"I don’t think so,” I said, knowing full well that it might be, but thinking it did not serve my interest to make him suspect I might fail in my mission. "Who was this boy?"
"His name was Franz. A Dutch boy."
"Jewish?"
"Yes.”
"What happened to his family?"
Again he waved a hand. "Gassed to death. He was the only one left. I took him under my wing."
"When was this?"
"Three weeks ago.”
"That's when he came to the camp?”
"No. That’s when I saw him for the first time. He arrived here eight months ago."
“What did he do for you?”
“Various chores. Cleaned this room, shined my shoes, that sort of thing.”
“You didn't have someone to do all that already?"
"Another boy. But he died.”
I was about to ask how, but something in the Lageralteste’s expression made me hold my tongue.
"Do you know why Franz had gone to the place where he was killed?"
"No."
"It’s one of those places prisoners use for clandestine meetings,” I said. “Any idea who he might have been meeting there?"
"If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you, would I? I would just kill the bastard."
“The person Franz met and the killer might be two different people."
The Lageralteste shrugged in response, which I took to mean the prospect of killing a host of innocent men did not bother him in the least, as long as he also got the guilty one.
"Can you think of anyone who might have wished to harm Franz?"
He shook his head.
"Was he in possession of any items that might have tempted someone to attack him?”
"No. And nothing was taken."
"You saw the body?"
"Yes,” he said, his face tightening.
"Do you remember whether there were any other wounds on it? Especially on the hands and arms?”
He pushed out his lips, then shook his head. “I didn’t stay there long. I saw he was dead and left. I didn’t want to look at him anymore. What difference does it make?”
A great deal, perhaps, but I didn't tell him that. As with there being no body to examine, I wasn't about to make him think I’d have trouble solving this crime.
"When was the last time you saw Franz?"
"Early afternoon, two days ago."
"And when did you discover he was dead?"
"Yesterday morning."
That explained why he had exploded that morning, beating an unfortunate prisoner to death. It didn’t occur to him that what he’d done to that prisoner was every bit as bad as what had been done to Franz.
"How did you find him?"
"He wasn’t here in the morning," he said. "So I sent men out to search for him. One of them found him.”
"I'll need to talk to him. See if he remembers anything about the scene.”
"That’s no problem. It’s Mathias. The guy who brought you in." He gestured with his chin toward the door at my back, indicating, I thought, the fair-haired man with the scar on his cheek. "He’ll tell you everything he knows."
"I’ll also need to be able to talk to whoever worked with the boy. Which kom-mando did Franz work in before you took him in?"
"Kanada," he said. "He worked in Kanada.”
Kanada was the name given by prisoners to the group of warehouses where the belongings of the murdered Jews of Auschwitz were sorted and stored before being shipped to Germany. It was Polish for Canada, a country of legendary wealth and abundance, which was the association conjured up by the massive amount of property plundered from the victims.
"Can you arrange for me to be stationed there?"
He raised a thick eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth tilted upward. "You would like that, wouldn’t you? Better than what you do now, I suppose?"
Kanada was considered among the best postings a prisoner could get. The prisoners of the Kanada Kommando worked in the warehouses or on the train platform. The work was less strenuous than in other kommandos, and one might find food and various other treasures among the belongings of the dead.
"Much better," I said. "But the reason I need to be there is to be able to talk to prisoners who knew Franz. He worked there until recently. Someone there might have held a grudge against him or know of someone who did.”
The Lageralteste nodded. "That makes sense. But if you're thinking of stretching this out so you can take it easy in Kanada, you’d be making a big mistake. I want results, and I want them fast. Four days from now is Sunday, when for some stupid reason you lazy Jews get a day off work. Well, if you fail to catch this killer, you don’t deserve any rest. So you have until Saturday night to solve this case, or I’ll return to my original plan for you. Is that clear?”
I nodded, trying to hide my fear. I didn’t bother telling him what Sundays were really like for us—that we had to stand in endless roll calls, often punctuated by stretches of degrading physical exercise, and witness brutal punishments administered to our fellow prisoners or be subjected to them ourselves. That we had to clean our block, have our body hair shaved, and take a communal shower under blasting jets of freezing water, without soap or anything to dry ourselves with.
"I understand," I said, trying to come to grips with the fact that I had three days to solve a murder or die.
“And just so each of us knows where we stand," he went on, “you will get nothing for this job. No food, no clothes, no cigarettes. Absolutely nothing. Your only compensation is your miserable life. Not that it changes the overall equation, because here in Auschwitz, your life is worth nothing." He grinned, pleased with himself.
"All right. But I do have one request," I said.
His self-satisfaction gave way to angry astonishment. "Don’t push me, Jew.”
"It’s not a material request. I think you’ll find it to your liking.” I told him what I wanted, and he broke out laughing.
"You are a wily son of a bitch, aren't you?” he said. "Very well, I’ll allow it. Anything else?"
"Just one more question. Where did Franz sleep?"
Again he gestured with his chin. "The other room. With Mathias and the Stubendiensts. You can talk to them too, if you like, but it will have to be tomorrow. They’re busy with the prisoners now. And it’s time you left as well. You need to get back to your block. I’ll see you out."
With that he rose from his chair and rounded the table, approaching me. For a heartbeat I thought he was actually going to offer me his hand. Instead, faster than I could blink, he drew back his right fist and drove it forward like a piston, right into my solar plexus. I was not prepared for the blow, and it folded me in half. An eruption of pain and nausea engulfed me. I crashed to the floor and lay there with my knees drawn to my chest. I gasped for air, bile clawing at my throat, tears pumping out of my eyes.
A shadow fell over me. Through the blur of tears, I could see the Lageralteste's boots, shiny and black, very near my face. This had all been a game, a cruel, depraved game, meant to give me false hope. He was going to kick me now. Kick me right in the face. He was going to split my lips, bust my teeth, crush my nose. He wasn't going to stop until I was dead.
But he didn’t kick me. Instead, he crouched next to me, bringing his head so close to mine that I could smell the wine on his breath. He said, "Just so you know what will happen to you if you fail."
Then he rose to his full height, opened the door, and bade Mathias inside.
“Help him up and see him to his block. Make sure he’s posted to Kanada until further notice. Oh, and one more thing.” He told Mathias of my request. “Let him do what he wants. He certainly has cause."