I stood just inside the door and gawked about me with an open mouth. The room was another world, a separate planet from the rest of the camp. There was a real single bed with clean sheets, a folded blanket, and a fluffy pillow. There was a night table, topped by a Hanukkah menorah with all nine candles blazing, doubtless the property of a murdered Jewish family. There was an oval rug on which stood a table covered by a fine linen cloth, and on that were a bottle of wine and a long-stemmed glass. There was an armoire, its doors hanging open, revealing hanging shirts and jackets and trousers. There was a framed painting; not a very good one, but still a shocking display of culture in a place devoid of any. There were three pairs of shoes and boots in a corner, and all had been polished to a high gloss.
And lastly, there were shelves bearing rows of canned food. Olives, fruit, various vegetables, sardines... even meat. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe at the sight of these riches. My stomach let out a grumble like a starving tiger at the sight of easy prey.
"What do you think, Jew? Nice, isn’t it?"
The voice was the same gruff baritone I had heard a minute ago. The man it belonged to was lounging in a chair on the opposite side of the table. Seeing what he wore around his neck was so astounding that for a moment my fear evaporated. It was a cravat. Black dots on a field of navy blue and made of silk. The kind one might expect to find encircling the neck of an affluent merchant or a university professor sitting in a well-appointed living room, perusing that day’s newspaper or a book of verse.
But the moment passed and the fear flooded back in, nearly liquefying my knees. I had to angle my foot to increase pressure on my wound. The pain helped steady me. Andris Farkas could have turned me in to any of several criminal prisoner functionaries. But he had chosen the worst one by far.
The Lageralteste beamed at me. He had read my fear and was basking in it. He reached forward, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself a hefty dose of red wine. Picking up the glass, he took a large slurp that would have fit better the consumption of beer or ale and let out a loud, satisfied “Aaah,” all the while not taking his eyes off me.
The bottle, I noticed, had an ornate label with old-fashioned French script. The sort of wine one kept in a cool cellar. The sort of wine to be drunk by a refined man in a refined setting. Not by a deranged thug in the middle of hell.
The Lageralteste drained the rest of his glass, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had big hands, their backs and fingers covered by a thick growth of hair. I had seen him use those hands to kill five prisoners since my arrival in Auschwitz, and rumor had it that he’d killed many more beforehand. I knew what he was: a born killer. A man who found pleasure in inflicting pain, in snuffing out life, in instilling dread. The Nazis had chosen him precisely for those traits.
"You look hungry, Jew,” the Lageralteste said. “Are you hungry?”
For a few seconds I said nothing, unsure of how I should respond. I was confused by my presence here. This room was immaculate. The floor swept, the shelves dusted, the bed made. Everything looked as clean as the interior of a block could be. So why was I here? Obviously, the Lageralteste liked his room to be spotless. Yet he had summoned me here in order to kill me, probably in a brutal fashion, and such a killing would be messy. There would be a lot of blood. So why hadn’t he told his goons to take me someplace else? He didn’t need to hide his crimes. He could kill me in public. No one would lift a finger to stop him.
"Well?" he said, his voice deepening. “I asked you a question.”
I licked my lips, which had gone bone dry. "Of course I'm hungry.”
He smiled again, nodding. His face was a gruesome mix of the Neanderthal and the Aryan. His brow ridge protruded, shadowing a pair of startlingly clear blue eyes. His complexion was fair, but his cheeks were pitted with acne scars and webbed with broken capillaries. The bridge of his large nose had been flattened in numerous past fights. More broken capillaries surged across it. His chin was flat and bulky. Beneath it was a short, thick neck that suggested great physical strength.
"A new experience, I bet," he said. "I’ve never known a Jew who did not have a full belly. When I was little, after the Great War, when much of Germany was starving, I remember the Jews were always plump. Well, you’re not plump anymore, are you?”
"I’m not from Germany," I said.
"As if that makes a difference. You Jews are the same all over. Money grubbing, controlling, looking down your big noses at the rest of us. Always in your fancy clothes and expensive shoes.” He regarded my uniform with a sneer. "And look at you now."
I didn’t need to look. My uniform and clogs were so uncomfortable and humiliating, I was always aware of their presence. "I can assure you that I’ve never worn anything as fine as what you have on."
He was wearing a navy double-breasted jacket with six shining buttons. His trousers were black and stainless. A white handkerchief protruded sloppily from his breast pocket.
Each article of clothing was exquisite, but something about their combination and the way they sat on the Lageralteste made him look ridiculous, as though he were a failed actor, trying without success to slip into his role. He had obviously never worn such clothes before Auschwitz. He did not know how to hold his body to carry them well.
He smiled at me with genuine pleasure, which meant he had not read my thoughts. His smile revealed large, stained teeth.
"Do you know what I did before the war?” he asked.
"You were a criminal," I said.
"Yes. So imagine my surprise when I learned that there was a genuine policeman living here, right under my nose.”
I said nothing. My intestines had twisted themselves into a tight knot.
"I’ve never known a Jewish policeman. You people like to be lawyers, accountants, landlords, that sort of thing. Easy work with lots of money. You leave the hard, dirty jobs to Christians. At first I didn’t believe it, but the prisoner who brought me the information swore on it. He said you were a detective. Is that true?"
It occurred to me then, a little too late, that I might have tried to lie myself out of this predicament. I could have claimed another occupation. And if confronted with Andris Farkas, I could have said that he was lying, trying to settle a grudge from our previous lives in Hungary.
But looking at the Lageralteste, I realized that this would have been futile. He might have failed to see the cop in me when I was just another face in a sea of prisoners, but now that my secret had been revealed and he was looking at me in isolation, he would not have been fooled.
I nodded slowly, wondering if this revelation would mean a more agonizing death than the one I would have suffered had I been a mere patrolman. "I was a detective on the police force in Hungary.”
He pursed his lips while weighing me with his hard eyes, as though contemplating whether to punch me or kick me to death.
After a while, he said, "Do you know what I went to prison for?”
I shook my head.
"Why don’t you make a guess?”
I wondered what sort of answer he was after, and whether giving him the right one would make an iota of difference to my fate. Death can come in many forms, and it is best to arrange for yourself the one which is the least excruciating.
On the one hand, he might be flattered if I said that he'd been some sort of kingpin, the head of a criminal organization, much like he was now. On the other, it was clearly not the case, and he might see through my pathetic attempt to win favor. I opted for what I thought was the truth.