one of Lohmann’s arms through the laths on the truck’s side. As a result the arm hung out, while the body was held fast under the armpit by the crossbar.

“Done,” said Bucher and let himself fall down.

“Done, you grasshoppers!”

Strohschneider laughed. The ten hurrying skeletons had reminded
him of giant grasshoppers dragging around a stiff eleventh one. “You grasshoppers!” he repeated, looking at the Veterans. They didn’t laugh. They just panted and stared at the end of the truck from which the feet of the dead stuck out. Many feet. Among them a pair of child’s feet in dirty white shoes.

“Now,” said Strohschneider, climbing back into his seat. “Which of you typhus brothers is going to be the next?”

No one answered. Strohschneider’s good humor vanished. “Shits!” he snarled. “And you’re even too dumb for that!”

He stepped suddenly on the gas. The motor rattled like a machine-gun salvo. The skeletons leapt out of the way. Strohschneider nodded with glee and turned the car.

They stood in the blue smoke of the oil. Lebenthal coughed. “That fat bloated swine!” he cursed.

509 remained standing in the fumes. “Maybe it’s good against lice.”

The truck drove down to the crematorium. Lohmann’s arm jutted out sideways. The truck rocked on the uneven road and the arm swayed as though beckoning.

509 gazed after it. He felt the gold crown in his pocket. For a moment it seemed to him as though the tooth should also have disappeared with Lohmann. Lebenthal was still coughing. 509 turned round. Now he also felt in his pocket the piece of bread from the previous evening. He still had not eaten it. He felt it, and it struck him as a senseless consolation. “What about the shoes, Leo?” he asked. “What are they worth?”

Berger was on his way to the crematorium when he saw Weber and Wiese. He limped back at once. “Weber’s coming! With Handke and a civilian. I think it’s the guinea-pig doctor. Look out!”

In the barracks a turmoil started. High-ranking SS officers
hardly ever came to the Small camp. Everyone knew there must be a special reason. “The sheep dog, Ahasver!” called 509. “Hide him!”

“Do you think they’ll inspect the barracks, too?”

“Maybe not. There’s a civilian with him.”

“Where are they?” asked Ahasver. “Is there still time?”

“Yes. Quick!”

The sheep dog lay down obediently while Ahasver stroked him and 509 tied his hands and feet so that he could not run outside. He actually never tried it but this visit was out of the ordinary and it seemed wiser not to take any risks. Ahasver stuffed a rag into his mouth so that he could breathe, but not bark. Then they pushed him into the darkest corner.

“Stay there!” Ahasver raised his hand. “Quiet! Sit!” The sheep dog had tried to get up. “Lie down! Quiet! Stay there!” The madman sank back.

“Step out!” Handke shouted outside. The skeletons hustled out and lined up. Those unable to walk were supported or carried and laid on the ground.

It was a miserable heap of half-dead, dying and starving men. Weber turned to Wiese. “Is this what you need?”

Wiese’s nostrils sniffed the air as though he were smelling a roast. “Excellent specimens,” he muttered. Then he put on his horn-rimmed spectacles and looked benevolently at the lines.

“D’you want to make a choice?” asked Weber.

Wiese coughed slightly. “Yes—well—there was some talk—of volunteers—”

“All right,” answered Weber. “As you wish. Six men forward for light work!”

No one moved. Weber turned red. The block seniors repeated the shouted command and began hastily pushing the men forward. Weber walked along the lines with a bored expression and suddenly discovered Ahasver in the rear rank of Barrack 22. “That one!
The one with the beard!” he shouted. “Step out! Don’t you know it’s forbidden to run around like that? Block senior! How is this possible? What are you here for? Fall out, that man there!”

Ahasver stepped forward. “Too old,” muttered Wiese, and held Weber back. “Just a moment. I think we must handle this differently.”

“Men,” he then said gently. “You should be in hospital. All of you. There’s no more room in the camp lazaret. I can provide quarters for six of you elsewhere. You need soup, meat and nourishing food. The six of you who need it most, step forward.”

No one stepped forward. No one in the camp believed such fairy tales. Besides, the Veterans had recognized Wiese. They knew he had taken men away several times before. None had returned.

“It seems you’ve still too much to eat, eh?” snapped Weber. “That will be changed. Six men step forward, but snappy!”

From Section B a skeleton staggered forward and stood still. “Good,” said Wiese and inspected it. “You are sensible, dear man. We’ll feed you up all right.”

A second one followed. Then another. They were newcomers.

“Come on! Three more!” shouted Weber angrily. He considered Neubauer’s suggestion about the volunteers a crazy idea. One gave orders in the office and six men were supplied, that was that.

The corners of Wiese’s mouth twitched. “I personally guarantee you good food, men. Meat, cocoa, nourishing soups.”

“Herr Surgeon-Major,” said Weber. “These tramps don’t understand being talked to like that.”

“Meat?” asked the skeleton Wassya, who stood as though hypnotized beside 509.

“Of course, my dear man.” Wiese turned towards him. “Every day. Meat every day.”

Wassya chewed. 509 gave him a warning shove with his elbow.

Though it had been hardly a movement, Weber had nevertheless
noticed it. “Filthy bastard!” He kicked 509 in the belly. It was not an excessively vicious kick; it was a kick of warning, not a punishing one, in Weber’s opinion. But 509 promptly fell over.

“Get up, you swindler!”

“Not like that, not like that,” muttered Wiese, holding Weber back. “I must have them intact.”

He bent over 509 and examined him. After a while 509 opened his eyes. He did not look at Wiese. He looked at Weber.

Wiese straightened himself. “You’ve got to go to hospital, dear man. We’ll take care of you.”

“I’m not hurt,” panted 509, getting up with difficulty.

Wiese smiled. “As a physician, I know better.” He turned toward Weber. “That makes two more. Now the last, a younger one.” He pointed at Bucher who had been standing on the other side of 509. “This one, perhaps—”

“March! Step out!”

Bucher stepped up to 509 and the others. Through the gap thus caused, Weber now saw the Czech boy, Karel. “There’s still half a portion. Would you like it as a supplement?”

“Thanks. I need full-grown people. These will do. Many thanks.”

“All right. You six report in the office in fifteen minutes. Block senior! Take down the numbers! Get washed, you dirty swine!”

They stood as though a flash of lightning had struck them. No one spoke. They knew what it meant. Only Wassya grinned. He was feeble-minded from hunger and believed what Wiese had said. The three new ones stared apathetically into the void; they would have followed any order without resisting; even the order to run into the electrically charged wire. Ahasver lay on the ground and moaned. After Weber and Wiese had gone Handke had beaten him with a club.

“Josef!” A weak voice came over from the women’s camp.

Bucher did not move. Berger nudged him. “There’s Ruth Holland.”

The women’s camp lay to the left of the Small camp, separated from it by a double strand of uncharged barbed wire. It consisted of only two small barracks which had been installed during the war, when the new mass arrests had started. Formerly there had been no women in the camp.

Two years ago Bucher had worked over there for several weeks as a carpenter. This was how he had met Ruth Holland. Off and on they had been able to meet and speak secretly for a short while; then Bucher had been transferred to another gang. They had seen one another again only when Bucher had been handed over to the Small camp. Then, occasionally at night or in fog, they had whispered to each other.

Ruth Holland stood behind the barbed wire separating the two camps. The wind blew her striped smock around her thin legs. “Josef!” she called again.

Bucher raised his head. “Get away from the wire! They’ll see you.”

“I’ve heard everything. Don’t do it!”

“Get away from the wire, Ruth! The guard might fire!”

She shook her head. Her hair was short and entirely gray. “Not you! Stay here! Don’t go! Stay here, Josef!”

Bucher looked helplessly over at 509. “We’ll come back,” 509 said for him.

“He won’t come back. I know it. And you know it, too.” She pressed her hands against the wire. “No one ever comes back.”

“Go back, Ruth.” Bucher glanced towards the watchtowers. “It’s dangerous to stand there.”

“He won’t come back! You all know it!”

509 did not reply. There was nothing to be said. He was deaf
within himself. He no longer had any feelings left. Neither for others nor for himself. Everything was over; he knew it but he didn’t feel it yet. He felt only that he didn’t feel anything.

“He won’t come back,” Ruth Holland repeated. “He must not go.”

Bucher stared at the ground. He was too dazed to go on answering.

“He must not go,” said Ruth Holland. It was like a litany. Monotonous, without emotion. It was already beyond all emotion. “Someone else must go. He’s young. Someone else must go for him—”

No one answered. Everyone knew that Bucher had to go. The numbers had been written down by Handke. And who would have gone for him, anyway?

They stood and looked at each other. Those who had to go and those who stayed behind. They looked at each other. Had a flash of lightning struck and killed 509, it would have been more bearable. It was unbearable because in this last glance was still the lie, the unspoken:
Why I? Just I?
on the one side—and the:
Thank God. Not I! Not I!
on the other.

Ahasver got up slowly from the ground. For one more moment he stared dazed before him; then he remembered. He whispered something.

Berger turned round. “It’s my fault,” squawked the old man suddenly. “I—my beard—that’s why he came here! Otherwise he’d have stayed over there. Oi—”

He began tugging with both hands at his beard. Tears poured over his face. He was too weak to pull his hair out. He sat on the ground and jerked his head to and fro.

“Get back into the barrack,” Berger said sharply.

Ahasver stared at him. Then he let himself fall flat on his face and wailed.

“We must go,” said 509.

“Where’s the tooth?” asked Lebenthal.

509 groped in his pocket and held it out to Lebenthal. “Here—”

Lebenthal took it. He trembled. “Your God!” he stammered, and made a vague gesture down toward the town and the burned-out church. “Your signs! Your pillar of fire!”

509 fumbled again for his pocket. He had felt the piece of bread while getting the tooth. What good had it done now not to eat it? He held it out to Lebenthal.

“Eat it yourself,” said Lebenthal, furious and helpless. “It’s yours.”

“It’s no longer any use to me.”

A Mussulman had seen the piece of bread. He stumbled fast towards him, his mouth wide open, clutched 509’s arm and snapped at the bread. 509 shoved him away and pushed the bread into the hand of Karel, who all this time had been standing silently beside him. The Mussulman clutched at Karel. The boy kicked him calmly and precisely on the shin. The Mussulman reeled and the others pushed him away.

Karel looked at 509. “Are you going to be gassed?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

“There aren’t any gas chambers here, Karel. You should know that,” said Berger angrily.

“That’s what they said in Birkenau, too. When they give you towels and tell you to take a bath, then it’s gas.”