Spark of Life (19 page)

Weber laid the paper back on the desk. It slid across the polished surface towards a small glass vase of violets.

“I don’t know the figures so exactly offhand,” he answered. “Must be about half the prisoners. Maybe a few more or less. All those with red triangles. Not counting the foreigners, of course. The other half are criminals, a number of homos, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the like.”

Neubauer glanced up. He wasn’t sure whether Weber was playing dumb on purpose; Weber’s face betrayed nothing. “I don’t
mean that. The men with the red triangles are not all political. Not in the sense of this regulation.”

“Of course not. The red triangle is only a vague, general classification. Among them are Jews, Catholics, Democrats, Social Democrats, Communists and who knows what.”

Neubauer knew this, too. After ten years Weber didn’t need to enlighten him on that. He had again an uncertain feeling that his camp leader was making fun of him. “How about the really political ones?” he asked, without giving himself away.

“Mostly Communists.”

“That we can establish exactly, can’t we?”

“Fairly exactly. It’s in the files.”

“Do we still have important political people here, apart from them?”

“I can have that investigated. There may be a number of newspaper people, Social Democrats and Democrats.”

Neubauer blew out the smoke of his Partagas. Strange how quickly a cigar had a calming and optimistic effect on one! “Good,” he said affably. “Let’s first of all get these facts straight. Have the lists combed through. We can always decide afterwards how many people we want to have for our report. Don’t you think so?”

“Certainly.”

“There’s not such a hurry. We have about two weeks. That’s quite a nice span of time to settle things in, eh?”

“Certainly.”

“Besides, one can antedate here and there; things that are bound to happen anyhow, I mean. There’s no longer any point in entering the names of people who will very soon have to be booked as dead. Superfluous work. Only leads to useless inquiries.”

“Certainly.”

“I guess we won’t have too many of these people, in any case—I mean, so many that it’ll become conspicuous—”

“We don’t need to have them,” said Weber calmly.

He knew what Neubauer meant and Neubauer knew that Weber understood him.

“Inconspicuously, of course,” he said. “We must arrange it as inconspicuously as possible. I know I can rely on you in this respect—”

He got up and with a straightened-out paper clip bored carefully into the end of his cigar. He had bitten it off too hastily just now, and it wouldn’t pull any more. One should never bite the end off good cigars; simply break it off cautiously or cut it with a sharp penknife.

“How’s work coming along? Have we enough to do?”

“The copper foundry has been put pretty well out of action by the bombing. We’re letting the people clear up there. Almost all the other gangs are working as before.”

“Clear up? Good idea.” The cigar was pulling again. “Dietz was talking to me about it today. Cleaning of streets, breaking up of bombed houses, the town needs hundreds of men. It’s an emergency and after all we do have the cheapest labor. Dietz was in favor of it. So am I. No reason against it, is there?”

“No.”

Neubauer stood by the window and looked out. “There’s also a request come in about the food supplies. We’re expected to economize. How can this be done?”

“Hand out less food,” answered Weber laconically.

“That’s possible only up to a certain point. If the people collapse they can’t work any more.”

“We can save on the Small camp. It’s full of useless mouths. Who dies no longer eats.”

Neubauer nodded. “All the same, you know my motto: Always humane, as long as possible. Of course when it’s no longer possible—”

They both now stood near the window, smoking. They talked calmly and objectively like two honorable cattle dealers in a slaughterhouse. Outside, prisoners were working in the flower beds that surrounded the Commandant’s house. “I’m having a border of iris and narcissus planted,” said Neubauer. “Yellow and blue—a beautiful combination of colors.”

“Yes,” answered Weber without enthusiasm.

Neubauer laughed. “Doesn’t seem to interest you much, eh?”

“Not enormously. I like bowling.”

“That’s very pleasant, too.” Neubauer went on watching the workmen for a while. “By the way, what about the camp band? Those fellows have a damn lazy life.”

“They play at the marching in and out and twice a week in the afternoons.”

“In the afternoons the labor gangs don’t get anything out of it. Couldn’t you see to it that in the evenings after roll call they have another hour of music? That’s good for the men. Diverts them. Especially when we have to economize on the food.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Well, it seems we have discussed everything and understand each other.”

Neubauer walked back to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out a small case.

“Here’s a surprise for you, Weber. Arrived today. Thought it might give you pleasure.”

Weber opened the case. It contained a War Service Cross. To his astonishment Neubauer noticed that Weber was blushing. This was the last thing he had expected. “Here’s the confirmation,” he explained. “You should have had it long ago. After all, in a sense we are at the front here, too. Not another word.” He offered Weber his hand. “Hard times. We must see things through.”

Weber left. Neubauer shook his head. The little trick with the
medal had worked better than he had anticipated. Somewhere everyone had his weak spot. For a while he stood pondering before the great colored map of Europe which hung on the wall opposite the picture of Hitler. The little flags on it were no longer up-to-date. They were still placed far inside Russia. Neubauer had left them there out of a kind of superstition that perhaps one day they might become valid again. He sighed, walked back to the desk, raised the glass vase of violets and sniffed the sweet scent. A vague thought passed through him. That’s what we are, the best of us, he thought, almost moved. Room for everything in our soul. Iron discipline at the moment of historical necessity and at the same time deepest sentiment. The Führer with his love of children. Goering the friend of animals. He sniffed the flowers once more. A hundred and thirty thousand marks lost and yet already on top again. Can’t be gotten down! Already an eye for the beautiful again! The idea of the camp band had been a good one. Selma and Freya were coming up this evening. It would make an excellent impression on them.

He sat down at his typewriter and his two fat fingers tapped out the order for the band. This was for his private files. In addition there was the regulation to exempt weak prisoners from work. It was meant differently, but this was how he intended to interpret it. What Weber did was his business. He’d be sure to do something about it; the War Service Cross had arrived just in time. The private files contained quite a number of proofs of Neubauer’s leniency and solicitude—among them, of course, the usual incriminating material against senior officers and Party members. Those under fire could never take too much care to provide sufficient protection.

Satisfied, Neubauer closed the blue portfolio and grabbed the telephone. His lawyer had given him an excellent tip: to buy bombed lots. They were cheap. Unbombed ones, too. This way one could make up for one’s own losses. Lots retained their value, even
if they were bombed a hundred times. One had to take advantage of the current panic.

The clearing gang was returning from the copper foundry. They had been working hard for twelve hours. A part of the great hall had collapsed and various sections were badly damaged. There had been few picks and shovels at their disposal and most prisoners had been compelled to work with their bare hands. Their hands were torn and bleeding. All were dead-tired and hungry. At noon they had been given a thin soup with unknown weeds swimming in it. This the management of the copper foundry had generously provided. Its only advantage had been that it was warm. In return the engineers and overseers of the foundry had driven them like slaves. They were civilians; but some of them hadn’t been much better than the SS.

Lewinsky marched in the center of the column. Beside him walked Willy Werner. At the formation of the gang both had managed to get into the same group. Single numbers had not been called up; just collective groups of four hundred men. The clearing up was a hard job. Few people had volunteered, and so it had been easy for Lewinsky and Werner to get into it. They knew why they wanted to go. They had done it several times before.

The four hundred men marched slowly. Sixteen of them had collapsed at work. Of these, twelve could still walk if supported; the other four were carried—two on a rough stretcher, the others by the arms and feet.

The road to the camp was long; the prisoners were led around the town. The SS avoided letting them march through the streets. They didn’t wish the men to be seen; nor did they want the prisoners to see too much of the destruction.

They approached a small birch grove. The barks shimmered silken in the failing light. The SS guards and the kapos distributed
themselves along the column. The SS held their rifles at the ready. The prisoners stumbled forward. Birds chirped in the branches. A breath of green lay over the twigs. Snowdrops and primroses flowered in the ditches. Water gurgled. No one noticed it. Everyone was too tired. Then came fields and freshly ploughed land and the guards gathered together again.

Lewinsky walked close beside Werner. He was excited. “Where did you put it?” he asked, without moving his lips.

Werner made a slight movement and pressed his arm against his ribs.

“Who found it?”

“Muenzer. In the same place.”

“The same make?”

Werner nodded.

“Have we all the parts now?”

“Yes. Muenzer can fit them together in the camp.”

“I found a handful of bullets. Couldn’t see if they fit. Had to hide them quick. Hope they’ll fit.”

“We’ll be able to use them all right.”

“Did anyone else get anything?”

“Muenzer has some revolver parts.”

“Were they in the same place as yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Someone must have put them there.”

“Of course. Someone from outside.”

“One of the workers.”

“Yes. That’s now the third time there’s been something. No accident.”

“Could it have been one of our people clearing up in the munition works?”

“No. They didn’t come over. We’d know it, too. Must be someone from outside.”

The camp’s underground movement had been trying to get arms for a long time. They were expecting a final battle with the SS and wanted at least not to be completely defenseless. It had been almost impossible to establish connections; but since the bombing started the clearing gang had suddenly found weapons and parts of weapons in certain places. They were hidden under rubble and must have been placed there by workers so as to be found in the confusion of devastation. It was because of these discoveries that the clearing gang suddenly had more volunteers than usual. They were all reliable people.

The prisoners passed a meadow fenced in by barbed wire. Two brown-and-white cows came up to the wires and sniffed. One of them mooed. Their peaceful eyes gleamed. Almost none of the prisoners looked at them; it would only have made them hungrier than they were already.

“D’you think they’ll search us today before we break ranks?”

“Why? They didn’t yesterday. Our gang wasn’t anywhere near the munitions factory. Those who’ve been clearing up outside are not usually searched.”

“One never knows. If we have to throw these things away—”

Werner glanced up at the sky. It radiated pink and gold and blue. “It’ll be getting dark by the time we arrive. We’ll have to wait and see what happens. Have you got your bullets well wrapped?”

“Yes. In a rag.”

“Okay. If anything happens, pass them behind you to Goldstein. He’ll pass them on to Muenzer. He to Remne. One of them will throw them away. If we’re out of luck and the SS is on all sides, let them drop in the center of the group if necessary. Don’t throw them to the side. Then they can’t pick on any particular person. I hope the tree-felling gang arrives at the same time as us. Muller and Ludwig there are in the know. At the marching-in, their group
will pretend to get an order wrong when we’re being searched and will move over to us and pick the things up.”

After making a curve the road approached the town again in a long straight line. Allotment gardens with wooden summerhouses skirted the road. People in their shirt sleeves were working in them. Only a few looked up. The prisoners were familiar to them. The smell of freshly dug earth wafted over from the gardens. A rooster began to crow. Signs for motorists stood on the side of the road: CAUTION—CURVE. T
WENTY-SEVEN KILOMETERS TO HOLZFELDE
.

“What’s that over there?” Werner asked suddenly. “Is it the tree-felling gang already?”

Way in front of them on the road they saw a dark mass of people. It was so far away they couldn’t recognize what it was. “Probably,” said Lewinsky. “They’re ahead of us. Maybe we’ll catch up with them yet.”

He turned round. Behind him staggered Goldstein. He had put his arms around the shoulders of two men and dragged himself along. “Come,” said Lewinsky to those holding him up. “We’ll relieve you. Later, outside the camp, you can take him again.”

He took Goldstein from one side and Werner supported him from the other. “My damned heart,” gasped Goldstein. “Forty years old, and the heart gone. Too idiotic!”

“Why did you come along?” asked Lewinsky. “You could have been transferred to the shoe department.”

A grin spread wearily over Goldstein’s gray face. “Wanted to see for once what it’s like outside the camp. Fresh air. Was a mistake.”

“You’ll get over it,” said Werner. “Just let yourself hang on our shoulders. We can easily carry you.”

The sky lost its last brilliance and turned paler. Blue shadows tumbled down from the hill. “Listen,” whispered Goldstein. “Shove what you have on you among my things. If they do search,
they’ll search you and maybe the stretchers, too. But they won’t check up on us slackers. We simply caved in. And so they’ll let us pass.”