by Behn, Noel;
Spangler raised up on one elbow and looked around. The four-tiered rows of bunks were empty. He eased himself down to the floor and followed his guide out of the barracks.
The afternoon sun blazed bright in the steel-blue sky. Even so, the paradeground mud remained frozen. The compound gate was pulled open by the Ukrainian SS guard, and they started down the icy road. Barbed-wire fences stretched on both sides. Row after row of windowless barracks lay beyond. Directly ahead, thick black smoke curled from two tall chimneys.
After a quarter of a mile they turned through a gate. Here too a Ukrainian SS guard stood sentry. The compound they entered looked exactly like the one they had left. Spangler followed the Kapo around the long stone-block kitchen and into a whitewashed barracks.
Spangler counted twenty-four beds: four cots and ten double bunks. All were empty, with one exception: the giant red-haired cook he had fought the night before lay unconscious and breathing heavily on a far cot. Rewashed bandages bulged around the massive neck.
“His name is Vassili,” a voice called out in accented Hungarian. “He was once chief cook here. Now I am—at least for the present. So I thank you.”
Spangler wheeled about. Tolan stepped from the doorway. He too bore the bruises of the previous night’s battle. Behind him waited a pair of scrawny prisoners laden with bedclothes.
“I am Friedrich, better known as Brilly,” he told Spangler. ‘Brilly’ is short for Brillenschlange. Here we are no longer numbers. We can afford the luxury of names, but the SS prefers them to be nicknames.
“Your guide,” Tolan said, indicating the Kapo who had accompanied Spangler, “is Anvil. He killed his wife and two infant children by dropping anvils on them, so we felt the title appropriate. If you last long enough we will find something appropriate for you. Yes, around here we all have nicknames—except that one,” he said, nodding at Vassili.
Tolan moved across the room and slapped the mattress of a top bunk. “This shall be yours,” he said. The two prisoners hurried forward with their load. “And look what I have brought you. Blankets. Three woolen blankets! That’s something in this place, eh? And there’s more. Look, a whole sheet. You’ll soon learn there aren’t many who can boast an untorn sheet or a pillow—with a pillow slip. Have you eaten?”
Spangler shook his head.
“Come,” Tolan said as the two prisoners quickly began making up the bunk.
Spangler followed Tolan and Anvil through a well-equipped kitchen and out into the large front room. One wall was lined with lockers. Table and chairs stretched across the other. Spangler was seated opposite Tolan and Anvil.
“Do you speak German?” Tolan asked.
“Some,” Spangler replied.
“Some is not good enough. You will have to learn quickly. Speak German always, no matter how badly. Soon it will come to you.”
Anvil let out a short giggle and nodded.
The second prisoner came from the kitchen and set a tray of sliced meats, fresh bread, butter, cheese, coffee and sugar before Spangler.
“Slowly,” Tolan counseled. “Eat it slowly. Your stomach is empty and the meat is tinned. Chew well and slowly or it will go off like a bomb in your gut.”
Spangler took his advice.
“You fight well,” Tolan said, rubbing the lump over his eye. “You move quickly. You know how to use the darkness. I thought I had you for a moment, but you slid into the shadows and the light blinded me. Ha, that was a good trick. Tell me, where did you learn to fight so well?”
“I grew up in an orphanage. Then I was in prison.”
“Prison is a good place. That is where Anvil developed his techniques. Yes, prison is good, but not as good as the streets. I learned in the streets of Vienna, Berlin, Munich, a dozen other cities,” Tolan said. “No one fought better than we did. You’re Hungarian?”
“No, Russian,” said Spangler.
“Why do you speak Hungarian? What were you doing on a Hungarian shipment?”
“I worked in Hungary before the war. I returned to Russia in 1938. They forced me into the Army. I ran away. They found me and put me in prison. Two weeks ago I escaped and made my way back to Hungary. The police stopped me. I had no papers. Worse, I was circumcised. They put me on a train and here I am. And you? How did you get here?”
“I was a Brownshirt,” said Tolan.
“What’s that?”
“S. A., Sturmabteilung—the storm troopers. We brought Hitler to power. There were two and a half million of us. I was a high official, one of the highest. It was we who conceived of the concentration camp. We built forty of them by the mid-thirties, for political prisoners. Ironic, eh? Then Hitler turned on us. Roehm, our leader was murdered. We fought back—and lost. I suppose I could have avoided all this if I had thrown in with Goering or Himmler, but I couldn’t betray my men. They’re still out there waiting. So I’ve bounced from camp to camp. I’ve seen them all, but this is the maddest.”
“Why?”
“The Process—the functioning of Birkenau. The logic behind it. Especially this compound. We’re different from all the rest. You’ll find out, now that you’re one of the elite.”
“Elite?”
“A cook. The SS decreed that if any of you defeated a cook last night, you could take his place. You defeated Vassili. Therefore you take his place until he’s well enough to fight you again. It’s the Process. Come, let me show you around.”
The compound was a long narrow rectangle stretching from the railroad track to the main interior road; the kitchens and the cooks’ quarters stood at the road end, next came the roll-call area, then two rows of sixteen windowless barracks spreading to the railroad fence. It was bordered by identical compounds, each enclosed by a twelve-foot-high electrified barbed-wire fence.
The main kitchen building was painted a dull yellow. The stoves were ancient wood-burning relics. The solitary water tap worked irregularly. Utensils were damaged and patched. Only two large boiling caldrons seemed in any state of repair. It was obvious to Spangler that the most functional equipment had been requisitioned by the cooks for their own private kitchen.
The kitchen Kommando, Tolan explained, was a well-defined hierarchy. Four senior cooks constituted the top echelon. Spangler now shared that station with Tolan, Anvil and one other: Der Gronck. The senior cooks’ responsibilities were limited to seeing that the others did their jobs, keeping the accounts and allocating food. Even these minor tasks were not really performed by them. The senior cooks owned “Habes,” or, more simply, slaves. The Habes did the work, except for allocating the food.
Spangler had seen that the senior cooks, the subcooks and the apprentice cooks were all large, powerful men. Most kept their hands taped and bore the scars and bruises of recent battles. All wore green triangles on their SS-fashioned prison uniforms, with one exception—Tolan. Tolan was a political prisoner, not a civil criminal. His triangle was red.
The sun was setting. Spangler watched the preparations for the evening meal. The potato shed to the rear of the kitchen was unlocked. Sacks of soft, spotted potatoes were carried in and dumped into the boiling caldrons, along with carefully measured bits of meat and a large can of starchy powder. Every ingredient was entered into two ledgers kept by Tolan’s slaves. Even the empty potato sacks were accounted for under “assets” before being washed, flattened and returned to the barracks.
Kitchen security increased when the bread bunker was unlocked. The subcooks had the area cleared as the loaves were laid out and carefully cut. Every slice was recorded.
“Eighteen per cent of the authorized quota is never issued,” Tolan told Spangler. “If the prisoners know we can’t feed them all, the lines will move quicker. They’re a cunning lot. They know the soup is thickest at the bottom of the pot, so they try to get to the end of the line. But if they’re afraid the end of the line won’t get fed, the problem is solved, isn’t it?”
In the distance a band could be heard playing Liszt. The tramping of far-off feet fol
lowed soon after. Spangler watched the parade-ground fill with the hunched forms of returning labor prisoners. The roll-call procedure was the same as the night before, only this time there were no new arrivals to process.
Ranks were broken, and the inmates formed into endless lines. One by one the procession of gaunt, skeletal faces passed in front of the kitchen counters. Subcooks ladled out the thin soup. Each cup was carefully poured. Spangler watched as one portion was spilled. Prisoners dove to the ground and began licking the dirt. They were clubbed away by the Ukrainian SS.
Spangler noticed a second line forming behind the kitchen. He looked on as the subcooks and the assistant cooks worked directly from a ledger. Certain prisoners had already paid for extra rations. Their names were checked off as the accounts were settled. Spoons and cups, undoubtedly stolen from fellow prisoners, brought an extra ladle of soup or a piece of bread. If the utensils were in better-than-average condition the price might be doubled. Bits of soap were worth two thick slices of bread. A cigarette brought five. When the food ran out future orders were negotiated.
Spangler wandered out into the floodlit field. Five thousand exhausted prisoners were seated, devouring their evening meal. They all looked alike; the ragged striped jackets, the threadbare trousers, the torn shoes all appeared identical. So did the faces.
Spangler’s eyes searched them. Perhaps somewhere among the countless thousands now squatting at Birkenau, Jean-Claude was at this very moment licking clean his cup and hiding it in his clothes so that it wouldn’t be stolen.
Tolan called. Spangler followed him back to the barracks to the senior cooks’ private dinner table. The plates were warm and the knives, spoons and forks shiny. The waiters wore white aprons over their prisoner uniforms. The meal began with a thick vegetable-and-beef stew. It was followed by sliced meat, baked turnips, Hungarian wine, butter, jam, honey, ersatz coffee with milk and sugar, and canned peaches.
44
The Habes cleared away the dinner dishes and pushed the tables into line several feet in front of the wooden cabinets.
Der Gronck, the fourth senior cook, a former weight lifter, brought a set of ledgers from the back room and set them on the center table.
Anvil unlocked the first cabinet. Truncheons, five well-honed bayonets and two pistols were removed and distributed among the sub-cooks and the apprentice cooks. Anvil stationed the subcooks around the room and deployed the apprentice cooks outside the barracks.
Tolan opened the second and third cabinets, revealing shelves crammed with canned fruits, salt, pepper, spices, medicines, bandages, knives, spoons, cups, clothing, cloth and almost any other luxury item coveted within Birkenau.
Spangler was seated between Tolan and Der Gronck behind the center table. Anvil, truncheon in hand, stood leaning beside the door. The Bourse was declared open.
The first “suppliers” arrived at their scheduled time, seated themselves opposite the senior cooks, hoisted their sacks onto the table and quickly began unpacking their merchandise. These were the liaison prisoners from the Sonderkommando. Tolan explained to Spangler. The Sonderkommando was the prisoner contingent that operated Birkenau’s four crematoria—the Kommando which could never leave its compound, the prisoners who were themselves disposed of every four months.
Spangler did not have to be informed that the goods being unpacked had been culled from the possessions of that day’s quota at the gas chambers. Thick wool socks, sweaters, shoes, underwear, a pair of suede gloves, half a packet of cigarettes and a fleece-lined jacket were among the items examined and appraised.
Bargaining began between Tolan, Der Gronck, and the suppliers. Values were finally established and agreed upon. Shaving soap, flour and sugar seemed most in demand by the Sonderkommando prisoners this particular night. The items were brought down from the cabinet shelves and pushed across to the liaison prisoners. Goods that were not paid for at the time were left on consignment with the cooks.
Individual negotiations between cook and supplier representative got under way. The prisoner opposite Tolan passed across a leather wallet. It was swollen with Reichsmarks. Der Gronck was examining a small cyanide capsule, the type that could fit under the tongue. Both items were considered windfall merchandise. That the SS had overlooked them in their initial search of the victims was the sheerest luck. Agreement was reached and the inventory recorded in the ledger.
The next group of traders represented the ramp Kommando, those inmates who greeted Birkenau’s incoming trains, carried the new arrivals’ baggage to the warehouse and sorted through the possessions under careful scrutiny by the SS. Two trains had arrived in the last five hours. The suppliers’ merchandise included fresh fruit and vegetables, bags of fresh coffee, cakes and loaves of rich Rumanian bread. The fresh milk, eggs and butter were immediately locked away. The two pairs of fur-lined boots drew smiles from all. The most startling item was a side of fresh lamb; how the ramp Kommando had sneaked it past the SS no one could guess. Negotiations opened as with the Sonderkommando. A new commercial wrinkle was added—future contracts. Vassili had received an order from Bubel, one of his private clients, and had placed it with the ramp Kommando for filling. Now delivery was being made. Five fine lace-and-silk slips, five silk brassieres and five pairs of silk panties were pushed across to Spangler with three pairs of high-heeled leather shoes and six dolls. Payment was made in the official currency of the Bourse—bordello passes. Four passes to the officers’ bordello and eight to the enlisted men’s were handed to the ramp-Kommando suppliers.
The “special” supplier was last. A small prisoner with bifocals took a chair at the table, reached into a pocket and brought out two gold cigarette cases, a gold cigarette lighter and five pairs of gold-rimmed glasses. Tolan shook his head and pushed them back. The prisoner returned the items to his pocket, dug deeper and came out with a handful of ragged bits of gold filling. Again Tolan rejected the merchandise. The supplier emptied an inside pocket and handed across a small velvet pouch. Tolan untied the knot, and gems spilled over the table top. Bidding began. Ten SS-officers’-bordello passes and six loaves of bread were the final price. The “special” supplier was pleased. He reached into his trousers and spun his final item onto the table. Spangler watched as the round gold slug came to rest. It was almost two inches in diameter. Tolan burst into a broad smile. There was no haggling. The supplier demanded six passes to the Finishing School. It was paid immediately.
Then came the buyers. The first group came from the SS enlisted men’s kitchen. They traded a pair of SS boots, a razor, half a bar of shaving soap, a quarter bottle of iodine and six passes to the enlisted men’s bordello for Rumanian bread, four cakes and two sacks of coffee.
Security tightened. Truncheon-carrying subcooks lined the far wall. They were joined by six assistant cooks. Tolan and Der Gronck brought out their own pistols and laid them on their laps.
Anvil opened the door, and the room began to fill with Kapos representing black markets operating in other Birkenau compounds as well as in many of the subcamps. The auction began. Item after item was held up and bids were shouted in. There were arguments. Fights were stopped. A fleece-lined coat brought four officers’-bordello passes and two dry-cell batteries. A cake went for a stolen rifle with three clips of ammunition.
Bidding on the bottle brandy was interrupted by a piercing scream. Anvil had caught a Kapo stealing and had just pressed out one of the thief’s eyes. Trading resumed and was soon at high pitch. The brandy brought two cans of petrol for a barracks stove, and a stick of scented shaving soap. Wool socks, sweaters and suede gloves were exchanged for a repaired Luger, three pages of a month-old Berlin newspaper, three more dry-cell batteries and a pillow slip. A tin of milk went for two sheets, a completed crossword puzzle, a pair of scissors and half a dozen detonating caps. Within fifteen minutes the table top was bare and the buyers began filing out.
The furniture was pushed back. Subcooks, apprentice cooks and slaves withdrew for bed. Coffee, brandy and chee
se were brought out, and a single place was set at the far table.
Klempf entered the barracks and stood at the door. “You sent word?”
“Yes, Hauptsturmfuehrer,” Tolan said, standing to attention. “We think we have come across something of interest.”
“Show me.”
Tolan walked stiffly across and held out a leather wallet and the bag of gems.
Klempf studied the items, moved to the place which had been set at the table, seated himself, counted the marks in the wallet and carefully examined the jewels. “Quite extraordinary,” he finally admitted. “What are you asking?”
“Our own bordello, Hauptsturmfuehrer,” Tolan replied.
“You can place your whores in the camp bordello now. You’re paid for them.”
“If you’ll excuse me for saying so, Hauptsturmfuehrer, it is not quite the same thing.”
“Are you not provided with enough passes?”
“We would prefer our own establishment, Hauptsturmfuehrer.”
Klempf pondered as he fingered the stones. “Out of the question,” he finally concluded. “It would bring on complications. Other exchanges would want the same.”
“Other exchanges are not as wealthy as we, Hauptsturmfuehrer.”
“You are wealthy only because I choose for you to be wealthy!”
“Not to disagree, Hauptsturmfuehrer. We have grown wealthy since my arrival. I control the pick of the women, Hauptsturmfuehrer.”
“Then if you want to make extra money, open up that Finishing School of yours.”
“I doubt if that would please the Obergruppenfuehrer, Hauptsturmfuehrer.”
“You will have no private bordello,” Klempf stated emphatically. “Establish another price.”
“Exterior passes. Sixteen exterior passes.”
“No.”
“Then we can do no further business, Hauptsturmfuehrer,” Tolan said firmly. “The merchandise will have to be offered to the Standartenfuehrer.”