wife naturally makes me think of mine.
The Polish Jews are not coming to the Lager en masse, or not yet, but some of them find their way here by a twisted road, as I did, and of course I seek them out and question them. The Jews of Lublin went to a death camp called Belzec; a great number of Jews from Warsaw went to a death camp called Treblinka.
In Łódź the ghetto is still standing. Three months ago I even got news of Shulamith: she is still in the attic above the bakery. I love my wife with all my heart, and I wish her every happiness, but as things now stand I’m glad I’ll never see her again.
How would I tell her about the selections and the disrobing room? How would I tell her about Chełmno and the time of the silent boys?
Shula’s brother, Maček, is safe in Hungary, and he has vowed that he will come for Shula and take her to Budapest. May it be so. I love my wife, but I’m glad I’ll never see her again.
At dawn we discuss the extraterritorial nature of the Lager, and everything is back to normal in the bunkroom, we talk, we use each other’s names, we gesticulate, we raise and lower our voices; and I like to think that there is companionship. But something is missing and is always missing; something intrinsic to human interchange has absented itself.
The eyes. When you start out in the detail, you think, ‘It’s me, it’s just me. I keep my head dropped or averted because I don’t want anyone to see my eyes.’ Then after a time you realise that all the Sonders do it: they try to hide their eyes. And who would have guessed how foundationally necessary it is, in human dealings, to see the eyes? Yes. But the eyes are the windows to the soul, and when the soul is gone the eyes too are untenanted.
Is it companionship – or helpless volubility? Are we capable of listening to – or even hearing – what others say?
This night at the pyre two hoist-frame plinths collapse, and I am down on all fours in a dent in the dunes banging bits of it together again when Doll’s open-topped jeep draws up, thirty metres away, on the gravel road. After some rummaging around he emerges (with the engine ticking over) and moves towards me.
Doll wears thick-looped leather sandals and brown shorts, and nothing else; in his left hand he has a half-full quart of labelled Russian vodka, in his right an oxhide whip which he now playfully cracks. His spongy red chest hair is dotted with beads of sweat that sparkle in the overwhelming glare of the fire. He drinks, and wipes his mouth.
‘So, great warrior, how does it go? Mm. I’d like to thank you for your efforts, Sonderkommandofuhrer. Your initiative and your dedication to our shared cause. You’ve been invaluable.’
‘Sir.’
‘But you know, I think we’ve got the hang of it now. We could probably muddle along without you.’
My toolbag is down by his feet. I reach for it and slide it towards me.
‘Your men.’ He upends the bottle over his mouth. ‘Your men. What do they think is going to happen to them when the Aktion ends? Do they know?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He says sorrowfully, ‘Why d’you do it, Sonder. Why don’t you rise up? Where’s your pride?’
Again the whiplash – the leap of the cord. And again. I have the thought that Doll is disciplining his own weapon: the metal-clad tip makes its distracted leap for freedom, only to be brought to heel with an imperious twitch of the wrist. I said,
‘The men still hope, sir.’
‘Hope for what?’ He briefly panted with laughter. ‘That we’ll suddenly change our minds?’
‘It’s human to hope, sir.’
‘Human. Human. And yourself, noble warrior?’
In the canvas bag my fingers close round the shaft of the hammer; when he next tips his head back to drink I will bring it down, claw-first, on the white nakedness of his instep. He says levelly,
‘You lead a charmed life, Geheimnistrager. Because you’ve made yourself indispensable. We all know that dodge. Like the factories in
The Polish Jews are not coming to the Lager en masse, or not yet, but some of them find their way here by a twisted road, as I did, and of course I seek them out and question them. The Jews of Lublin went to a death camp called Belzec; a great number of Jews from Warsaw went to a death camp called Treblinka.
In Łódź the ghetto is still standing. Three months ago I even got news of Shulamith: she is still in the attic above the bakery. I love my wife with all my heart, and I wish her every happiness, but as things now stand I’m glad I’ll never see her again.
How would I tell her about the selections and the disrobing room? How would I tell her about Chełmno and the time of the silent boys?
Shula’s brother, Maček, is safe in Hungary, and he has vowed that he will come for Shula and take her to Budapest. May it be so. I love my wife, but I’m glad I’ll never see her again.
At dawn we discuss the extraterritorial nature of the Lager, and everything is back to normal in the bunkroom, we talk, we use each other’s names, we gesticulate, we raise and lower our voices; and I like to think that there is companionship. But something is missing and is always missing; something intrinsic to human interchange has absented itself.
The eyes. When you start out in the detail, you think, ‘It’s me, it’s just me. I keep my head dropped or averted because I don’t want anyone to see my eyes.’ Then after a time you realise that all the Sonders do it: they try to hide their eyes. And who would have guessed how foundationally necessary it is, in human dealings, to see the eyes? Yes. But the eyes are the windows to the soul, and when the soul is gone the eyes too are untenanted.
Is it companionship – or helpless volubility? Are we capable of listening to – or even hearing – what others say?
This night at the pyre two hoist-frame plinths collapse, and I am down on all fours in a dent in the dunes banging bits of it together again when Doll’s open-topped jeep draws up, thirty metres away, on the gravel road. After some rummaging around he emerges (with the engine ticking over) and moves towards me.
Doll wears thick-looped leather sandals and brown shorts, and nothing else; in his left hand he has a half-full quart of labelled Russian vodka, in his right an oxhide whip which he now playfully cracks. His spongy red chest hair is dotted with beads of sweat that sparkle in the overwhelming glare of the fire. He drinks, and wipes his mouth.
‘So, great warrior, how does it go? Mm. I’d like to thank you for your efforts, Sonderkommandofuhrer. Your initiative and your dedication to our shared cause. You’ve been invaluable.’
‘Sir.’
‘But you know, I think we’ve got the hang of it now. We could probably muddle along without you.’
My toolbag is down by his feet. I reach for it and slide it towards me.
‘Your men.’ He upends the bottle over his mouth. ‘Your men. What do they think is going to happen to them when the Aktion ends? Do they know?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He says sorrowfully, ‘Why d’you do it, Sonder. Why don’t you rise up? Where’s your pride?’
Again the whiplash – the leap of the cord. And again. I have the thought that Doll is disciplining his own weapon: the metal-clad tip makes its distracted leap for freedom, only to be brought to heel with an imperious twitch of the wrist. I said,
‘The men still hope, sir.’
‘Hope for what?’ He briefly panted with laughter. ‘That we’ll suddenly change our minds?’
‘It’s human to hope, sir.’
‘Human. Human. And yourself, noble warrior?’
In the canvas bag my fingers close round the shaft of the hammer; when he next tips his head back to drink I will bring it down, claw-first, on the white nakedness of his instep. He says levelly,
‘You lead a charmed life, Geheimnistrager. Because you’ve made yourself indispensable. We all know that dodge. Like the factories in
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