managed to keep his protégé alive? By giving him extra rations and selecting only the weakest opponents for him to fight in the gladiatorial contests.
Hate had been Herschel Soferman’s best friend. His hatred for Schreiber had given him the strength to kill his first opponent, much heavier but so much less fleet of foot. Yet he had stil l been human enough to feel utter self-disgust at what he had done. He had still been human enough to feel revolted by the sticky warmth that splattered him as he destroyed another man’s life.
That was then, however. Almost six months ago. And between then and now the humanity of Herschel Soferman had been whittled away until only a splinter remained. Hans Schreiber had stripped Herschel Soferman of his past and robbed him of his future. Maybe there could be no escape from death. On the contrary, maybe it would come as a welcome relief. Maybe he would shortly join Springer and all the others in eternal release, for it was obvious that Schreiber was becoming tired of his plaything. In the last contest, Soferman could have sworn that Schreiber was giving vocal support to his opponent. The Jew thought he had detected a flicker of disappointment in the Nazi’s evil eyes as victim number four had been dispatched. It may simply have been paranoia, but then paranoia was a constant companion in the Small Fortress.
Herschel Soferman sat on his haunches and consumed the last morsel of bread and wurst that had constituted his noon meal. The room was full of shivering prisoners, yet he was alone. Their eyes avoided his, for he knew he was damned, both by his reputation as Schreiber’s favourite and by the purpose he had shown in competition. Each one of the prisoners was right to believe that he might be Herschel Soferman’s next victim. In an even contest, some of them might have believed that they would have a chance. Yet the main great divider was nothing more mundane than food. Compared to normal times it was all pigswill, yet pitting a man who ate three such meals a day regularly against a man who had survived for months on a single daily helping of gruel and mouldy bread was a no-contest. Will without strength spawned an empty threat.
Soferman, morose and old beyond his years, was little more than an automaton. When Hans Schreiber told him to eat, he ate. When Hans Schreiber told him to kill, he killed. Yet, paradoxically, while the Jew thought he would die, he also believed he would live. Hans Schreiber was the very reason he clung to his instinct for survival. Revenge was his motive and hate his strength.
“Soferman!”
The voice and all it represented still succeeded in striking a chill through the hearts of men already numbed by cold and hunger. The forty-three men in the room struggled to attention.
“Soferman, choose twenty men and come with me.”
“ Jawoh l , Herr Obersturmführer.”
Herschel Soferman threaded through the ranks of the prisoners like the angel of death. All stood with heads bowed, as if knowing they were in the presence of their executioner. “ Eins, zwei, dre i ...” Under the watchful eye of Schreiber and two SS guards, he tapped twenty men on the shoulder. With Soferman at their head, the prisoners filed out into the courtyard. The wintry sun provided scant warmth as they stood and waited for further orders. The chattering of teeth provided macabre audible testimony to their plight.
“This is a special detail,” Schreiber called out. “You will follow the guard in single file. Anyone stepping out of line will be shot.”
The first guard stepped forward and stood with his back to Soferman. The men shuffled into line and the second guard took up the rear.
“ Links, recht s ,” Hans Schreiber called out in a bored monotone as the group started to trudge forward.
The first guard led them out of the compound of the Small Fortress and towards a copse about half a kilometre distant. Across the river Ohre they could see the large fortress, their
Hate had been Herschel Soferman’s best friend. His hatred for Schreiber had given him the strength to kill his first opponent, much heavier but so much less fleet of foot. Yet he had stil l been human enough to feel utter self-disgust at what he had done. He had still been human enough to feel revolted by the sticky warmth that splattered him as he destroyed another man’s life.
That was then, however. Almost six months ago. And between then and now the humanity of Herschel Soferman had been whittled away until only a splinter remained. Hans Schreiber had stripped Herschel Soferman of his past and robbed him of his future. Maybe there could be no escape from death. On the contrary, maybe it would come as a welcome relief. Maybe he would shortly join Springer and all the others in eternal release, for it was obvious that Schreiber was becoming tired of his plaything. In the last contest, Soferman could have sworn that Schreiber was giving vocal support to his opponent. The Jew thought he had detected a flicker of disappointment in the Nazi’s evil eyes as victim number four had been dispatched. It may simply have been paranoia, but then paranoia was a constant companion in the Small Fortress.
Herschel Soferman sat on his haunches and consumed the last morsel of bread and wurst that had constituted his noon meal. The room was full of shivering prisoners, yet he was alone. Their eyes avoided his, for he knew he was damned, both by his reputation as Schreiber’s favourite and by the purpose he had shown in competition. Each one of the prisoners was right to believe that he might be Herschel Soferman’s next victim. In an even contest, some of them might have believed that they would have a chance. Yet the main great divider was nothing more mundane than food. Compared to normal times it was all pigswill, yet pitting a man who ate three such meals a day regularly against a man who had survived for months on a single daily helping of gruel and mouldy bread was a no-contest. Will without strength spawned an empty threat.
Soferman, morose and old beyond his years, was little more than an automaton. When Hans Schreiber told him to eat, he ate. When Hans Schreiber told him to kill, he killed. Yet, paradoxically, while the Jew thought he would die, he also believed he would live. Hans Schreiber was the very reason he clung to his instinct for survival. Revenge was his motive and hate his strength.
“Soferman!”
The voice and all it represented still succeeded in striking a chill through the hearts of men already numbed by cold and hunger. The forty-three men in the room struggled to attention.
“Soferman, choose twenty men and come with me.”
“ Jawoh l , Herr Obersturmführer.”
Herschel Soferman threaded through the ranks of the prisoners like the angel of death. All stood with heads bowed, as if knowing they were in the presence of their executioner. “ Eins, zwei, dre i ...” Under the watchful eye of Schreiber and two SS guards, he tapped twenty men on the shoulder. With Soferman at their head, the prisoners filed out into the courtyard. The wintry sun provided scant warmth as they stood and waited for further orders. The chattering of teeth provided macabre audible testimony to their plight.
“This is a special detail,” Schreiber called out. “You will follow the guard in single file. Anyone stepping out of line will be shot.”
The first guard stepped forward and stood with his back to Soferman. The men shuffled into line and the second guard took up the rear.
“ Links, recht s ,” Hans Schreiber called out in a bored monotone as the group started to trudge forward.
The first guard led them out of the compound of the Small Fortress and towards a copse about half a kilometre distant. Across the river Ohre they could see the large fortress, their
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