The Commandant of Lubizec: A Novel of the Holocaust and Operation Reinhard (19 page)

I
t was early October and he threaded his way through the woods because it centered him. It calmed him. Leaves fluttered down in slow flipping twists of burnt color and he enjoyed the side-to-side motion of his horse moving through the cold light. It was peaceful, like a painting. Occasionally he stood up in his stirrups and took in a lungful of fresh air. Every now and then he ducked to avoid a branch while, all around him, leaves swam down in dark, beautiful colors. When he arrived at Lubizec he hopped off and led his horse to a little stable. Puddles of water were everywhere—they reflected the sky above. Guth handed the reins to a prisoner and made his way to the office.

There was much to do with an SS judge coming to investigate the camp and he spent most of his time following Birdie around with a clipboard. They spent many hours sifting through silverware and weddings rings, and during one of these long sessions of cataloguing and counting, he reminded Birdie that everything in the barracks belonged to the Third Reich. They stopped before a pile of enamel pots and Guth nudged one with his foot. It rolled and wobbled to a stop.

“If you need things for the black market, take these. No one’s going to miss a few pots. As for gold and silver though … well, that’s off limits. Understand?”

Birdie nodded.

“Good. Good.”

We might wonder why Guth covered for Birdie at all. Why protect him? Why not send him packing for the Battle of Stalingrad that was raging in Russia? These are excellent questions and although we cannot answer them with historical documents, we can certainly
hypothesize why Guth chose to shield Birdie in the first place. After all, it would have been far easier to step aside and point the finger of blame at him, but that’s not what Guth did. Instead, he used his power to protect this guard, which is rather telling, if not downright intriguing. Why do such a thing?

Guth was a perfectionist, so it could be that he didn’t want others to see any flaws in his camp, and to admit that one of his own henchmen was skimming off the top would mean he didn’t have total control over his deathdom. It might have been better to cover such things up rather than to lose face. We should also remember that Birdie was very good at what he did. He was ruthless and murderous—he kept Lubizec ticking along smoothly—and for Guth this would have been paramount. For all of his bluster about sending his guards to Russia if they misbehaved (a rich word in its own right: “misbehave”), there isn’t a single report of this ever happening. Perhaps Guth remembered his own horrors in the trenches of World War I and he thought he was sparing his men? Although it is perverse and very uncomfortable for us to think about, it could be that Guth thought a death camp was a better assignment than frontline service. He may have felt he was doing his men a favor by keeping them away from enemy fire. Or maybe he didn’t want to train new guards. Or maybe he just liked the amusing stories Birdie told in the canteen.

We can’t know the depths of Guth’s mind, but it is odd, indeed, that he protected Birdie rather than turn him over to the authorities. This, unfortunately, is one of the many unsolved mysteries of Lubizec. We want easy answers, but the more we dig into the past, the more we are forced to stand back in mute horror and confusion.

Our attention is more rightfully placed on those who were murdered though. Who were they? Where did they come from? What were their stories? What would their grandchildren and great-grandchildren have accomplished in the twenty-first century? These are more painful questions to consider (and we will get to them at the close of this book), but, for now, we will focus on the upcoming investigation by that judge.

“So,” Guth said, pulling out a cigarette.

He stood in Zurich and watched prisoners run in and out with suitcases full of clothes. When the flame of his lighter was brought up to his lips, his pupils shrank. He puffed once, twice, and blew smoke up to the rafters.

“Let’s count the money again, Birdie. Show me the books.”

Guth usually left camp at dusk and clopped down the dirt road into twilight. Stars came out and he had the Villa to himself. He ate little. He wrote to Jasmine, begging her to return, and while this could be seen as a lovesick husband pining for his wife, he must have been aware that having his family in Poland was a good deal safer than having them in Berlin, which was being bombed by the Allies on a regular basis.

We also know he wrote a letter to his immediate superior, Odilo “Globus” Globocnik. Guth writes in his usual clipped professionalism about running the camp and he closes the letter with an offhanded gesture, but it is clearly the main reason he wrote the letter in the first place. Just before his signature he says, “We have known each other for many years, Globus. I can assure you an SS judge does not need to visit my camp. Peter Franz is a good man. Very decent. His integrity is beyond reproach. He has run the warehouses in a first rate manner. He has my
full support
.” Guth underlined this last part himself.

SS Hauptsturmführer
Odilo Globocnik responded with a terse letter. He said his hands were tied and that an SS judge would be arriving sometime in the next forty-eight hours.

Although we cannot know what Guth was thinking during this period of waiting, we do know he slept in his own bed at the Villa and that the sheets were made of fine Egyptian cotton. The duvet was padded with goose down. He may have listened to the house settling around him. The creaking of beams. Wind against the roof. The flutter of a curtain. It seems reasonable to assume he was worried about the investigation, but maybe he slept just fine. Maybe he dozed off and didn’t think about the investigation any more than he thought about killing thousands of human beings.

Maybe he began to snore. Softly.

His name was Erich Bolender and he was much younger than Guth expected. He was tall, he wore the black uniform of a high-ranking SS officer, and his hair was so blond it almost looked bleached white. He got out of his chauffeured Mercedes with a sloppy “Heil Hitler” that suggested he was used to being the most important man in any given space. The young buttery sheen of his skin was at odds with his crossed eyebrows, which made him look perpetually furious. He took off his leather gloves, tugging at each finger carefully, and passed them to his chauffeur. He studied the camp and spent several seconds watching prisoners haul suitcases from one end to another. He covered his nose.

“What’s that stench?”

Guth stepped forward and saluted the young man who was, somehow, his superior. They walked through the Rose Garden, turned left, and when they passed the canteen Bolender paused. He nodded at the raked sandy ground and commented on the flowerpots that dotted the camp.

“Very nice.”

“Thank you. I thought we’d have a drink before seeing the warehouses,” Guth said, opening the door to his office. “Cognac perhaps?”

The young man held up a hand. “Not for me. I don’t drink.”

Guth looked confused but went around his wide desk and sat down. He pushed aside a pile of paperwork and smiled. “Welcome to Lubizec.”

We know what happened next because Guth’s second in command, Heinrich Niemann, the same man who was interrogated for “Allied Forces Report No. 3042,” was in the corner taking notes. Guth wanted a witness during this meeting so he asked his deputy to take notes about what was said. According to Niemann, Guth showed no signs of worry and he smiled frequently. He even leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The potbelly stove was lit and this filled the office with the pleasant odor of burning applewood. A clock ticked on the wall and Bolender watched the brass pendulum swing back and forth. It caught the sunlight.

“A smoke perhaps?” Guth said, offering his silver cigarette case.

Bolender hesitated for a moment but reached for one. He tapped it against the desk a few times and leaned in to the lighter when it was offered. The men sat back, not quite relaxed in each other’s company. They puffed away, tapping ash into a gigantic tray.

“Let’s understand each other from the beginning,” Bolender said, looking at the tip of his burning cigarette. “I’m here to find out if anything was stolen from … Zurich? That’s what you call the warehouse here? I expect your full cooperation in this matter, Guth. And if I find anything out of order, or if I find you’ve hidden something from me, well then, things will get very nasty for you.”

“My camp is at your disposal.”

The young man spread his arms like a benevolent king. “Then we’ll get along just fine. Maybe I could get some coffee before you show me around?”

Guth looked at Niemann, who in turn stood up and left the office. He hustled across the sandy ground and went into the canteen, where he went about the business of making a pot of coffee. The cupboards were packed full of bags of sugar, pickles, pots of jam, evaporated milk, jars of honey, and huge cans of tomato sauce. Near the door was an enormous wooden bin full of potatoes and turnips.

The standard issue coffee from the army tasted vaguely of burnt acorns, and no matter how long the water steeped in the pot it never got dark. It remained the color of dishwater. However, next to this large bag of swastikaed coffee was a smaller one, one from the black market. Niemann couldn’t decide which beans to use—high quality, which would taste better, or standard issue, which wouldn’t raise any questions—so he mixed them together. Half came from the government and half came from the black market. It was a strange thing to worry about but Niemann let the decision rumble around in his mind as the water boiled.
^*

When he returned to the office with a steaming pot and three
cups hooked through his meaty fingers, the men were busy talking about Berlin. The mood was sunny.

“So you’ve actually spent time with the man himself?” Guth asked.

Bolender recrossed his legs. There was a look that said he enjoyed telling this story, and when he reached for his coffee, he nodded with great seriousness. “Oh yes, I’ve met him many times.”

He took a sip and made a face before putting the coffee back on the desk. He gave it a little push and went on to talk about the first time he met Hitler. It was at the Reich Chancellery and he was wearing a business suit.

“When he’s not in uniform the Führer looks like a schoolteacher or a hat salesman. There’s nothing particularly special about him. He’s very softspoken until something sets him off, and then Hitler can drill holes into the air with his eyes. His eyes are … utterly piercing. I’ve never seen anything like them and they’re very hypnotic. It’s almost like he’s holding on to your soul.”

Guth offered another cigarette.

The young SS judge reached across and continued speaking. “His mustache isn’t as dark as you’d expect either. The films and photographs make it appear darker than it really is. It’s more of a light brown in real life. You know he doesn’t drink, don’t you?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“He’s also a vegetarian. Won’t touch meat if his life depended on it.”

“That’s the rumor.”

Bolender tapped the desk. “No. That’s the truth.” He looked around as if he were about to share a secret. “Any guesses what his favorite movie is?”

Guth shrugged.

“Go on. Have a guess.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“
King Kong
. The Führer loves it. He can’t get enough of that hairy ape smashing New York to pieces. Plus he’s got these little fruit candies he likes to suck on. They’re made especially for him and they’ve got little swastikas stamped onto them. They’re not bad. A
bit tart for my taste but I recommend the cherry if, that is, you ever get a chance to meet him.”

Guth studied the wood patterns on his desk. He nodded at some inner thought before saying, “Germany is lucky to have him.”

“We are indeed. He’s transforming Europe right before our very eyes. I mean, the man conquered France in a couple of weeks and that’s something we failed to do in four
years
of fighting in the last war. We’re a world power again, Guth. Even the Americans are trembling at the thought of dealing with our armies.” A short pause and then, “Mark my words. National Socialism is the future of Europe. Russia will soon be for us what India is to the British—unlimited colonial wealth beyond imagining. We’re the future of the world, Guth. We Germans.”

The clock on the wall struck twice. The gears clicked forward and, almost immediately after, there were two quick blasts from a train whistle. It pierced the air.

Guth stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “That’s the afternoon transport.”

Bolender got up. He flicked ash off his sleeve, snapped the front of his uniform tight, and followed Guth outside. As they walked across the Rose Garden he lowered his voice and leaned in close.

“It’s my first time in … in a camp like this. What’s the liquidation process like?”

Guth kept walking. He ordered his guards to take up their positions beside the travel posters for Berlin, Athens, and Barcelona. A plume of obsidian smoke lifted up on the horizon and a train rolled closer and closer. Bolender gave the train a Hitler salute as it screeched to an earsplitting stop. The other guards did no such thing and they looked at him with controlled smiles and sideways glances. Muffled shouts for help could be heard from within the locked cattle cars. The engine ticked and huffed as Guth climbed onto his wooden box. A breeze picked up.

He waited for a moment before shouting out a single word: “Begin.”

The locks were swung open in blurring arcs of clanking steel. People flowed out of the cattle cars like a great stream of water
finding a new riverbed and the guards began shouting for them to line up. Children cried. Families huddled in tight clusters. Suitcases were tossed out of carriages, hitting some people in the head. The stench of stale diarrhea, sweat, and death swirled into the air. The new arrivals squinted at their surroundings, sunblind. There was a mass of faces, hats, shawls, and Star of David armbands.

“Where are we, Mama?”

Guth held a microphone and cleared his throat. “Welcome to Lubizec.” The words echoed down the platform. “Welcome. My name is
Obersturmführer
Guth, commandant of this transit camp. We are sorry your journey wasn’t at all convenient but we’re at war and cannot spare more pleasant accommodation for your rail travel. You will be given bread and cups of tea shortly. I give you my word as an SS officer that everything will be better now. Leave your suitcases behind. Everything will be returned to you shortly.”