Spark of Life (43 page)

At the word contagion Neubauer had taken a step back. “Have we enough clean underwear to supply these men? The old things ought to be burned, then, don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily. They can be disinfected. We have enough underwear in the clothing depot. We’ve received large shipments from Belsen.”

“Good,” said Neubauer, relieved. “Then get them some change of underwear, some clean outfits or anything else we have in the line of clothes. Distribute some chloride of lime and disinfectants. That’ll make a different impression right away. Make a note of it.” The first camp senior, a fat prisoner, officiously noted it down. “Make a point of extreme cleanliness!” dictated Neubauer.

“Extreme cleanliness,” repeated the camp senior.

Weber suppressed a grin. Neubauer turned toward the prisoners. “Have you got everything you need?”

Throughout twelve years the answer had been prescribed. “Yes, Herr
Obersturmbannführer
.”

“Fine. Carry on.”

Neubauer glanced around once more. The old barracks stood there like black coffins. He meditated and suddenly had an idea.
“Have something green planted here,” he declared. “This is just the time for it. A few shrubs along the north sides, and a bed of flowers along the south walls. That’ll cheer things up. We do have such things in the nursery garden, don’t we?”

“We do, Herr
Obersturmbannführer
.”

“Well then, start in right away. We can do the same thing with the barracks in the labor camp.” Neubauer was warming up to his idea. The gardener in him was breaking through. “What about a bed of violets—no, primroses are nicer, the yellow gives more color—”

Two men slipped slowly to the ground. No one moved to help them. “Primroses—have we enough primroses in the garden?”

“We have, Herr
Obersturmbannführer
.” The fat camp senior stood at attention. “There are plenty of primroses there. In full bloom.”

“Good. See that that’s done. And have the camp band play a bit nearer here now and again, so that these men can also hear it.”

Neubauer walked back. The others followed him. He felt somewhat calmer. The prisoners had no complaints. Years without any criticism had accustomed him to accept as facts what he himself wanted to believe. He consequently expected even now that the prisoners should see him as he wanted them to; as a man who was doing his best for them under difficult circumstances. That they were human beings he had forgotten long ago.

“
WHAT
?”
ASKED BERGER
, incredulous. “No supper at all?”

“Nothing.”

“No soup?”

“No soup and no bread. Weber’s express orders.”

“And the others? The labor camp?”

“Nothing. No food for the whole camp.”

Berger turned around. “What d’you make of this? We’re given underwear but no food.”

“We’ve also got some primroses.” 509 pointed at two wretched patches on either side of the door. In them stood a few half-wilted plants. They had been planted there at noon by prisoners from the nursery garden.

“Maybe we can eat them?”

“Don’t try it. If they’re missing we won’t get any food for a whole week.”

“What is this all about?” said Berger. “After that fuss Neubauer made, you’d think we might even get an odd potato in our soup!”

Lebenthal came over. “It’s Weber. Not Neubauer. Weber’s furious with Neubauer. Thinks he’s trying to protect himself. Probably
is, too. That’s why Weber is working against him wherever he can. I got that from the office. Lewinsky and Werner and the others over there say the same. We’re the ones who’re getting it in the neck.”

“This’ll mean a lot of dead.”

They stared at the red sky. “Weber said in the office we’d better not get swollen heads; he’d see to it we’d be kept short.” Lebenthal fished the denture out of his mouth, looked at it casually and put it back again.

Feeble screams could be heard from the barracks. The news had spread. Mussulmen staggered out of the door and examined the food pots to see if they smelled of food and if the others had cheated them. The pots were bare and dry. The screams grew louder. Some men just let themselves drop to the ground and hammered at the foul earth with their bony fists. But most of them crept away or lay around motionless with open mouths and staring eyes. From the doors came the feeble voices of those no longer able to get up. It was no articulate screaming; it was just a weak chorale of despair, a singsong which no longer even had words and supplications and curses to express despair. It was already beyond that; it was the very last remnant of drowning life—a humming and squeaking and whistling and scraping, as though the barracks were enormous boxes filled with dying insects.

At seven o’clock the band began to play. Although it stood outside the Small camp it was close enough to be heard clearly within it. Neubauer’s instructions had been promptly obeyed. As usual, the first tune was the Commandant’s favorite waltz, “Roses from the South.”

“If we’ve nothing else,” said 509, “let’s feed on hope. Let’s devour all the hope that exists. Let’s eat up the rumbling of the guns! We’ve got to pull through. We will pull through!”

The small group crouched together close to the barrack. It was a cool, misty night. They did not feel the cold too much. During these last hours twenty-eight men had died in the barrack; the Veterans had stripped them of those clothes they could use and put them on to ward off cold and sickness. They didn’t want to stay inside. In the barrack death panted, moaned and smacked its lips. They had been without bread for three days, today even without soup. On every bunk life struggled, surrendered and faded out. They didn’t want to sleep so near to death. Death was contagious and they feared that in sleep they would be defenseless against it. So they sat outside, covered with the clothes of the dead, and stared at the horizon.

“It’s only tonight,” said 509. “Only this one night! Do believe me. Neubauer will hear about it and cancel the order tomorrow. They’re already at loggerheads. It’s the beginning of the end. We’ve held out so long. Just this one more night!”

No one answered. They crouched close to one another like a group of animals in winter; it was not only warmth they gave one another; it was the multiplied courage to live. That was more important than warmth. “Let’s talk about something,” said Berger. “But about something that has nothing to do with any of this.” He turned toward Sulzbacher, who squatted beside him. “What are you going to do when you get out of here?”

“I?” Sulzbacher hesitated. “Let’s not mention it until we’ve got that far. It’s unlucky.”

“It’s no longer unlucky,” answered 509 passionately. “We’ve avoided mentioning it all these years because it would have devoured us. But now we’ve got to talk about it. Especially tonight! When else? Let’s feed on our hope. What are you going to do when you get out, Sulzbacher?”

“I don’t know where my wife is. She was in Düsseldorf. Düsseldorf is destroyed.”

“If she’s in Düsseldorf she’s safe. Düsseldorf’s occupied by the British. The radio said so some time ago.”

“Or she’s dead,” said Sulzbacher.

“One always has to consider that. After all, what do we know about the people outside?”

“Or they about us,” said Bucher.

509 glanced at him. He still hadn’t told him his father was dead, nor how he had died. There would be time enough when they were out; it would be easier for him to take it then. Bucher was young and the only one who had someone to leave with. He would hear about it soon enough.

“What on earth will it be like when we get out?” said Meyerhof. “I’ve been in the camp six years.”

“I twelve,” said Berger.

“As long as that? Were you political?”

“No. From ’28 to ’32 I had a Nazi as patient. He later became a group leader. Actually, he wasn’t my patient; he used to come to my office and was treated there by a friend of mine, who was a specialist. The Nazi came to my office only because we lived in the same house. It was more convenient for him.”

“And that’s why he had you locked up?”

“Yes. He had syphilis.”

“And the specialist?”

“He had him shot. I myself could pretend I didn’t know what was wrong with him and make out I thought he was just suffering from some inflammation. Even so, he was cautious enough to have me locked up.”

“What’ll you do if he’s still alive when you get out?”

Berger pondered. “I don’t know.”

“I’d bump him off,” declared Meyerhof.

“Just to be thrown back into prison again, what?” said Lebenthal. “For manslaughter. Another ten or twenty years.”

“What are you going to do, Leo, when you get out?” asked 509.

“I’m going to open a store for overcoats. Good semiready-mades.”

“In summer? Overcoats? It’ll soon be summer, Leo!”

“There are summer overcoats. I could have suits, too. And raincoats, of course.”

“Leo,” said 509. “Why don’t you stay in the food business? There’ll be more need for that than for overcoats, and here you were a wizard at it.”

“Do you think so?” Lebenthal was clearly flattered.

“Absolutely!”

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll think it over. American food, for instance. That’s going to be a big business. Do you remember the American bacon after the last war? It was thick, white, and as tender as marzipan, with pink—”

“Shut up, Leo! Are you crazy?”

“No. It suddenly crossed my mind. I wonder if they’ll send some this time, too? At least for us?”

“Be quiet, Leo!”

“What are you going to do, Berger?” asked Rosen.

Berger wiped his inflamed eyes. “I’m going to get myself apprenticed to a pharmacist. Try something like that. Be a surgeon again—with these hands? After that length of time?” He clenched his hands under the jacket he had flung over himself. “Impossible. I’ll become a pharmacist. And you?”

“My wife divorced me because I’m a Jew. I don’t know anything about her.”

“You’re not going to look for her?” asked Meyerhof.

Rosen hesitated. “Maybe she did it under pressure. What else could she have done? I advised her to, myself.”

“Maybe she’s turned so ugly in the meantime,” said Lebenthal, “that it will no longer be a problem for you. Maybe you will be glad to be rid of her.”

“We haven’t gotten any younger ourselves.”

“No. Nine years.” Sulzbacher coughed. “How will it be, seeing someone again after such a time?”

“You can consider yourself lucky if there is anyone to see again.”

“After such a long time,” repeated Sulzbacher. “Won’t we all be strangers?”

Among the shuffling of the Mussulmen they heard a firmer step. “Look out!” whispered Berger. “Take care, 509.”

“It’s Lewinsky,” said Bucher. He could recognize people by their step.

Lewinsky approached. “How are you making out? Bad day. No grub anywhere. We have a contact man in the kitchen. He managed to swipe some bread and carrots. The cooked food was only for the big shots. Couldn’t get any of that. Here’s some bread. And a few raw carrots. It’s not much, but we didn’t get anything today, either.”

“Berger,” said 509, “divide it up.”

There was half a slice of bread and one carrot for each. “Eat it slow. Chew it till every crumb’s gone.” Berger handed out the carrots first; then, several minutes later, the bread.

“Feeding on the sly like this makes one feel somehow like a criminal,” said Rosen.

“Then don’t do it, you idiot!” answered Lewinsky laconically.

Lewinsky was right. Rosen knew it. He was about to explain that the thought had not occurred to him till just now, during this strange night when they had discussed their future in order to stave off hunger, and that it was connected with the future; but he abandoned the idea. It was too complicated. And too unimportant.

“They’re wavering,” said Lewinsky hoarsely under his breath. “Green ones are wavering, too. Want to play along. We let them.
Kapos, block seniors, room seniors. Later on we’ll sort them out. Two SS-men as well. Even Hoffmann.”

“The lazaret physician! That swine!” said Bucher.

“We know what he is. But we can use him. We’re getting news through him. Tonight an order for a transport came through.”

“What?” asked Berger and 509 simultaneously.

“Transport. Two thousand men are to be rounded up.”

“They’re going to evacuate the camp?”

“They want two thousand men. For the time being.”

“The transport. That’s what we feared,” said Berger.

“Take it easy. The red-haired clerk is keeping watch. If they’re making a list, you won’t be on it. Our men are everywhere now. Besides, there’s a rumor that Neubauer is hesitating. He still hasn’t passed on the order.”

“They won’t go by a list,” said Rosen. “If they can’t get them otherwise, they’ll catch them wholesale as they did in our camp. The lists they’ll make later.”

“Don’t get excited. It hasn’t got that far yet. The whole thing can change any minute.”

“Don’t get excited, says he!” muttered Rosen.

“If the worst happens, we’ll smuggle you into the lazaret. Hoffmann is now keeping both eyes closed. We’ve already a number of suspected men in there.”