A number of times I thought I was going to faint, that my muscles would tear, my lungs would burst, or my heart would explode in my chest. Small cuts opened on my palms and fingers as I dropped down again and again on the dry earth. It would have been so easy to give up, to just lie there, but I forced myself to continue. Against all odds, I had survived the passing week. I would not die today.
It was a wonder that Vilmos, weak as he was, did not collapse. My friend had incredible strength.
Once that was over, we were marched to the shower rooms, where cold water pelted our bodies for a minute before we had to put on our stinking uniforms and go out to dry in the sun. In summer, this was but a minor discomfort in the grand scheme of things. In winter, one could easily catch pneumonia and die. Winter was like a catastrophe rolling inexorably toward us. Whenever I thought of it, my heart would lurch and my intestines convulse.
As we were coming out of the shower block, Vilmos and I heard a commotion. A knot of prisoners had gathered not too far from the fence. We made our way over there and encountered a familiar, grisly sight.
A prisoner had leaped at the fence and been electrocuted to death. He lay with the fingers of one hand still clutching the deadly metal links.
"Dammit," I said, fury humming through my veins.
“It’s right where Cyuri did it,” Vilmos mumbled.
I realized he was right. And also that we were standing just about where I’d nearly run into a passing prisoner as I was chasing Gyuri to stop him from killing himself. And as I recalled this, an image of that prisoner bubbled up from some hidden corner of my memory and flashed before my eyes.
He had reddish stubble on his face, a tall forehead, and a prominent pear-shaped nose. No wonder he’d sounded familiar when Stefan had described him to me.
My heart rate jumped. I gazed around me, eyes darting from face to face, sure I would see the redheaded man right there. But he was nowhere to be seen.
"What is it, Adam?” Vilmos asked.
I told him, and his mouth dropped open. Then he asked me to give him a minute and closed his eyes and stood stock still for what seemed like an hour. Just when I was about to ask him what the hell he was doing, he opened his eyes and pointed toward the nearest block.
"That's where he came from."
"The redheaded man?”
Vilmos nodded. “I was running behind you, remember? I saw you and him nearly collide. I wasn’t focused on him at all at the time, but now that I'm running that moment through my head, I remember seeing him exiting that block and walking in that direction."
"Are you sure about this, Vilmos?"
"Just as I’m sure where all the pawns, rooks, knights, and bishops stand on a chess board."
Which was all the convincing I needed. If Vilmos remembered it, that's how it was.
"Let’s go," I said.
The block was identical to our own. It even smelled the same—unwashed skin, blood, urine, sickness, and filth. Dust motes floated thickly in the heavy air. Vilmos and I treaded slowly down the center of the block, searching for the redheaded man with the large nose.
Some of the prisoners were busy doing various chores—checking their bedding for lice, tidying the block, mending their clothes. Others were talking in hushed voices. And then there were those, the weaker ones, who did nothing but lie listlessly in their bunks, their huge eyes blinking the seconds away.
We were more than halfway down the block when we saw him. He was sitting on the heating duct, clipping his nails with the only tool he had in his possession—his teeth. He was just as Stefan had described him: a man of average height, with red stubble on the back of his head and face. And in the middle of that face, like a mountain rising up from a plain, was a nose that was narrow at the bridge and very wide at the nostrils. And flanking it, a pair of slate gray eyes that were assessing us warily.
"What are you guys looking at?” he asked.
"We want to talk to you for a few minutes," I said. "Outside.”
"Talk to me about what?”
"Franz.”
The gray eyes flared for a second. "I don’t know anybody by that name."
"Yes, you do. You can either talk to us about him or the Lageralteste."
His jaw tightened, more in hate than in fear, which surprised me. "You work for him?” The way he said him was like he was spitting the word out.
"No, but I know for a fact that he would be interested in you. It would be better if you talked to us instead."
The way he looked at us, I could tell he wanted nothing more than to knock our teeth in. But the threat of the Lageralteste was a powerful incentive for cooperation. The redheaded man stood up and said, "Fine. Let’s go.”
We followed him out and found a secluded spot.
"What’s your name?” I asked him after Vilmos and I introduced ourselves.
"Konrad," he said. He had a clear German accent and a voice made scratchy by cigarettes. “What do you want?"
"Like I said, we want to talk about Franz.”
"What about him?”
"Do you know he’s dead?"
"I heard about it."
"Do you know he was murdered?"
"I took it as a given that he was."
"Why would you think that?" Vilmos asked, sounding as surprised by the answer as I was.
"That's what he does, isn’t it? That’s how all his boys end up."
Vilmos and I exchanged a look. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn.
"You’re talking about the Lageralteste?” I said.
Konrad’s face turned even more hostile. "Who else?"
“The Lageralteste didn’t kill Franz. Someone else did. Someone stuck a knife in Franz's throat.”
Konrad’s eyebrows notched upward. “You’re serious? Someone stabbed him?"
"That's right. And we want to know who it was.”
He looked from me to Vilmos and back again. "You’re doing this for the Lageralteste?"
"We’re doing it for Franz," I said, which was the truth. Because as far as the Lageralteste was concerned, the killer had already been punished. "The Lageralteste doesn’t know about you.”
"You think I stabbed Franz? You couldn’t be more wrong."
"We have a witness who saw you threaten Franz about two weeks ago. What was that about?"
Konrad took a long breath and let out an equally long sigh. "I wanted to hurt him. That’s the truth."
"Why?" Vilmos asked.
“Because I blamed him for my nephew’s death. Which was stupid of me, but I was crazy with grief and rage. And I didn’t know Franz then.”
"Your nephew?" I said.
"His name was Bruno. My sister’s son. He was—"
“The Lageralteste’s servant before Franz," I completed in a murmur.
Konrad looked at me. "You knew Bruno?"
"No, but I heard about him. I know what the Lageralteste did to him.”
"He murdered him. He was just a boy.”
"And you blamed Franz for this?”
“The Lageralteste killed Bruno to make room for Franz. That's the way he does it with his boys. He kills one before moving on to the next. I was devastated when Bruno died. He was the only family I had left. The rest... well, you can imagine what happened to them. I wanted to kill the Lageralteste, but I didn’t dare. Because I knew I’d likely fail, and I would be dead even if I succeeded. Do you understand?"