September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  I will call my companion Paul, as that was not his name. I have written Paul on my wrist so that I might see it when I glance down, might have a chance of remembering. There are people who are still alive – they might suffer if these papers are found. I must be careful to protect the cabal we became when the war was over.

  Paul and I had the best of it. While others were tortured, murdered, disposed of, we slept in an office-cum-workshop with a good mattress and ample food. We were the elite. Paul and I received wedding rings, gemstone jewellery, all kinds of adornments. We were also given the terrible task of melting down gold fillings from the teeth of those who burned in the crematoria. Our workshop was near to the big furnaces as we, too, needed heat for our crucibles. We became deaf, Paul and I. We made fine ornaments to decorate the Reich. Paul designed to order, I broke jewellery, reconstructed it to order. And we ceased to hear the shouts of the guards, the explosion of a flying bullet, the screams of the damned.

  Laura, I did not suffer unduly, so do not upset yourself. My ambition was to stay alive until the end. I worked, I smiled, I bowed and scraped. We enjoyed a degree of freedom, were allotted clothes that were warm and decent, items that had been dragged from the backs of new prisoners. Feverishly, we strove to please our masters, taught them to look through the glass, educated them about the form, the cut, the colour of a diamond. Our anger was deep and cold, but we made no attempt to warm it. We wanted to survive. We vowed to live so that we could tell the world what had happened in Treblinka. Laura, the Jews paid for their own disposal, paid with jewels, furs, little mementoes from home. They paid for the privilege of being put to death.

  Sometimes, there were no trains and our work slowed. The days without trains were the worst, as the Germans would use the lull to pick out and dispose of the weakest among us. Even so, we were safer than the rest. We stood at the small window of our workshop and watched the old interpreter being supported by stronger prisoners on his way to the gas chamber. Paul ran from my side. I heard him as he retched over the bucket that was our latrine, found him weeping next to our little furnace.

  Because of the designs, Paul and I had an almost limitless supply of graph paper. We were both blessed with photographic memories, but his skill at portraiture was far superior to mine. Under the stove in our quarters, we hid a metal box that contained detailed drawings of many Nazis, the men whose atrocities we had observed from our window. It was this collection that kept us going, because we were saving evidence that might prove useful after the war. I intended to avenge my mother, as I was certain that she had not survived the long journey from home. Paul needed to avenge the whole Jewish nation. His was the kind of fury that is lasting and dangerous, yet it is also justifiable.

  There is rain today. The garden needs it, so do the birds. This morning, when I woke, you were standing over me. There is so much anguish in your face. Has someone told you about my problem, do I scream in the night? I have returned to my desk, am trying to pick up the threads of my story. I think I make the effort to come into the office every day, but I may be forgetting sometimes. Reading through takes a long time. I often need to go to the beginning more than once, as I am not absorbing what I read.

  Rich Jews came, probably from Macedonia or Bulgaria. They were covered in furs and jewels, carried boxes of valuables. Paul and I, helpless and ashamed, received the gems and precious metals that would keep us alive. For Eva Braun, I made a swastika in gold and platinum studded with sapphires, diamonds, rubies. My hatred was melted into every carat.

  There are good German people. There were good ones then, during the war. A young guard who had escaped active service because of a shrivelled arm became our friend, often bringing us cocoa and sugar, even bits of butter and chocolate. The lad was truly terrified of what was happening. From him we learned our German. We also learned how much he hated the camp. There were tears in his eyes on the days when mass genocide was accomplished via the ‘showers’. ‘Why is it happening?’ we asked him. ‘Why do your friends do these things to the prisoners?’ ‘Fear,’ he replied. ‘If we don’t do the job, we join the Jews in the ovens.’ How prophetic he was. When we had known him for quite some time, he was savaged to death by dogs belonging to a particularly crazy guard. We watched this happening, saw our young friend’s bloodied corpse when his nightmare finally ended. The Nazis must have seen his fear, no doubt felt threatened and weakened by his sanity. So he was ripped apart like a rag doll, tossed into an incinerator and burned like another piece of waste. Sometimes, I fear dogs. The cabal dealt with that guard, gave him a similar end, but I am wandering ahead again.

  The doctor came, Laura. Today, I’m sure it was today. I remember you saying that I was due for my MOT. He prodded me and listened to my chest, took my blood pressure. Did we have breakfast before he came? Did you and he whisper apart from me, has he told you that I am slipping away? It is becoming so vivid, my darling. These are not hallucinations. I am actually seeing people from years ago, can hear them talking, am sometimes able to join in the conversations. This is craziness, yet I am so clear about the war years.

  I have not told you about my other Greek friend. Have I? Well, I shall assume that you and he have not yet been introduced, as I can no longer go back to the start of this document. After reading the last line or so, I simply continue and hope for the best. He was a violinist and he entertained the officers. He was also in charge of our food after the other man was torn to pieces. He told us things that were hard to believe, yet he was not lying. Jews were helping to kill Jews, were forced to empty bodies out of gas chambers, were made to burn the bodies. Healthy people came in on the trains, were being stripped of clothes and possessions. Meekly, they filed to the showers, were lifted out as corpses and carried to the incinerators. It was a machine of superb efficiency, with prisoners aiding guards. If a man refused to assist, then he simply joined the queues for showers. More often, he would be shot. The real efficiency lay in the fact that most victims remained blissfully unaware of their fate until it was too late.

  Laura, I am explaining all this so that you might understand my anger. I know that this account may be a little confused, too detailed in some parts, too sparse in others. I am running a race and I must get to the winning post before – before whatever. But you need to know what happened in order to forgive me for other deeds.

  Paul and I had been spared since 1942. The commander, I’ll call him Spangl, needed us. We were a part of a well-oiled team of specialists who used by-products of the holocaust to the Nazis’ advantage. Under Spangl’s all-seeing gaze (he haunts me now) human hair was gathered, presumably for wigs, clothes were kept, spectacles, shoes, dentures. Even human skin was used for lampshades. Paul and I were at the upper-class end of this macabre feast, as we handled the true valuables of the soon-to-be-victorious Reich.

  The Czechs came, gathered in hundreds beneath fierce white floodlights. They were pushed into undressing rooms, forced out again into the cold night, arms wrapped about their nakedness. Some fought and were beaten to death on the spot. The violence was extraordinary. The blood looked black under the harsh lights. Naked children clung to naked mothers. This was real, my love. I was there. I am not a history book, I am a witness. It was the Czechs who made me determined to join Paul after the war. Those at the back of the ranks began to sing their anthem. We cried, Paul and I. While those brave Czechs were marched off to their end, the singing grew louder and my heart hardened. This would not be forgotten. I would be there when the massacre ended, I would be healthy, strong enough to bear witness, determined enough to accuse and condemn.

  A Pole joined us late in 1943, I think. Because of language barriers, we learned about the Warsaw ghetto by looking at the pictures he drew. Our new friend was a goldsmith of great talent. While he worked alongside us, we taught him some German, then he regaled us with tales of even more atrocities. Hitler’s aim was clear, he told us. Even if the war should be lost, the Reich would have achieved its main aim. Not one Jew would be left
in Europe. His eyes were hard when he said to us, ‘If you licked my heart, you would die of poison.’

  Even in the camp, we could see that the war was ending and that our gaolers were on the losing side. They became careless, started to shoot people when the ovens overflowed. Bodies were buried after a fashion, but many were piled up in surrounding fields. The Nazis’ carelessness extended to our department and our paperwork diminished. Instead of having to account for every item, we now began to feel free enough to stash some valuables with the portraits.

  Allied planes flew over sometimes. (Have I already told you that? There are black semi-circles beneath your eyes. You are ill, my darling and I cannot help. Words come out of my mouth in the wrong order. Only here, as I reheat an old fury, can I be clear enough to be understood. Soon, I shall be too far gone for this, too.) The end of the war was coming. The killing became haphazard, sporadic. The three of us hid in our store cupboard, listened while our work was smashed and stolen. But they did not touch the stove.

  We walked out of our office one morning and into the arms of weeping Russian soldiers. Some English people arrived later. They jumped from aeroplanes, brought medicines and food. Grown men do cry. We watched as young Englishmen tried to feed those who were beyond food, tried to revive those whose need for oxygen had snuffed itself out in the night. The nurses, doctors and soldiers of your country were beyond words, Laura. There was a silence that was broken only by the thud of their boots as they walked through hell. The stench of burned flesh still lingered in the air, clung to everything it touched with its invisible talons. A sergeant sat by the gate, his legs useless, vomit and tears pouring through fingers that had fastened themselves to his face to shut out the sight. We helped him, brought him inside and cleaned him. I see that man all the time these days, in our kitchen, in our garden. I trust that he is well.

  Have you heard people say that the birds don’t sing there? It is true. I have been back to the emptiness. There is a poet somewhere in Liverpool – I’ve forgotten his name – whose friend went to the site of another camp. There were no birds in that vale of death, either.

  We saved jewels, hid them, went into hospitals and became strong again. Laura, we had to do something. Nuremberg could not trap and try all of them. There were little men, people of no importance who had gained stature and backbone from a uniform. Paul and I, together with witnesses from other camps, made it our business to find those torturers who had invented alibis and new identities.

  It seemed right that we should use as a down-payment the property of those Jews who had perished. Eva Braun never got her swastika, because I broke it, opened our first establishment with the proceeds. For many, many years, I helped to capture the murderers. Some had already been tried and acquitted in spite of evidence, but we dealt with them anyway.

  But I became sickened by what we were doing. We were killing old men. I began to wonder whether people remained the same, because we seemed to be murdering men who were so different from the young guards we remembered. When I met you, I walked away from it, though my business has continued to support the cabal.

  Another thing I did not tell you was that I kept in touch with a man called Colin. You used to be married to his son. Colin lives not far from here. He watched over you for years. We met at the prison. I think I visited several men, but that time is not as clear as the war years. I probably became involved because I remembered what it was to be interned.

  Did they pull down that wall, my love? Will it come again, the Reich? My fingers are stiff, so I guess that I must have done a lot of writing lately. I think you are going into hospital. I think you are sending me away so that I may be cared for during your absence. Do not worry for me, no matter how bad this becomes. A young man walked with you on the beach. I hope he is caring for you.

  Oh, my darling, I know I am going mad. Why do I find myself in strange situations, how do I manage to do so many odd things when sometimes half of me knows that I shouldn’t be going for walks in the dark or standing naked at the back door? You may have to help me if I sink too far. A poem. Somewhere, there’s a poem. Yes, it’s in the bottom safe. Give me my wings, sweetheart. Let me fly away and leave you in peace.

  The Final Solution. We survived it. The American Indians knew the concept behind those words. They fought to avoid it too. Those three dreadful words were put together by a powerful American called Ulysses Grant. Learn not to blame one nation, learn not to sink to the level of the worst in mankind. Making sense is difficult, almost impossible. You have packed a small case. I think you have told me that you are going into hospital.

  I love you, Laura. Find your wings. If I can’t find mine, help me.

  With all my love,

  Ben.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s Wednesday, the last day of September. I have been acutely aware of the minutes as they passed, was up before seven so that I might experience to the full these important hours. I even read my stars this morning, was advised not to feel inadequate. ‘You really want to disappear behind your protective cover and let the world get on without you. But you will have to see where you can make your life easier without cutting yourself off completely.’ Utter nonsense, of course.

  Chewbacca is in the water, is splashing and staggering about like an old man on a day out during Wakes Week. With a knotted hanky on his head, this huge animal would really look the part. He runs from a scum-crested wave, turns, barks at the moon’s handiwork. The Mersey’s tides never fail to catch Chewy out. As a pup, he used to try solving the problem by drinking the river, but even this thick-headed clown learned not to imbibe such filth. I read recently that a group of amateur divers is planning to march through Liverpool to draw attention to the famous waterway’s plight. They won’t win. There’s no beating the ebb and flow, no money to clean the water, no chance of making blue the sea that receives mess created by a whole city.

  The funeral was this morning. I felt as if I were somewhere else, could not make complete contact with what was going on around me. Diana was very supportive and controlled, coped superbly. The girl is a brick. I cannot imagine life without her noise, her energy. We are managing, Diana and I.

  At my feet rests a mesh cage that contains a pair of mended gulls. In a few minutes, when I have composed my thoughts for Ben, I shall give the birds their wings. There’s no-one on the beach today. No dog-walker will hear me if I talk to myself, no children will run helter-skelter up to the road, away from the madwoman.

  I sit on the concrete steps, watch the gulls watching me. ‘You’d better bloody fly, you two,’ I advise them. ‘Because your saviour’s up there already. He’s waiting for you, so be sharp.’ Be sharp. Auntie Maisie used to say that. ‘Come on and be sharp, Anne, you’ll miss next Preston Guild at this rate.’ Maisie, I did love you and Freddie.

  So much has happened in recent days that my head is still spinning like a whipped top on a windy day. There is a chance that I shall become as muddle-headed as Ben was. Ben was. He isn’t any more. Where Ben has gone, all is calm and peaceful. I won’t cry. I’m sure I won’t cry.

  After reading that terrible document, I was in a zombie-like state for several days. When I surfaced, I phoned the poet, read parts to him. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘We know, Danielle and I, but we were sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me when I came with the poem?’ I felt angry, betrayed, though I still remembered the gladness I experienced when I first realized that Ben had talked to Kevin. ‘You knew how ill he was,’ I said, recognizing my own petulance, disliking my tone of voice even as I spoke. ‘Why didn’t you shield me from the shock of this letter?’

  Kevin waited for me to stop ranting. I’ll never forget his answer. ‘The sickness made him no less human, Laura. He was a man who asked for my promise. I keep promises.’ The young are so good at putting me in my proper place lately.

  For several evenings, I terrorized my cousin Anne. ‘Did she do it?’ I asked a hundred times. ‘Did Miss Armitage help
Richard on his way?’ I don’t know why I needed to ask. My plans for Ben should not have depended on anyone else’s courage. ‘Did she kill him?’ I insisted.

  ‘Why do you need to know?’

  I screamed at her, must have made her head ache. ‘Stop answering my question with the same bloody question. Never mind why.’

  ‘Then stop asking,’ she shouted back.

  I wore her down in the end, convinced her that my need for an honest response lay in a programme of research for what I called ‘a different type of book’.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ she snapped eventually. ‘With a certain doctor’s help and blessing, she laced that final cocoa with something or other. The doctor is long dead and Miss Armitage is failing, so there’s your bloody research done. How’s Ben?’

  ‘The same,’ I replied.

  After a slight pause, she cleared her throat. ‘You won’t, will you?’

  ‘Won’t what?’

  ‘Don’t answer questions with questions, Laura. It’s not legal.’

  ‘Really?’ My mind was already elsewhere. I would bring him home, talk to him, read the stuff from the safe, read it aloud, try to reach him. If there was no improvement, I would help him to move on. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Euthanasia’s not legal.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Is that girl still with you? Will she be there when you bring Ben home? Laura, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes. She’ll be here, I think.’ I put down the phone, didn’t need any lectures from my lawyer.

  The dog has become excited. He tears towards me, skids to a halt, woofs quietly and raises his crazy eyebrows. He is asking about the seagulls. A hundred times he and I have stood here, or in the woods, while Ben released one or more of his patients. And at last I understand my husband’s preoccupation with house-martins. Many perish because they can’t find a home, a nest in which to shelter. Ben lost home, family, identity.