Spark of Life (49 page)

“Commandant of the Mellern concentration camp?”

Neubauer nodded again.

“Come out.”

Neubauer saw the dark muzzle of the automatic leveled at him. He stood up and raised his hands so fast that his fingers knocked against the low roof of the shed. “I’m not dressed.”

“Out with you!”

Hesitatingly Neubauer stepped out. He was in shirt, trousers, and boots. There he stood, gray and drowsy. One of the soldiers frisked him quickly. Another searched the shed.

Neubauer looked at Alfred. “It was you who brought them here?”

“Yes.”

“Judas!”

“You are no Christ, Neubauer,” answered Alfred slowly. “And I’m no Nazi.”

The American who had been in the shed came back. He shook his head. “
Vorwärts
,” said the one who spoke German. He was a corporal.

“Can I put on my coat?” asked Neubauer. “It’s hanging in the shed. Behind the rabbit hutch.”

The corporal hesitated a moment. Then he went in and returned with a civilian jacket.

“Not that one, please,” declared Neubauer. “I’m a soldier. My tunic, please.”

“You’re no soldier.”

Neubauer blinked. “It’s my Party uniform.”

The corporal went back and brought the tunic. He examined it
and gave it to Neubauer, who put it on, buttoned it, straightened himself and said, “
Obersturmbannführer
Neubauer. I am at your disposal.”

“Okay, okay. Get going.”

They walked through the garden. Neubauer noticed that his tunic wasn’t properly buttoned. He undid it and buttoned it up correctly. Everything had gone wrong at the last moment. Weber, the traitor, had tried to do him in by setting some barracks on fire. He had done it entirely on his own; that could easily be proved. In the evening Neubauer had been no longer in the camp. He had learned of it over the telephone. Even so, a damned serious business, just now. And then Alfred, the second traitor. He just hadn’t turned up. Neubauer had stood there without a car, when he’d wanted to flee at the last moment. The troops had already left—he couldn’t very well have made off into the forest—so he had hidden in the garden. Had thought they’d never look for him there. He had quickly shaven off the Hitler mustache. That bastard, Alfred!

“Sit over on this side,” said the corporal and pointed to a seat. Neubauer clambered into the car. This is probably what they call a jeep, he thought. The men were not unfriendly. Correct, rather. No doubt this one was a German-American. One had heard of those German brothers abroad. The Bund, or something like that.

“You speak good German,” he said cautiously.

“So I should,” answered the corporal, coldly. “I’m from Frankfurt.”

“Oh—” answered Neubauer. It really seemed to be a rotten bad day. Even the rabbits had been stolen. As he’d come into the shed, the hutch doors had stood open. That had been an ominous sign. Now they were probably sizzling over the fire of some criminal.

The camp gate stood wide open. Roughly improvised flags hung in front of the barracks. The large loud-speaker blared instructions. One of the trucks had returned with milk cans. The roads were packed with prisoners.

The car with Neubauer stopped in front of the Commandant’s headquarters. An American colonel stood there with several officers and gave instructions. Neubauer got out, straightened his tunic and stepped forward. “
Obersturmbannführer
Neubauer. I herewith place myself at your disposal.” He gave the military, not the Hitler, salute.

The colonel looked at the corporal. The corporal translated. “Is this the son of a bitch?” asked the colonel. “Yes, sir.”

“Put him to work over there. Shoot him if he makes a false move.”

Neubauer had made a great effort to understand. “Come on,” said the corporal. “You’ve got to work. Over there with you. Start taking the dead away.”

Neubauer had still been hoping that things would turn out differently. “I’m an officer,” he stammered. “With the rank of colonel.”

“So much the worse.”

“I have witnesses! I was humane! Ask the people here!”

“I think we’ll need a few men to stop your people here from ripping you to pieces,” answered the corporal. “That would be okay with me. Get a move on!”

Neubauer cast one more glance at the colonel. But the colonel was no longer taking any notice of him. Neubauer turned around. Two men walked beside him; a third behind him.

After a few yards he was recognized. The three Americans squared their shoulders. They expected an attack and closed in on Neubauer. Neubauer began to sweat. He stared straight in front of
him and walked as though he wanted to go simultaneously faster and slower.

But nothing happened. The prisoners remained standing and looked at Neubauer. They didn’t throw themselves upon him; they made a lane for him. No one came close. No one said anything. No one yelled at him. No one threw a stone at him. No club fell on him. They just looked at him. They formed a lane for him and looked at him—the whole long way to the Small camp.

At first Neubauer had breathed with relief; then he began to sweat profusely. He muttered something. He didn’t look up; but he felt the eyes on him. He felt them focused on him like countless peepholes in a gigantic prison door—as though he were already locked up and every eye was watching him, cold and observant.

He grew hotter and hotter. He walked faster. The eyes remained on him. They became stronger. He felt them on his skin. They were leeches, sucking his blood. He shook himself. But he couldn’t shake them off. They came through his skin. They hung onto his veins. “I have—” he muttered. “Duty—I haven’t—I was—always—what do they want—?”

By the time they reached the spot where Barrack 22 had stood, he was wet. Six SS-men, who had been captured, were working there with several kapos. Nearby stood some Americans armed with tommy guns.

Neubauer came to an abrupt halt. On the ground in front of him he saw a number of black skeletons. “What—on earth is—?”

“Don’t play so dumb,” answered the corporal, grimly. “This is the barrack you people set on fire. At least thirty bodies must still be inside. Get going, bring out the bones!”

“This—wasn’t done by my orders—”

“Of course not.”

“I wasn’t here—I know nothing about it. Others did this without my knowledge—”

“Of course. Always others. And these who’ve been rotting to death here year after year? That wasn’t you, either, what?”

“They were orders. Duty—”

The corporal turned to a man standing beside him. “In the next few years those will be the two commonest excuses in Germany—I acted under orders, and—I knew nothing about it.”

Neubauer didn’t hear him. “I always tried—to do my best—”

“That,” said the corporal bitterly, “will be the third one! Get on!” he cried suddenly. “Start! Get the dead out of here! D’you think it’s easy not to beat you to pulp?”

Neubauer bent down and began uncertainly to rummage in the debris.

They were brought along in barrows, some on rough stretchers, some supported by their comrades. They were laid down in the corridors of the SS quarters; their lice-infested rags were taken off and burned—then they were brought to the SS bathrooms.

Many didn’t realize what was going to happen to them; they sat and lay apathetically in the corridors. Only when the steam escaped from the open doors did some of them come to life. They began to squawk and creep fearfully away.

“Bathing! Bathing!” called their comrades. “You’re supposed to have a bath!”

It was of no use. The skeletons clawed into one another and whimpered and pushed like crabs toward the exit. These were the ones who knew bathing and steam only as words for the gas chambers. They were shown soap and towels; it didn’t help. These, too, they had seen before. They had been used as a means to induce prisoners to enter the gas chambers. With a piece of soap and a towel in their hands they had died. Only when the first batch of cleansed inmates were carried past them and with gestures and
words had confirmed that it was a question of hot water and bathing and not gas, did they calm down.

The steam surged from the tiled walls. The warm water was like warm hands. The prisoners lay in it and splashed about with their bony arms and swollen joints. The crusts of filth softened. The soap slid over the starved skin and dissolved the dirt and the warmth penetrated deeper than merely to the bones. Warm water—they had forgotten what that meant. They lay there and felt it and to many it offered the first notion of freedom and salvation.

Bucher sat beside Lebenthal and Berger. Warmth flowed through them. It was an animal joy. The joy of rebirth, it was life born out of warmth and returned to the frozen blood, to the languishing cells. It was vegetative; a water-sun caressing and awakening seeds they had believed to be dead. As the crusts of dirt on the skin dissolved so did the crusts on the soul. They felt security. The simplest of all securities—warmth. Like cavemen in front of the first fire.

They were given towels. They rubbed themselves dry and contemplated their skin in astonishment. It was still leaden and spotted from starvation, but to them it appeared as white as swans.

They were given clean clothes from the depot. Before putting them on, they fingered and examined them. Then they were led into another room. The bath had stimulated them, but at the same time made them very tired. They walked on sleepily, ready to believe in further miracles.

The room with the beds hardly surprised them. They looked at the rows of beds and were about to move on. “Here,” said the American who was leading them.

They stared at him. “For us?”

“Yes. To sleep in.”

“For how many?”

Lebenthal pointed at the nearest bed, then at himself and
Bucher, and asked, “Two?” Then he pointed at Berger and raised three fingers, “Or three?”

The American grinned. He took Lebenthal and gently pushed him onto the nearest bed; then Bucher onto the second; Berger onto the next, and Sulzbacher onto that beyond. “There,” he said.

“A bed for each of us!”

“With a blanket!”

“I give up!” declared Lebenthal. “Pillows, too!”

“Sleep,” said the American. “Sleep! As long as you like.”

Bucher shook his head. “And these are our enemies!”

They had been given a coffin. It was a light black box of normal coffin size; but it was too wide for 509. It could easily have held someone else as well. It was the first time in years that he’d had so much room to himself.

A grave had been dug for him where Barrack 22 had once stood. They had decided that this was the most appropriate spot for 509. Evening was falling when they brought him there. The crescent moon hung in the hazy sky. Men from the labor camp helped them to lower the coffin.

They had a small shovel. Each in turn stepped up to the grave and threw down some earth. They hadn’t much strength. When it came to Ahasver’s turn he stepped too close and slipped onto the coffin. They dragged him up again. Other, stronger prisoners helped them fill the grave.

They walked back. Rosen carried the shovel. They approached Barrack 20. A corpse was being taken out of it. Two SS-men were carrying it through the door. Rosen stopped in front of them. They tried to walk around him. The one in front was Niemann, the injection specialist. The Americans had caught him outside the town and brought him back. He was the squad leader from whom 509
had rescued Rosen. Rosen stepped back a bit, raised the shovel and bashed it into Niemann’s face. He lifted it again, but the American on guard came up and took the shovel from Rosen’s trembling hands. “Come, come—we’ll take care of that later.”

Rosen was shaking all over. The blow hadn’t done Niemann much harm; just scraped some of the skin off his face. Berger took Rosen by the arm. “Come along. You’re too weak for that.”

Rosen burst into tears. Sulzbacher took him by the other arm. “They’ll convict him, Rosen. For everything.”

“Beaten to death! They must be beaten to death! Nothing else will help! Otherwise they’ll keep on coming back!”

They dragged him away. The American handed the shovel to Bucher. They walked on. “Funny,” said Lebenthal after a while. “You were always the one who didn’t want any revenge—”

“Let him alone, Leo.”

“All right, all right.”

Every day prisoners left the camp. The foreign slave laborers well enough to walk were taken away in groups. A number of the Poles remained behind. They didn’t want to return to the Russian zone. Almost everyone in the Small camp was too weak to leave; they still needed to be looked after for some time. And many didn’t know where to go. Their relatives were dispersed or dead; their property stolen; their home towns destroyed. They were free; but they didn’t know what to do with their freedom. They remained in the camp. They had no money. They helped to clean the barracks. They were given beds and food; they waited; they formed groups.

They were the ones who knew that nothing awaited them anywhere. Then there were others who didn’t yet believe it. They went in search. Every day they could be seen wandering down the mountain, in their hands a certificate which the civilian administration
and the military authorities had given them to obtain ration cards—and in their hearts a few uncertain dates.