The Commandant of Lubizec: A Novel of the Holocaust and Operation Reinhard by Patrick Hicks Page A

the guards began hitting them with truncheons. A terrible wailing filled up the platform as rain guttered off the cattle cars and, standing in the middle of the boys like a protective willow tree, was a tall man in a hat. When the guards asked who he was the man simply answered, “The director of the orphanage.”
    Although we don’t know this man’s name (let us call him Aron Joffe so that at least he has a name), he could have abandoned these boys and taken his chances at Lubizec, he could have said he was by himself and that he was a hard worker, but that’s not what he did. Instead, this tall man stood in the middle of 150 terrified boys and did something profoundly good.
    “You’re all with me,” he shouted. “Boys, boys. We’ll be shown to our rooms shortly. Hush now. Stop crying. You’re all loved.”
    When order was restored, the guards stepped back under the long wooden awning. Guth stood beneath his umbrella and continued his speech as if nothing had happened. He smoked a cigarette and flicked it against the glossy wet train.
    “Welcome to Lubizec,” he said, climbing down from his box.
    The boys were herded into the Rose Garden, where they clustered around the tall man in a hat. Aron Joffe, as we are calling him, looked around as if sizing up the camp. He nodded as if coming to some kind of horrible realization. Water dripped off the brim of his hat.
    “Boys, boys,” he said. “Listen. Do I have your full and complete attention? Good. As you’ve all heard, we need to take a shower. Yes, I know it’s raining and … yes, we probably don’t need a shower but … listen to me … listen … after
that
we’ll be given bread and butter and cookies.”
    Some of them cheered.
    “We need to follow the commandant’s orders first and then he’ll give us a big, beautiful meal.” He stressed the last word with a smile. “I’m sure the guards won’t hit anyone if we follow their orders. Isn’t that right, Herr Commandant? No more hitting?”
    Guth usually went back to his office but on that rainy afternoon of sheeting water he stood beneath the hemisphere of his umbrella and nodded. The boys were then marched down a narrow path. They stomped in puddles. They took off their clothes and talked about eating boiled eggs, different kinds of cheeses, apples, and potatoes. The director of the orphanage encouraged them to think of other foods as he took off his waistcoat and unhooked his belt. He folded his trousers and took off his hat as the rain kept on coming down.
    “What else will we eat?”
    The boys began to shout. Toffee! Pierogi! Matzah ball soup! Pears! Cherries! Lamb! Salmon!
    When the director was completely naked he covered up his penis with one hand and kept the list going, as if he were conducting a symphony. “What else? What else?”
    The boys, all 150 of them, marched up the Road to Heaven shouting out food they would soon be eating. The guards stood in the pouring rain and didn’t raise their clubs. They simply watched the boys file past them into the whitewashed building as if they were on some kind of strange field trip. The director paused when he heard the clattering engine. He covered his mouth and let out a little gasp.
    “Oh, my God. You boys are
so
wonderful,” he said with tears in his eyes. “Thank you for being so good and beautiful. You’re all loved. Do you know that, boys? All of you. That’s right. I’m coming too. I’m here, boys. I’m here.”
    When everyone was inside, the man ran both hands through his wet hair and turned to Guth.
    “How can you bring yourself to do this?” He broke down. “They’re such good boys. They’ve done nothing wrong.”
    Thunder crackled and roiled the sky, but Guth said nothing.
    Crying came from inside the brick building and the director wiped his eyes. He took a deep breath, smiled, and stepped in.
    “It’s okay. I’m here, I’m here.”
    Guth stood beneath his black umbrella and tried to light another cigarette as