was every man for himself. Helping a struggling comrade almost certainly earned you the lash of a whip or the kick of a jackboot and did the comrade no good at all.
“I’m going to die in this place,” Rudy said dismally one evening when they had collapsed on their bunks after an extended evening roll call. “I can’t go on like this.”
“You can and you must!” insisted Kurt. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.” He looked across at his old friend, and took in his emaciated state. They had all lost weight, the meagre diet and hard physical work had ensured that, but he saw now that Rudy was in a worse state than the rest of them. The flesh had fallen away from his face, so that his skull seemed to strain through the parchment of his skin. His arms and legs, poking from under his camp overalls, looked skeletal in the harsh light of the lamp. But it was his eyes that told Kurt that Rudy was right. There was nothing in his eyes, sunk into the hollows of his face, but a blank stare; the life had gone out of his eyes.
“It’s all right for you,” Rudy said. “Most of the time I can’t even see where I’m going. They shout ‘Tempo! Tempo! Los! Los!’ and I don’t know which way to run.”
The next day he was detailed to break up the concrete blocks from one of the demolished buildings. Swinging the heavy hammer was beyond him, and one of the guards, a sadistic bully called Schuller, grabbed the sledgehammer from Rudy’s grasp and swung it himself, smashing it down onto Rudy’s legs. With an agonised scream, Rudy collapsed, his legs useless beneath him. Blood streamed, soaking through his grubby white overalls, as he writhed on the ground with pain.
Schuller looked down at him dispassionately and said, “That is how you swing a sledgehammer.” He looked round the rest of the crew. “Why aren’t you working?” he bawled. “Does anyone else want a demonstration?” The rest of the detail turned away from Rudy, trying to close their ears to his agonised cries. Schuller looked down at him with contempt and then pointed to the man nearest to him. “You! You take him back to his hut. On the double! You’ve five minutes to be back here!”
It was Kleiber whom he’d chosen. Kleiber dropped his hammer and bent to Rudy. There was no way he could carry him without subjecting him to further agony, so he simply picked him up and hoisted him over his shoulder, his smashed legs dangling behind, his blood pouring onto the gravel. Kleiber took him back towards the ranks of huts with Schuller’s bellow of “Tempo! Tempo!” echoing in his ears. When he reached the hut he laid Rudy on his bunk. He was no longer screaming, he had passed out with the pain. Kleiber tried to straighten the damaged legs, but he could see that Rudy would never walk again.
“Poor bugger! Better off unconscious,” Kleiber muttered as he looked down at the motionless body. “Better off dead, now.”
When they returned to the hut at the end of the day, they found Rudy was indeed dead. His bed was soaked in blood, his pale face a mask of agony.
Kleiber told them what had happened. “Nothing we could have done for him, poor bugger,” he said. “He was a goner as soon as that bastard Schuller raised the sledge.”
Kurt looked down at the man whom he’d known all his life. Rudy, the teacher that all the children had loved, lying in a pool of blood with his legs smashed.
“What happens to him now?” he asked Kleiber.
“We take him out to roll call,” replied Kleiber. “Now!”
“We what?” Kurt was incredulous.
“He’s not reported dead yet, is he?” Kleiber sounded weary. “If he’s not on parade the numbers won’t tally and we’ll all be out there all night. Remember last week?”
How could they forget it? For some reason the numbers at evening roll call had been out and the entire camp had stood there for six hours under the glare of the searchlights before being allowed to crawl back to their huts for a couple
“I’m going to die in this place,” Rudy said dismally one evening when they had collapsed on their bunks after an extended evening roll call. “I can’t go on like this.”
“You can and you must!” insisted Kurt. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.” He looked across at his old friend, and took in his emaciated state. They had all lost weight, the meagre diet and hard physical work had ensured that, but he saw now that Rudy was in a worse state than the rest of them. The flesh had fallen away from his face, so that his skull seemed to strain through the parchment of his skin. His arms and legs, poking from under his camp overalls, looked skeletal in the harsh light of the lamp. But it was his eyes that told Kurt that Rudy was right. There was nothing in his eyes, sunk into the hollows of his face, but a blank stare; the life had gone out of his eyes.
“It’s all right for you,” Rudy said. “Most of the time I can’t even see where I’m going. They shout ‘Tempo! Tempo! Los! Los!’ and I don’t know which way to run.”
The next day he was detailed to break up the concrete blocks from one of the demolished buildings. Swinging the heavy hammer was beyond him, and one of the guards, a sadistic bully called Schuller, grabbed the sledgehammer from Rudy’s grasp and swung it himself, smashing it down onto Rudy’s legs. With an agonised scream, Rudy collapsed, his legs useless beneath him. Blood streamed, soaking through his grubby white overalls, as he writhed on the ground with pain.
Schuller looked down at him dispassionately and said, “That is how you swing a sledgehammer.” He looked round the rest of the crew. “Why aren’t you working?” he bawled. “Does anyone else want a demonstration?” The rest of the detail turned away from Rudy, trying to close their ears to his agonised cries. Schuller looked down at him with contempt and then pointed to the man nearest to him. “You! You take him back to his hut. On the double! You’ve five minutes to be back here!”
It was Kleiber whom he’d chosen. Kleiber dropped his hammer and bent to Rudy. There was no way he could carry him without subjecting him to further agony, so he simply picked him up and hoisted him over his shoulder, his smashed legs dangling behind, his blood pouring onto the gravel. Kleiber took him back towards the ranks of huts with Schuller’s bellow of “Tempo! Tempo!” echoing in his ears. When he reached the hut he laid Rudy on his bunk. He was no longer screaming, he had passed out with the pain. Kleiber tried to straighten the damaged legs, but he could see that Rudy would never walk again.
“Poor bugger! Better off unconscious,” Kleiber muttered as he looked down at the motionless body. “Better off dead, now.”
When they returned to the hut at the end of the day, they found Rudy was indeed dead. His bed was soaked in blood, his pale face a mask of agony.
Kleiber told them what had happened. “Nothing we could have done for him, poor bugger,” he said. “He was a goner as soon as that bastard Schuller raised the sledge.”
Kurt looked down at the man whom he’d known all his life. Rudy, the teacher that all the children had loved, lying in a pool of blood with his legs smashed.
“What happens to him now?” he asked Kleiber.
“We take him out to roll call,” replied Kleiber. “Now!”
“We what?” Kurt was incredulous.
“He’s not reported dead yet, is he?” Kleiber sounded weary. “If he’s not on parade the numbers won’t tally and we’ll all be out there all night. Remember last week?”
How could they forget it? For some reason the numbers at evening roll call had been out and the entire camp had stood there for six hours under the glare of the searchlights before being allowed to crawl back to their huts for a couple
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