Mostovskoy told him about his interrogation.
Osipov stared at him with his dark, prominent eyes.
'The blockheads think they'll be able to win you over.'
'But why? Why? What's the point of it all?'
'They may be interested in information of a historical nature, in the personalities of the founders and leaders of the Party. Or they may be intending to ask you to write letters, statements and appeals.'
'They're wasting their time.'
'They may torture you, comrade Mostovskoy.'
'The fools are wasting their time,' repeated Mostovskoy. 'But tell me – how are things with you?'
'Better than could have been expected,' said Osipov in a whisper. 'The main thing is that we've made contact with the factory workers. We're stockpiling weapons – machine-guns and hand-grenades. People bring in the components one by one and we assemble them in the huts at night. For the time being, of course, the quantities are insignificant.'
'That's Yershov's doing,' said Mostovskoy. 'Good for him!'
Then he shook his head sadly as he took off his shirt and looked at his bare chest. Once again he felt angry with himself for being so old and weak.
'I have to inform you as a senior comrade that Yershov is no longer with us.'
'What do you mean? How come?'
'He has been transferred to Buchenwald.'
'Why on earth? He was a splendid fellow.'
'In that case he'll still be a splendid fellow in Buchenwald.'
'But how did this happen? And why?'
'A split appeared in the leadership. Yershov enjoyed a widespread popularity that quite turned his head. Nothing would make him submit to the centre. He's a doubtful individual, an alien element. The position became more confused with every step we took. The first rule in any underground work is iron discipline – and there we were with two different centres, one of them outside the Party. We discussed the position and came to a decision. A Czech comrade who worked in the office slipped Yershov's card into the pile for Buchenwald. He was put on the list automatically.'
'What could be simpler?' said Mostovskoy.
'It was the unanimous decision of all the Communists,' said Osipov.
He stood in front of Mostovskoy in his miserable clothes, holding a rag in one hand – stern, unshakeable, certain of his rectitude, of his terrible, more than divine, right to make the cause he served into the supreme arbiter of a man's fate.
And the naked skinny old man, one of the founders of a great Party, sat there in silence, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed.
It was night and he was back in Liss's office. He was overwhelmed by terror. What if Liss hadn't been lying…? What if he had had no ulterior motive, if he had simply wanted to talk to another human being?
He drew himself up to his full height. Then – just as ten years before during the period of collectivization, just as during the political trials when the comrades of his youth had been condemned to the scaffold -he said:
'I submit to this decision; I accept it as a member of the Party.'
He took his jacket from the bench and removed several scraps of paper from the lining. They were texts he had drawn up for leaflets.
Suddenly, in his mind's eye, he saw Ikonnikov's face and large cow-like eyes. If only he could listen once again to the preacher of senseless kindness.
'I wanted to ask about Ikonnikov,' he said. 'Did the Czech slip his card in too?'
'The holy fool? The man you used to call the blancmange? He was executed. He refused to work on the construction of an extermination camp. Keyze was ordered to shoot him.'
That night Mostovskoy's leaflets about Stalingrad were stuck up on the walls of the barrack-huts.
40
Soon after the end of the war a dossier was found in the archives of the Munich Gestapo relating to the investigation into an underground organization in one of the concentration camps of Western Germany. The final document stated that the sentence passed on the members of the organization had been carried out and their bodies burnt in the crematorium. The first name on the list was Mostovskoy's.
It was impossible to ascertain the name of the provocateur who had betrayed his comrades. Probably he was executed by the Gestapo together with the men he betrayed.
41
The hostel belonging to the special unit assigned to the gas chambers, crematorium and stores of poisonous substances was both warm and quiet.
The prisoners who worked permanently in number one complex enjoyed good living conditions. Beside each bed stood a small table with a carafe of boiled water. There was even a strip of carpet down the central passageway. The prisoners here were all trusties; they ate in a special building.
The Germans in the special unit were able to choose their own menus as though in a restaurant. They were paid almost three times as much as officers and soldiers of corresponding rank on active service. Their families were granted rent reductions, maximum discounts on groceries and the right to be the first evacuees from areas threatened by air-raids.
Private Roze's job was to watch through the inspection-window; when the process was completed, he gave the order for the gas chamber to be emptied. He was also expected to check that the dentists worked efficiently and honestly. He had written several reports to the director of the complex, Sturmbannfuhrer Kaltluft, about the difficulty of carrying out these two tasks at once. While Roze was up above watching the gassing, the workers down below were left unsupervised; the dentists and the men loading bodies onto the conveyor-belt could steal and loot to their hearts' content.
Roze had grown accustomed to his work; looking through the inspection-window no longer disturbed or excited him as it had during the first few days. His predecessor had once been found engaged in a pastime more suitable for a twelve-year-old boy than an SS soldier entrusted with a special assignment. At first Roze hadn't understood why his comrades kept hinting at certain improprieties; only later had he understood what they were talking about.
Roze did not, however, enjoy his work. He was unnerved by the esteem that now surrounded him. The waitresses in the canteen kept asking why he was so pale.
As far back as he could remember, Roze's mother had always been in tears. And time and again his father had been fired from work; he seemed to have been sacked from more jobs than he had actually had. It was from his parents that Roze had learned his quiet, sidling walk -intended not to disturb anyone – and the anxious smile with which he greeted his neighbours, his landlord, his landlord's cat, the headmaster and the policeman on the corner of the street. Gentleness and friendliness had seemed the fundamental traits of his character; even he was surprised how much hatred lay inside him and how long he had kept it hidden.
He had been seconded to the special unit; the commander, a man with a fine understanding of people, had at once sensed his gentle, effeminate nature.
There was nothing pleasant about watching the convulsions of the Jews in the gas chambers. The soldiers who enjoyed working in the complex filled Roze with disgust. He especially disliked Zhuchenko, the prisoner-of-war on duty by the door of the gas-chambers during the morning shift. He always had a childish and particularly unpleasant smile on his face. Roze didn't like his work, but he was well aware of the many official and unofficial perks it brought him.
At the end of each day one of the dentists would hand Roze a small packet containing several gold crowns. Although this represented only an insignificant fraction of the precious metal taken every day to the camp authorities, Roze had twice handed over almost a kilo of gold to his wife. This was their bright future, their dream of a peaceful old age. As a young man, Roze had been weak and timid, unable to play an active part in life's struggle. He had never doubted that the Party had set itself one aim only: the well-being of the small and weak. He had already experienced the benefits of Hitler's policies; life had improved immeasurably for him and his family.