The first impression was one of order and efficiency. That didn’t last for long, as Ed rounded the corner of the first hut he stopped as if stunned. At first his head declined to interpret what his eyes saw. A pile of corpses, malnourished and contorted now decomposing and fouling the air. The miasma of fleshy corruption permeates the scene of war and he hadn’t noticed this before. Now it was overpowering. Soulless eyes in large fatless sockets stared stoically at the world. An obscene pile of pathetic skeletal, pale and taut skinned suffering.
“Sir, sir, please, sir…” a small woman clawed at his arm. She was starved meatless and wasted, dressed in ragged striped pyjamas and holding a small bundle wrapped in a dirty white cloth. She looked at him with the defeated unchallenging eyes common to all of the impossibly thin occupants. “She needs milk. Sir, please find her milk.” She handed the bundle to Ed and slowly shuffled away, her speed and agility impeded by her starvation.
Ed warily unwrapped the bundle and within it found the body of a baby, the umbilicus ripped open with dried blood around it, nothing remaining of the cord. He guessed the infant had been dead for a couple of days, she probably died shortly after birth. How, in God’s name, was a baby born here? He gently placed her on the disgusting pile of carrion and covered the tiny cadaver with the wrapping. Some things, he thought to himself, will haunt you forever. This small girl probably lived for less than a day but Ed would shed the occasional tear for her forever.
He soon discovered that the camp was loosely separated into sections based on the offenders’ characteristics. By far the most numerous, of course, were those whose offence was being Jewish. They occupied most of the huts and their terrible nature was advertised by yellow stars on their thin and worn striped pyjama-style uniforms.
Ed’s first thought was that it was a Star of David. Later he formed the opinion that it was not, the Nazis were not caring or thoughtful enough to permit a comforting religious and cultural symbol. It was simply two yellow triangles placed over each other as the official mark of JEW, merely part of the strict categorisation of people that marks the fundamental national socialist error, a quality mark to highlight those who differ from Aryan perfection. Or maybe the Nazis though it amusing to use the triangles to form the star, maybe they thought it insulting, who knows? They were crazy.
Various other identification insignia adorned the camp’s non Jewish inmates’ dress:
Red triangle, political offenders including communists, liberals and freemasons.
Green triangle, traditional dishonest or violent criminals who were often used to supply labour within the camp or to clear the dead.
Purple triangle, other unacceptable religions.
Pink triangle, sexual offenders including homosexuals and those who had sex with forbidden people such as Jews.
Black triangle, the workshy and lazy and if it sported a Z for Zigeuner they were gypsies or fortune tellers.
Ed later discovered that this was all noted in camp records, he thought that these efficient identifying marks and records underlined the insanity of the Nazis. Either they chose to create carefully documented evidence against themselves, or they really thought that these things matter and they intended to deal with the aberrations efficiently with a clear and careful bureaucracy to manage it. Nuts, eh?
As for the people in the striped uniforms, they all had a similar look; defeated, helpless, unfed, unwashed, surrendered, uncared for and uncaring.
He explored the huts, they were all the same. Rows of three tiered wooden surfaces, he hesitated to call them beds, just about large enough for a small person and crammed together to maximise occupancy. Most were still occupied by lost souls, often two or three people pushed tightly together, who observed him without expression; their wasted faces no longer possessed the muscles that enable facial movement, their teeth appeared misleadingly large in shrunken and diseased gums. Most of the people were young and probably strong before this ordeal. There was an absence of children or the elderly.
He found no place for ablutions or toilet for the huts. The huts were built on short brick columns and a glance under one hut revealed the place where human waste was dumped. One of the central huts had a small dribbling standpipe on the side, this appeared to be the sole water source for the inhabitants. Ed tried it and could not increase the water flow beyond a small trickle.
The last hut near the end was different. It was for guards and had a small section set aside for the officer. Here he found stored food, acceptable though not luxurious cots, a wood burning stove and stores of alcohol and cigarettes. A communal shower and lavatory annex provided adequate provision for bodily waste and cleaning. By the door was a rifle rack and ammunition boxes secured by lock and chain.
The Hungarian guards kept out of his way. He didn’t unshoulder his rifle once during the exploration. He became aware that other allied soldiers were now in the camp and he walked back to the main gate. The Jeep officer was by his vehicle in conversation with the German officer. The tall German stood imposingly well dressed, though slightly overweight, in his carefully styled and commanding SS uniform. He sported the Totenkopf skull shining in the centre of his properly cared for cap, the peak of which partially obscured his eyes.
As Ed reached them he unshouldered his rifle and started to work the bolt. The Jeep officer grabbed the weapon and Ed surrendered it to him, he had no intention of brawling with his own officer. He turned to the German and knocked his cap from his head.
“Do something, give me an excuse,” growled Ed, his voice breaking just slightly as he stared challengingly into the man’s eyes. The German wore a pistol in a fully enclosed leather holster but he did not reach towards it. Instead he clasped both hands in front of him at belt height. He looked at Ed without hate or anger or fear, he just looked blankly as if awaiting whatever was to come, just like the inmates. There he stood without resistance, devoid of both supplication and contrition.
Ed flat handed him across the face. The German continued to stand impassively.
“Come on, you sick cunt, do something.” He flat handed him again and then again. The German started to lean to one side and bend forward slightly. Ed started to draw back his fist.
“No, Ed. I’m sorry but no.” The officer commanding him to stop had grabbed his arm.
“Sir, you should see…” started Ed, his eyes filling with tears, then he fell to his knees and vomited.
“I’m sorry, Aitchsmith. I left you there alone because I needed a reliable man to report back to me. One capable of explaining what he saw and writing it down. There will be trials, I promise you. They will hang, be satisfied with that. The law must exact justice, not revenge, that’s why we’re fighting.” The officer handed him a warm tea.
They were in a tent that was set up as a command post outside the camp. The armour and most of the infantry had moved on, the Germans were now in full but still fighting retreat. About a hundred men had been left at the camp to document and record the sights. Medics were still arriving. Several prisoners had already died because well meaning soldiers had given them food that their stomachs couldn’t handle.
All soldiers were ordered to stop giving them anything unless authorised to do so by medics. The medics first went about supplying preventative medication to the soldiers to minimise infection from the abused souls in the camp. The inmates were being assessed and treated as best as could be done in the circumstances. A contingent of Royal Engineers arrived to dig latrines and install washing facilities.
In the first week one inmate was shot dead by the still armed Hungarian guard. It seems the poor man had wandered outside the now open gate and failed to halt when challenged by the guard. The offending Hungarian was badly beaten by two British soldiers and summarily hanged from a nearby tree. The two soldiers were severely admonished and fined a day’s pay for their action. They both said that it was money well spent.
&
nbsp; As a result of this incident the Hungarians and the German officer were finally removed in restraints and taken to a secure location to await their eventual fate. Some prisoners complained that the inmates should simply be released. It was explained to them, with apologies, that this was a war zone under martial law and they must stay. Soon after they were relocated to a captured German barracks where they could be better cared for. The allied officer commanding the camp rehabilitation was court martialled for permitting the SS to remain armed for so long.
Photographs of the conditions in which it was found were posted all over the camp. The corpse piles were still there but now covered in quicklime dust to reduce the stink and prevent infection. Every occupant of the local village, every man, woman, child, and even babes in arms, was taken to the camp and made to see what had been done in their name and in which they, by their silence, acquiesced. Each person who was old enough to understand was asked why they had done nothing, said nothing. Every person, including those who supplied goods to the camp, denied knowledge of the crime.
Estimates of the final toll, total victims of murder by neglect of those intended for murder elsewhere, rolled into the tens of thousands. It transpired that this was a remote overflow camp for the main transit camp at Bergen-Belsen and the figure was a relatively small number in comparison to the camps actually intended to take lives.
The civilians were sent away and the entire camp was destroyed by flame thrower, including the corpse piles. A well regarded British American film maker, Alfred Hitchcock, recorded this just as he’d recorded the camp itself.
After the camp was gone, statements taken and effective systems put in place to help the prisoners, the soldiers who liberated and eventually closed the camp were formed into a special detail to repatriate enemy POWs when the war ended. In the meantime, they were to organise and prepare for the logistical challenge of this operation.
The war ended, the Germans lost all resistance, Germany was partitioned for the convenience of the occupying powers, and the POWs were returned since their physical ability was badly needed to rebuild the shattered country.
When the last of the POWs had been handed to the Russians the unit was instructed to take up camp in West Berlin. Berlin itself was firmly in the Russian sector but agreement had been reached, as a symbolic act, that each power would hold a section of Berlin.
When it became clear that the Russians would treat captured territory as their own empire, relations soured somewhat. They even closed off the supply corridor to West Berlin and the allies came close to fighting each other. Supplies were air lifted in and eventually the whole situation settled down into a decades-long armed truce.
Ed and the other soldiers were pleased not to fight the Russians. After about a year they were returned home and demobbed, with thanks, and required to pay for any equipment they’d lost.
Ed found work as a carpenter and married Margaret Adams. The war and its nasty memories he pushed to the back of his mind, except that once in a rare while he would seek solitude and quietly weep to himself.
They took up residence in east London. There were several German women in the community, war brides brought back by soldiers, and there was never any animosity towards them. Nonetheless, there remained a resentment and anger towards the Germans in perpetuity.
***
Whenever I visit my mother I’m filled with these nostalgic reveries. So much of my early life was spent as listener for one veteran or another that events were seared into my consciousness. I’d been sitting with her for a couple of hours when she pulled her hand from under mine and placed it on top. We’d been silent for some time.
“Where do we go, Steve? Afterwards I mean, where do we go?” This was deep stuff for us. “When I die will I go somewhere, do you think?”
I looked at her for a few seconds. “I’m not sure, mum. I hope so, I feel that we do but I don’t know. I just feel that there must be something else.” I was tempted to just spout knowledgeably about heaven, afterlife and anything else that would comfort her. I didn’t because she always knows when I’m bullshitting and she’ll just say ‘BS boy, BS’. Mothers know their sons. I, at least, owed her honesty.
“Do you remember that X-Files stuff you always made us watch when we were at Richford Road?” She was referring to the TV programme. Dr Who and Star Trek were my viewing favourites as a child. I made my poor mum and dad sit through them all. Later I was into the X-Files, and the fact I lived elsewhere didn’t stop me insisting they should watch it.
“Yes, of course I do,” I chuckled.
“I’m like that, I want to believe. Not in stupid aliens, I want to believe in God.” There were tears in her eyes. We’ve hardly even ever discussed politics or anything else and now she’s into the big questions. I thought it probably a sign that we were nearing the end.
“You took me to church once or twice, when I was little,” I said.
“We would have gone more,” she squeezed my hand. “They were a stuck up bunch at All Saints and made us sit at the back because they all had their own special places. I didn’t see God in that church, I just saw a bunch of snobs being holier than thou and sticking two fingers up at the sinners. I don’t think Jesus would have liked them much.”
That made me laugh out loud, which in a geriatric hospice is considered poor etiquette. I glanced around me apologetically. A young, good looking, blonde, white attired female nurse at the central desk grinned and jokingly wagged her finger at me. It was like being admonished by the angels, which almost made me laugh again.
“He was known for his dodgy temper in churches,” I said. I’m not sure she understood the reference but she smiled.
My mum sighed, “I hope there’s a heaven. I hope somebody will pray for me when I’m gone. I hope that I see my dad there. I hope I meet my mum. I even hope Kim’s there.”
That surprised me, Kim was my childhood dog. I kissed her hand. “I’ll pray for you, I promise. I doubt if dad will understand but I’ll do it anyway. I just can’t believe that this life is all there is.”
She was still hitting her anti pain button every few seconds so I don’t really know if I was talking to my mum’s real self or some opiate-soaked version of her. She suddenly looked more wide awake.
“What worries me,” she said sternly, “is that sign on the bus.”
“What sign? What bus?” I said, a bit confused.
She looked alertly at me. “A few years ago the buses had a big sign on the advert strip. It said ‘There Probably is NOT a God’.”
I remembered that. A few years ago, for some unfathomable reason, a group of vocal atheists funded the bus adverts. There were some senior scientists among them, which is funny given the theological response to the statement. I wondered whether I should give that antithesis to my mum now, would it help her?
There is something mildly absurd about evangelical atheists and at this point I was cross with them for making it harder for my mum to find comfort at her end. I don’t give a shit about their fearless search for the truth. They should shut the fuck up, they are upsetting some vulnerable people. See, strong emotion forces the London voice to the surface. It’s guttural and filled with glottal stops with not much ‘cor blimey guv’nor’ and a lot more aggressive and demanding than you’ll hear on TV pastiches.
I considered for a moment. “You know, they were wrong if they thought that the scientific method gave that result.”
“Really?” She sounded interested and alert. Maybe she was hoping I could solve her crisis of faith. If so, then she was wrong but I could maybe make her feel a bit better about it.
“There’s no real evidence either way,” I pontificated. “In the absence of evidence we’re just left with the scientific method of enquiry. That works by stating something, the hypothesis, and then trying to prove the opposite, the antithesis. Every time we fail to prove the o
pposite and thereby form a synthesis, or new hypothesis, we reinforce the first hypothesis so it stands as the probable position. We cannot prove that there is not a God. So, by the scientific method we are left with the first hypothesis that there is a God. Which means that the sign should have read ‘There probably is a God’ because that’s currently the only possible synthesis.” I chuckled at my own sophistication. There is a lot of sophistry in discussing religion. Incidentally, that argument is the reason I’m agnostic, I consider it the only valid intellectual position.
“Shut up,” said my mum.
This was Dave’s fault really because I borrowed this argument from him. I’ve only ever had one discussion with him about religion and the existence of God. He’s very comfortable with agnosticism and even appreciates the atheist position. He has no interest in trying to persuade anybody into the church of Rome and has reservations about the Irish version of the franchise. A most unusual priest is Dave.
I once said to him, “I appreciate the human need to believe in a higher power, a supernatural being, a force to right the wrongs and reward the good. That doesn’t mean that it’s intellectually sound to believe it.”
“Oh no?” challenged Dave. I knew that I was in for one of his slightly tangential but annoyingly sound pronouncements. “In what ways can we validly believe something? We can believe it because it can be shown empirically to be true; I believe in gravity because I can see things fall. We can believe something because it can be shown dialectically; that is by sound reasoned argument. That’s where science gets its ‘hypothesis, antithesis, synthesis’ way of doing things, evolution is a good example of that. If something fails to lend itself to either empiricism or dialecticism, we can then validly adopt it as an article of faith. Physicists do it all the time, the church does it more often. The article of faith stands until it requires amendment due to some dialectic or empirical defeat. I call this ‘theology, anti theology, synthology’ technique the theolectic approach to faith.” Trust Dave to argue that simple belief is intellectually sound and at the same time decline to be limited by language. If you need a new word, just invent one.
Twenty Five Million Ghosts Page 6