“It does but—”
“But what?”
“But… I couldn’t have let anything happen to you.” He regarded me tragically.
“But I’m Jewish. You’re not supposed to protect me.”
“I know.”
“What of your sacred orders then?”
“Nothing. I love you. I can’t help it.” He looked as though he was going to cry at such a predicament.
I shifted closer to him and took his hand into mine. It was still odd, touching him first and without asking for permission but I knew how much he enjoyed whenever I did so.
“Your Führer is a hateful human being,” I said quietly, looking him straight in the eyes. He pulled back in horror but didn’t begin protesting and kept my hand in his, even though I noticed how his entire body tensed at such words. People got shot for less in this place and here I was, testing his loyalty to the man they all swore to die for. “But you are not. I know you’re not. I want you to be good, not for my sake or the other inmates’ but for your own. Hate only destroys everything. It’s love that heals. Aren’t you happier now, here with me, than beating some unfortunate prisoner and getting drunk with your comrades like you used to?”
He was silent.
“Weren’t you feeling better about yourself when you saved my sister from the gas chamber than when you were listening to people suffocate inside?”
He nodded, very slowly and with great uncertainty, but he did.
“Maybe, it’s because you know deep inside that you’re doing the right thing? Maybe, that’s why you prefer to be friends with Rottenführer Gröning and not Wolff because Rottenführer Gröning never hits or rapes anyone and doesn’t ask any questions as to why you would want to send a package to an inmate while you’re on leave?”
His lips twitched slightly and curled into a wavering smile.
“You made me feel so secure with you, Franz. With you, I know that nothing will happen to me. I grew to trust you; I grew so fond of you in these past two weeks, and only because you allowed me to see your real face, not that uniform that I hate so much. I know that you can be kind and caring and I know that you do have a heart. All I’m asking is for you to start listening to that heart of yours and not that garbage that your superiors are putting into your head. When you feel inwardly that something is wrong, it’s wrong. That’s your moral compass guiding you. Do what feels right.”
He sat still for some time. Suddenly, he leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on my cheek. “This feels right.”
A grin spread slowly over my face. This was already some progress; at least, it was better than all that insufferable parroting of SS doctrines. “So it does.”
After a moment’s consideration and sensing no protest from my side, he drew closer and pressed his lips to the corner of my mouth. I closed my eyes. Our knees touched. Slowly, I moved my hand out of his and put it on the back of his neck, so soft and exposed under the stiff collar of his uniform. He took my face in his hands and covered my mouth with his and I let him kiss me, really kiss me for the first time.
My mother’s voice was still repeating somewhere in the back of my head that my kisses and my body were for my husband only and that it was my husband alone who was entitled to the greatest gift – my virtue that I would offer him on our wedding night and not sooner. But the SS doctor had already taken that gift for himself on my first day here. I might as well give whatever was left of former me to someone who would at least appreciate it.
I didn’t stop him when his caresses grew more insistent as he explored my body and I didn’t push his hands away when he began unbuttoning my shirt. I waited for the shame to come and for resentment – I was raised differently too – but quite a different emotion was in place, from what I had expected. There was no shame and there was no guilt when I allowed him to lay me down and pull my slacks off of me. On the contrary, his hands all over my bare skin felt as though they belonged there, as though I was always his and that he was merely claiming what was intended for him in the first place.
He was impatient with his kisses and with the way he touched me – my breasts, my stomach, between my parted legs – but still asked me in a hoarse whisper if I’d ever been with a man before, so he’d know to take it slowly, in order not to hurt me. I only smiled sadly and told him not to worry about it. The SS doctor had hurt me long before that. I wanted him, Franz, to make me forget it all. Perhaps, I’d make him forget his past also.
Chapter 22
Germany, 1947
Dr. Hoffman watched Helena Dahler lower her gaze and grin softly. “So, yes, as you can see, it was all very consensual between us. My husband never forced himself on me or any other inmate for that matter. I understand why Mr. Novák would make such allegations though.” She was staring toward the window, red with the sunset, so as not to look at the judges’ panel as she spoke on such an intimate matter. Franz Dahler’s thumb gently stroked the back of her hand without him noticing it. Dr. Hoffman couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. “As you can probably conclude from Herr Wolff’s example, the inmates didn’t particularly have a say when it came to any SS man’s wishes. Naturally, Herr Novák must have assumed that my husband was the same type of man… you understand. Someone who forces himself on women. I can assure you that Franz never did anything of this sort, not to me, nor to anyone else.”
The Slovak was staring at the opposite wall the entire time that she spoke, his mouth pressed into a hard line. Contrary to Dahler, who appeared relaxed if somewhat pensive, Novák’s back was rigid with tension.
“Herr Novák, have you ever witnessed the defendant having forced relations with Frau Dahler?” the Chairman asked.
“No, of course I haven’t. As you can imagine, the SS liked their privacy in such cases. I’m only repeating what the others were saying.”
“What precisely, were they saying?”
“That the defendant was having a relationship with her.”
“Non-consensual? You ought to be more precise.”
The Slovak made no answer.
“Herr Novák, you will need to respond to this question. Do not forget that you are under oath.”
“It was implied,” Andrej Novák barked back irritably. “No woman prisoner would voluntarily go with an SS man. Don’t you think so?”
“We are not here to have opinions. We are here to state the facts,” the Chairman explained patiently. “As a co-plaintiff, you brought up serious charges against the defendant, among which was his having a forced sexual relationship with the witness, Helena Dahler. It is our duty, as a court of law, to prove or disprove it. So far, whatever you’ve brought up in relation to that particular charge is considered hearsay and particularly taking into consideration the fact that Frau Dahler herself is denying such a thing ever occurring. Now, had you witnessed it personally, that would have been an entirely different matter. Hence, my questions.”
“No, I have not personally witnessed such a thing occurring,” Novák snapped, struggling to keep the anger from showing on his face.
“Defendant, just for the record, does this mean that you also deny ever sexually abusing the witness?” The Chairman pointed with his gavel at Helena.
Dahler sighed as though he had to repeat the obvious for the hundredth time. “As my wife has already stated, I never as much as touched her without her consent. So, no, I never sexually abused her or any other inmate. I’m sure that my sister-in-law, Róžínka Feldman, will attest to that fact even though her general opinion of me is such that I’m nothing more than a common scoundrel.” The courtroom chuckled. “You can interview the entire Kanada Kommando survivors – they will all testify in my defense. Rape is the most despicable thing a man can do to a woman and I’ve always despised the scum who would lower themselves to such a level. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror if I ever did anything of that sort to my wife. I never denied beating her that one time, but that…” He shook his head vehemently.
Dr. Hoff
man believed him.
“We shall interview Róžínka Feldman tomorrow,” the Chairman announced. “I am rather curious as to what she has to say about all this.”
“She will be your most reliable witness, Your Honor,” Dahler announced in the same jesting tone he had adopted when he previously spoke of his sister-in-law. “She doesn’t fancy me one bit but she’s an honest woman; will speak only God’s honest truth and, unlike my wife, she doesn’t care one way or another if I end my days in jail.”
Once more, the courtroom was thick with mirth at Dahler’s expense.
A charming fellow, when he wants to be, Dr. Hoffman considered. But again, in his practice, he had come across criminals who were crafty as foxes when it came to deceiving others.
Past dinner time. Outside, a silent city bathed in the rain. Apart from an occasional yellow smudge of a lamppost, the streets stood dark, still only partly habitable. The water glimmered against the stone as if the city was washing itself of its blood-smeared past. The time was dead once more. Only the streaks of rain against Dr. Hoffman’s window were alive, all else stood still.
His dinner stood half-eaten and forgotten on the windowsill – in the army, he had long lost the habit of eating properly at the table, always on the move, always consumed by something important. Dr. Hoffman checked his wristwatch. It was much too late to call on his colleague now but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he hadn’t talked it out with someone from his field. The case drove him to distraction like a mosquito in a countryside, stinging him with unanswered questions until he felt himself going mad from their abundance.
And how simple it all looked at the start! A former Nazi brings his wife as a witness to the court in order to save his neck. Co-plaintiff Novák’s version was so cut and dry; Dahler was a rapist and pathological liar, a natural Jew-hater and a cold-blooded killer. And Helena – poor Helena – is just an unfortunate victim who had to endure abuse, first in the camp and now, as Dahler’s wife. Dahler’s motive was only too clear. What would look better on his new resume than marriage to a former concentration camp inmate?
Yet, the way she looked at him, with such profound tenderness, with such obvious fondness couldn’t have been faked under any threats. She loved her husband, genuinely and deeply and that’s what bothered Dr. Hoffman to no end. Because, how could she? How could she have fallen in love with him? After all, it had started so grimly between them. She had admitted it herself that she didn’t want to know him in the very beginning. She tore his love note apart. She was certain during those few weeks after their meeting that he couldn’t love, that he had no heart. What changed?
No, he knew what changed exactly – Helena recounted the story in simple enough terms; small favors, odd acts of kindness, her sister saved by him, then – she herself. But that would have caused gratitude in any typical case. Logically thinking, one didn’t fall in love with a person who rescued them from drowning. One didn’t fall in love with a jailer who allowed them to use a second blanket at night.
And Dahler, he was no hero by any stretch of the imagination. Yes, he did put his life at risk for her but even that goal was self-serving. He only wished to keep the woman he loved for himself. He never pulled anyone else out of the gas chamber, besides her and her sister. It was likely he couldn’t have been bothered about those other Jews’ fates, only Helena’s. So, how could she genuinely love someone who murdered her own kin in such cold blood? Not personally, per se, but he was still complicit in it.
After staring moodily ahead for quite some time, Dr. Hoffman glimpsed his watch again and resolutely walked over to the black telephone that stood on his desk. His fingers drummed impatiently on its surface while he waited for the familiar voice to answer.
There was four of them, graduates of the same Alma Mater, working here as psychiatrists and gathering material for their future academic works. Since Will Hutson was highly praised, by the Stanford professors, for his thesis on the jailer/prisoner relationship, he was Dr. Hoffman’s first and most natural choice. In Dr. Hoffman’s eyes, it was close enough to the Dahler’s case.
“Will?” His face lit up as soon as the line came alive with the familiar and eager, Dr. Hutson here. “Did I wake you up?”
“No, I’m still working. What do you think of that damn weather outside?”
“I have a few professional questions if you have a few minutes.” Hoffman ignored the unrelated question and dropped the cord which he hadn’t noticed he’d begun twisting in his fingers.
“For you, always. Has something interesting come up?”
That’s certainly one way to put it. “You interviewed camp survivors, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It may sound strange but… have you ever come across a case where a former inmate would… fall in love with an authority figure?”
“You mean, an officer?”
“An officer, a regular guard, a Kapo… anyone above them in the hierarchy.”
“Do you mean trading sexual favors for food?”
“No, I mean an actual romantic relationship.”
There was a long silence on the line. Dr. Hoffman was chewing on his lip, awaiting a snort of laughter from Hutson any moment now.
“Romantic relationship?” Dr. Hutson asked, once again.
“Yes. In fact, they’re married now.”
“Who?”
“The former inmate and the guard.”
Another long pause. “For the papers, most certainly?”
“Well, from his side, that would have been understandable, right? But I swear to you, the wife appears to have the most genuine affection for him.”
“Huh.”
“Yes. I know. Hard to believe but here we are.”
“And she was in the same camp with him?”
“Yes, in Auschwitz. She worked under his charge in the Kanada Kommando – the sorting place.”
“Lucky girl. A kosher place, from what I’ve heard.”
“Yes, she didn’t complain about the conditions.”
“How on earth did you find them?”
“He received a summons for the Denazification Tribunal. Another former inmate, who knows him from the camp, swears that the man is the devil incarnate.”
“But the wife doesn’t?”
“No. The wife appears to be genuinely in love with him.”
Another huh from Hutson. “What do you make of him?”
“A likable enough fellow. Very charming, as a matter of fact but only after he relaxes a bit. At first, he was extremely aloof and I had the greatest difficulty in trying to decipher his manner.”
“That’s certainly a first in my experience, but…” The psychiatrist hesitated.
Dr. Hoffman’s interest was instantly awakened. “Whatever it is, even if you think it insignificant, tell me!”
“I had a case with a teenager I treated,” Hutson started reluctantly. “Also, from Auschwitz, by the way. He was one of those unfortunate young fellows who were too handsome for their own good, a bum boy; Pipel in camp jargon. Have you heard of such?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, Helena, that’s the wife, she mentioned one in her testimony.”
“So, you know the deal then. The boy would allow the Kapo to do whatever that Kapo pleased to do with him and in return, he would be clothed, fed, protected from the others; generally, well looked after.” Hutson paused.
“Well?” Dr. Hoffman demanded, his breath hitching in his throat.
“Well, when I was interviewing him, he was stating with the most incomprehensible obstinacy that his abuser – the Kapo – was, in fact, a grand fellow without whom he wouldn’t have survived. Whenever I pointed out the fact that the Kapo was using him in the most disgusting way, he would begin protecting him with such feeling, you’d think the Kapo was the hero of the day and a statue ought to have been put up in his honor. Numerous times we had this conversation and not once did he budge. His position was set in stone. The Kapo was a grand fellow and he
, the boy, owed his life to him. I even asked him whether he was a homosexual but he said no, not at all. He was attracted to women very much and not once did he look at a man that way. I asked him again about the Kapo and again he refused to see any reason and continued proclaiming that the Kapo had his vices but he was a good man because he saved his life when he didn’t have to.”
A hopeful smile slowly grew on Dr. Hoffman’s face; the smile of a scientist on the verge of a major discovery.
“Go on, please,” he barely whispered.
“The boy’s conclusion was, ‘he could have just used me and killed me but he treated me as best as he could. How can I hold a grudge for such kind treatment? Without him, I would have been dead. Only his affection kept me safe. My fellow inmates didn’t treat me as well as he did. I will forever be grateful to him for keeping my life when he had absolutely no reason to.’ The logic escapes me personally but there we are.”
Hoffman laughed softly into the phone. “Do you know what Helena Dahler said about her husband? Almost the same exact thing. ‘He was the only person who cared about me; I owe my very life to him,’ and much more, to that effect. What do you think is wrong with them?”
“Psychologically?”
“Obviously. Don’t you think they suffer from some… personality disorder or some such? This is not a normal reaction to abuse, by any means.”
“A protection mechanism of some sort?” Hutson mused out loud. “A subconscious survival technique? I came across different ones when watching the prisoners but those were... not in the same class at all. However, the idea is similar.”
“That was part of my theory. Still, how does the developing of an affection fit into it?”
“Perhaps to minimize the trauma? What I mean is, the Jews, unlike German inmates, for instance, they were already sentenced to death, if not an instant one, then surely one through work, disease, or starvation. They were aware of it. They had nothing to hope for. In most cases, they had lost their entire families right after their arrival and themselves were being abused daily. Then, an authority figure, on whom their very lives were dependent, suddenly showed interest in them. They grabbed onto it because it meant survival, no matter for how short of a period. They understood that the authority figure was still an abuser but to protect themselves from further trauma by submitting to that abuser’s will, they taught themselves to see the abuser in a completely different light, as a savior, which made them seem better as well.”
Auschwitz Syndrome: a Holocaust novel based on a true story (Women and the Holocaust Book 3) Page 19