***
Several blurred hours later, Brühl was drunk enough for me to safely ask my question without raising suspicion. Not that the first part of the evening had been a waste of time. It was good that Brühl had warmed to me so quickly; we were laughing and banging the table like freshman undergraduates at the end of the first week of studies.
The only people making more noise in the cave than us was a party of Polish businessman, bluff red-faced types in three-piece suits. One of the most jovial and handsome men paid a fleeting visit on his way to the bathroom; Brühl introduced him as Oskar Schindler, a sound Party man with friends in high places who owned the Ghetto’s metal-work factory, Emalia. Pots and pans, but a gold-mine all the same.
With a succession of Red Barons in his hand, Brühl felt comfortable in broaching the subject of my brother’s death, and I was more than happy to oblige. When I described the manner of Erich’s murder in the Warsaw Ghetto, beaten to death by the animals of the Jewish Fighting Organisation, it was as if our dark corner of the cellar was illuminated by a light-bulb flickering over my colleague’s head.
‘That’s why you wanted to work here,’ he said. ‘I get it now.’
I shrugged.
‘It was never anything to do with the money.’
Brühl was mortified by his earlier attempts to press the banknotes into my hands. I told him not to be stupid, that the largesse of the District Jews was a distinct bonus. I accepted my share of the pawn money as proof.
After talk of my family, conversation turned inevitably to his. One older sister, mother and father. The classic German set up. I asked if he was seeing them next weekend, over Christmas.
‘No. For the first time in my life, I’m going to be spending the holiday alone.’ He beamed. ‘And you know what? I cannot wait.’
It turned out that his sister was also at war, mainly with her husband but also her two children, another boy and girl, and anybody else who crossed her path. According to Brühl, Emmy Koch was an overbearing tyrant, who never regarded a family get-together as a success unless she had ruined it for all involved. Brühl recounted a particularly gruesome drive they undertook to Hildesheim last year, where he was seated up front between the long-suffering husband at the wheel and the sniping wife in the passenger seat. Literally stuck in the middle of their argument for a grand total of seven hours, there and back. Never again, Brühl vowed. Hence the fact he was actually looking forward to Christmas for once.
I asked how he’d managed to extricate himself.
‘I just told her. That’s it, sis,’ I said. ‘I’m out.’
‘Impressive. And how did she take it, with a slap?’
‘Well, when I say I told her…’
‘You mean?’
‘I wrote a letter.’
***
‘So look.’ The time was finally right. Much longer and I risked blacking out and not being able to remember anything I heard. All that lined my stomach was a couple of plates of herring and sauce that the club’s owner had brought over. What’s going to happen next year?’
‘With any luck they’ll get a divorce. Emmy might be happier.’
‘No, I mean, here. The war.’
‘Oh, easy. We win.’
Bottles were ceremonially raised and clinked.
‘But how? We haven’t finished off the Jews yet, and they’re not even armed.’
‘Don’t you worry about the Jews, my friend. Matters are in hand.’
‘That’s what I keep hearing. Just a few more months. Their time will come. It sounds like a lot of hot air to me. Is there anything more than talk?’
‘It is talk, yes. But that’s a strategic decision. If you catch my meaning.’
‘Not really.’
‘It has been decided.’
‘I see. Very grand. What has?’
‘Hinrich Lohse was in Berlin last month, right, with the Minister for Eastern Territories. Lohse was aksing the same thing, the same thing we’ve all been asking.’
‘And?’
‘Eastern Territorories told him. Clarification of the Jewish question has been achieved through, and I quote, verbal discussions. Further querries should be directed to local SS authorities.’
I dashed my bottle against the table. ‘Achieved through verbal discussions. What the hell does that mean?’
‘No paperwork, for one thing, which’ll save your fingers some typing.’ When that didn’t have the intended cheering effect, Brühl said, ‘Don’t you see, we’ve been given carte blanch. They’re leaving it to the SS.’
‘I suppose that’s a step in the right direction.’
‘You bet it is. Kunde’s already started drawing up the plans. The District needs to keep a slimmed down workforce, a few healthy youngsters. Everyone else is expendable. The infants, the elderly, the idiots. We start draining the place next year.’
‘To where?’
He winked. ‘Why do you think we’re not leaving a paper-trail?’
I sobered up pretty quickly after that and called an end to the evening after a respectable period had elapsed. When it came to settling the bill, the giant, white-haired owner told us there was no need. Oskar Schindler had already paid.
***
Arriving back at the apartment sometime after eleven, I ran through the key facts that Brühl had divulged. It didn’t take long, for there were hardly any. As evidence of a pogrom to end all pogroms, his admission was frustratingly opaque.
But that was only half of it.
Far more chilling was what Brühl had left unsaid, the awful winking implications. I questioned whether my addled mind had filled in the gaps correctly, as their author had intended, or whether I simply heard my own fears echo in the silence.
I wrote his words down at the living room table and passed out.
23
That Sunday morning, my breakfast reading consisted of Der Stürmer newspaper and the following list of statements I’d recorded from Augustus:
It has been decided.
Clarification of the Jewish question has been achieved through verbal discussions.
Further querries should be directed to local SS authorities.
We’ve been given carte blanche.
They’re leaving it up to the SS.
We start shipping them out.
Why do you think we’re not leaving a paper-trail?
I should have known what the Nazis were planning. I’d read the Gestapo’s own Situation Reports about mass executions at Ponary, and witnessed for myself the ‘liquidation’ of an entire village under the supervision of Amon Goethe. These were not the isolated acts of bloodthirsty rogues, but the opening salvos of a coordinated spree. Hitler was letting loose his hounds of hell, for whom a continent’s worth of Jews had been systematically staved, exhausted and penned up in Ghettos.
How could I contemplate fleeing Cracow now? The only good to come out of last night was that I didn’t have to. Thanks to Augustus’ sister, I had a way out. All I had to do was write Otto a letter. The German way.
With no shops open on a Sunday, the only typewriter was on on my desk at Jozefinska. I donned my uniform and left.
Save for a Jewish Policeman guarding the cells, the office was deserted. I sat down and typed Otto Mohnke’s address onto a blank envelope, then fed a blank sheet into the carriage roller.
Dear Father,
Erich’s death has shaken me to the core. These last few weeks in Cracow have been unbearable, and I am only now beginning to put my life back together. I know the same is true of you.
It is with this in mind that I’m afraid I must ask you to postpone your Christmas visit. Please don’t think ill of me. I meant what I said last week about wanting to patch things up with you. I thought I was ready, but the sad truth is, I am not. Next week is just too early. I fear that may do our relationship more harm than good.
Although I know this will be painful for you to read, I hope that you will respect my wishes and refrain from contacting me until I a
m feeling stronger.
So I will wish you a Merry Christmas, and hope that we both enjoy a much better New Year than 1941.
Your son,
H.
24
On Monday I was directed to accompany Symche Spria to the Rekawka Street apartment of an OD officer suspected of mutiny. The two men had been feuding last week over a percentage of a bribe that had failed to find its way into Spira’s back pocket, the customary flow of direction in the Ghetto.
In revenge, Chief Spira had appointed the officer, a dim-witted but strapping soul by the name of Manny Jagur, to lead the execution of two Polish youths who had slaughtered a German horse and attempted to sell its meat on the black market. They were due to be hanged outside the Jozefinska cells first thing that morning, but Jagur had not reported for duty. His fellow officers claimed he was refusing to carry out the sentence, and had spent all weekend bragging that he’d tell Spira where he could put his 2 ½ %.
When we eventually broke into the apartment, we found Jagur dangling from a brass fixture above the toilet, a knotted bed-sheet throttling his neck, eyes distended.
I left Spira to supervise the body’s removal.
To cleanse myself before returning to the station, I made a lone pilgrimage to the two outposts of Ghetto resistance. Not having met Syzmek Lustgarden, I had no way of knowing if he was one of the young men passing in and out of number 13 Jozefinska. It didn’t matter. For now, it was enough to know that Akiva was flourishing.
In Zgody Square, the pavement outside The Pharmacy Under the Eagle still served as a meeting point for a large group of men and women. I kept to the shadows of Solna Targowa and tried to overhear their conversation, but the wind was blowing in the wrong direction.
As one of the only Poles with unrestricted access to the Ghetto, Dr. Zubrowksi was ideally placed as a conduit to the outside world. It was a miracle to be blessed not only with such a man of medicine, but one with the aptitude and willingness to put his own life at risk. The doctor was smuggling in bottles of hair-dye for the older residents, to make themselves look less ‘expendable’. Whether he was operating with or without Tadeus Panciewicz’ consent, I could not say.
***
A black Mercedes limousine was parked outside number 37. The registration plate told me it was not Wilhelm Kunde’s usual car, but I failed to heed the warning.
Inside, the station was in immaculate order but as empty as the Marie Celeste, all chairs neatly tucked under desks and not a slip of paper out of place. In the middle of the wall of maps, a giant poster of Odin as Santa Claus now hung, the great-bearded God in a wide-brimmed African colony hat, whipping a white stead and carrying a sack full of gifts. A Chritmas tree stood under the stairs, the star at its top replaced with a Sig rune. Swastika baubles nestled in the branches like hand grenades. From the first floor, Kunde’s gramophone record blared out nationalist marching hymns:
The flag on high! The ranks tightly closed!
The SA marches with quiet, steady step.
Comrades shot by the Red Front and reactionaries
March in spirit within our ranks.
Comrades shot by the Red Front and reactionaries
March in spirit within our ranks.
As I wandered in a daze towards my desk, I saw the combined workforce of Intelligence, Archives, Vehicles and Statistics assembled in the courtyard outside the cells. Glass flutes raised, they faced the gallows at the far brick wall. On the platform, two small figures slouched, hooded, cowering under nooses. A modest sprig of holly adorned the trestle. Changed into full admiralty whites, Symche Spira was seated at a brass lectern at the condemned men’s side. I was surprised he had made it back so quickly; my pilgrimage had taken longer than I thought.
I had no choice now but to step out and join the madness. I shuffled round the back of the crowd towards the lone figure of Augustus Brühl, glum under a jaunty paper hat.
‘Grab a glass.’ He pointed to a table of refreshments in the corner. ‘Any excuse to get shit-faced before noon. Even an office party.’
‘I’ll pass,’ I said. ‘I’m still hungover from Saturday night.’
‘Northern cissy. Where have you been anyway?’
‘Stopped off at the pharmacy for some morphine.’ My fingers found the lining of my empty pocket. ‘Want one?’
‘I’ll save that for later. You missed the grand entrance.’
‘What do you mean?’
Lifting his chin, Brühl squinted at the balcony above our heads where an unseen hand lifted the needle from the grooves. The strident brass had blown its last fanfare.
Symche Spria took this as his cue, rose to his lectern and preceded to read the sentence of the two Polish horse-slaughterers. The ceremony continued until Manny Jagur’s replacement placed the noose of the hanging rope over both boys and crossed the gallows platform to the tall wooden handle that would release the trap doors. After a final nod from Spira, the hangman closed his right hand on the lever and gave it a quick jerk. The floor under the first boy dropped away and almost instantaneously his spinal cord ripped apart with a sickening crunch. His feet twitched a couple of times and the air thickened with the smell of his loosened bowels and bladder.
The hangman kicked the wooden lever loose and quickly reset it to trigger the second platform. Again, he jerked back on the lever, the floor fell away and the boy dropped. This time there was no accompanying snap as the noose shifted sideways and the momentum failed to break the neck. The boy jerked his legs and twisted his arms, his body spiraling on the end of the rope. A muffled gurgling emanated from his hood as the boy slowly choked on his blood. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally stilled and was silent.
I closed my eyes to observe the Kadish and to remember Ronan Kessselman, whose death still haunted my dreams. But Horst Wessel Lied started to thunder out from the gramophone. Even in the sanctity of my own head, there was nowhere to hide.
‘Three hangings in one day, that’s a record,’ Brühl elbowed me in the ribs. ‘I said you were my lucky mascot.’
‘Three?’
‘Manny Jagur, you dope fiend.’
‘Oh, yes. Him.’
‘Good old Manny, what a way to go. That’s how we should do the job-lot next year, none of this gallows business. Stand them all on the seat of a giant crapper.’
‘What? Who?’
‘The Jews. Cut out the middle-man. One flush and they’re straight down the sewers.’
‘A crapper?’
‘Manny Jagur, remember. Christ, Harry, hope you’ve saved some of that morphine for me.’
‘Mohnke!’
I wheeled round, but the voice was coming from above. Wilhelm Kunde was leaning against the balcony rail, grinning behind a fat cigar. ‘There’s somebody I want you to meet.’
I stepped back for a better view and squinted up.
The balcony was crowded with VIPs in uniform and civilian dress. I saw the bloated, snub-nosed face of SS and Polizeiführer Julian Scherer but it was the soles of a particular pair of height-adjusted Adelaide brogues poking over the balcony’s edge that I fixated upon, because I was the one who had stitched them.
‘Allow me to introduce Reich Commissar of the Ostland region, his eminence Hinrich Lohse.’ The flushed baby face of the Fat Führer appeared above the shoes. Kunde prompted, ‘If you recall, these are the two men who found the Jagiello apartment.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Lohse said, beaming down at us. ‘Sterling work. Those goods will fetch a fortune at auction; the War Effort depends on men like you, Oberführer Brühl.’
Brühl thrust his champagne flute at me and saluted. ‘Heil Hitler!’
I heard Kunde whisper my name into the Commissar’s ear. Lohse pushed his thick spectacles against his eyes and said, ‘Yes, Harry Mohnke. Haven’t we met before?’
Before I could answer, Kunde said, ‘You saw his brother’s photo, sir. Erich was killed in Warsaw.’
‘Jewish terrorists. That’s right. Scherer’s tight with the
father.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Polizeiführer Scherer stepped up to the railing at mention of his name and raised his hand. ‘Harry.’
‘Sir.’
‘Your father called me last week with the news.’ Scherer winked. ‘Good man, very wise.’
He was talking about father’s letter. My reply wouldn’t yet have reached Dahme.
‘We’re fortunate to have you, Oberführer,’ Lohse said. ‘Enjoy the celebrations’. He signalled for the party to move back into Kunde’s office.
***
Back in the apartment, I was overcome by thoughts of my own mortality. The line I walked was high and thin, with no safety net to break my fall.
If Hinrich Lohse had recognized me, it would have been my body twitching at the end of that noose, after the torturer had earned his keep. I was no fortress of silence. Sooner or later I would have surrendered the names of Dr. Zubrowksi and Syzmek Lustgarten. At least my body would just be tossed in a simple unmarked hole in the ground at the end of the day, which was no more than I deserved.
But if I died of a heart attack in my bed, I would be afforded the ‘honour’ of an SS funeral and buried in a Nazi grave next to Erich Monhnke. This would be unbearable, as far as eternities went. I decided to leave a message in Yiddish about my person, and finally settled on a needle and thread as the safest means of inscription.
But Erich possessed no sewing box, and we were well past the hour when I might have gone out and purchase one. It became imperative that I did not set out the next day without this proof of identity stitched into my vest. The only neighbour I could think of to impose upon was Rudolf Ditzen, across the hallway.
I could see a light on through his keyhole, but my raps went unanswered. It was late – perhaps Ditzen had fallen asleep with his lamps on. I gave one more half-hearted knock, and was surprised to hear the rustle of a bolt being drawn back on the other side.
I Am Juden Page 32