"We’re not here for dinner,” I said.
He paid me no mind. "I need to go upstairs." He ran a hand down the sleeve of his striped shirt, which hung on his body as baggily as on a rack. "I must change before dinner. There’s not much time."
The Mumbler’s uniform was an amalgam of stains and filth. The front of his shirt was crusted with a brownish stain that might have been spilled soup or morning tea, but could also have been blood. Franz's blood?
The rest of his clothes weren’t much better. The seat of his trousers was dark and wet with his shit. One trouser leg was torn, revealing an ankle as thin as a stick and dotted with blue and black spots.
"Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You look fine."
The Mumbler’s eyes bulged further. He looked horrified. “Mother would insist. Especially now that we have guests." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, encompassing Vilmos and myself. Then his lips stretched into what might have once been the practiced smile of a young host, but which now looked like the deranged grin of a mental patient. "Toast with butter, baked apples, cool lemonade..."
"We’re not here for dinner," I said again, a bit forcefully. "We're here to talk to you."
He looked delighted. "How wonderful! But let’s talk after we eat. I’m famished. And mother has worked so hard to prepare everything." He sniffed and sighed in contentment, his nose tickled by delicious aromas that existed solely in his head. “Vegetable soup, cutlets of veal, peas, vanilla ice cream..."
It was no use. He was in his own world, running on his own track. He was a useless witness.
I looked at Vilmos, hoping he’d have some idea on how to breach the Mumbler’s fantasy and access whatever true memories he might possess.
Vilmos shrugged, then leaned over and whispered to me, "Perhaps we should play along with his delusion. Be the guests he clearly wants us to be."
It seemed preposterous and futile, but I was desperate. If the Mumbler had seen something, I needed to know what it was. We didn’t have much time. The sky was rapidly darkening, and soon it would be time to go to our block for the night.
I plastered a wide smile on my face, took the Mumbler by the elbow, and pulled him down with me to sit on the ground. Then I pretended to unfurl a napkin and spread it across my lap. "Let’s eat," I said with a smile.
For a few long minutes, the three of us talked of nothing but the imaginary food on the Mumbler’s make-believe table. It was a meal like none the world had ever seen. Two dozen main courses, twice as many appetizers, and more types of dessert than I knew existed.
It was also torture. Simply hearing of all those scrumptious dishes made my stomach cramp and a hungry voice wail in my head. Vilmos looked just as anguished, but he kept up the show, remarking favorably on each course, complimenting the choice of wine, and generally buttering the Mumbler up.
The Mumbler looked as happy as a man could be. And why wouldn't he? In his mind, he was sitting on a plush chair, not the barren ground of Auschwitz. In his nose were the aromas of his favorite foods, not the reek of burning flesh and his own stink. Around him were the familiar and comforting walls of his old dining room, not barbed wire and watchtowers and blocks unfit for human habitation. And in his belly there was ample food and drink, not the howling emptiness that shrieked like a banshee.
But more than anything else, the Mumbler appeared to enjoy our company. Perhaps he had been aware on some level of his solitude, and here he was socializing again, playing host. People were actually listening to him. He basked in our presence, relishing our compliments. He smiled constantly, the dark space where his teeth had once been a symbol of his perforated cognitive state.
Like his mood, his speech improved as well. A bit of modulation entered his voice, and with it a hint of a crisp German accent. The words no longer tumbled from his mouth in a rambling stream. Now they were clearly delineated, which made him sound half-reasonable.
We had finally reached the final dessert—cheesecake with fresh strawberries— when Vilmos patted his stomach and proclaimed how delightful the meal had been. I chimed in as well, saying I was stuffed. The Mumbler beamed, his smile that of a skull covered by a thin sheet.
Vilmos gave me a quick nod, then leaned a bit toward the Mumbler and said, "We were wondering about a friend of ours you might have met.”
"A friend?" the Mumbler said. "What friend?"
"He was a guest at the dinner party you threw three nights ago. Do you remember it?"
The Mumbler nodded. “Of course. What a splendid night it was. Full of laughter and food. But there were so many people—friends of friends, you know.” He let out a self-conscious chuckle. “I don’t actually know everyone who attended."
“Our friend is a youngster," I said. “A teenager really. He’s...” I stumbled for a description, having never seen Franz, then remembered what Vilmos and Jakob said of him. “Very handsome. Fair hair, clear skin, delicate features."
The Mumbler took this all in with the utmost seriousness. “I’m not sure I know who he is. What about him?”
Vilmos and I exchanged a look, unsure of how to proceed. Then an idea came to me. During our fake dinner, the Mumbler had mentioned a large back garden in his lost home. I decided to make use of it. “After dinner, our friend stepped out into your back garden.” I waited, hoping I was not shattering the Mumbler’s illusion, but he seemed to be listening to me intently. "Something happened to him. He got hurt pretty badly. Bled a lot."
The Mumbler blinked a few times very rapidly, and his smile disappeared. A glimmer of dread showed in his eyes, then a haze descended over them, and he began to mumble again, “Scones smeared with marmalade, cold beer, smoked Frankfurters, cookies filled with red currant jam, pickled herring...”
I was losing him, but now I was sure he had seen something. I grabbed his forearm, wincing as my fingers closed upon what felt like nothing but bones under his sleeve. “Stop it now! You know who we’re talking about. What did you see?"
The Mumbler shook his head violently. “Meatloaf in a bun, roasted goose with thyme, gingerbread with almonds..."
I was so frustrated I was ready to shake him, but Vilmos put a hand on my arm. “That’s not the way, Adam."
He was right. The Mumbler was beyond such persuasion. I needed to find another way. I thought for a moment, and then it came to me.
“Shall we ask Mother?” I said. “Maybe she knows.”
The Mumbler fell silent abruptly. He was utterly still. All except for his lips, which were quivering. “Mother?”
“Yes. Maybe she would know what happened to your guest.”
“No, no, no. Mother saw nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
“But you did,” I said. “And you need to tell us what.”
“I don’t want to,” the Mumbler said. “I don't want to talk about it.”
“It’s not pleasant, we know. Not the proper way a dinner party should end. But he was your guest. You have a duty to safeguard his well-being. He got hurt, and we’re here to help put things right. You need to tell us what you saw. Or shall we go ask Mother what she thinks?"
The Mumbler gave me a pleading look. “No. Oh no. Don't do that. It would only make her unhappy.”
Shame washed over me. Here was another sin I was committing in this camp. I had found this man's vulnerability and I was exploiting it. He was beyond most of the suffering that had brought him to his sorry state, but he was still terrified of upsetting his mother and of her being upset with him. All this despite the near certainty that she was dead.
"We won’t,” Vilmos said. “You have our word. Just tell us what happened to our friend."