War and Remembrance (88 page)

The fact is, the Commandant lacks the manpower to run his show. His complaints are just. The battle of Stalingrad is on, and the army is demanding more and more men. Himmler is forming SS battle divisions, too. Which Germans are left from the comb-out? The stupid, the feeble, the elderly, the disabled, the criminal
—
frankly, the scum. And even of those there’s not enough. The trusty system has to expand and take in foreign prisoners.

There is the trouble. Certainly a lot of these bootlick the SS and brutalize other prisoners to save their own skins. Auschwitz is a machine for debasing human nature. Still, too many of these non-German trusties remain soft. Hence the Resistance. Hence the escapes. Poles, Czechs, Jews, Serbs, Ukrainians, they’re all alike. Not really trustworthy. They even soften up some confused Germans.

Yes, there are plenty of escapes from Auschwitz.

The Commandant hears from Himmler about them, time after time. The
problem threatens his career. So he wants to impress Colonel Blobel with a recapture, at least. The man who heads Kommando 1005 has Himmler’s ear.

An hour passes.

An hour and a half.

Two hours.

In the library, the Commandant keeps glancing at his recently acquired antique clock, as Colonel Blobel talks on; or rather maunders on, for he is consuming an amazing quantity of brandy. At another time, the Commandant would be relaxed and happy, hearing such alcoholic confidences from such a high-placed insider. But he is on pins and needles. He really cannot enjoy the talk, nor the twenty-year-old Courvoisier. He has airily assured the colonel that his garrison will “catch the bugger straight off.” Risky thing to say! Now his head is on the chopping block.

Out on the parade ground there are only crude ways to gauge the passage of time. Snow piling on shoulders, for instance; or the spread of frozen numbness in your limbs, your nose, your ears; or the count of prisoners falling to the ground. Otherwise how can you tell time? Motion measures time. There is no motion here but the tread of a passing trusty on guard, no sound but his boots squeaking in the snow. No stars move overhead. Light white snow falls randomly in white glare on striped-clad immobile shuddering ranks. By the feeling that he has no legs below the knees, Berel Jastrow guesses that about two hours must have passed. Klinger will be unhappy at morning roll call. Berel can see thirteen men down.

The new fellow from Lublin, between Jastrow and Mutterperl, suddenly takes his life and theirs in his hands, exclaiming,
“How long does this go on?”

In the silence the strangled gasp is like a shout, like a pistol shot. And at this moment the block chief walks by! Berel can’t see him, but he hears the boots behind him, he knows the footfall, he smells the pipe. He waits for the club to crash on the fool’s thin cotton cap. But the trusty walks on, does nothing. German blockhead! He should have slammed him with the club. He didn’t have to hurt him. One good result of the roll call: the SS plant identified.

But SS plant or not, the man isn’t shamming agony. Not much later he plops down with a groan on his knees and tumbles over on his side, eyes rolling and glassy. Well fed, new to the camp, he should have done better than that. Camp weakens or toughens you. If the Resistance doesn’t murder that one, he’ll end as a Musselman.

Colonel Blobel is well into his cups now: slumped in the armchair, slurring his words, drooping his glass at an angle that slops brandy. His assertions
and boasts are getting wild. The Commandant suspects that, drunk as he is, Blobel is cutely playing cat-and-mouse with him. He still has not mentioned the problem that has brought him to Auschwitz. The escape will give him some nasty leverage, if it isn’t foiled — and soon.

Blobel is now claiming that the whole Jewish program is his idea. In the Ukraine, where he headed an
Einsatzgruppe
in 1941, he grasped how shoddy the original SS plan was. Back in Berlin on sick leave, he presented a top-secret memorandum to Himmler, Heydrich, and Eichmann, three copies only — so hot that he didn’t dare keep a copy himself. Therefore he can’t prove that he conceived the present system. But Himmler knows. That’s why Blobel now heads Kommando 1005, the hardest of all SS tasks. Yes, the honor of Germany rests in Paul Blobel’s hands. He realizes his responsibility. He wishes more people would.

What Blobel saw in the Ukraine, so he says, was terrible. He was then an underling following orders. They assigned him to Kiev. Just ordered him to go in there and do a job. His part went off smoothly. He found a ravine outside the town, collected the Jews in batches and got them out to the ravine, called Babi Yar or something, a few thousand at a time. It took days to get it done. There were more than sixty thousand Kiev Jews, the biggest job anybody had yet tried. But everything he didn’t organize himself was bungled. Not only did the army fail to keep Ukrainian civilians away from Babi Yar; half of the crowds of onlookers were German soldiers. Disgraceful! People watching the executions as though they were at a soccer game! Laughing, eating ice cream, even taking pictures! Pictures of women and children kneeling to be shot in the back, tumbling into the ravine! This was damn hard on the morale of the rifle squads; they didn’t appreciate getting into such snapshots. He had to call a halt, raise hell with the army, and get the place cordoned off.

Moreover, the Jews were shot with their clothes on, and with God knows what money and jewelry concealed on them, and sand was bulldozed over them. Idiotic! As to their empty homes in Kiev, why, the Ukrainians just walked in and helped themselves. The Reich got nothing of their property. Everybody knew what was happening to the Jews.

Blobel perceived then and there that Germany was going to lose billions in Jewish property, if the whole thing wasn’t done with more system. His memorandum laid the plan out properly, and Himmler jumped at it. Auschwitz and the whole revised Jewish solution resulted.

The Commandant isn’t about to argue with Blobel, but all this is eyewash. Maybe not about the Ukraine; but long before the Wehrmacht ever got near Kiev, he met with Himmler about the Jewish question, and afterward with Eichmann. It was Eichmann’s setup in the Vienna Jewish Emigration Office, way back in 1938, that was the economic model for Auschwitz. The Commandant has heard all about that Vienna setup. The Jews
went in one door of the building rich proud bourgeois, passed down a row of offices signing papers, and came out the other end with bare asses and passports. As for the
Aktion Reinhardt,
the official general collection of the property of the Jews after special treatment, Globocnik has always handled that. So when Blobel tries to claim —

R-R-R-RING!

The sweetest sound the Commandant has heard in his life! He jumps to his feet. The telephone doesn’t ring in the villa at midnight to report failure.

The sound of the drum is muffled by the snow, so Berel doesn’t hear it until it starts up in the next camp. So they’ve nabbed him, and are marching him through Birkenau already! Well, if he had to be caught — God pity him — better now than later. For the first time in months, Berel has been fearing his knees would give way. Hearing the drum gives him strength. Two SS men are carrying the flogging frame out on the parade ground now. It will soon be over.

And here the guy comes. Three officers lead him, three follow him, leaving him plenty of room for his solo performance. One prods him with a sharp stick, to keep him dancing as he beats the drum. The poor devil can scarcely stay on his feet, but on he comes, jigging and drumming.

The clown suit is getting bedraggled with use. The bright yellow cloth is stained in the seat and the legs with blood. Still, it is a terribly ludicrous sight. Around his neck the usual sign dangles — HURRAH, I’M BACK —in big black German lettering. Who is he? Hard to tell, through the crude paint on his face, the red mouth, the exaggerated eyebrows. As he dances by, feebly whacking the drum, Berel hears Mutterperl hiss.

The flogging is short. The fellow’s behind, when they bare it, is raw bleeding meat. He gets only ten more blows. They don’t want to weaken him too much. The Gestapo interrogation comes first. They want him to stay lively enough so that the torture will make him talk. They may even feed him for a while to build him up. In the end, of course, he’ll be hanged at a roll call, but there won’t be much of him left to hang. Ticklish business, escaping. But if the alternative is going up the chimney, a man has little to lose, seeking another way to leave Auschwitz.

The chilled ranks break. The SS men and the trusties curse, club, and whip the slow-moving inmates back to the barracks. Some stumble and fall. Their rigid legs held them up while they didn’t move. Bend those frozen joints, and down you can go! Berel knows about this. He found it out on the march from Lamsdorf. He walks on his own numb ice-cold legs as though they are iron braces, swinging them clumsily along with his hip muscles.

The block, where the temperature must be about zero, but at least the snow isn’t falling, seems a warm refuge: in fact, home. When the light is
turned off, Mutterperl pokes Berel, who rolls close and puts his ear to the foreman’s mouth.

Warm breath; faint words. “It’s off.”

Berel changes position, his mouth to Mutterperl’s ear. “Who was the guy?”

“Never mind. All off.”

The Commandant laughs uproariously with relief and with genuine amusement, as he hangs up. The dogs tracked the fellow down, he tells Blobel. The poor bugger tried to escape in one of the big cistern carts that carry off the crap from the mass latrines. He didn’t get far, and he’s so covered with shit that it’s taken three men to hose him off. Well, that’s that!

Blobel slaps his shoulder. An escape that fails, he says wisely, is not a bad thing for discipline. Make an example of the bastard. This is the psychological moment, the Commandant thinks, and he invites Blobel upstairs to his private office. He locks the door, unlocks the closet, and brings out the treasure. Lovingly he spreads it out on the desk. Colonel Blobel’s bleary eyes widen in an envious admiring gleam.

The stuff is women’s underwear: exquisite fairylike things, soft works of art, lacy pretty nothings that give a man a hard-on just to look at them. Panties, brassieres, shifts, slips, garters, in filmy pastel silks, perfectly laundered, ready for movie stars to put on! The best in the world! The Commandant explains that in the undressing room he has a man just to collect the sweetest stuff he sees. Some of these Jewesses are ravishing. And oh, Christ, what lovely stuff comes off their asses. Just look.

Colonel Paul Blobel scoops up a double handful of panties and girdles, crushing them against his crotch like a woman’s rump, with a wide grin at the Commandant and a masculine growl — RRRRRR! The Commandant says that the stuff is a present for Colonel Blobel. There’s plenty more, tons of it. But this is the best of the best. The SS will deliver a package to the colonel’s airplane with a good selection, also some decent Scotch and brandy, a few boxes of cigars, and so forth.

Blobel shakes his hand, gives him a little hug, becomes a different man. They sit down and talk turkey.

First he lectures the Commandant on the merits of crematorium versus burning pit. He has definite and informed ideas. He gives some technical tips on how to improve the pit performance. Damn useful! Then he comes to the point. Auschwitz has been sending him garbage, not workers. Kommando 1005 duty is very hard work. These fellows he’s been getting don’t last three weeks, whereas it takes three weeks just to show them the techniques. He is tired of complaining to Berlin. He knows that the way to get things done right — as the Commandant has been saying — is to do them himself. So he
has come to Auschwitz to settle this thing. It has to be straightened out.

The tone is friendly. The Commandant responds that he will do what he can. He is caught in a bind himself. Himmler can’t make up his mind what the function of Auschwitz is. Is he trying to eliminate Jews? Or put them to work? One week the Commandant gets a bawling out from Eichmann for sending too many Jewish arrivals to the work camp, instead of to special treatment. The next week, or the next day, for that matter, Pohl from the Economic Section will be down on him for not putting enough Jews into the factories. A directive has just come in, four pages long, with orders to nurse sick Jews back to health on arrival, and put them to work, if there’s six months of potential labor in them. To a person who knows Auschwitz, it’s utter nonsense. Just bureaucratic bumpf! But there you are. He has a dozen factories to man, and a perpetual labor shortage.

Blobel waves all this aside. Kommando 1005 has the highest priority. Does the Commandant want to ask Himmler? Blobel is not leaving Auschwitz — and now the tone is not so friendly — without an assurance that he will get four or five hundred ablebodied Jews in the next shipment.
Ablebodied!
Fellows who can deliver three or four months of hard labor before you have to get rid of them.