"You couldn't have known he’d get that kind of sentence."
"Maybe not. Don’t get me wrong, Vilmos. Farkas certainly deserved jail time. He was a professional criminal. Arresting him was my job. I was protecting the public." I sighed. "And soon after that, I was thrown off the police force for being Jewish."
Vilmos was silent for a moment, perhaps reliving a similar indignity he’d suffered at the time. “And he’s here? You’re sure?”
"One hundred percent. The Germans must have cleared Hungarian prisons of Jews. They’re certainly thorough, aren’t they? And I’ll tell you something else:
Farkas recognized me. I’m sure of it."
"It doesn't mean he'll tell anyone about you.”
"Maybe not. But the bastard smiled at me, Vilmos. And then he fled so I wouldn’t find him."
Vilmos gave it some thought. "Maybe he won’t know where to find you. He knows your name, but he doesn’t know which block you sleep in."
I pointed at the number stitched to my uniform, the same number that was tattooed to my forearm. "He saw this. I could tell by how his eyes shifted down and then back up to my face."
Vilmos understood the implications. My number could be used to locate me. Not by Farkas himself, perhaps, but some of the criminal prisoners, those who held functions in the camp—Blockaltestes, for example—could use their contacts to find me.
"You don't know that he’ll tell anyone,” Vilmos said after a minute, probably because he could think of nothing else to say.
I didn't reply.
"And even if he does,” Vilmos continued, "maybe nothing will come of it. All the criminal prisoners are German and Austrian. You didn’t arrest any of them. Maybe they’ll leave you alone.”
Again I said nothing. Vilmos did not understand how prisons worked, not fully, even though he was now living in one.
The worst thing to be in a prison is a former cop. Criminals detest policemen. They view them as the cause of their misfortune. So when a cop falls from grace and is incarcerated, he becomes a target, the outlet through which all the hatred criminals have for the police is vented. It doesn’t matter who the cop is, or whether he personally arrested any specific prisoner. The hatred is universal.
An imprisoned cop is very much like a Kapo or other prisoner-functionary who loses his position and returns to live among the regular prisoners. You wouldn't want to bet money on his longevity.
A cold, heavy fear settled in my bones. It weighed me down, like I was walking with ankle chains.
"We can go block by block and look for him,” Vilmos said, sounding utterly unconvinced of the efficacy of his suggestion.
"Just like he would have trouble finding me without my number, I would have trouble finding him,” I said. "Besides, what would I do if I found him? Talk to him? Appeal to his conscience? I'm not sure he has much of one. And even if by some miracle I persuaded him to keep his mouth shut, what’s to stop him from changing his mind tomorrow? There’s only one certain way to stop him from talking."
Vilmos raised a questioning eyebrow, but then he understood, and his eyes dilated.
"Exactly," I said. "So I either kill him or live in fear. And I don’t see myself killing a man to prevent him from maybe doing something in the future, even a thief like Farkas. Because there's a chance—a slim one, but a chance nonetheless—that he’ll say nothing. If I kill him now, I'll have to live with the possibility that I've committed murder, and I can’t see myself doing that.”
Which meant that if I indeed died over the next couple of days, I would do so more as the man I’d been before I got to Auschwitz than I thought I was now. It didn’t make me feel a whole lot better about my future prospects, but I thought my father would have been proud of me, and that made the notion of dying a little more bearable.
11
Vilmos told me he was going to pay a quick visit to the latrine before bedtime. I went to our block to see if I could reclaim our former bunk, the one we had given up the previous night due to Gyuri. I was ready to fight for our place if need be.
Hendrik was sitting on the stone heating duct that ran down the center of the block. The stoves did not work in summer, and I’d been told they provided inadequate heating during the winter. Prisoners used the heating duct as a bench, since the bunks were too low for men to sit in.
Upon seeing me, Hendrik jumped to his feet and blocked my way. "Hey, you miserable coward. You have a filthy mouth, you—"
A blood-red mist shrouded my vision. I moved in close, clamped one hand around Hendrik’s throat, and drove him back until he smacked hard into a bunk. Bringing my face close to his, my nose filled with the stink of his breath and acrid sweat. He saw something in my eyes that made his gape with dread. Maybe it was death that he saw. Maybe that was why he appeared to be paralyzed and made no attempt to break loose.
For a moment I said nothing, just slowly tightened my grip on his throat. My fingers dug into his flesh, compressing the tendons and airway beneath. He whimpered in pain, opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind when I shook my head.
"Not another word, Hendrik,” I said, my voice low and rippling with grief and rage. It was a warning I wasn’t sure I wanted him to heed. On the one hand, I had already decided that I did not wish to end my life a murderer. On the other, I knew that if Hendrik said the wrong thing now, there was a good chance I would tear his throat open with my fingers. The latter option had an undeniable appeal.
"You listen to me now," I said, increasing the pressure further. "I just watched a man I cared for die. A man you ridiculed. A man you were about to hurt last night when he was at his most vulnerable. His death means nothing to you, and that’s fine. None of us can care for every person that dies here, or we won't be able to function. But you took pleasure in his death, and I don’t appreciate that. It makes me believe that I would take pleasure in your death, and trust me, you don't want that. So if you say another word, you do so at your peril. And if you want to fight, I’ll fight you. But fair warning: I’ll likely kill you. Your decision."
With that, I let go, removing my hand from his throat and stepping back. Suddenly free, Hendrik stumbled forward a little before whirling around and grabbing hold of a bunk. Bending over, he coughed several times, sucking in raspy gulps of air.
I gave him a minute, then said, “Well? What’s your decision? Are you going to give me any trouble?"
Hendrik straightened and looked at me. His face was a mask of fury, but I noticed he kept his back pressed to the bunk behind him, as far from me as he could get. Lowering his eyes, he gave a quick shake of his head.
"I want to hear you say it,” I said. “Are you going to give me any trouble from now on?”
Hendrik raised his eyes and glanced around him. We had attracted a crowd. I did not see any smiles, but I could sense the delight some of the other prisoners were deriving from Hendrik’s humiliation. Right then, I knew I had made a mistake.
I had taken it too far; had caused Hendrik too much shame. He would want to get even. But maybe it didn't matter. If my fears regarding Andris Farkas proved accurate, I would soon be dead anyway.
Seeing Hendrik’s eyes pause on a certain point, I allowed my gaze to drift a little sideways. There was Marco, one of Hendrik’s pals. He and Hendrik had locked eyes, and I could sense the invitation—no, the command—by Hendrik for Marco to come fight alongside him. But Marco lowered his eyes, pretending not to comprehend. Perhaps he was still bitter about Hendrik taking a bigger share of the bread Vilmos had given them the previous night. Or maybe he was scared to fight me.