"That's enough,” I said.
Hendrik straightened and gave me a stare full of astonishment and rage. He stood with his feet wide apart and his arms slightly bent at either side of him, a stance that hinted at barely restrained violence. His fingers kept opening and closing. I was now between him and Cyuri, who was still on the floor, still weeping.
"Who the hell are you?” Hendrik said. He had a gravelly voice that added to his threatening demeanor. It didn’t surprise me that he didn't know my name. There were hundreds of prisoners in our block, and, unlike Hendrik, I did not stand out among them.
"My name is Adam," I answered.
"Why did you push me?”
"To stop you from kicking this man." I pointed at Cyuri without taking my eyes off Hendrik. I might have added an apology or a mollifying explanation, but Hendrik was a thug, and neither of those things would have appeased him.
"You know him?”
I shook my head.
"Then why do you care what happens to him?"
Back in normal life, the answer would have been automatic. Now I had to think about it.
"I just don't think we should be killing each other,” I said. "That would be helping the Germans."
Hendrik scoffed. “Look at him. You think he’s going to make it? He won't last a week.”
"That may be. But if he dies, it won’t be tonight, and it won’t be by your hands."
Behind me, Gyuri let out another howl of agony. Hendrik’s jaw tightened.
"I don’t want to kill him—just to get him to stop making that racket."
Which might have been true. But Hendrik hadn’t meant to kill the man whose wrist he’d fractured, either.
"Have a heart, Hendrik. The man just lost his wife and six children."
Hendrik was unmoved. “We’ve all lost family. Every one of us here. We need some peace. We need our sleep. How are we going to make it through tomorrow if he keeps us up all night?"
It was a fair question, and I had no good answer. As though to bolster Hendrik’s argument, Gyuri let out a couple of sharp shrieks, which then dwindled to loud, breathy, grating whimpers. Hardly the sort of sounds conducive to sleep.
Not that our block was ever quiet at night. How could it be, with hundreds of prisoners crammed together in such close quarters, sleeping on bunks that would have felt crowded with a third of their occupants? The moans of the hungry, the groans of the sick and injured, the curses of those jostled from sleep by their bunk-mates, the cries of those afflicted by nightmares—these were but a few of the nasty notes comprising the symphony of misery that served as the soundtrack of our nights.
Still, Gyuri’s wails had a unique, piercing quality to them. They rattled my nerves and stabbed at my eardrums as other sounds of anguish did not.
Hendrik offered me a smile that had as much warmth in it as a Hungarian winter. “Fine. I won’t kick him. I’ll be gentle, I promise. Now step aside."
"No," I said.
The smile disappeared. He sized me up. He was not as tall as I was, but he had more meat on him. He was also vicious, and he liked to fight.
"Step aside,” he repeated, his voice pitched menacingly low. It was probably a tone that had served him well in his previous life and also here in the camp.
I shook my head.
Hendrik pursed his lips, gave a couple of contemplative nods, and cast his eyes around us. We had attracted an audience. From their bunks, or from where they were standing or sitting, dozens of our blockmates had turned their emaciated heads our way. A few had edged closer for a better view. Some gazed with grotesque curiosity; others looked on with no hint of real interest.
Fights were not rare. You packed this many men into such a cramped space in such squalid conditions and there was bound to be friction. Were it not for our overall fatigue and the need to conserve energy for the next day, we would have been at one another’s throats with much greater frequency.
Hendrik was looking aside when he made his move. It was a ploy to catch me offguard, but I was ready for it. When he swung his fist at my head, I ducked it easily. I moved in under his arm and pushed him again, this time harder. He fell, sprawling on his back with a grunt.
"I’m not looking for a fight," I told him. "Just stay away from this man."
Hendrik pushed himself up. He was fuming. But there was also a wary look in his eyes. I was turning out to be a more challenging foe than he had expected.
"You’ve made a big mistake,” Hendrik said. “A big mistake."
I didn’t answer him. There was a good chance he was right. Why was I risking myself for Gyuri? I didn’t know him. I didn't really care about him. I wanted him to shut up, too. But I couldn’t allow Hendrik to beat him. The state he was in, Gyuri was incapable of defending himself.
Again, Hendrik looked aside, but this time there was no subterfuge. He caught the eye of two other prisoners, a pair that was chummy with him.
"Marco, Jan, come help me teach this idiot a lesson.”
Marco and Jan were smaller than Hendrik, but both had mean faces. They came to stand beside Hendrik, who gave me a cruel smile. None of the spectators moved to intervene. It seemed they were smarter than I was.
"Last chance," Hendrik said. "Don’t be stupid. It’s three against one."
"No," I said, feeling foolish and even angry with myself. How did I get involved in this mess? Was I really going to sacrifice myself for this whimpering stranger?
"Good," Hendrik said. "I was hoping you’d say that."
Just then, right when the three of them were about to pounce, a voice called out, "Wait a minute!" and I saw Vilmos elbow his way through the crowd of onlookers. He gazed at Gyuri, then at me, and finally at Hendrik and his friends.
"Three against two," he said, and I was gratified to note that his voice barely quavered.
He was not a formidable man by any means—short, narrow-boned, with a distinct intellectual cast to his features. His voice was equally unmenacing—soft and cultured and slightly high-pitched. The sort of voice that would scare off precisely no one.
I doubted Vilmos had ever been involved in a real brawl. From what he’d told me, his life before the war had been a sheltered one. But here he was, standing at my side, risking everything. My respect for him swelled.
Hendrik and his pals hesitated. The odds were still in their favor, but less so than a minute ago. Still, they had committed themselves. They could not back down now. Not without a good reason.
Fortunately, Vilmos proceeded to provide them with one.
He stuck his hand under his striped shirt and came out holding two pieces of bread. Brandishing them, he said, "For you—if you back off and let us quiet this man down ourselves."
Hendrik, Jan, and Marco all stared at the bread. I was staring at it too. My mouth hung open, drool dripping down my chin. I wiped it off with the back of my hand, my eyes still riveted to the bread.
My stomach grumbled. The perpetual emptiness ached deep inside me. I could taste the bread, sense its rough, dry texture as my teeth gnawed it to bits. I felt a wild, primitive urge to yank the bread from Vilmos’s hand, even if it meant striking him down.
But I didn’t. I managed to control myself. Maybe I was a man still.
With a grin, Hendrik snatched the bread. “You got a deal," he said to Vilmos. To me he added, “You're lucky he showed up when he did. Very lucky.”
Hendrik glanced from the bread to Jan and Marco. He folded the bigger piece and shoved it in his mouth. The other piece he tore in two and handed each a share. Around the food in his mouth, he said, "Here."
Jan wolfed down his half. Marco looked about to argue with Hendrik that all three should have gotten an equal share, but in the end, he kept his mouth shut.