Spark of Life (46 page)

Suddenly he had an idea. Food; good, plentiful food! That was it. That’s what they would look for first. He must immediately give orders for the rations to be increased. In this way he could show that the moment he was not under orders he had done everything in his power for the prisoners. He would even talk it over personally with the two camp seniors. They were prisoners themselves. Later on they would testify on his behalf.

Steinbrenner stood in front of Weber. His face glistened with eagerness. “Shot two prisoners trying to escape!” he reported. “Both in the head.”

Weber rose slowly and perched himself lazily on the corner of his table. “At what range?”

“One at thirty, the other at forty yards.”

“Really?”

Steinbrenner turned red. He had shot both prisoners from a distance of a few feet—just far enough for the wounds not to show any traces of gunpowder.

“And it was an attempt to escape?” asked Weber.

“Attempt to escape.”

Both knew it had been nothing of the kind. It was just the name of a game popular among the SS. They snatched a prisoner’s cap, flung it to the rear, then ordered him to pick it up. While passing the SS-man, the prisoner was shot from behind. As a reward, the marksman usually received a few days’ furlough.

“Do you want to go on furlough?” asked Weber.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“That would look as though I wanted to sneak away.”

Weber raised his eyebrows and began slowly swinging the leg on which he sat on the table. The reflection of the sun on the swinging boot strayed over the bare walls like a bright and lonely butterfly.

“So you’re not afraid?”

“No.” Steinbrenner looked steadfastly at Weber.

“Fine. We need good men. Especially now.”

Weber had been keeping an eye on Steinbrenner for some time. He liked him. He was very young and still possessed some of that
fanaticism for which the SS had once been famous. “Especially now,” repeated Weber. “Now we need an SS of the SS. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes. At least I think so.” Steinbrenner blushed again. Weber was his model. He felt for him a blind admiration, like that of a boy for an Indian chieftain. He had heard of Weber’s courage at the indoor brawls before 1933; he knew that in 1929 he had participated in the murder of five Communist workmen, and as a result had spent four months in prison; the workmen had been dragged out of their beds at night and trampled to death under the eyes of their relatives. He also knew the stories of Weber’s brutal interrogations at Gestapo headquarters and of his ruthlessness with enemies of the State. His one desire was to become like his ideal. He had been brought up on the Party doctrine. He had been seven years old when National Socialism came to power and was a perfect product of its education.

“Far too many have been taken into the SS without careful investigation,” said Weber. “Now begins the test. Now we will see what class means. The lovely lazy times are over. You know that?”

“Yes.” Steinbrenner drew himself up.

“We have a dozen good men here already. Examined under a magnifying glass.” Weber gave Steinbrenner a scrutinizing look. “Come back here this evening at eight-thirty. Then we’ll discuss things further.”

Steinbrenner faced about and marched off, delighted. Weber stood up and walked round the table. One more, he thought. Already enough to put a proper spoke in the Old Man’s wheel at the last moment. He grinned. He had noticed long ago that it was Neubauer’s intention to represent himself as a whitewashed angel and to throw all the blame on him. To the latter he was indifferent; he had enough on his conscience—but he didn’t care for whitewashed angels.

The afternoon dragged on. The SS had practically given up coming to the camp. Though they were unaware that the prisoners possessed weapons, this would not have been the reason why they were cautious; even with a hundred times as many revolvers the prisoners would have stood no chance in an open battle against the machine guns. It was simply the mass of prisoners from which the SS suddenly shrunk back.

At three o’clock the names of twenty prisoners were announced over the loudspeaker—they were to assemble in ten minutes at the gate. It could mean anything—interrogation, or death. The secret camp management arranged for all twenty to disappear from their barracks; seven in the Small camp. The command was repeated. All the summoned prisoners were political. No one obeyed the command. It was the first time that the camp openly refused to obey. Shortly afterwards all prisoners were ordered to the roll-call ground. The secret camp management passed around word for everyone to remain in the barracks. On the roll-call ground it would be easy to mow down the prisoners. Weber wanted to put the machine guns into action but didn’t yet dare to proceed so openly against Neubauer. The camp organization knew by way of the office that the order had not been issued by Neubauer but by Weber alone. Through the loudspeaker Weber had announced that the camp would receive no food before all the prisoners had taken up their positions on the roll-call ground and the twenty political prisoners had been handed over.

At four o’clock an order from Neubauer came through. The camp seniors were to come and see him at once. They obeyed the command. The whole camp awaited their return in a state of somber tension.

They returned after half an hour. Neubauer had shown them the
order for the transport. This was the second one. Within the hour two thousand men were to be rounded up and leave the camp. Neubauer had declared himself ready to postpone the transport until the next morning. The secret camp organization met at once in the lazaret. They first of all succeeded in persuading the SS physician Hoffmann, who had joined their ranks, to use his influence with Neubauer in order to postpone summoning the twenty political prisoners until the next day and to cancel the roll call. After that the order not to issue any food would be untenable. Hoffmann left at once. The secret management decided that under no condition would they furnish any people for the transport on the following morning. If the SS should attempt to round up the two thousand men, they would sabotage the order. The prisoners were told to try to escape from the roll-call ground into the barracks, or onto the camp roads. The camp police, manned by prisoners, promised to be of assistance. It could be assumed that the SS, with the exception of a dozen men, would show no great desire to excel themselves in zeal. This report had come by way of SS Squad Leader Bieder who was considered reliable. The last item was a decision of two hundred Czech prisoners. They declared themselves willing, in the event of the transport being formed after all, to be the first batch—in order to save two hundred others who would not have survived it.

Werner squatted in a hospital smock near the spotted-fever ward. “One day is enough,” he murmured. “Every hour works for us. Is Hoffmann still with Neubauer?”

“Yes.”

“If he doesn’t accomplish anything, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

“By force?” asked Lewinsky.

“No. Not by force. Partly by force. But not until tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll be twice as strong as today.” Werner glanced out
of the window and then picked up his schedule. “Once more. We’ll have enough bread for four days if we deal out one ration a day. Flour, barley, noodles are—”

“All right, then, Herr Doctor. I’ll take the responsibility. See you tomorrow.” Neubauer glanced towards the retreating doctor and let out a slow whistle. You too, he thought. All right with me. The more the better. Can whitewash one another. He put the transport order carefully into his private brief case. Then, on his small portable typewriter, he tapped out his instructions to postpone the transport and added this to the other. He opened the safe, dropped the brief case inside and locked it. The order had been a stroke of good luck. He took out the brief case once more, and opened the typewriter. Then he slowly typed out a new memorandum—the cancellation of Weber’s instructions not to issue any food. To this he added his own order for an ample evening meal in the camp. Small things—but all of value.

An atmosphere of gloom pervaded the SS quarters. The Senior Squad Leader Kammler wondered dejectedly whether he would be entitled to a pension and whether the pension would be paid; he was a rejected student who had learned no profession. The SS-man and former butcher’s assistant Florstedt brooded as to whether all the men who had passed through his hands between the years 1933 and 1935 were dead. He hoped so. Of about twenty he was sure. He had finished them off himself with whips, table legs and
sjamboks
. But of some ten others he was not so sure. Squad Leader Bolte, the former commercial clerk, would have liked to have inquired of an expert whether or not the embezzlements of his civilian career had become outlawed. Niemann, the specialist in fatal injections,
had a homosexual friend in town who had promised to procure him false papers; but he didn’t trust him and decided to keep a last dose ready for the friend. The SS-man Duda wanted to fight his way to Spain and the Argentine; he believed that at such times there was always need for people who shrank from nothing. Meanwhile in the bunker, Breuer was busy killing the Catholic priest Werkmeister by slow and interrupted strangulation. Squad Leader Sommer, an undersized individual who had derived particular pleasure from bringing tall prisoners to the point of uttering terrified screams, was filled with nostalgic melancholy, like a fading maiden after the golden days of her youth. Half a dozen SS-men hoped the prisoners would testify to their good conduct; some still believed in a victory for Germany; others were ready to go over to the Communists; a number were already convinced they had never been real Nazis; and many just didn’t think anything at all because they had never learned how—but almost all were positive they had acted under orders and were free of any personal or human guilt.

“More than an hour,” said Bucher.

He looked at the empty machine-gun towers. The guards had departed and had not been relieved. This had happened off and on before; but only for short spells and only in the Small camp. Now, however, no guards could be seen anywhere.

The day seemed to have lasted simultaneously fifty hours and only three, so chaotic had it been. Everyone was so exhausted they could hardly speak. At first they had paid little attention to the fact that the machine-gun towers had not been reoccupied. Then Bucher had noticed it. He had also observed that there were no guards in the labor camp.

“Maybe they have already decamped.”

“No. Lebenthal has heard they are still there.”

They went on waiting. The guards didn’t come. They got food. The food carriers reported that the SS were still around. But it looked as though they were preparing to pull out.

The food was handed out. A feeble scuffle started. The starved skeletons had to be driven back. “There’s enough here for everyone!” called 509. “More than usual! Much more! You’ll all get something.”

At last they calmed down. The strongest among them formed a cordon around the cauldron and 509 began with the distribution. Berger was still in hiding in the lazaret.

“Look at that! Even potatoes!” said Ahasver, astonished. “And gristle. A miracle!”

The soup was considerably thicker than usual, and there was almost twice as much of it. There was also a double bread ration. It was still far too little, but for the Small camp it was something unheard of. “Neubauer himself was supervising in the kitchen,” reported Bucher. “It’s the first time I’ve seen that since I’ve been here.”

“He’s trying to get himself an alibi.”

Lebenthal nodded. “They think we’re dumber than we are.”

“Not even that.” 509 put down his empty mug. “They don’t take the trouble to think about us at all. They believe we’re just what they want us to be, that’s all. They do that everywhere. They know everything and always everything better. That’s why they’ve lost the war. They knew everything better about Russia, England and America.”

Lebenthal belched. “What a wonderful sound,” he said devoutly. “Great God, when was the last time I burped!”

They were excited and tired. They talked and hardly heard what they were saying. They lay on an invisible island. All around them Mussulmen were dying. They died in spite of the more nourishing
soup. Slowly they moved their spidery limbs and squawked and whispered on and off or slumbered into death.