Between the rear of the latrines and the fences ran a dry ditch with a mound of earth along its western bank. It had obviously been dug for some purpose, perhaps as a drainage or sewage ditch, but for one reason or another it had never been put to its intended use. The ditch itself, and the small piece of ground between it and the latrines, was a blind spot, where the lights from the watchtowers did not reach. This could not be used to escape the camp, but it was perfect for clandestine meetings, being out of sight of both guards and prisoners. There were several such spots in the camp. The Germans probably knew about most of them, but they cared little about what went on among the prisoners, as long as there were no escapes or revolts, or anything that interfered with the wholesale destruction of Jews or the extraction of slave labor from the prisoners.
This particular spot was not as popular as others because the stench wafting from the latrines hung over it like a pestilence.
"What were you doing there?" I asked.
Vilmos looked at his clogs. "I was meeting someone.”
We were quiet for a moment as Gyuri came to collect our filled buckets and to give us two empty ones.
"Who did you meet?” I asked when Cyuri had climbed out of the trench and Vil-mos and I were alone once more.
"No one. The only person I saw was the dead boy."
"All right, but who did you intend to meet?"
"It doesn't matter, Adam.”
"It does if this man heard or saw anything, or perhaps did worse.”
Vilmos’s eyes flashed. "He’s not a murderer, I can assure you that."
"Yes, but—”
"And you’re not a police detective anymore, Adam. Not here.”
To that I had no answer. It was the absolute truth.
Vilmos was the only person in Auschwitz who knew of my work history. I refrained from telling any other prisoner for fear word of my former occupation would reach the ears of one of the criminal prisoners. Since many of those had higher status in the camp and were likely to hold an unfavorable opinion of cops, such a revelation could prove detrimental to my continued existence.
Vilmos’s gaze softened. "I’m sorry, Adam. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”
"Nothing to apologize for, Vilmos. You’re absolutely right. I didn’t mean to pry into your business. You don’t have to share anything with me.”
"Please don’t be angry with me, Adam. Your friendship means a great deal to me."
"And yours to me," I said, thinking that Vilmos’s friendship was by far my most prized possession.
Vilmos’s smile was faint and sad. "This place, this dreadful place. It makes it so hard to remain a human being, doesn't it?"
I nodded, unsure of where I currently stood on the spectrum of human morals and values. Since my arrival at the camp, I had slipped a ways toward the corrupt end and felt myself straining to keep from slipping further. But at least I did not stab boys in the throat. Which raised a question...
"You went through the boy’s clothes?” I asked.
"Just a quick search. I was stunned when I found the bread."
"Was it difficult to find?”
"Not at all. It was tucked under his waistband.”
"That's strange, wouldn't you say? Why didn’t the murderer take the bread himself?”
"I don’t know," Vilmos said. "But you’re right. It is strange."
The Kapo had turned around and was coming back our way, so we ceased our conversation and resumed working at a regular pace. I considered the unclaimed bread as I worked, and it felt good to have something to occupy my mind. Something not related to the family I’d lost or the incessant struggle for survival. When the Kapo went to inspect the work of other prisoners, I resumed my questioning.
"Was anything done to the boy?" I asked.
“Apart from the stabbing, you mean?"
"Yes. Something sexual, for instance. Were his trousers lowered?"
"No," Vilmos said. “He was fully clothed."
"Was he lying on his back or front?"
"On his back. Why?"
“Because if he had been lying on his front, I’d have asked you if you noticed any blood on the seat of his trousers. You didn’t happen to turn him over, did you?”
Vilmos looked sick to his stomach. “I didn’t move him. I only searched his clothes for, you know, whatever he might have had.”
It was obvious Vilmos was deeply ashamed of what he’d done. He too had not slipped all the way. At least, not yet.
"What about other wounds or cuts? Did you see any?”
"I don’t think so.”
"Nothing on the hands or arms?”
Vilmos closed his eyes in concentration. “It was already pretty gloomy when I saw him, and there was a lot of blood. His hands were drenched all over. I don’t know if it was because he tried to stanch the blood flow from the wound in his throat or because he sustained other injuries.”
Which told me absolutely nothing. If the boy had no cuts on his hands and arms, it might have meant that he had been caught by surprise or killed by someone he knew. You come at someone with a knife, and he’ll instinctively raise his arms to protect himself. Not that it does much good, usually. Flesh is no match for sharp metal. But it would leave clear marks—cuts and slashes on the victim’s hands and arms.
"You’re sure it was a stab wound?" I asked. "Not a slashing one?"
"A stab wound. I could see the hole. His throat was all bloody, of course, but I’d have noticed if he’d been slashed.”
Which might or might not have been true. Some people’s powers of observation deteriorate significantly at the sight of blood and death. Vilmos’s recollection could be faulty. For all I knew, the boy’s throat had been slashed. For all I knew, there had been defensive cuts on the boy’s hands and arms, and Vilmos did not remember seeing them. I wished I could study photographs of the dead body, but of course there weren’t any.
"Is this how you were as a detective?" Vilmos said. "Asking all these terrible questions?”
I clenched my jaw, dug my shovel into the crumbling earth, hoisted it up, and dumped the load into a bucket. I’d forgotten myself again. In my mind, I was already picturing myself examining the boy's body and looking for clues at the murder scene. I was being ridiculous. That life was over. "Yeah. That’s what the job entails.”
"It was quite impressive. I wish I’d known you then, before the war.”
"I wish so too. But let’s talk about other things. Like you said, I’m not a detective anymore, and this isn't my case. I doubt if it's anyone’s.”
"Probably not," Vilmos said.
And why should it be? What did the death of one nameless boy matter in this place where thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of other boys lost their lives? The answer was that it mattered not at all.
6
At lunchtime, we formed a line again, this time to claim our soup. One’s position in the line was of the utmost importance. Because the fact of the matter was that one bowl of soup was not the equal of another. It all depended on the soup’s composition, the depth of the vat holding it, and the manner in which the prisoner distributing the soup ladled it out.
If the soup contained chunks of potatoes, for example, the upper half of the soup would not be as nutritious as the lower, since the potatoes would naturally sink to the bottom. So positioning yourself at the back of the line might prove more rewarding.
But if, instead, the soup was enriched by thin strips of unidentifiable meat, which happened now and then, you might find these morsels of protein bobbing on the surface. In that case, you would be wise to stand near the front of the line.
It was a complex puzzle, with many variables, as intricate as any mathematical theorem that had frustrated great minds over the centuries. And one, arguably, upon whose solution much graver matters hinged.