Alexander Altmann A10567 (10 page)

“Suit yourself,” Karpowski said, swapping the candy for a wedge of cheese. He held the yellow block under Alexander’s nose. “Doesn’t taste as good, but it’ll fill you up.” The cheese smelled like old socks.

“No.” Alexander pointed to the square of candy. “I want that.”

He handed over his sweaty cigarettes, grabbed the fudge and rushed to the priest’s bedside.

“Here,” he said, pulling the wrapper from the sweet and holding it to the old man’s lips. Father Jablonski looked up at Alexander with filmy eyes. “Child, you know I won’t eat,” he said quietly. “I want to do this. I’m ready.”

The Rat struck the hubcap and Alexander hurried to his bunk, the square of fudge melting in his palm. Stubborn fool, he thought. God’s not watching you. Neither is Hitler. Alexander slid the toffee between his lips. It smelled of vanilla and birthdays and tasted like summer. He sucked at its soft edges. There was butter, cream, milk and sugar – he could feel the grainy crystals with his tongue – and a hint of something burned and brown hidden inside. Alexander sucked hard. Caramel! He trapped it with his tongue and sucked the sweetness from it, wondering if Isidor would smell it on his breath.

He turned to face away from Isidor, touching the bunk alongside his with his foot and realised it was empty. Alexander reached out his hand and felt around in the dark. There was no one on the bunk next to him, or on the bunk next to that. He turned back to Isidor.

“There are men missing,” he whispered into the back of Isidor’s stubbled head. “Why?”

Isidor turned around, slowly. “So, now you want to talk?”

“Yes.” Alexander should have left it at that but he couldn’t help himself; Isidor was so smug. “We have a deal. I help you with the horse and you tell me what you know. So what do you know?”

The Rat’s door creaked open and a torch clicked on. Alexander held his breath and waited for the Rat to circle the room. When the footsteps receded Isidor raised himself onto an elbow and leaned over Alexander. His breath smelled of pickles.

“If the numbers don’t add up when a work unit reports back to camp, Hoess makes the men wait outside until the numbers tally. If the men aren’t back, it’s because someone from their unit escaped.”

Alexander lay in his bunk and waited for sleep. His lids snapped open when the barrack door swung ajar and the missing men filed in. He watched them climb onto their moonlit bunks and counted six beds still left empty.

The Rat swung his hammer at the dented hubcap to wake the men and Isidor opened his eyes.

“There are six empty beds,” Alexander said.

Isidor sat up, threw off his sheet and swung his legs over the bunk. “They’ve been shot.”

“Who’s been shot?” Alexander’s eyes widened.

“The six men who used to sleep on those bunks.”

“Why?” Alexander asked, not sure that he wanted to know.

“If someone escapes from a platoon, the guards shoot a couple of the men as punishment for the crime.”

“And the escapee?” Alexander held his breath.

“The guards wouldn’t allow the men back into the barrack unless they caught the guy.”

“Is he here?” Alexander scanned the bunks.

Isidor shook his head. “You’ll know who he is. They’ll make sure of it.”

Alexander watched from his bed as two men carrying a body between them lurched to the door. A sheet had been draped over the dead man. It wasn’t the escapee. Alexander could make out the curve of the man’s forehead and the slope of his nose under the fabric. Father Jablonski’s arms hung loosely by his sides. His knuckles scraped the ground as the men bundled him through the door. Alexander felt a burning ache beneath his ribs. He’d seen dead bodies before, too many to count, but this was different. This was a man who’d chosen this place, chosen this fight. A man whose quiet body screamed out to God and the world to do right.

Alexander stared at the empty space where the priest had once lain. The straw mattress still held his shape and his coat lay folded at the end of the bed. Alexander touched the cool metal of the priest’s silver cross.
Stupid man
, he cursed under his breath.
I offered to feed him. He didn’t need to die. It’s his own fault.
His
fault.
Alexander pulled his fingers from the cross.
Not mine.

“
Schema Israel Adonai Elohainu
.” Isidor stood beside Alexander and whispered the ancient prayer.

“
Adonai Echod
.” A man in the next row answered his lament. They crawled down from their bunks and shuffled in from the bathroom, until there were twelve men huddled around the empty bunk.

“Hear o Israel, the Lord our God the Lord is one.” Isidor took up the Mourners’ Prayer. The Rat stood behind him, his head bowed. “In this hour of sorrow we give thanks for God’s many mercies.”

“Mercies?” Alexander grabbed the silver chain from the priest’s bunk and flung it across the room. “What mercy did God show Jablonski?” He turned to the other men. “What mercy has he shown any of us?” Father Jablonski had died and taken God and hope with him. “There’s no mercy, you fools.” He stared at the men as if they were simple. “God’s not looking out for us.” He grabbed the priest’s coat and stuffed it under his own pillow. “No one is.”

“Has the pony been naughty?” Danika Therese Hoch sounded glum. They were halfway around the ring and Alexander hadn’t yet turned to greet her. “You haven’t said one word to me, so either Chestnut’s made you grumpy or I have.”

“I’m not angry,” Alexander said, staring at the ground. He was too exhausted to be angry. Too worn down by watching men die.

“Well, I am,” she said, tugging on the reins to slow Chestnut. Alexander turned around. Her eyes were red and her skin was blotchy. Alexander looked over at the girl’s father. He was resting under the shade of a silver birch, his nose in a book. He mustn’t see her frown. She was here to ride ponies and have a good time.

“Papi’s sending me away,” she hiccupped, “to live with my aunt in Berlin!” She pulled a lace handkerchief from her skirt pocket and blew her nose. “He says this is no place for children.” She looked at Alexander and he saw in her face the same sadness and confusion he’d seen in his sister’s face the day they were loaded into the cattle cars. He’d lied to Lili that day, when she asked him why the Hungarian police were locking the doors.
To keep us safe
, he’d said. Safe.

“He’s right,” Alexander said. “This is no place for kids.”

“He didn’t want me to come today,” she continued, blowing her nose loudly. “But I
made
him bring me.” She waited for Alexander to say something. “I had to say goodbye to Chestnut, and to you.” She rushed to fill the silence but Alexander wasn’t listening to her any more. He was thinking about Max, who’d said their friendship was too dangerous, and Hilde who’d looked through him when they passed each other on the street and Martin who’d told him not to come over any more, and Anton–

Alexander pressed his nails into his palms until they carved perfect moons. Anton, his best friend who’d called him a Christ-killer and spat in his face. Loneliness and self-pity tapped him on the shoulder but Alexander swatted them away. He was better off without Danika Therese Hoch. Better off without all of them.

He lifted her from the pony’s back and set her down on the ground. The little girl threw her arms around Chestnut. “It’s not fair,” she said, planting a kiss on her dusty neck. “I want to stay.”

Alexander peeled her from the pony. “You’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling his hand from hers. She had small fingers, like his sister, the same tear-stained blue eyes, and the same pout. Alexander looked down at her. He couldn’t hate her. He hated her father and Hitler and himself a little too, for being a Jew, but not Danika Therese Hoch. “You’ll be fine,” he said softly. “Goodbye, Danika.”

He returned Chestnut to her stall and followed Isidor to the lunch room where the kapo was standing over the tureen, spooning soup into bowls. He filled three for himself, then rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hairy hands into the pot. He fished out a potato and dropped it into the first bowl and added a carrot to the second.

“Next!” he shouted.

Alexander held up his cup but he wanted more than watery soup. Now that he’d tasted fudge, he wanted pickles and cheese, and marmalade for his bread.

He gulped down the soup, left the lunch room and slunk to where the riding equipment was kept. He scanned the back wall for things he could sneak into to the barrack to trade for food. The feedbags could be picked apart at the seams and sold as cloth, the saddle pads could double as pillows and the lead lines could be cut into strips and sold as belts or bootlaces. With all this stuff he didn’t need Karpowski; with all this equipment he could fill his own cardboard box. Alexander picked a currycomb from the grooming tray. Beside it was a pair of clippers for trimming hooves. He wondered what the going rate for nail clippers was: a loaf of bread, at least. If only there was a way to avoid the commander’s nightly search.

Isidor took a brush from the grooming tray and yawned.

“Heinz!” A guard with thinning red hair and a face ravaged by scars called to the kapo. “One of your Jews is falling asleep on the job.” Isidor froze mid-yawn.

“You tired?” The guard stepped in front of him. “You want to sleep?” He pulled his truncheon from his belt. “I can put you to sleep.” He jabbed the baton at Isidor’s chest.

“You boys have
all
the fun.” The kapo slid between Isidor and the guard. “How about giving me this one? I’ve been waiting to teach him a lesson.” He elbowed Isidor in the stomach and the boy doubled over. The guard’s mouth curled upwards.

“Why not?” he said, stuffing his truncheon back into his belt. “Be my guest.”

The kapo nodded his thanks, grabbed Isidor by the shirt collar and dragged him to his stall, kicking the door shut behind them.

“Get to work!” the guard spat at Alexander before buttoning his coat and stalking outside.

“He was a good kid.” The man next to Alexander said.

“What do you mean
was
?” Alexander stared after Isidor.

“Well, he’s in there with the Butcher …” The man chose a currycomb from the grooming tray and turned to leave.

“The Butcher?” Alexander called after him.

“Yeah, the Butcher.” The man stopped. “He worked in an abattoir. Before they put him away for murder. Ten years. They say he used a meat cleaver.”

Alexander ran to his stall and squeezed past Serafin – who snorted at the intrusion.
The kapo has a shaved head like me
, Alexander thought, pressing his ear to the wall.
He wears a yellow star
. Alexander searched for an explanation, a reason why the kapo would ask to beat Isidor. The wall shook and Serafin pricked his ears trying to make sense of the grunting sounds. Alexander heard the sound of a piece of wood swung hard against flesh. Something slammed into the wall, Isidor cried out, there was a long silence, then the sound of snapping twigs.

Alexander clapped his hands over his ears and slid down the wall till he was sitting on the straw with his knees drawn up to his face. Pain snaked through his head. He wished the wall separating his stall from Isidor’s was made of stone so he couldn’t feel it judder every time the boy slammed into it. He pictured Isidor bleeding on the other side of the wall and he hated himself for wondering if he’d be the kapo’s next victim, instead of scaling the wall to help the boy. Alexander sat in the festering silence. Isidor wants to be my friend. He shook his head. I don’t have the first clue about how to be a friend.

Alexander watched Isidor stumble from the stable, a bloodied knee poking from his torn trousers, his face streaked with dirt. A slashing line ran across the bridge of his nose and his left eye was swollen shut. He looked like he’d been run over by a tractor. He hobbled into line and stood, eyes downcast, as the commander prodded the men in search of a lump of sugar or a stale vegetable, any excuse to cull the herd.

Isador limped back to Auschwitz behind Alexander. When they neared the checkpoint he pointed to the main gate. A man stood just in front of the entrance, dressed in black tails and a top hat. He wasn’t a musician. Alexander had seen him in the barrack before – a tall, lean man with black eyes and pale skin, except that one of his eyes was purple now and the skin on his cheekbones was bruised and swollen. He stood with his hands tied behind his back, a cardboard sign strung around his neck.