The tears had dwindled, so I could make out Mathias's face. He took in my request impassively. Maybe he was good at hiding his thoughts, or maybe he didn't find it strange. He nodded understanding, bent down, grabbed me under the armpits, and hauled me out.
The Lageralteste shut the door to his room. Through it, I could hear his gruff laughter.
14
Outside the block, Mathias gave me time to recover. The pain in my torso was so sharp, I could not stand straight and instead was on hands and knees on the dirt. I’d received my share of blows over the years, but I had never been punched as hard as this.
“It’ll pass in a minute or two," Mathias said, his voice flat. “At least the worst of it."
He was right, though I could not swear on how long it took. Severe pain makes it difficult to estimate time. But after a while, the pain subsided sufficiently for me to push myself onto my feet, wincing as I did.
Mathias gave me the tiniest smile. “He certainly packs a punch, doesn’t he?”
I grimaced. "And he knows where to place it."
"At least he didn’t hit you in the face. You’d be missing teeth if he did.”
We started walking. I ran my tongue over my teeth. They were grimy and gritty, having not been brushed since my arrival at the camp, but at least I still had all of them. Many prisoners lost some of their teeth, due to fights or their inability to care for them. Every morning, I checked my teeth to see if any felt loose. I had no idea what I’d do when one of them actually did.
"I’ll make sure to count my blessings," I said.
"You should,” Mathias said. “If he didn’t need you, you’d be dead right now. Or on the way to being dead."
"You know of my history?"
"Yes. The prisoner who ratted you out came to me first."
"And you took him to the Lageralteste?''
"Yes.”
"I suppose you hate cops as much as he does?"
"Not really."
"No? I thought all criminals hated cops."
"Don’t get me wrong—I don’t like cops very much, but most of them just do their job, what they have to. Like we all do here."
I studied him as we walked. Like the Lageralteste, he was not wearing a striped uniform and clogs. Instead, he had on black leather shoes, black trousers, and a fine jacket with a wide collar. Unlike the Lageralteste, Mathias carried his classy outfit well. He looked like a man on his way to a social outing rather than a prisoner in Auschwitz.
His gait matched his manner of speech—easy and even. He had a long, straight nose, symmetrical features, and a light complexion with smooth skin, apart from the scar. Slightly above average height and well above average weight— average for Auschwitz, that is. In the ordinary world, he would have been considered trim.
He was a handsome man, despite the scar. I wondered how he’d gotten it, but I didn’t ask.
Instead, I said, “Do you also know of my mission?”
He nodded. "I’m to be your contact. If you learn anything, or need anything, you come to me."
"You’re not a suspect?"
Mathias looked at me. In the dim light of dusk, his eyes were black and inscrutable. “The Lageralteste trusts me."
"I would have thought a man like that would trust no one.”
"He does me.”
"Why is that?”
"We’ve known each other for a long time. Been through some tough things together.”
"Does this mean you don't have an alibi for when Franz died?"
"I do, actually. I was inspecting a part of the camp with another functionary during that afternoon. And later, I was with the Lageralteste in his room throughout that evening. I didn't leave the block until the next morning.”
"Not even to get your evening meal?"
He allowed himself a small closed-mouth smile. "I get my food another way."
Of course he did. He wouldn’t stand in line like an ordinary prisoner. Nor would he subsist on the same miserable diet.
"When did you last see Franz?"
"Sometime during the afternoon."
"Late afternoon or early?”
"Early, I think.”
This meant that the time of death was between early afternoon and when Vil-mos discovered the body, which was shortly before curfew. It also meant that the killer could have belonged to one of the kommandos that operated outside the camp and returned before the evening meal. So basically, any prisoner in our camp could have committed this murder.
"You share a room with Franz?"
He nodded.
"Didn’t it strike you as odd that he wasn't there when you turned in for the night?”
"I went to sleep early that day. I was drunk, you see.”
Which wasn't uncommon among prisoner functionaries, nor among the SS guards. It seemed that drunkenness made it easier to do evil unto your fellow man.
"Was that usual, you going to sleep when Franz was still out?"
"It happened."
"What about during that night? Did you see him?"
"I slept the whole night through.”
It said a lot about my circumstances that this answer nearly caused me to trip over my own feet. "You did not wake once?"
"No. I usually don’t."
I was speechless for a moment. I had not had a full night's sleep since I’d arrived in Auschwitz. The noises other prisoners made in their sleep, every tiny motion of my bunkmates, not to mention the need to urinate several times during the night—the result of our mostly liquid diet—jolted me awake repeatedly. Not that I should have been surprised. Prisoner functionaries slept in separate rooms, much less crowded rooms, and they ate better. Why shouldn’t they sleep full nights?
"Who else sleeps in the room you shared with Franz?”
"Two Stubendiensts. The two men who escorted you to our block."
"I suppose you asked them the same questions I asked you?"
"Just about. They said that Franz wasn’t there when they went to bed."
"Did they also go to sleep early?”
"I don’t know,” Mathias said. “I was already asleep.”
"Do they also have alibis?”
"No. I’m the only one."
"I take it both of them have committed murder before."
"I don’t know of any reason either of them would kill Franz, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
"Would it take a reason? Maybe one of them did it for fun."
The corner of his mouth twitched in subtle amusement. "Look around you. There’s no shortage of men to kill here if that's what gives you pleasure."
Like all truths in Auschwitz, this one was blunt, harsh, and unimpeachable. Mathias was right—if one of the Lageralteste’s assistants had murdered Franz, he must have had a damn good reason.
"Did both of them sleep the whole night through as well?" I asked.
"One of them didn’t. He said he got up in the middle of the night to piss. He sleeps on the opposite side of the room from Franz's bunk, so he says he didn’t notice if Franz was there. As it so happens, he did see me, because my bunk is below his.” He paused for a moment. "So I guess I have an even stronger alibi than I thought.”
It seemed he was right. But I would have to hear it from the witness myself.
"I understand you were the one who found the body."
"Yes.”
"Did you see any other wounds apart from the one in his throat?”
Mathias thought about it and shook his head. "I don’t remember seeing any, but I wasn’t looking for them either."
"Was there a lot of blood?”
"Yes.”
"At some distance from the body?”
He glanced at me. "Some of it. Why?"
“Because when you sever an artery, blood spurts, often to a surprising distance. Some would have almost certainly hit the killer."