Anat asks, “And the things Attorney Perl went through in the war, did you document them?”
No.
I didn’t have time.
Obersturmführer Licht mobilized the whole camp to work on Verbrecher. But then what? I had no idea. But I had read so much, so many survivor testimonies, that from that endless mass I learned that in fact there were not that many stories, only a multitude of versions of one story, versions that duplicated themselves and were distinguishable only by minute details. I realized I could tell Anat the rest of the story without making too many mistakes. Only trivial details would differentiate what I told her from the truth. The main thing was not to say “Licht,” but “Obersturmführer Licht.” It could have been another part of the bridge, and the bridge itself was more important than the little details. I would tell her about Obersturmführer Jürgen Licht, about his deadly gray eyes and his love of guns and puppet theater. After all, here in the store I was taking revenge on her for Attorney Perl’s death, and again — what fault was it of hers? Instead of taking revenge, better to tell her about Obersturmführer Licht’s play, Verbercher, and convince her that a grown man had actually written these things. Explain to her how in the camp that was at his disposal, where everything was allowed, where nothing-can-stop-us-when-we-want-something, a seed of insult planted in his childhood sprouted, and he used his prisoners to produce the play. Yes, that madness too was allowed in the world of the camps, something as innocent and colorful as a puppet theater, among guard towers and fences. Yes, a world in which they could say, “The Aktion is over, be at work on time tomorrow,” was a world of fairytales, and from what Attorney Perl had started to tell me about the true existence of the puppet theater, anything could have happened.
In order to tell her, one would have to imagine that the puppet theater had become the main facet of life in the camp, and to guess that even so, routine was not abandoned. Every morning rows of prisoners were taken out to dig pits and chop wood. Only those involved in the theater in some way were treated well. It is easy to imagine how work on the theater progressed, and how Obersturmführer Licht treated Attorney Perl like a personal assistant in a striped uniform. The adjutant was cast aside — his reports and documents were uninteresting. Obersturmführer Jürgen Licht avoided almost any interference in the camp life — that work had always bored him. He devoted all his attention to the play, ignoring orders that came from the outside, until one of his officers, the adjutant for example, complained to senior officers. Then Sturmbanführer Hes came to conduct an inspection visit and Obersturmführer Licht gave him an SS officer’s word of honor that everything was as it should be in the camp. In the meantime, the inmates on their way to work began to see refugees on the streets. German civilians. They traveled in long lines with wagons, and the looks on their faces told the inmates that the war was coming to an end. Then the rumors sprung up: all the inmates would be marched on long walks whose purpose was death.
In the camp things were no longer in order. Roll-call was held later and later in the day. Work was stopped before dark and the SS officers hurried back behind the fences. The skies were now the domain of the Americans, and almost every day there were planes dropping bombs, engines always roaring in the distance. Obersturmführer Licht’s camp did not constitute a target, but stray bombs found their way inside every so often. The officers were nervous, looking up at the sky even when it was empty. Some of them simply left, and Obersturmführer Licht did not object. Some inmates escaped too. I can already picture the final scene, in which Obersturmführer Licht and Attorney Perl remain on their own on the theater hilltop. Yes, that will be the scene. I will use all the adventure stories I used to read in Mrs. Gottmartz’s library, all the Karl May books about the Wild West, to imagine the finale. Anat will believe it, she has to. Anyone who says “there is no limit” and thinks they are capable of imagining the limit, must believe. Because if Sobibor happened and Majdanek happened, anything could happen between Obersturmführer Licht and Attorney Perl, even a duel. No one could protest even if that was the final scene, even if I decide right now that Obersturmführer Licht’s black pistol has a twin, a silver pistol on his right hip.
Up until the final duel, everything was devoted to the play. That was the new order of the camp. The production of Verbercher had to go on. Some of the Ukrainian policemen, perhaps because they liked working with wood, were assigned to work on the puppets. Whips and guns were laid down, and guards and inmates began conversing with one another. Everything revolved around the theater, while planes flew through the skies and a stream of refugees filed past the camp. Obersturmführer Licht’s officers had already decided to wrest the reins of power from him, but he outsmarted them by quickly ordering a rapid organization of death marches. Three rows left the camp, all of his officers and soldiers leading lines of those inmates who were not essential to the theater. Most of the puppet makers were sent off too, and the carvers and tailors — anyone who’s work was already done. Obersturmführer Licht instructed that the camp gates be locked and guard posts reinforced. He summoned his adjutant and shot him. The Ukrainian guards were ordered not to allow anyone in, not even SS. The camp became Obersturmführer Licht’s fortress. There would be a puppet theater.
American planes kept bombing, and their shattering trail of bombardments fell inside the camp too. The Ukrainian guards began to flee. Obersturmführer Licht did not stop them. He remained alone with his two pistols among the inmates still at work on his play, at his side only two Ukrainians who chose to continue their puppet-building work.
On April 6th everything was ready. Obersturmführer Licht set curtain time for six in the evening. Planes had been attacking in the distance as early as noon, sounds of artillery reverberating through the air. The distant noise grew closer and closer, as if the planes were about to blindly assail the camp. Two Ukrainians tried to escape. From over forty yards away, with only two bullets, Obersturmführer Licht shot them. There were whispers among the inmates, some conjectured that he had no bullets left, but no one dared attack him. Alone among twenty-one inmates and three Ukrainians, Obersturmführer Licht annihilated any intentions of rebellion, any hopes of liberation, any lust for revenge; the play would go on at six.
At six in the evening he sat down in his armchair on the rugs. The rectangular stage was lit up and the play began. Attorney Perl stood on the little wooden stage and began the opening speech in his lucidly thundering voice, just as a pulverizing barrage of artillery landed between the fences. Obersturmführer Licht drew his pistol and placed it on his lap. “Continue!”
The artillery was merciless. A battle was raging in the distance. When the puppet of the Communist teacher appeared in the window, about to confiscate little Obersturmführer Licht’s flag, a shell exploded at the foot of the hill and shrapnel sparked through the night sky. The puppeteers ran away. Behind the curtain they fled on their hands and knees and ran down the hill as Obersturmführer Licht’s bullets whistled around them. The remaining inmates burst out of the camp and disappeared into the dark. The dim thundering of plane engines could be heard, and after a few moments there were bombardments that set a nearby hill ablaze. The only figures remaining on the theater hilltop were Obersturmführer Licht and Attorney Perl.