He said all this without a hint of sympathy; with a gleeful twinkle in his eyes, even. Those Russians were as inconsequential to him as cockroaches one crushes underfoot. For a couple of seconds, I could not move a muscle, not even to breathe. I was plunged into total immobility by the thought of those poor Russian soldiers who were treated so cruelly, instead of being accorded the proper treatment owed to prisoners of war.
"Don’t stop now,” the Lageralteste said. “We’re near the end.”
I swallowed hard and tried to work some saliva into my mouth. I said, “In Auschwitz you came into your element. The life of a prisoner had very little value in Dachau, but it was still worth something, so there were limitations to what you could do. In Auschwitz, the value of such a life is zero, especially if the prisoner happens to be Jewish. Because the goal of this camp is to destroy Jews, to kill them in whatever way suits Germany. This means that for the first time, you’re free to indulge fully in your violent cravings. You can do anything you want. Because Jews have no rights, no powerful friends. They are to be disposed of."
"That's right. You Jews are worth nothing. Absolutely nothing. You’re the scum of the earth." He said this with utter conviction, as much of a zealot as the SS officers who ruled the camp in which he too was a prisoner.
For a few seconds, there was silence. I kept expecting him to say something, but he seemed to be deep in thought, his gaze fixed on me. There was hatred laced with insanity in his eyes, but also that assessing look I had noticed before.
I was afraid to speak, because I knew that the end he had referred to, the one to which we had arrived, was not merely that of the story, but of my life as well. I had no idea why he’d had me talk at such length about his life, but we had come to the present day. And try as I might, I could think of nothing more to say. Nothing that would further postpone the inevitable.
Finally, I mumbled, “That’s it. That’s the sort of criminal you are." Then I waited, resigned to my fate, knowing for the first time what standing under the hangman’s noose truly felt like for an innocent man. A blend of bleak despair, deep remorse over much that I’d done or hadn't done in my life, and a sizzling current of anger at my fate, strangely coupled with an almost tranquil acceptance of it.
He kept on looking at me for a long moment, his mouth set in a hard line, and I kept expecting the trapdoor to open under my feet. Then would come the drop and the pull of the rope. If you were lucky, your neck would snap in an instant, and you would feel nothing. If you weren’t, you’d dangle at the end of that rope for minutes while the noose squeezed the life right out of you, turning your face purple, pulling your tongue right out of your mouth. Whatever death he had in store for me, it would be as long and painful as that of the unlucky hanged man. And much more bloody.
With each passing second, my innards turned increasingly to mush. My bowels contracted. A fresh surge of panic hit me. If I peed or worse on his clean floor, my death would be even more painful.
In my mind flashed the faces of my loved ones. All the family who had come with me to Auschwitz and was no more. I'm so sorry, I told them, I'm so sorry I didn't save you.
I did not find any comfort in the thought that I would soon be reunited in death with my wife and daughters. I wasn’t sure I believed that would happen. I didn’t know what I believed in anymore.
The Lageralteste drew a loud whiffing breath through his nose. "You know how much I hate cops?" he asked in a low growl. "Even more than I hate all you filthy, good-for-nothing Jews."
Then he showed me his clenched teeth, his hands bunching once more into fists. There was a feral look about him. A wild animal about to pounce for the kill.
13
But the Lageralteste didn’t pounce. Nor did he rise from his chair. His face continued to hold that bloodthirsty stare that stabbed a spear of ice into my gut. His fists tightened even further. His eyes narrowed to slits. He wanted to kill me, but something was holding him back.
Finally, after what seemed as long as roll call, his teeth unclenched and his thick tongue emerged to slither wetly over his lips. He relaxed his hands and offered me a morbid smile.
"Normally, I would find great pleasure in killing you. But this is your lucky day, Jew. I need you.”
It took me a moment to register what he was saying. Then a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding leaked from my lungs, leaving a dull ache in my chest. I felt like I was about to fall down, as though something I’d been leaning on had been pulled away. He wasn’t going to kill me. I was going to live. The urge to laugh came over me, but I tamped it down. I was not out of danger yet.
"Maybe you’re wondering why I let you ramble on about my history,” he said. “It was a test. I wanted to see how good of a detective you are. If you'd failed the test, I would have killed you. But you were right on the money. How did you figure all that out?"
I weighed my words, fearful of squandering the stay of execution I’d been granted. “I took what I knew about you and made an initial deduction. Once you confirmed it, I made a second deduction, and so on.”
He wagged a finger at me, chuckling. "You Jews are clever as hell, that’s for sure. Too clever for your own good, usually, but just what I need today." The levity vanished from his face, replaced by an angry scowl. But I realized that I was not the cause, nor the target, of his ire.
I waited. There was no need to ask what he wanted from me. He was going to tell me.
"Someone in this camp did a bad thing. A very bad thing. I want you to find out who it was."
"What sort of bad thing?" I asked.
"A murder. Someone committed a murder."
I looked at him, unsure if I'd heard him correctly. He’d said it as though a murder in Auschwitz were something shocking and unusual. Hell, the entire camp was dedicated to murder. He himself had done his fair share of it.
"You’re going to have to be more specific,” I said. "People are murdered here every day.”
He waved a hand. "I’m not talking about that. What goes on in the gas chambers is none of my business. But what happens inside the men’s camp is.” He jabbed a forefinger on the tabletop. "This is my domain. I am king here. If I want something, I take it. If I want someone dead, I kill him. And if I want someone protected, no one is allowed to lay a finger on him.”
"And someone did?”
He nodded, his face darkening. “Two days ago, someone murdered a boy of mine."
A boy of his? He couldn't mean his son, could he?
"A boy?" I asked.
"A servant boy of mine. Fifteen years old.”
It hit me then. The dead boy Vilmos had stumbled upon. The boy who had been stabbed in the throat. I tried to keep the realization off my face, but the Lageralteste caught it.
"What is it? What are you thinking?"
"I was just wondering how and where he was killed," I said.
His answer confirmed that the servant boy and the dead boy Vilmos had told me about were one and the same.
"I don’t suppose the body’s still around."
"Of course not. He went to the crematorium like any other body. Is that gonna be a problem?"