Erik saluted stiffly. Gunther did not look up or return the gesture. He walked out, dazed at what he’d just heard. They were intentionally putting millions of people to death? Innocent, unarmed civilians? Women and children. He thought back to the Russian front, what Russians and Germans did to each other. As terrible as all of that was, it at least was war. What was this? He couldn’t think about that right now. He had to get his bearings. He had to follow orders and struggle to survive.
Erik reported to the warehouse, where he found an SS corporal who stood and saluted him as he arrived. The corporal stepped forward, a scrawny figure no more than 60 kilograms with a thin mustache. “I’m Corporal Schaefer,” he said. “You must be the new supply sergeant.” He sized Erik up, but Erik was sure the corporal must have already heard all about him from Gunther.
Schaefer beckoned him into the rectangular warehouse and over to an old cast-iron stove belching out puffs of dense air that filled the space with warmth and a choking smoke. They both took a seat. Behind Schaefer, extending for at least fifty meters and the length and breadth of the giant building, were rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves, rising ten meters or more. Each shelf was stuffed full. The left-hand side seemed to contain food: bread and giant cans of vegetables and meat. The right-hand side was more diverse, stacked to the ceiling with suitcases, clothing, artwork, bicycles, and every imaginable product. The front of the warehouse contained a modest office with a few bunk beds. Erik assumed these were their sleeping quarters.
Schaefer leaned forward, removing a kettle. “Would you like some tea?” Erik nodded, and the corporal retrieved a metal cup and poured steaming hot water through a metal strainer into the cup. Erik, who’d never felt entirely warm on the long train ride, took the cup gratefully.
“So you’ve been in the war, I hear,” said Schaefer. “Got into some kind of mix-up, though, and ended up here?”
Erik started to answer, but Schaefer stopped him. “No sense in explaining, sir. We’re all misfits in this outfit. I was in the Waffen-SS, too. I struck my officer. Came back drunk after we found some vodka in a farmhouse. He ordered me under arrest, but I wouldn’t have any of it, and I punched him right on the nose. Broke it good, too. Most of the guards here have been in trouble one way or another. Except a few that came here because they love it.”
“What is this place?” asked Erik, still not believing Gunther.
“The end of the world, my friend. They bring all the peoples of the world here.” He ran his fingers along his hand: “Tromp, tromp, tromp—they come in by foot or by train. A few of them stay, the rest go to God knows where. The ones who stay are luckier; they get to live a little while. They say the big trains go from here and take people right to their deaths down the railway. Some big murder factory or other. Doesn’t matter in the long run, though. Whether they stay or go, the poor souls all eventually die. It’s a sorry business, but it’s where we’ve landed.”
Erik felt the anxiety rising again. “I’ve seen some terrible things in Russia,” he said. “Nothing like this, though.”
Schaefer laughed. “Who has? Don’t you worry about it, Sergeant. You’ll settle in here okay. We’re the lucky ones. All we must do is pick through the goodies here in our warm, safe warehouse. No bullets coming our way, and we don’t have to deal with the unpleasant stuff going on outside. Besides,” he said, motioning behind him, “you won’t believe the stuff that comes in here. Gold and silver, watches, diamonds.
“Most of what arrives is just a bunch of junk. But you must keep a careful eye out. Those Jews are smart. They sew things into their clothes. You should give them a good shake, run your fingers through each part before you put it back in the sorted pile. Look back there, everything has its place. Except the good stuff. Gunther gets most of that, but we can hold back a little for ourselves, don’t you worry,” he whispered slyly.
Erik nodded, remembering the list in his pocket. He was sure he knew what it was for. “How can he get away with that?” asked Erik.
“Who?”
“The major.”
Schaefer shrugged, his eyes darting nervously to the door. “Careful with that kind of talk, sir. He’s got ears everywhere. He’s a clever one. Even has a piece of Jewish skirt he keeps here against all the regulations. It’s punishable by death, but nobody says a word about it. He’s got connections all the way up they say, so who’s going to stop him?
“Don’t worry about that, though. We don’t bother him and he won’t bother us. And I haven’t told you the best part yet. The valuables are fine. Maybe gives us something to tuck away for the future. But it’s the perishables that really help the here and now: biscuits, jam, cookies, tobacco. Every kind of luxury item.” Erik shifted uncomfortably but didn’t respond.
“All in all it’s not too bad. It gets too damn hot here in the summer, but in the winter, we got our stove. Best of all we don’t have to deal with all that mess outside.” Schaefer leaned forward, reaching down and pulling up a bottle full of clear liquid. “This is vodka, sir. We get plenty of it. The Russians bring it in, always hiding in a boot or a pocket. Officially we’re not supposed to be doing much drinking, but nobody really cares.” Schaefer folded his hands in satisfaction.
Erik was shocked by what the corporal was telling him. Looting the clothes of these poor prisoners for valuables, food, and liquor. He’d never heard of such a thing. He wanted to say something in disapproval, but it was entirely possible Schaefer was a spy for Gunther. He could be planted here to keep an eye on Erik and report if he didn’t go along with the program. He had no intention of taking the bait. He would do what was required.
“Sounds good, but no stealing,” he said. “The diamonds, the gold—everything on the list goes where it’s supposed to. Foodstuffs and the booze, nobody’s going to miss that.”
Schaefer smiled in satisfaction. “No problems there, sir. We host the real guards sometimes, too. They come for the vodka mostly. It gets to them after a while if you know what I mean, sir. The killing and the dying. The prisoners are mostly women and children after all. Pretty tough.”
Erik nodded. He knew what it was like to watch innocent people die.
He slept well enough that night and the next day got to work. Corporal Schaefer proved an invaluable resource. He knew everything about the warehouse. How all the forms worked. How much was to be distributed to the kitchen each day, to the officers’ and enlisted men’s mess, and how everything was accounted for. Once or twice a day huge carts of goods would be brought to the warehouse. They would stop everything else and pick through piles, rifling for food and precious objects.
Erik started to help but stopped when he pulled out a photograph of a young family: husband, wife, and two little children. They stared up at him. He felt their accusations burn through his soul. After that he told the corporal to keep up the work, and he returned to the business of sorting through a new shipment of food that had arrived that day by train for the camp. From then on he let Schaefer do the sorting, always finding excuses to do something else when the carts arrived.
Day after day went by that way. The first week he hardly left the warehouse. It was too cold outside, and when he did leave not only the frigid conditions but also the sights and sounds outside drove him quickly back. He couldn’t believe the condition of the prisoners: barefoot, impossibly skinny, struggling to simply move, let alone work. He thanked God he’d been assigned to the warehouse instead. Corporal Schaefer presented him with a silver flask he came across inside a coat pocket. He kept it filled for the sergeant out of a private store he held in reserve. He handed it over to Erik, who initially refused, but Schaefer insisted, pressing the flask into his hand.
“Now, Sergeant,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking: this place is more than a man can take. This will help you a little. I got this brandy off a Russian major. Best-quality stuff, sir.”
Erik accepted the liquor. It would help. He knew his bargain when he’d come here, when he’d saved his family. He w
as thankful he wasn’t facing more than a pile of clothing and the belongings of the dead. He knew what was outside the warehouse walls and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to face it. The fiery alcohol would further dull his emotions.
At the end of the first week Schaefer helped him complete the seven-day report. He would have been lost without the corporal, but with his assistance everything tallied up perfectly. There was also an envelope, almost too heavy for Erik to carry, sealed tight, which he was to bring to Gunther personally.
He set out that evening from the warehouse to make his report. He looked at his watch; it was near seven o’clock and he was running late. He quickly walked the half kilometer from the warehouse to the administrative building. Fortunately, he didn’t have to go through any checkpoints as he was on the SS side of the camp, away from the prisoners themselves.
He had to walk along the fence of the camp, though. Thankfully, the prisoners were all inside, one of the reasons he had chosen to make the report at night. He tromped along as quickly as he could, trying to fight the bitter cold. It was late March now. He wondered when it would begin to warm up. Finally, he reached the administrative building, traveling down the long corridor then up the stairs to the second floor. He knocked at Gunther’s door. There was a moment of hesitation, and then he heard a voice ordering him to come in. He stepped into the room. Gunther was at the desk, a half-eaten tray of food resting on a stack of paperwork. Gunther sat in his chair puffing at a porcelain pipe. Erik caught movement in the corner of his eye and glanced across the office. He was surprised to see a woman and child sitting on the sofa. Was this his family? He didn’t even know Gunther was married.
Something was out of place with them. It took him a moment to notice that both the woman and the girl had very short, almost shorn hair. There was something else, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“Sergeant,” said Gunther, his voice pulling Erik away from his scrutiny. “I see you brought my report. Come on in and have a seat.” The major seemed to be in a good mood and treated Erik with a joviality far different from their first meeting at Soldau only a week before.
Gunther turned, addressing the woman and the child. “I’ve got some business to attend to, if you could please excuse me.”
They rose and walked quickly and quietly out of the office, closing the door behind them.
“Let’s see what you have,” said Gunther, rubbing his hands together with apparent anticipation, like a greedy child waiting for a plate of hot cookies.
Erik handed him the heavy envelope, which Gunther hefted appreciatively, and then the report. Gunther leaned back and made a great show of reviewing the paperwork, although his eyes kept flicking over to the envelope. “Everything looks to be in order here. Good work. I’ve heard you’re getting along just fine. I must admit I was worried about you, but so far so good. I’ll make a good little SS soldier out of you yet.
“Which reminds me. I have a friend of yours here. I think you remember Frau Bensheim? Jewish woman? She was a neighbor of yours. She was in hiding for a couple years, but we finally nabbed her. Corina called in a tip that brought us to her daughter.”
Erik was in shock. That’s what was out of place with the woman and her child. It was Trude and her daughter. He had no doubt. She’d looked so different with an almost shaved head. And she was so out of place in this hellhole. He has his own Jewish skirt. Erik looked up, realizing that Gunther was watching him carefully. He quickly composed a neutral expression. It was too late.
“Just as I thought. I wanted to make you aware she was here so we could avoid any unpleasantness,” Gunther said. “It wouldn’t be prudent for you to interject any prior friendship into this situation.”
Erik nodded, trying to act as indifferent as possible.
“Listen to me,” said Gunther, his voice imbuing a hint of steel. “You are not to talk to her; you’re not to look at her. If she attempts any communication with you, you are to report it to me immediately, do you understand?”
He nodded again.
There was nothing Erik could do. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. How did she end up here? What was she doing? Trude would never voluntarily submit to something like this. She was married, and besides, Gunther was a fat old lecherous slob. Whatever Trude was enduring, it was like the things happening outside the warehouse. He could not control them, and anything he did endangered his own life and that of his family.
Gunther was still watching him with a skeptical eye. “I want to hear it from your mouth,” demanded Gunther.
Erik turned and clicked his heels, coming to attention. “I will not speak with Frau Bensheim or the child. If she tries to speak with me, I will immediately report it to you, sir.”
Gunther nodded with approval. “Good monkey. I may train you yet. If you keep this up, I may have a treat for you. Now get out of my office!”
Erik flushed with anger at the reproach. He was unused to being treated this way. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, then rotated and departed, his head spinning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Soldau
December 1944
Trude sat on the edge of the bed sewing a tear in one of Britta’s dresses. She hummed an old song to herself absentmindedly as she worked, realizing after a while that it was a tune from her old university days. How many lifetimes ago, she realized. It felt like a thousand years. Britta sat across the way at a table. She was working on mathematics formulas with pen and paper. Fourteen now, she was stunningly beautiful, Trude thought. No longer a girl but a young woman.
How long until she’s given away to one of the guards? Trude wondered. Or perhaps Gunther himself would take an active interest. More and more, she noticed his gaze lingering on her daughter. She told herself it was paternal, a semifatherly affection that had grown out of almost three years together. But she couldn’t be sure. If it came to that, she’d claw his eyes out. Somehow, she’d stop him. If only Johannes were here. Her husband. She hadn’t thought of him in months now, she realized guiltily. She’d never heard again what might’ve happened to him, but after experiencing the camp she had no doubts her husband was long dead.
She shook her head. Even if he was here, what would he do? He had hardly stood up to Gunther before, but in the camp, any defiance would bring a swift bullet to the head. No, it’s better he disappeared long ago, that he knew nothing of what had become of his wife and daughter. She heard what sounded like distant thunder on the horizon. They are coming, she thought, hope streaking across the barren sky of her emotion. Why wouldn’t they hurry? The guards whispered the rumors to her. She’d grown to know them all, and some of them shared information with her. She knew from them that the long agony was almost over. The Russians had swallowed up all their own land and now were spilling over into Poland, Hungary, and even Germany.
These same guards predicted dire circumstances when the Russians arrived. A terrible retribution against the Germans. But what did she care about that? She was a Jew, a victim just like her soon-to-be liberators. Wasn’t it said by the Germans that Russia was full of Jews anyway? She imagined the soldiers arriving, the Germans dropping their weapons, the butchers becoming the victims themselves. She would find a Russian who understood German. She would tell them her story. They would capture Gunther. She imagined him standing there in chains. She felt the triumph soar inside her. The elation of victory, mixed with confusion and a measure of guilt. He’d saved her; he’d protected her and Britta. Didn’t she owe him something for that? No, the other part of her answered. He’s taken more than full payment from you.
Her mind moved on. To a new future after liberation. After Gunther. She allowed herself to dream the impossible again, to think of England and her parents. Even Johannes’s parents were there. She’d had no word from any of them in more than five years. She prayed they were all safe. She imagined disembarking from a ship, all of them waiting for her and Britta. Poor Johannes. He wouldn’t be coming home.
The door opened abruptly. It was Gunther. He stepped in and the guard followed quickly behind him, dropping off a tray of lunch.
Gunther smiled at her, then approached her daughter. Again, the lingering gaze. A moment too long. “What are you working on, my dear?” he asked, laughing. The voice of a father.
“Mathematics,” she answered.
He walked over and examined the work, whistling in amazement. He shook his head. “That’s more than I can understand. Keep it up and we’ll make a university student out of you yet. But for now, my little one, even students need to eat.”
Britta giggled, standing up and waltzing over to the table, sniffing at the food, which was piled with fruit, bread, and cheese. She picked a few slices of apple and a bit of cheese, then strolled over and dropped heavily onto the sofa. Gunther stepped over and loaded up two more plates with food, bringing one over to Trude. He handed it to her. She did not look up, pretending she didn’t see it. She forced the creases of her lips up, mimicking a smile. At least they were safe, fed, warm.
“It’s lunchtime, my dear. Set that down. Why are you even doing that? I told you I can have others handle it.”
She continued sewing, ignoring him.
“Set it down,” he said, enunciating each word. She heard the rising tide of anger in his voice. She sighed and set the material aside, looking up to give him a forced smile. He watched her for a moment and then passed her the plate, sitting down on the bed next to her. He set his own plate down and reached down to remove his boots, groaning in the process.
“Ach, mein Lieber, you would not believe the day I’ve had today. It started at five a.m. with a pile of paperwork. All day long it’s been meeting after meeting. Everybody’s got a problem, and nobody thinks it can be solved without my direct approval.”
She nodded without responding, keeping her head down and picking at her lunch. Usually he only dropped in during the evenings. She had a difficult time eating in his presence.
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