Spark of Life (27 page)

“That was the thrush, Josef—”

“No, Ruth,” Bucher said quickly. “That was another bird. That wasn’t a thrush. And if it were, it wasn’t the one that sang—surely not, Ruth—not ours—”

“You thought I forgot all about you, what?” asked Handke.

“No.”

“It was too late yesterday. But we have time. Time enough to report you. Tomorrow, for instance—the whole day.”

He stood in front of 509. “You millionaire! You Swiss millionaire! They’ll beat the money out of your kidneys, franc by franc.”

“No one need beat the money out of me,” said 509. “It can be had in a simpler way. I’ll sign a paper and it’s no longer mine.” He looked steadily at Handke. “Two thousand five hundred francs. A lot of money.”

“Five thousand,” answered Handke. “For the Gestapo. D’you imagine they’ll share it?”

“No. Five thousand for the Gestapo,” 509 confirmed.

“And the whipping block and the cross and the bunker and Breuer with his special treatment and then the gallows.”

“That’s not yet certain.”

Handke laughed. “What else? Maybe a letter of acknowledgment? For being in possession of illegal money?”

“Not that, either.” 509 still looked at Handke. He was surprised not to feel any more fear although he knew he was in Handke’s hands. But stronger than anything he suddenly felt something else: hatred. Not the dim blind petty hatred of the camp, the trivial puny hatred bred by the despair of a starved creature because of some advantage or disadvantage—no, he felt a cold clear intelligent hatred, and he felt it so intensely that he lowered his eyes, for he thought Handke would recognize it.

“What else then, you sly ape?”

509 smelt Handke’s breath. This was new, too; in the past the stench of the Small camp had not permitted any individual smell. 509 was also aware that he didn’t smell Handke because his smell was stronger than the stench of decay all round him—but because he hated Handke.

“Have you gone dumb with fear?” Handke kicked 509 in the shin.

509 didn’t budge. “I don’t think I’ll be tortured,” he said calmly and looked again at Handke. “It wouldn’t be very practical. I could die away under the hands of the SS. I’m very weak and can hardly stand anything any more. This, at the moment, is an advantage. The Gestapo will prefer to wait with all that till they’ve laid hands on the money. Until then they’ll need me. I’m the only one who has the power to dispose of it. In Switzerland the Gestapo has no power. Until they’ve got the money, I’m safe. And that will take a little time. Before then lots of things can happen.”

Handke pondered. In the half-dark 509 watched his thoughts at
work in his flat face. He saw the face clearly. He felt as though behind his eyes searchlights had been fixed, lighting it up. The face itself remained the same; but each detail of it seemed to be magnified.

“So? You’ve thought all this out for yourself, what?” the block senior finally uttered.

“I haven’t thought anything out. It just is like that.”

“And what about Weber? He also wanted to talk to you. He won’t wait.”

“Oh yes,” answered 509 calmly. “Herr Storm Leader Weber will have to wait. The Gestapo will see to that. It’s more important for them to get Swiss francs.”

Handke’s protruding pale-blue eyes seemed to rotate. His mouth chewed. “You’ve become very sly,” he said finally. “At one time you could hardly shit! Just recently all you people here have become as sprightly as rams, you stinkers! That’ll all be spoiled for you! Just you wait! You’ll all be chased through the chimney yet!” He tapped 509 on the chest. “Where are the twenty marks?” he hissed then. “Out with them! Make it snappy!”

509 pulled the bill out of his pocket. For a second he had felt the desire not to do it, but he realized immediately that it would have been suicide. Handke tore the money out of his hand. “For this, you can go on shitting for another day!” he declared, and blew out his chest. “I’ll let you live one day longer for this, you worm! One day, until tomorrow.”

“One day,” said 509.

Lewinsky meditated. “I don’t believe he’ll do it,” he said then. “After all, what’s he going to get out of it?”

509 shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. He’s always unpredictable when he’s had something to drink. Or when he’s stir-crazy.”

“He must be gotten out of the way.” Lewinsky reflected again. “At the moment we can’t do much against him. There’s danger in the air. The SS is combing the lists for names. We let whomever we can disappear into the lazaret. Soon we’ll have to smuggle a few people over here, too. That’s still possible, or not?”

“Yes. If you provide the food for them.”

“That goes without saying. But there’s something else. We’ve got to be prepared for raids and check-ups now in our place. Could you hide a few things so they’re certain not to be found?”

“How big?”

“As big as—” Lewinsky looked round. They were crouching in the dark behind the barrack. Nothing could be seen but the stumbling line of Mussulmen on their way to the latrine. “As big as a revolver, for instance—”

509 took a quick breath. “A revolver?”

“Yes.”

509 remained silent for a moment. “There’s a hole in the ground under my bunk,” he then said, fast and under his breath. “The boards next to it are loose. More than one revolver could be hidden in there. Easily. They don’t check up here. It’s quite safe.”

He didn’t realize he was talking like someone trying to persuade another, instead of someone who is being persuaded to take a risk. “Have you got it on you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Give it to me.”

Lewinsky glanced round again. “You know what that means?”

“Yes, yes,” answered 509 impatiently.

“It was difficult to get it. We had to risk a great deal.”

“Yes, Lewinsky. I’ll take care of it all right. Just give it to me.”

Lewinsky delved into his jacket and pushed the weapon into 509’s hand. 509 fingered it. It was heavier than he had expected. “What’s it wrapped in?” he asked.

“A greasy rag. Is the hole under your bunk dry?”

“Yes,” said 509. It wasn’t true; but he didn’t want to hand back the weapon. “Is there any ammunition with it?” he asked.

“Yes. Not much; a few bullets. It’s loaded, too.”

509 stuck the revolver inside his shirt and buttoned the jacket over it. He felt it next to his heart and was aware of a sudden shudder passing over his skin.

“I’m going now,” said Lewinsky. “Take great care of it. Hide it immediately.” He talked of the weapon as though of an important person. “Next time I come I’ll bring someone with me. Have you really got room?”

He looked around the roll-call ground on which in the dark lay darker figures. “We have room,” answered 509. “For your men we’ll always have room.”

“Fine. When Handke returns give him some more money. Have you got some?”

“I still have some left. For one day.”

“I’ll see that we collect some. I’ll give it to Lebenthal. Is that all right?”

“Yes.”

Lewinsky disappeared in the shadow of the next barrack. From there on he stumbled, bent over like a Mussulman, toward the latrine. 509 remained sitting for a while. He leaned his back hard against the barrack wall. With his right hand he pressed the revolver against his body. He resisted the temptation to take it out, unwrap the rag and touch the metal; he just held it tight. He felt the lines of the barrel and the butt and he felt them as though a dark, heavy power emanated from them. It was the first time in many years that he held something pressed against his body with which he could defend himself. He was suddenly no longer completely helpless. He
was no longer completely at their mercy. He knew it was an illusion and that he mustn’t use the weapon; but it was sufficient that he had it on him. It was sufficient to change something in him. The small tool of death was like a dynamo of life. From it resistance poured into him. He thought of Handke. He thought of the hatred he had felt for him. Handke had received the money; but he had been weaker than 509. He thought of Rosen; he had been able to save him. Then he thought of Weber. He thought of him a long time and of the first period in the camp. He hadn’t done it for years. He had banished all memories from within him; also those of the time prior to the camp. Even his name he had no longer wanted to hear. He had ceased to be a human being and had no longer wanted to be one; it would have broken him. He had become a number and had called himself and let himself be called by a number. Silently he sat in the night and breathed and held the weapon tight, and the memories came, and it seemed as though he were simultaneously eating and drinking something he couldn’t see and which was like a strong medicine.

He heard the guards being relieved. Carefully he got up. He reeled for several seconds as though he had been drinking wine. Then he walked slowly round the barrack.

Someone was crouching beside the door. “509,” he whispered. It was Rosen.

509 started, as though waking from a deep, endless dream. He looked down. “My name is Koller,” he said absent-mindedly. “Friedrich Koller.”

“Yes,” answered Rosen, uncomprehendingly.

“
I WANT A PRIEST
,” wailed Ammers.

He had been wailing it all afternoon. They had tried to argue him out of it, but it hadn’t been of any use. It had suddenly come over him.

“What kind of a priest?” asked Lebenthal. “A Catholic. Why do you ask, you Jew?”

“Look, look!” Lebenthal shook his head. “An anti-Semite! That’s just what we needed here!”

“There are enough of them in the camp,” said 509.

“It’s you who are to blame!” inveighed Ammers. “For everything! Without you Jews we wouldn’t be here!”

“What? How d’you figure that one?”

“Because then there wouldn’t be any camps. I want a priest.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Ammers,” said Bucher angrily.

“I don’t need to be ashamed. I’m sick! Get a priest.”

509 looked at the blue lips and the sunken eyes. “There are no priests in the camp, Ammers.”

“They must have one. It’s my right. I’m dying.”

“I don’t believe you’ll ever die,” declared Lebenthal, annoyed. “You’ve been promising us that for weeks.”

“I’m dying because you damned Jews have wolfed up my share. And now you don’t even want to get me a priest. I want to confess. What do you know about such things? Why must I be in a Jew barrack? I’ve a right to be in an Aryan one.”

“Not here. Only in the labor camp. Here all are equal.”

Ammers wheezed and turned his head away. On the wooden wall above his matted hair was an inscription in blue pencil: E
UGEN
M
AYER 1941 TYPHUS
. A
VENGE
—

“How are things with him?” 509 asked Berger.

“He ought to be dead long ago, but today I believe is really his last day.”

“It looks like it. He’s already getting everything mixed up.”

“He’s not getting anything mixed up,” declared Lebenthal. “He know what he’s saying.”

“I hope not,” said Bucher.

509 looked at him. “He was different once, Josef,” he said calmly. “But he has been smashed to pieces. There’s nothing left of what he was before. This is another man who has grown together from the bits and pieces. And even the pieces were not sound. I’ve seen it.”

“A priest,” wailed Ammers again. “I must confess! I don’t want to go into everlasting damnation.”

509 sat down on the edge of the bunk. Beside Ammers lay a man from the new transport who had high fever and breathed flat and fast.

“You can do that without a priest, Ammers,” said 509. “After all, what have you done? Here there are no sins. Not for us. We’re atoning for everything here all the time. Repent for what you have
to repent. If no confession is possible, that’s good enough. That’s what the catechism says.”

For a moment Ammers ceased wheezing. “Are you a Catholic too?” he asked.

“Yes,” said 509. It was not true.

“Then you know what it is! I must have a priest! I must confess and be given Holy Communion! I don’t want to burn in eternity.” Ammers was trembling. His eyes were torn wide-open. His face was no bigger than two fists and his eyes were far too large for it; as a result there was something of a bat about him. “If you’re a Catholic, then you know how it is. Like the crematorium; but one is never entirely burned and never dies. D’you want this to happen to me?”

509 glanced at the door. It was open. In it, like a picture, stood the serene evening sky. Then he looked back at the emaciated head in which burned the picture of Hell. “For us here it’s different, Ammers,” he said finally. “We have a favored position over there. We’ve already had one slice of Hell down here.”

Ammers moved his head restlessly. “Don’t blaspheme,” he whispered. Then he raised himself with difficulty, stared about him, and suddenly broke out: “You! All of you! You’re healthy! And I’ve got to croak! Just now! Yes, laugh! Laugh! I’ve heard everything you’ve been saying! You want to get out! You will get out! And I? I! Into the crematorium! Into the fire! The eyes into the fire! And forever! Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo—”

He howled like a moon-struck dog. His body was stretched taut and he howled. His mouth was a black hole out of which came a hoarse howl.