Spark of Life (13 page)

THEY FELL OUT
of the bunkers when Squad Leader Breuer had the doors opened two days later. During the last thirty hours both of them had tumbled from semiconsciousness into unconsciousness. During the first day they had still been able to communicate off and on by knocking; then no more.

They were carried out. They lay on the dance ground close to the wall surrounding the crematorium. Hundreds of men saw them; no one touched them. No one took them away. No one acted as though he saw them. No orders had been given as to what should be done with them; thus they didn’t exist. Anyone touching them would himself have ended up in the bunker.

Two hours later the last dead of the day were brought to the crematorium.

“What about these?” the SS-man on duty asked lazily. “Are they going in, too?”

“They’re two out of the bunker.”

“Have they kicked off?”

“It looks like it.”

The SS-man watched 509’s hand closing slowly into a fist and
opening again. “Not quite,” he said. His back hurt him. Last night with Fritzi in The Bat had been a tough round. He closed his eyes. He had won out against Hoffmann. Hoffmann and Wilma. A bottle of Hennessy. Good brandy. But he was pooped out. “Ask in the bunker or the office where they belong,” he said to one of the corpse bearers.

The man returned. With him the red-haired clerk came hurrying along. “These two are discharged from the bunker,” he announced. “They belong to the Small camp. Supposed to have been discharged today at noon. Orders from the Commandant’s quarters.”

“Then take them away from here.” The SS-man looked lazily at his list. “I have thirty-eight goners.” He counted the corpses which were lined up in rank and file before the entrance. “Thirty-eight. Correct. Get these two out, or there’ll be a mix-up again.”

“Four men! Take these two to the Small camp!” called the corpse kapo.

Four men seized them. “Over here,” whispered the red-haired clerk. “Quick! Away from the dead. Over here!”

“They’re already as good as gone,” said one of the bearers.

“Shut your trap! Get on!”

They carried 509 and Bucher away from the wall. The clerk bent over them and listened. “They’re not dead. Get some stretchers. Quick!”

He looked around. He was afraid Weber might arrive, might remember, and have them both hanged. He remained on the spot until the men came with the stretchers. They were boards roughly fitted together on which corpses were usually transported.

“Load them on! Quick!”

The ground around the gate and the crematorium was always dangerous. SS-men loafed about there and Squad Leader Breuer was nearby. He didn’t like the idea of someone getting out of the
bunker alive. Neubauer’s order had been executed and settled with the discharge, and 509 and Bucher were once more at large. Anyone could vent his bad temper on them; especially Weber whose honor, had he known they still lived, would almost have required him to have them liquidated.

“Crazy idea!” said one of the bearers, annoyed. “Here we are, dragging them all the way to the Small camp and tomorrow morning they’re bound to have to be brought back again. They won’t even last a few more hours.”

“What’s that got to do with you, you idiot?” the red-haired clerk suddenly snarled in anger. “Pick them up! Get on! Isn’t there one man with any sense among you?”

“Here,” said an older man, lifting the stretcher on which 509 was lying. “Who are they? Something special?”

“They are a couple from Barrack 22.” The clerk looked round and stepped close to the bearer. “These are the men who refused to sign the day before yesterday.”

“Sign what?”

“The declaration for the guinea-pig doctor. The other four he took along.”

“What? And they’re not going to be hanged?”

“No.” The clerk continued to walk several steps beside the stretcher. “They must get back to the barracks. That was the order. So make it snappy before something happens.”

“Oh, I see.”

Suddenly the bearer took such vigorous strides that he shoved the stretcher into the back of the knee of the man in front of him. “What the hell!” the other said angrily. “Have you gone crazy?”

“No. Let’s first of all get these two away from here. I’ll tell you why later.”

The clerk stayed behind. The four bearers now walked fast and in silence until they had passed the administration buildings. The
sun was setting. 509 and Bucher had spent half a day longer in the bunker than had been ordered. Breuer hadn’t allowed himself to be deprived of this little variation.

The leading bearer turned around. “Say, what’s up? Are these here special big shots?”

“No. But they are two of the six whom Weber had lugged out of the Small camp on Friday.”

“What’s happened to them? They look as if they’ve been simply battered to bits.”

“So they have. They refused to go with the surgeon-major who wanted them. Experiment station outside the town, so the red-haired clerk said. He has often taken people before.”

The leading bearer let out a whistle. “Good God, and they’re still alive?”

“See for yourself.”

The first man shook his head. “And now they’re even being sent back from the bunkers! Not hanged! What’s it all about? I’ve not seen anything like this for years!”

They came to the first barrack. It was Sunday. The labor gangs had worked through the day and had just marched in. The roads were filled with prisoners. The news spread like lightning.

The camp knew why the six men had been taken away. It also knew that 509 and Bucher had been in the bunker; this had soon been discovered via the office and forgotten again. No one had expected them to return alive. But now they were coming—and even those not in the know could see that they were not returning because they had been useless, otherwise they wouldn’t be so beaten up.

“Come,” said someone out of the crowd to the rear bearer. “I’ll give you a hand. It’ll make it easier.”

He seized one of the stretcher’s handles. Another man came up and took the other front handle. Soon each stretcher was being carried
by four prisoners. It wasn’t necessary; 509 and Bucher were not heavy, but the prisoners wanted to do something for them, and at the moment there was nothing else they could do. They carried the stretchers as though they were made of glass, and the news ran ahead of them as on ghostly feet; two men who had disobeyed an order were returning alive. Two from the Small camp. Two from the barrack of the dying Mussulmen. It was unheard of. No one realized that it was due simply to a whim of Neubauer’s—but that wasn’t important. The important thing was that they had disobeyed and were returning alive.

Lewinsky stood in front of Barrack 13 long before the stretchers approached. “Is it true?” he asked from afar.

“Yes. Is that them—or not?”

Lewinsky came closer and bent over the stretchers.

“I believe, yes—yes, that’s the one I spoke to. Are the other four dead?”

“There were only these two in the bunker. The clerk says the others went along. These didn’t. They refused.”

Lewinsky slowly straightened himself. He saw Goldstein beside him. “Refused. Would you have believed that?”

“No. Not of people from the Small camp.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean that they were let out again.”

Goldstein and Lewinsky looked at one another. Muenzer joined them. “Seems like the Thousand Year brothers are getting soft,” he said.

“What?” Lewinsky turned round. Muenzer had expressed precisely what he and Goldstein had been thinking. “What put that in your head?”

“The old man himself ordered it,” said Muenzer. “Weber wanted them hanged.”

“How d’you know that?”

“The red clerk said so. He heard it.”

For a moment Lewinsky stood very still—then he turned to a small gray man. “Go to Werner,” he whispered. “Tell him. Tell him that he who wanted us not to forget it is one of them.”

The man nodded and crept along close to the barrack. Meanwhile the bearers had walked on with the stretchers. More and more prisoners appeared from the doors. A few came up shyly and quickly and glanced at the two bodies. One of 509’s arms had fallen down and it trailed along the ground; two men sprang up to him and laid it carefully back.

Lewinsky and Goldstein followed the stretchers with their eyes. “Hell of a lot of courage for two living corpses just to refuse like that, eh?” said Goldstein. “Would never have expected that from any of the croak division.”

“Nor would I.” Lewinsky still stared down the road. “They must be kept alive,” he said. “They must be kept from croaking. You know why?”

“I can imagine. You mean that only then would it become important for us.”

“Yes. If they croak, by tomorrow it’ll be forgotten. If not—”

If not, then it’ll be a proof for the camp that something has changed, thought Lewinsky. He did not say it aloud. Instead he said, “We can use that. Especially now. For the morale of the camp.”

Goldstein nodded.

The bearers walked on towards the Small camp. In the sky stood a fierce red sunset. Its reflection fell on the right wing of the labor camp barracks; the left-hand one lay in blue shadows. The faces at the windows and doors on the shaded side were as usual pale and blurred; but those on the other side were flooded by the strong light as by a sudden burst of borrowed life. The bearers walked straight through the light. It fell on the bodies that lay smeared over with blood and dirt on the stretchers, and suddenly it seemed
as though these were not just two beaten-up prisoners being dragged back—it seemed to be almost something like a pitiful triumphal march. They had resisted. They still breathed. They had not been defeated.

Berger worked on them. Lebenthal had provided some turnip soup. They had drunk some water and, half-unconscious, had gone to sleep again. Then, at some time out of gradually dissolving torpor, 509 felt something warm on his hand. A shy, fleeting memory. Far away. Warmth. He opened his eyes.

The sheep dog was licking his hand.

“Water,” whispered 509.

Berger was applying iodine to his chafed joints. He looked up, fetched the mug of soup and held it to 509’s mouth.

“Here, drink this.”

509 drank. “How is Bucher?” he asked wearily.

“He’s lying beside you.”

509 wanted to ask more. “He’s alive,” said Berger. “Get some rest.”

For the roll call they had to be carried out. They were laid on the ground in front of the barrack with the sick who could no longer walk. It was already dark and the night was clear.

Squad Leader Bolte was taking roll call. He contemplated the faces of 509 and Bucher as one inspects crushed insects. “Those two are dead,” he said. “Why are they lying here with the sick?”

“They are not dead, Herr Squad Leader.”

“Not yet,” declared Block Senior Handke.

“Tomorrow, then. They’ll go up the chimney. You can bet your heads on that.”

Bolte left in a hurry. He had money in his pocket and wanted to
risk a game of skat. “Break ranks!” shouted the block seniors “Food-carriers out!”

The Veterans carried Bucher and 509 back with great care. Handke saw it and grinned. “Are those two made of china, what?”

No one answered him. He stood around for a while; then he also left.

“That swine! growled Westhof and spat. “That filthy swine!”

Berger watched him attentively. Westhof had been stir-crazy for quite a while. He was restless, brooded around, talked to himself and picked fights. “Be quiet,” said Berger sharply. “Don’t make a row. We all know what’s wrong with Handke.”

Westhof stared at him. “A prisoner like us. And such a swine. That’s—”

“We all know what it is. There are dozens even worse. Power makes brutes of people, you should have learned that long ago. And now lend a hand.”

They had made a bed free for both Bucher and 509. As a result six men were going to sleep on the ground. One of them was Karel, the boy from Czechoslovakia. He helped carry the two men in. “The squad leader’s all wrong,” he said to Berger.

“Really?”

“They won’t go up the chimney. Certainly not tomorrow. We could safely have made a bet.”

Berger looked at him. The small face was utterly blank.

“Look here, Karel,” said Berger. “You can make bets with SS-men only if you’re sure of losing. Even then, it’s better not to.”

“They won’t go up the chimney tomorrow. Not these two. Those three over there, yes.” Karel pointed at three Mussulmen lying on the floor.

Berger looked at him again. “You’re right,” he said.

Karel nodded with pride. He was an expert.