Kolya and his Papa had their routine too as the solitary candle upon the dining table glimmered dimly. Both would hunch around the light with a book (either the Bible or a collection of children's stories by Tolstoy that Solomon had himself owned and read from when he was boy). Sometimes the routine would change slightly, maybe Solomon would ask his son to translate the Bible into Polish, from Hebrew, or vice versa read the Tolstoy in Hebrew, which was written in Polish. "Clever boy," Solomon would proudly say as his son did so, pleasure just about traceable in his enervated features. A year or so ago Solomon had tried to teach his son English but his memory and concentration too often failed him. Their routine had been the same for so long now that one couldn't tell if Kolya read to his father because it made him happy, or did Solomon let his son read to him because it seemed to give pleasure to his boy? Maybe both. Maybe neither.
"Can't we read from the new book Papa?" Kolya eagerly said, holding the soft leather cover to his small chest.
"No, we'll wait for your sister. She might like to read it as well Kolya."
"Can I wake her up then?"
"No, let her sleep. Read me a Psalm - and then pick a story of your choosing."
Briefly creasing up his small but expressive face in disappointment Kolya nevertheless retrieved the heavy, fading book. The page marker was left in the Book of Joshua but Kolya turned to the Psalms. Believing it to be his father's favourite extract, as Solomon often requested it to console himself or his son, the boy, in a solemn and pleasing voice, read from the book,
"Whoever goes to the Lord for safety,
Whoever remains under the protection of the Almighty,
can say to him,
‘You are my defender and protector.
You are my God; in you I trust’
He will keep you safe from all hidden dangers
and from all deadly diseases.
He will cover you with his wings;
You will be safe in his care;
His faithfulness will protect and defend you.
You need not fear any dangers at night
Or sudden attacks during the day
Or the plagues that strike in the dark
Or the evils that kill in the daylight.
A thousand may fall dead beside you,
Ten thousand all around you,
But you will not be harmed.
You will look and see
How the wicked are punished.
You have made the Lord your defender,
the Most High your protector,
and so no disaster will strike you,
No violence will come near your home.
God will put his angels in charge of you
to protect you wherever you go.
They will hold you up with their hands
to keep you from hurting your feet
on the stones.
You will trample down the lions and snakes,
fierce lions and poisonous snakes.
God says, ‘I will save those who love me
and will protect those who
acknowledge me as Lord.
When they call to me, I will answer them;
when they are in trouble, I will be with them.
I will rescue them and honour them
I will reward them with long life;
I will save them."
Kolya glanced at his father for approval and to witness the childish satisfaction lined in his features but the old man had once again retreated into himself, seemingly staring into nothingness. Dumb. Distracted. The flame from the candle bent and wriggled as the depressed doctor breathed upon it through his hairy nostrils. As to their routine though, Kolya continued to read on.
4.
The evening was mild and clear. A luminous orb of a moon hung happily in the night sky surrounded by a bright vista of stars. For a moment Duritz, with a glimpse of peace and wonder in his expression, got lost in the lustrous firmament but he was soon brought back down to earth as a policeman's cudgel nudged him in the ribs.
"Hey, I said the alley's clear. We can move on."
Yitzhak Meisel was Duritz's companion for the evening. They were policing curfew together. Duritz shot his partner a look to show his displeasure of his fellow constable having touched and disturbed him. Everything about Yitzhak Meisel - his guttural accent, pockmarked face, the nasty odour from the onion soup which he frequently ate, his morals, being - conspired to vex the young Jewish student. His bald head and hook nose made him look like an eagle or rat even. Even before the ghetto Meisel's profession was that of petty thief, bully and smuggler. "The ghetto is the best thing that has ever happened to me," he had once joked distastefully to Duritz, "my belly is always full, I am a figure of respect and authority - and I no longer have to pay for it (sex)," he had remarked with a wink to the new recruit. Indeed had it not been partly due to Meisel's example and tuition that Duritz had begun to abuse his position and extort and accept various favours?
"Watch where you're pointing that thing," he warned. In a way Duritz sometimes wished that the bully would goad him further one time so he could teach him a lesson, give him a taste of the medicine which he so contentedly dished out to inhabitants of the ghetto.
"Why are you in such a miserable mood tonight?" he replied, wary of the fiery look in the unstable student's eyes. Although Meisel was far from scared of the bigger, stronger Duritz, he had no wish to antagonise him and unduly start a fight. At the back of his mind Yitzhak also weighed up that, should there ever be a dispute between the two policemen, the Germans would side with the clever student who could speak their language.
"Perhaps it is because of the company I have to keep."
"Maybe. You are a loner after all. Even the boys have noticed how unsociable you are."
"I really, passionately, couldn't care less. Now let's get this over and done with."
The two spectral figures continued to methodically patrol their quarter of the district through the lambent moonlight. A few impish eyes of children gazing through murky windows followed them. So too a few adult faces tried to discern who was doing the rounds, making pointed comments to their housemates about the relevant constables as they did so,
"I think he actually enjoys his work that Yitzhak...They're all the same...Is that Adam Duritz? Just like his father that one...One day that snake Meisel will get what's coming to him...You see that man on the left, boy, never make eye contact with him or talk to him... I remember his mother, a lovely woman. She'd be turning in her grave if she could see him now..."
Such had been the systematic professionalism of the Germans, who had performed the task initially, the two policemen rarely stumbled upon anything or anyone suspicious during their curfew rounds together. They had only encountered this evening one pair of ghoulish eyes staring up at them, huddled up and prostrate upon the pavement. A half-naked beggar. His twig limbs looked as if they could snap or prick through his stretched skin at any moment. They left him. Yitzhak made a mental note of his location for the morning; if he needed him he could make up one of his five. Duritz too, oppressed by pity and guilt but also the necessity to turn oneself into a block of stone, made a note of the poor soul. Perhaps neither one of the policemen would get there first however. On their way home Duritz had heard the distant rumble of German trucks. They may well be just shooting them now and loading them on, Duritz thought to himself, cleaning the streets of anyone they discovered - locking them into the trains ready for tomorrow. Or it could've been Kleist. The policeman struggled up the stairs with a heavier heart than usual after his duties - he had been thinking of Jessica Rubenstein again - and locked himself away in his room. Entombed.
Lieutenant Christian Kleist took one last drag on his cigarette and tossed it out from the open-topped truck. He stood on the passenger side with his hunting rifle in his hand, the barrel resting upon the top of the vehicle's windscreen. A large signet ring on his left hand glinted in the moonlight. Four of his SS acolytes, loyal and zealous Priva
tes grinning with drink and anticipation in their eyes, sat in the back. One of them held a rifle to the eight emaciated prisoners they were guarding. An identical truck, carrying just its driver, was parked ten metres behind. An eeriness and humidity filled the street.
The tanned, clean-shaven officer turned his nose up in disgust at the stench, thinking to himself that he needed to almost shower in cologne to help fend it off, but nevertheless Christian Kleist was in a capital mood. He recalled again the telegram that had come from Himmler no less. It had praised him, saying that his superior officers had said good things about him. But so too, he needed to not only keep up the good work, but to also re-double his efforts. His father was also proud of him. Christian's father, Jorge Kleist, was a wealthy industrialist who had long been in the service of the Nazi Party and vice versa. Although his father had been fretful of his son accepting a commission, Christian had believed it his duty to enlist. The cause was a worthy, noble one. The patriotic Lieutenant afforded himself a portion of self-congratulations also. The U-Boat battle in the Atlantic and Rommel's war in Africa were, at best, hanging in the balance and the progress in Russia didn't bare thinking about - but was not he winning on his Front? If one measured their success in statistical terms were the numbers of evacuees not impressively greater - rising in real and percentage terms - each month? The SS officer took his duties and mission seriously. Every day he oversaw the loading of the evacuees for resettlement at the station. Once a week he would ride along with one of the trains himself from the ghetto to Treblinka, inspecting and improving the operation, even if just by the tiniest detail. He consciously tried to apply and modify the conveyor belt techniques and economies of scale that he had learned from running one of his father's armament factories. And his efforts and dedication were paying off. He was a rising star in the eyes of the Party, or so Christian convinced himself. He knew that some of his fellow officers took umbrage at his ambitiousness and self-appointed briefs, which sometimes even extended into the spheres of his superiors, but Christian knew that he had the patronage and support of Himmler himself. Indeed there was a chance that he could even make the rank Major by the end of the year - the Lieutenant richly told himself.
And so, partly in celebration of his unofficial commendation from Himmler, Christian had treated himself to a fine bottle of claret with dinner and informed his Corporal that he wanted some sport tonight. The adjutant had taken his meaning to arrange one of his ‘hunting’ trips. Christian had also asked his Corporal to specifically invite a young Wehrmacht Private, Dietmar, in order to introduce the new recruit to his inner circle.
"Check the light again would you Private," the Lieutenant instructed in an effortlessly well-bred, succinct accent. The Party Member smoothed his eyebrow, both to preen himself and wipe away any perspiration that might thread its way down from his brow into his eyes.
"Yes sir," issued an eager Private who switched on and then off a searchlight which had been mounted onto the truck behind the Lieutenant's head. The powerful beam produced a large cone of amber light on the dismal street.
"Right, I believe it's about time we released our seven little ducks, wouldn't you agree men?" Christian Kleist said cheerfully. He had a variety of terms for his ‘ducks’, including ‘prey’, ‘vermin’ and ‘clay pigeons’. The Privates (including the half-drunk, wholly enthusiastic Dietmar) replied by kicking, cuffing and nudging their passengers out of the truck. They indicated to one of the Jews to remain seated however. The soldiers then proceeded to line them up before the Lieutenant at the front of the vehicle. For a brief moment the officer turned his attention to the virginal Wehrmacht Private and gave him an appreciative, encouraging nod. The captives, including two women, were in a variety of physical and mental conditions. A couple were in no better shape than the beggar that Duritz had encountered earlier on in the evening. A few however seemed alert and in reasonably good health. A couple of the prisoners knew what was coming from hearing about Kleist and his previous hunts. Pale with terror they nevertheless tried to rein themselves in - breathing deeply to fill their lungs with oxygen - so as to form some species of strategy as to what to do - either to run as quickly as possible in a straight line or zigzag towards the end of the street. Some prayed. Some thought of their loved ones. The distinguished, infamous SS officer addressed them in faultless Polish; he smiled immaculately before doing so, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight like a sabre.
"Listen carefully, your aim is to run and reach the end of the street. I will not lie to you. Most of you probably won't make it but, should you do so, you have my word that you will be released and allowed to return to your families or wherever you crawled out from. Now, spread yourselves out along the width of the street. When you hear the gun you may begin."
Before they were able to fan themselves out along the street the Private who had remained in the truck switched on the searchlight again, as was his task to do, and watched in amusement as the beam scorched their eyes and they cowered before the simple light with their hands in front of their faces.
The Private's pistol sounded just before the disorientated prisoners reached their starting positions. Christian Kleist employed a variety of tactics during his hunts, both to amuse himself and also so he could conduct experiments as to what was the most efficient or entertaining strategy. He would sometimes just try and shoot his quarry from left to right, or he would start in the middle and shoot the prey on the ends last. Sometimes he would also challenge himself and either attempt to kill his targets as quickly as possible - before they were even half-way down the range. Or occasionally the Lieutenant would test his skills by allowing them to get to the end of the street before he commenced firing.
Enfeebled and petrified the first prisoner was slaughtered, barely getting out of the blocks; he was in the area of the Private's searchlight from the beginning. He dropped immediately, from his death and the force of the shot. The sound of the shot, echoing throughout the closed in street, reverberated in the air like thunder. A sobbing woman, barely running, fell next. No sooner did she feel and see the dreaded light upon her than it was over. A steely, demonic determination now possessed the Lieutenant's face - or rather he possessed it. Satisfied with his first two torso shots he nevertheless impatiently announced to the similarly pumped up Private "Again. More!"; Dietmar looked on, exhilarated. For an instant the Lieutenant became unfocused as the fateful, florescent beam fell upon two targets simultaneously. The first he but winged, the bullet ripping through the man's knee cap - almost severing his leg. Annoyed with his miss the huntsman nevertheless regained his composure and felled his next target. The following two targets were similarly clinically dispatched, one of which held his hands behind his head whilst running as if they might provide protection against any bullets. But one target remained and for a moment or two the searchlight frantically darted about like a giant fire-fly in the inky blackness. Blanking everything else out the final prisoner, one who had thought about his strategy beforehand, had made his way to the edge of the street, running on the pavement. He had surprised his opponents by his pace. Tuning his ear to the desperate footsteps and hoarse panting the Private soon found his last troublesome ‘duck’ and fastened the beam onto the fast-moving silhouette. The man, a father of three and watchmaker by trade, continued to run but, as the light illuminated his path his heart and face automatically began to tremble and his legs nearly gave way from under him. Kleist swore underneath his breath as he snatched and missed with his first shot. Gritting his teeth, narrowing his eye, the Lieutenant could only wing his prey with his second shot. A hot, cruel pain thudded into the prisoner's right shoulder. Disorientated and deaf, from the bullet's hail ringing in his lobes and the warm flesh covering the side of his head, the prisoner nevertheless made it to the end of the street. He finally collapsed, wheezing and half-crying.
The frustrated, snarling Lieutenant pulled his trigger again but he felt but a click instead of the report of the rifle jamming into his shoulder. Spitting ou
t a curse he removed his Luger pistol from its holster and immediately began to aim and fire at the slippery Jew. Such was the prisoner's distance, or the officer's loss of focus, the rounds fell just shy of the wounded target. Cursing again the indignant Christian Kleist removed himself from the truck and purposefully began to march down the street. With almost perfect insouciance he silenced the man groaning and writhing on the ground who had been shot in the leg, shooting him in the face. The wary Privates approached not nor spoke to their superior officer. The only figure to meet his heated gaze was that of his quarry. Resigned to his fate, perhaps even thankful that it was now all going to be over, the bloodied mensch spared not a thought for his own fate but used his last minute or so to pray for his family. The Lieutenant tempered his fury towards himself by heaping it upon the insolent parasite that cowered and crouched by his feet. Even in death though the prisoner managed to grate upon the fervent Nazi's being by spoiling his freshly polished soft leather boots.
While the Privates smoked and shared some news the solitary Jew left in the truck was ordered to load up the seven corpses which were left strewn, bloody and contorted, along the street. When the terrified, exhausted prisoner completed the task he was ordered to board the truck again - and then he was shot in the back of the head.
Duritz heard the cluster of shots from his bed. Sometimes they barely registered with him. Like the other residents of the streets around where Kleist hunted the policeman had learned to, consciously or not, blot out the scenes. Yet there were also those in the ghetto, holy fools or otherwise, who would weep and pray for every shot which rang out in the darkness. Duritz had once or twice wept in the past - partly because he could not pray.
Thomas Abendroth and his Platoon had billeted themselves into a floor of a municipal building which overlooked a corner of the Jewish ghetto. While most of his comrades slept the Corporal, careful not to wake anyone, retreated into a room the unit kept spare for anyone who brought a woman back or wanted to relieve himself - or, in the case of Thomas Abendroth now, just desired some peace and privacy. A cool breeze whistled through the window and billowed out what was left of a tatty, brown net curtain. A candle and the silvery moonlight provided the illumination for the soldier to read over again the letter from his wife.
Warsaw Page 4