Spark of Life (39 page)

509 listened. He knew the voice. Cautiously he cowered down behind the pile of dead and listened.

He knew that tonight Lewinsky was bringing someone from the labor camp who had to hide for several days; Lewinsky, however,
faithful to the old rule that only contact men should know one another, had not divulged who it was.

The man talked in a low voice but very clearly. “We need every man who is on our side,” he said. “When National Socialism collapses there will be no organized party to take over the political direction. During these last twelve years they’ve all been split up or destroyed. What remains of them has gone underground. We don’t know to what extent they still exist. It will require determined people to build up a new organization. Throughout the chaos of defeat only one single party will remain intact: National Socialism. I don’t mean the camp followers, they join any party—I mean the nucleus. That will go underground in one body and wait until it can emerge again. It’s this we’ve got to fight against; and for that we need people.”

It’s Werner, thought 509; it must be him; and yet I’m sure he’s dead. He couldn’t see anything; the night was moonless and turbid. “The majority of the masses outside is demoralized,” the voice continued. “Twelve years of terror, boycott, denunciation and fear have seen to that—and on top of it now comes the lost war. With the help of underground terror and sabotage they can still be held for years in fear of the Nazis. They’ve got to be won back again—the misguided and the intimidated. Strangely enough, opposition to the Nazis has been maintained better in the camps than anywhere outside. Here they have penned us up. Outside, the groups have been dispersed. Outside, it was difficult to maintain contact. Here it was simple. Outside, almost everyone had to pull through by himself; here, one gave the other strength. A result which the Nazis did not foresee.” The voice laughed; it was a short, mirthless laughter.

“Apart from those who have been killed,” said Berger. “And those who died.”

“Apart from those, of course. Still, there are some who have been spared. Each one of these is worth a hundred others.”

It must be Werner, thought 509; he could now see the shadowy ascetic head in the dark. He’s already analyzing again. He’s organizing. He’s making speeches; he has remained the fanatic and theoretician of his Party. “The camps must become the cells of reconstruction,” said the low clear voice. “In this connection three points are at the moment the most important. The first is: Passive, and in extreme cases, active resistance against the SS, so long as they are in the camp. The second: The prevention of panic and excesses while the camp is being taken over. We must show that we have discipline and are not motivated by excesses of revenge. Later on organized courts will—”

The man paused. 509 had got up and walked toward the group. It consisted of Lewinsky, Goldstein, Berger and the stranger.

“Werner—” said 509.

The man stared into the dark. “Who are you?”

He straightened himself and came nearer. “I thought you were dead,” said 509.

Werner looked close into his face. “Koller,” said 509.

“Koller! You’re alive! And I thought you were dead long ago!”

“I am, too. Officially.”

“He’s 509,” said Lewinsky.

“So you’re 509! That makes things simpler. I’m also officially dead.”

Both stared at one another through the darkness. It was not a new situation. Many a man in the camp had already found someone whom he had believed dead. But 509 and Werner had known one another from the days before the camp. They had been friends; then their political opinions had gradually driven them apart.

“Are you going to stay here now?” asked 509.

“Yes. For a few days.”

“The SS are combing through the last letters of the alphabet,” said Lewinsky. “They caught Vogel. He ran into the hands of someone who knew him—a damned junior squad leader.”

“I won’t be a burden to you,” declared Werner. “I’ll look after my own food.”

“Sure,” said 509, with barely perceptible irony. “I wouldn’t have expected anything else from you.”

“Tomorrow Muenzer will provide some bread. Lebenthal can go and get it from him. He’ll produce enough for more than myself. Something for your group, too.”

“I know,” answered 509. “I know, Werner, that you wouldn’t accept something for nothing. Are you going to stay in 22? We could also put you in 20.”

“I can stay in 22. You, too, surely. Now that Handke’s no longer around.”

None of the others was aware that something like a duel of words was going on between the two men. How childish we are, thought 509. An eternity ago we were political opponents—and still neither of us wants to be indebted to the other. I get an idiotic satisfaction from the fact that Werner is seeking shelter with us, and he is hinting at the possibility that but for his group I might have been finished off by Handke.

“I overheard what you were explaining just now,” he said. “It’s correct. What can we do?”

They were still sitting outside. Werner, Lewinsky and Goldstein were asleep in the barrack. Lebenthal was to wake them in two hours. They had arranged to change places then. The night had turned sultry. Berger nevertheless wore the warm Hussar tunic; 509 had insisted on it.

“Who’s the new one?” asked Bucher. “A big shot?”

“He was one, before the Nazis came. Not too big. Medium. A provincial big shot. Efficient. Communist. Fanatic, without a private life and without humor. Now he’s one of the underground leaders in the camp.”

“Where d’you know him from?”

509 meditated. “Before 1933 I was the editor of a newspaper. We often had discussions. And I often attacked his Party. His Party and the Nazis. We were against both.”

“And what were you for?”

“For something which now seems rather pompous and ridiculous. For humaneness, tolerance and the right of the individual. Funny, what?”

“No.” Ahasver coughed. “What else is there?”

“This,” bleated Lebenthal.

They all fell silent for a while.

“Revenge,” said Meyerhof suddenly. “There is still revenge! Revenge for all this! Revenge for every single dead! Revenge for everything that’s been done! An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth!”

Everyone looked up in surprise. Meyerhof’s face was distorted. He had clenched his fists and each time he uttered the word revenge he banged them on the ground. “What’s wrong with you?” asked Sulzbacher.

“What’s wrong with you all?” retorted Meyerhof.

“He’s crazy,” said Lebenthal good-naturedly. “He recovered his health and that’s made him
meschugge
. Six years ago he was a timid little Bocher who didn’t dare to open his beak—then a miracle saved him from the chimney and now he’s Samson Meyerhof.”

“I don’t want any revenge,” whispered Rosen. “I only want to get out of here.”

“What? And let the entire SS get away without settling our accounts?”

“I don’t care! All I want is to get out.” Desperately Rosen pressed his hands together and whispered passionately as though everything depended on it, “I want nothing else but to get out! Out of here!”

Meyerhof stared at him. “D’you know what you are?”

“Be quiet, Meyerhof!” Berger had raised himself. “None of us here is what he was or would like to be. What we really still are, will show itself later. Who can know that now? Now we can only wait and hope and maybe pray.”

He pulled the Hussar tunic round his shoulders and lay back again.

“Revenge,” said Ahasver thoughtfully after a while. “There would have to be a great deal of revenge. And revenge would bring revenge again. Better to see to it that things like this can never happen again.”

The horizon flared up. “What was that?” asked Bucher.

A low rumbling answered. “That’s not a bombardment,” declared Sulzbacher. “One more thunderstorm. It’s warm enough for that.”

“If it starts raining we’ll wake those from the labor camp,” said Lebenthal. “Then they can lie out here. They’re stronger.” He turned to 509. “Your friend, the big shot, too.”

There was another flash of lightning. “Did any of those in there hear about a transport leaving here?” asked Sulzbacher.

“Only rumors. The last one was that a thousand men were about to be picked out.”

“Oh God!” Rosen’s face shimmered pale in the darkness. “They’re bound to take us. The weakest. To get rid of us.”

He glanced at 509. They all thought of the last transport they had seen.

“It’s a rumor,” said 509. “There are thousands of latrine rumors nowadays. Let’s be calm until an order comes. Then we’ll still have
time to see what Lewinsky, Werner and those in the office can do for us. Or what we here can do for ourselves.”

“Maybe we should let Lewinsky and Werner go on sleeping after all when it starts raining,” said Lebenthal.

Rosen shuddered. “Remember how they dragged them out by their legs from under the bunks that time—”

Lebenthal looked at him with contempt. “Have you never seen worse than that in your life?”

“Yes.”

“I was once in a great slaughter yard,” said Ahasver. “I was there for the kosher slaughtering. In Chicago. Sometimes the animals knew what was going to happen. They smelled the blood. Then they ran around like that—like those people at that time. Anywhere. Into corners. And they were pulled out by their legs in the same way—”

“You were in Chicago?” asked Lebenthal.

“Yes.”

“In America? And you came back?”

“It was twenty-five years ago.”

“You came back?” Lebenthal stared at Ahasver. “Has anyone ever heard anything like that?”

“I was homesick. For Poland.”

“You know—” Lebenthal broke off. It was too much for him.

IN THE MORNING
the weather turned into a gray milky day. The lightning had ceased but from beyond the forests there still came a muffled, distant rumbling.

“Queer kind of storm,” said Bucher. “Usually, when they pass off, you see sheets of lightning and don’t hear any thunder. This one’s the other way round.”

“Maybe it’s coming back,” answered Rosen.

“Why should it come back?”

“In the mountains thunderstorms sometimes wander around for days.”

“There are no mountain gorges here. There’s only the one range over there, and that’s not high.”

“Have you any other worries?” asked Lebenthal.

“Leo,” said Bucher calmly, “you better go and see that we get something to chew. Even if it’s old shoe leather.”

“Any other orders?” asked Lebenthal after a pause of astonishment.

“No.”

“All right. Then watch your tongue. And look after your own grub, you puppy! Has anyone ever heard such cheek!”

Lebenthal tried to spit, but his mouth was dry and his denture popped out with the effort. He caught it in the air and put it back. “That’s what one gets for risking one’s neck for you every day,” he said, irritated. “Reproaches and commands! Next thing, Karel will start giving me orders!”

509 came up. “What’s going on here?”

“Ask him.” Lebenthal pointed at Bucher. “He’s giving orders. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t trying to become a block senior.”

509 glanced at Bucher. He has changed, he thought. I didn’t realize it so much before. But he has changed. “What’s really going on?” he asked.

“Nothing. We were just talking about the storm.”

“Why should you care about the storm?”

“No reason. It’s just queer that it’s still thundering. And at the same time there’s no lightning, nor any clouds. Only that gray soup up there. But those are no storm clouds.”

“Problems! It thunders without lightning!
Gojim naches!
” Lebenthal squawked from his corner.
“Meschugge!”

509 looked up at the sky. It was gray and seemed to be cloudless. Then he listened. “It’s actually thun—” He broke off. His attitude changed. He suddenly listened with his whole body.

“Another one,” said Lebenthal. “
Meschugge
is trumps today.”

“Quiet!” whispered 509, sharp.

“So you, too—”

“Quiet, damn it! Be quiet, Leo!”

Lebenthal fell silent. He realized it was no longer a question of the thunderstorm. He watched 509, who was listening intently to the distant rumbling. Everyone now fell silent, straining his ears.

“Listen,” 509 said then slowly and very quietly as though he
feared something might fly away if he spoke louder. “That’s no thunderstorm. That’s—”

He listened again. “What?” Bucher stood close beside him. They looked at one another and kept listening.

The rumbling grew a little louder, then faded again. “That’s not thunder,” said 509. “That is—” He waited another moment, then glanced around as though afraid of something, and still in a very low voice he said, “That, I believe, is artillery fire.”

“What?”

“Artillery fire. That’s not thunder.”

They all stared at each other. “What’s going on here?” asked Goldstein from the door.

No one said a word. “Well, are you all frozen?”

Bucher turned toward him. “509 says it’s artillery we hear. The front can’t be very far away any more.”

“What?” Goldstein came closer. “Really? Or are you just daydreaming?”