Spark of Life (16 page)

Westhof lay flat on the ground.

“Room D, step out!” shouted Handke.

The skeletons came out. They already knew what was going to
happen. One of them would be beaten up. Handke’s boozing days always ended this way. “Are these all?” he said thickly. “Room duty!”

“All present!” Berger reported.

Handke stared through the misty dark at the lines. Bucher and 509 stood among the others. With great difficulty they could once more stand and walk. Ahasver was missing. He had remained in the barrack with the sheep dog. Had Handke asked for him, Berger would have reported him dead. But Handke was drunk, and even had he been sober he wouldn’t have known who was in front of him. He disliked going into the barrack for fear of typhus and dysentery.

“Anyone else here want to disobey orders?” Handke’s voice grew thicker. “Lous-lousy Jews!”

No one answered. “Shtand—shtand at attention! Like men—men of culture!”

They stood at attention. Handke gaped at them for a while. Then he turned round and began trampling on Westhof, who still lay on the ground. Westhof tried to protect his head with his arms. Handke went on kicking him for some time. It was quiet, and nothing could be heard but the muffled thumping of Handke’s boots against Westhof’s ribs. 509 was aware of Bucher moving beside him. He seized his wrist and held it tight. Bucher’s hand twitched. 509 didn’t let it go. Handke continued to trample senselessly. At last he grew tired of it and jumped several times on Westhof’s back. Westhof didn’t move. Handke came back. His face was wet with sweat. “Jews,” he said. “You’ve got to be trodden on like lice. What are you?”

He pointed a shaking finger at the skeletons. “Jews,” answered 509.

Handke nodded and for several seconds stared pensively at the ground. Then he turned round and walked over to the barbed wire
which fenced off the women’s barracks. He stood there and could be heard breathing heavily. He had formerly been a printer and had come to the camp for indecent assault; he had been block senior for a year. After several minutes he returned and without paying heed to anyone strode back down the camp road.

Berger and Karel turned Westhof over. He was unconscious.

“Did he break his ribs?” asked Bucher.

“He kicked him in the head,” answered Karel. “I saw it.”

“Shall we carry him in?”

“No,” said Berger. “Leave him here. He’ll be better here for the moment. There’s not enough room inside. Is there any water left?”

They had a tin can of water. Berger opened Westhof’s jacket. “Hadn’t we better take him in?” asked Bucher. “That brute might come back.”

“He won’t come back. I know him. He’s had his fling.”

Lebenthal sneaked round the corner of the barrack. “Is he dead?”

“No. Not yet.”

“He trampled on him,” said Berger. “Mostly he only beats people up. He must have gotten more schnapps than usual.”

Lebenthal pressed his arm against his jacket. “I have some food.”

“Quiet! Or the whole barrack will hear. What have you got?”

“Meat,” whispered Lebenthal. “For the tooth.”

“Meat?”

“Yes. A lot. And bread.”

He didn’t mention the hare. It was no longer suitable. He looked at the dark figure on the ground beside which Berger was kneeling. “Maybe he can still eat some of it,” he said. “It’s cooked.”

The fog had grown denser. Bucher stood at the double fence of barbed wire which separated them from the women’s barrack. “Ruth,” he whispered. “Ruth!”

A shadow approached. He stared across but could not recognize the figure. “Ruth,” he whispered again. “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Can you see me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got something to eat. Can you see my hand?”

“Yes, yes.”

“It’s meat. I’ll throw it over. Now.”

He took the small piece of meat and threw it over both barbed-wire fences. It was half the portion he had received. He heard it fall on the other side. The shadow bent down and searched on the ground. “Left! To your left,” whispered Bucher. “It must be about a yard to your left. Have you found it?”

“No.”

“Left. Another yard further. Cooked meat! Look for it, Ruth.” The shadow halted. “Have you got it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Eat it right away. Is it good?”

“Yes. Got any more?”

Bucher started. “No. I’ve already had my share.”

“You’ve still got some! Throw it over!”

Bucher stepped so close to the wire that the spikes pricked his skin. The camp’s inner fences were not electrically charged. “You are not Ruth! Are you Ruth?”

“Yes—Ruth. More! Throw!”

He suddenly realized it wasn’t Ruth. Ruth wouldn’t have said all that. The fog, the excitement, the shadow and the whispering had deceived him. “You’re not Ruth! Say my name!”

“Psst! Quiet! Throw!”

“What’s my name? What’s my name?”

The shadow didn’t answer. “The meat is for Ruth! For Ruth!” whispered Bucher. “Give it to her! You understand? Give it to her!”

“Yes, yes. Have you any more?”

“No! Give it to her! It’s hers. Not yours! Hers!”

“Yes, of course—”

“Give it to her, or I—I—”

He stopped. What could he do? He knew the shadow had devoured the piece of meat long ago. In despair he let himself fall to the ground as though an invisible fist had knocked him down. “Oh, you—damned bitch—drop dead—drop dead for that—”

It was too much. A piece of meat after so many months, and to lose it so idiotically! He sobbed without tears.

The shadow opposite was whispering. “Bring more—I’ll show you something—here—”

It seemed to raise its skirt. The movements were distorted by the white waves of fog, as if a grotesque inhuman figure were doing a witch’s dance there.

“You bitch!” whispered Bucher. “You bitch, drop dead! Idiot—I—idiot—”

He should have made certain before throwing the meat; or he should have waited until it cleared up; but by then he might have eaten the meat himself. He had meant to give it to Ruth at once. The fog had appeared to him as a stroke of good luck. And now—he moaned and struck the ground with his fists. “What a fool I am! What have I done!” A piece of meat was a piece of life. He could have vomited with misery.

The cool of the night woke him up. He staggered back. In front of the barrack he stumbled over someone. Then he saw 509. “Who’s this here? Westhof?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Bucher bent close over the face on the ground. It was moist from the fog and had dark blotches from Handke’s kicks. He saw the face and thought of the lost piece of meat and both seemed to belong together. “Damn it,” he said. “Why didn’t we help him?”

509 glanced up. “Why d’you talk such rot? How could we?”

“We would. Maybe. Why not? We’ve managed other things.”

509 was silent. Bucher let himself drop beside him. “We managed with Weber,” he said.

509 gazed into the fog. There it was again, he thought. The false heroism. The old trouble. For the first time in years this boy had experienced a desperate bid for revolt, which had turned out well—and within a few days the imagination was already beginning to work with the romantic falsification that forgot the risk.

“You think that just because we managed to cope with the camp leader himself, it would also have had to work out with the drunken block senior, eh?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“And what ought we to have done?”

“I don’t know. Something. But not have allowed Westhof simply to be trampled to death.”

“Six or eight of us should have attacked Handke? Is that what you mean?”

“No. That wouldn’t have been any use. He’s stronger than us.”

“What should we have done, then? Talked to him? Told him he ought to be reasonable?”

Bucher didn’t answer. He knew that too wouldn’t have been of any use. 509 contemplated him for a while. “Listen,” he said then. “With Weber we had nothing to lose. We refused and were inconceivably lucky. But if we’d done something to Handke this evening, he’d have simply killed one or two more and reported the barrack for mutiny. Berger and a few others would have been hanged. Westhof, in any case. Very likely you, too. Next thing
would have been several days without food. That would have meant a few dozen more dead. Correct?”

“Maybe.”

“Can you think of anything else?”

Bucher thought for a while. “No,” he said then, reluctantly.

“Nor can I. Westhof was stir-crazy. Just as much as Handke. Had he said what Handke wanted him to, he’d have gotten away with a few kicks. He was a good man. We would have used him. He was a fool.” 509 turned toward Bucher. His voice was filled with bitterness. “Do you imagine you’re the only one sitting here and thinking of him?”

“No.”

“Maybe he would have kept his mouth shut and still be alive if we two hadn’t managed to pull through with Weber. Maybe it was just that which had made him reckless today. Did you ever think of that?”

“No.” Bucher stared at 509. “Do you believe that?”

“It’s possible. I’ve seen worse foolishness. And from better men. And the better the men the greater sometimes the foolishness, when they thought they had to show courage. Damn schoolboy twaddle! Do you know Wagner from Barrack 21?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a wreck. But he was a man and had courage. Too much. He hit back. For two years he was the delight of the SS. Weber almost loved him. Then he was through. Forever. And what for? We could have made good use of him. But he couldn’t control his courage. And there were many like him. Few of them are left. And fewer who are not done for. That’s why I held on to you this evening when Handke was trampling on Westhof. Do you understand at last?”

“You think Westhof—”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead—”

Bucher fell silent. He now saw 509 more clearly. The fog had lifted a little and in one spot the moonlight filtered through. 509 had raised himself. His face was black and blue and green with bruises. Bucher suddenly remembered some old stories he had heard about him and Weber. He himself must once have been one of those men about whom he had been talking.

“Listen,” said 509. “And listen carefully. It’s a damn fallacy that spirit cannot be broken. I’ve known good men who were no longer anything but howling animals. Nearly all resistance can be broken; all that’s needed is enough time and opportunity. Those over there,” he gestured in the direction of the SS quarters, “they know it very well. And they’ve always kept after it. The only important thing about resistance is what one achieves by it; not what it looks like. Senseless courage is certain suicide. Our little bit of resistance is the only thing still left to us. We’ve got to hide it so they can’t find it—use it only in case of extreme necessity—as we did with Weber. Otherwise—”

The moonlight had reached Westhof’s body. It hovered over his face and neck. “A few of us must last out,” said 509. “For afterwards. All this must not have been in vain. A few who are not completely finished.”

He leaned back exhausted. Thinking was as exhausting as running. Most of the time it was impossible because of hunger and weakness; but sometimes, in between, a strange lightness appeared, everything became extra clear and for a short while one could see far—until once more the fog of weariness crept over everything.

“A few who are not completely finished and who don’t want to forget,” said 509.

He looked at Bucher. He’s more than twenty years younger than I, he thought. He can still do a great deal. He’s not yet through. And I? Time, he thought, suddenly desperate. It devoured and devoured. One would know it only when all this was over. One would
know fully whether one was finished only when one tried to make a fresh beginning outside. These ten years in the camp counted twice and three times longer than ordinary years. Who would still have enough strength left? And a great deal of strength would be needed.

“When we get out of here they won’t fall on their knees before us,” he said. “They’ll try to deny and forget everything. Us, too. And many of us will also want to forget it.”

“I’m not going to forget it,” answered Bucher glumly. “Neither this, nor any of it.”

“All right.” The wave of exhaustion returned stronger. 509 closed his eyes but immediately opened them again. There was still something he had to say before he lost it again. Bucher had to know it. Perhaps he’d be the only one to pull through. It was important for him to know it. “Handke is not a Nazi,” he said with difficulty. “He’s a prisoner like ourselves. Outside he would probably never have killed a man. He does it here because he has the power to do it. He knows it doesn’t do us any good to complain. He’s protected. He has no responsibility. That’s it. Power—too much power in the wrong hands—too much power altogether—in anyone’s hands—do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Bucher.

509 nodded. “This and the sloth of hearts—the fear—the shirking of conscience—that is our misery—that’s what I’ve been thinking about—today.”

The weariness was now like a black cloud approaching noisily. 509 pulled a piece of bread out of his pocket. “Here, I don’t need this—had my meat—give it to Ruth—”

Bucher looked at him and did not stir. “Heard everything over there just now,” said 509 with a heavy voice already sinking down. “Give it to her—it is—” his head fell forward, but he raised it once
more, and the skull, colored with bruises, was suddenly smiling, “also important—to give—”

Bucher took the bread and went over to the fence surrounding the women’s camp. Now the fog floated shoulder-high. Below everything was clear. It produced a ghostly effect, as if the Mussulmen were stumbling headless to the latrine. After some time Ruth appeared. She, too, had no head. “Bend down,” whispered Bucher.

Both crouched on the ground. Bucher threw the bread over. He wondered if he should tell her that he’d had meat for her. He didn’t do it. “Ruth,” he said. “I think we’ll get out of here—”

She could not answer. Her mouth was full of bread. Her eyes were wide open and she looked at him. “I now really believe it,” said Bucher.

He didn’t know why he suddenly believed it. It had something to do with 509 and with what he had said. He went back. 509 was fast asleep. His lead lay close to Westhof’s. Both faces were covered with bruises, and Bucher could hardly distinguish which of them was still breathing. He didn’t wake 509. He knew he had been waiting out here for two days for Lewinsky. The night was not too cold but Bucher stripped Westhof of his jacket and laid it over 509.