THE MADNESS LOCKER

by EDDIE RUSSELL

  The train slows again; the wheels grind to a stop. Outside the boxcar, other than the sounds of nature mixed in with the creaking of cooling metal, it is still. We are in the countryside. It’s not bustling Munich but we have reassuringly arrived at some bucolic destination. We can now disembark, drink some water, maybe eat, and most of all get away from the stench and the corpse.

  There are footsteps approaching - boots on hard soil. A voice outside the door. A latch is pulled down and the door slides open, groaning on the rusted rut. Blinded by the glare of the midday sun, we can just make out the silhouettes of two armed soldiers standing outside with rifles pointed at us.

  Our meagre hopes are dashed.

  One soldier speaks harshly. “We have just crossed the border; you are now in Poland.”

  No one seems to be too bothered or alarmed by this piece of information. There are more immediate and relevant concerns.

  “There is a dead person in here. And the bucket is nearly full.” The disembodied voice that gave us the news on the asthmatic edges forward. He is a slight man, around thirty maybe, with a dash of dark hair and piercing blue eyes, dressed in a grey jacket, mauve sweater and black trousers. That took some moxie.

  The youthful soldiers stare at each other. The one on the right looks up at the man and commands, “Wait!” He strides off nonchalantly to the front of the train. We all enjoy some respite from the darkness and despite still being tightly cooped up with the stench it gives us a minor sense of relief. One misery dispelled out of three is a gain under these circumstances.

  The soldier returns with an older man, this one an officer judging by his epaulettes and his supercilious manner. He sniffs the air and mutters something under his breath. The two soldiers chuckle at the aside.

  The slight man who earlier spoke to the soldiers leans out the door and addresses the officer. “A man with asthma has died in here because we couldn’t get him his medication. And the waste bucket is full.”

  The officer looks at him contemptuously. “You can empty the bucket over there by the stream. The corpse stays on the train. Otherwise the body count will be short.”

  The man moves hastily through the crowd, who eagerly step aside to let him through. He gingerly picks up the sloshing bucket with both hands and takes it to the edge of the boxcar. Stepping down to the ground he reaches back and picks up the bucket, taking it down to the stream. Before he empties it out he leans into the stream and rinses his face and neck in the cool water and takes two gulps to quench his thirst. Reaching for the bucket, he drowns it to the rim in the stream and then raises it to rinse out the contents. He does this three times until the bucket is clean.

  As he makes his way back to the boxcar he is blocked by the officer. “Did I say that you could drink from the stream?”

  The man looks wide-eyed at the officer. He is dumbstruck. “I am very sorry, sir, but you asked me to take the bucket to the stream. I didn’t see any harm in refreshing my face and taking a drink of water while I was there.” He sets the bucket down.

  The officer signals with his chin to the two soldiers, and they grab the man on either side and drag him to the stream. The officer strolls casually behind. Once they reach the stream they force the man to kneel by the bank and dunk his head underwater. His pinioned arms are juddering wildly as he struggles desperately to rise above the water. The soldiers keep him submerged. Just as he is about to drown, his arms and body losing their fight, they raise him out of the water. He heaves desperately, spitting out gulps of water. His face is puffed red from the exertion and his eyes are bulging with terror.

  “Was that refreshing enough? Do you need more drink?” The officer is leaning by his side.

  The man fervently shakes his head from side to side.

  “I am sorry; I didn’t get your answer. Was that no, not refreshing enough?”

  The man is unable to speak, overcome with fear and lack of breath. He nods yes, this time more eagerly.

  The officer straightens out and signals to the soldiers. They dunk him again. The man struggles but this time with less energy, the fight wrung out of him; he may as well die.

  They bring him up and drag his body back to the boxcar, heaving it in. It is limp, not showing any sign of life.

  The three soldiers start sealing the door when a violent coughing spasm erupts. The man starts sputtering water and uncurls from clutching himself - he is still alive. They pull back and stare at him drawing deep gulps of breath. He leans forward, clutching at the side of the door.

  The trio applaud him in unison.

  Reaching outward, he grabs the bucket off the ground and points to it. “You are animals. You have no conscience. This is what I think of your Third Reich! Shit!” He spits violently on the ground.

  We are all now gathered at the door. Maybe the riot that has been simmering is about to break out.

  The officer is unperturbed by the insult and points instead to one of the two boys who are standing next to the woman with the baby. The soldiers reach in and grab him, flinging him to the ground by the officer’s feet. With studied insouciance he unholsters his Walther PPK and shoots the boy in the head. He is dead instantly.

  Despite being stricken with terror, we gasp in disbelief. This can’t have happened. This whole scene was a hoax. It’s a play. This can’t all be over a drink of water?

  Neither is the man daunted. He flings the bucket at the officer, who instinctively kicks it out of the way. Once more the officer signals to the soldiers. They lean over to the boxcar, grab the dead boy’s brother and throw him to the ground by the officer’s feet. Just as he points the Walther at the boy’s head, the half-drowned man staggers out of the boxcar and grabs at his hand, pointing the gun at his own chest.

  “Shoot me, you coward,” he shouts at the officer. “Kill me!”

  The officer shoves him aside, aims and shoots the brother. He too dies instantly. The officer holsters his pistol and smirks at the man. “You are too valuable to us. You have - what do you Jews call it? - ‘chootzpah’? That is what we need where you are going; I will be sure to commend you.”

  The man crumples, deflated, to the ground, realising that the consequence of further remonstration will be the deaths of more vulnerable passengers: children, the mother with the baby, older men and women. He rises to his feet, picks up the first boy and heaves him into the boxcar. He removes his jacket and drapes it over his body. He does the same with the other boy, draping the jacket over the both of them. Looking back a final time at the armed trio, he picks up the bucket off the ground, flings it into the boxcar and clambers in.

  The door is heaved shut, latched, and the train is signalled to continue with a sharp command from the officer.

  We stand in stunned silence, our emotions collectively enmeshed with our relief at still being alive despite the hardship, the hunger, the thirst and abject discomfort. Perhaps of all of us, the mother with the baby is the most relieved. She was standing right next to the two brothers. The officer would have shot the baby first and then her. That would have elicited the most acute anguish.

  We travel this way into the night, through the next day and then another night. By the third day the mother and the baby might as well have died two days ago, because they expire anyway due to the lack of food, water, proper hygiene and rest. Along with them, three other corpses are added to the body count: two elderly men and one woman. Altogether, six are dead. But it might as well be all of us. We are wrung and numb, our ability to sense and feel progressively dissipated until by the second night we stand and breathe. That’s it. Our eyes are shut; our hunger is forgotten; our thirst dissolved in dryness and our emotions depleted. Every so often a body tumbles. We immediately prop it up. There is no room for such luxury - not even for a corpse. We don’t speak. The constant churning of metal on metal is the only sound that reminds us that when this train stops we might return to the land of the living. For now we are comatose.

  The only thought, when I find a smidgen of strength
to think, that runs through my head like the wheels beneath my feet is what the officer said: What you Jews call it... But I am not Jewish. My father served and died for Hitler. I was in the Hitlerjugend before I was sent to Berlin. What am I doing on this train?

  When I do think it, I look up at Alana and Heinrich. But they are both insentient, so I can’t ask them. If I am still alive when these wheels stop, I will ask the question.

  We know the days and nights because of the light and dark that seep in from the narrow slit above our heads. On day three, it’s light overhead; the constant churning of the wheels slows, then grinds, and finally the train shudders to a standstill. We dare not revive our spirits, so we all, to a person, wait in deep suspense, fearing to even hope.

  After a moment, when our hearing has readjusted from the endless churning of the wheels, we hear voices outside. A multitude of voices, the neighing and snorting of horses, dogs barking. Our eyelids raise, little lights flickering in a dark room, and some of us even, foolishly, let a smile spread across our famished, weary faces. If we could raise our arms we would applaud.

  BERLIN

  SPRING 1943

  Kriminalkommissar Hans Oberschaltz sat erect in the chair opposite Professor Helmut Jodl, trying to give the impression that he was comfortable in the present surroundings and having an amiable afternoon chat. He was a tall man, with a head of very straight dark hair combed meticulously over his rigid skull. Not the weasel-faced type that the professor often presumed Gestapo officers to be. He imagined that, in another time, the Kriminalkommissar could have been either a banker or a fine jeweller. His hands, which he tended to use with great economy, coupled with his austere demeanour revealed him to be a careful man of closely guarded emotions, who listened attentively and moved with great expediency and a total lack of compassion for human emotion. In other words, in these times, a great asset to the Gestapo. No doubt, whether he had been recruited or had volunteered, his rise to the rank of Kriminalkommissar would have been rapid and smooth.

  A number of times Helmut was tempted to break out of the boundaries of this formal, albeit friendly conversation and get onto a personal level with the Kriminalkommissar. But each time that temptation arose, he sensed it being discouraged through the hardness in his interlocutor’s eyes. Nothing more. And just as clearly the boundaries were reinforced as a reminder to the professor to keep the conversation formal and above camaraderie.

  “I hope you understand that in these times, full of danger,” the last word spoken with deliberate omen, “it is important to remember that freedoms we have taken for granted can no longer be so, or even tolerated.”

  Here it was again: the rationale quickly followed by the threat. Helmut wondered if this manner of combining commonplace logic with an implied injunction was the result of Gestapo schooling, or rather an inherent trait Hans Oberschaltz brought naturally to the profession. He believed the latter to be more likely as he watched the man seated opposite him shift his hand ever so slightly to pick up the cup of coffee that he had reluctantly accepted, and which was the only concession to familiarity that he’d allowed that afternoon.

  “Freedoms?” Helmut, refusing to concede to this intimidation, stroked his beard and slouched some more in his chair, in direct contrast to the rigidity of his visitor.

  “I don’t have to remind you that we are surrounded by enemies. Enemies that—”

  The professor didn’t let the Kriminalkommissar complete his sentence. The annoyance on the latter’s face was marked by the slightest twitch of one eyebrow, just the one. It was obvious that his manner was such that, in whatever life he was in, military or civilian, he was not used to being interrupted. Yet Professor Jodl, accustomed to academic discourses, not only enjoyed interruptions but encouraged them. And anyway, the Kriminalkommissar had invited himself to the professor’s house. And since it was his house, he felt that he could behave as he pleased.

  “May I remind you that the reason we have enemies is because we started wars with everyone: the British, the French, the Russians. Not to mention the several countries that we have simply marched into without so much as a provocation.”

  “Herr Professor, I am not here to debate political policy with you. It is not my place or yours. The fact is that we are in a time of war, and while we are in a time of war we need to be extra vigilant, extra cautious about whom we associate with and what we say.”

  Yet again the mix of rationale and subtle threat. The Kriminalkommissar was, of course, referring to the questions that Helmut had raised specifically with regards to the evacuation of the Lipschutz family, and more generally the sudden deportation or incarceration of ‘undesirables’.

  Ever since the winter of 1938, two years almost to the day since Helmut had created a scene outside Herr Lipschutz’s store, the Gestapo had had him under surveillance. He had obstinately stood outside the store and refused to be intimidated by the thugs that had come to smash the plate glass on Kristallnacht and pillage the merchandise. Oftentimes he wondered whether that act of defiance had hastened the deportation of the Lipschutzes. Fortuitously he was able to atone regardless of whether his actions had been the cause. But he had not merited a visit until he began to openly exercise his ‘freedoms’ by speaking his views publicly at the illustrious Humboldt University where he occupied the chair of professor in social sciences.

  What brought this sudden outburst of views into the open was the gradual alienation of Jewish academics at the university. People that Helmut considered not only his equals, but also in many cases to be some of the brightest lights at the institution. Yet over the past two years, the university had been forced to liquidate the tenures of these academics by reducing them to ignominious duties. Professor Leiblinz, a veteran academic in the history department with many papers and books to his credit, was demoted to a lowly research position. Others less august were reassigned to home-tutoring children of the Third Reich. Doctors in physics and maths found themselves tutoring ten-year-old children for a pittance, barely able to sustain themselves, subsequently being evicted from their homes and reduced to living in shelters.

  Helmut finally drafted a petition and, to his shame and dismay having managed to get it signed by only a handful of his colleagues, sent it to the Chancellor’s office. He never got a reply. Instead he received a formal letter from the Kriminalkommissar suggesting a meeting at the professor’s choice of time and place to discuss certain ‘sensitive issues’ that had arisen at his place of employment. Which had led to this meeting.

  The professor chose to keep quiet, which took great reserve on his part following the last comment from the Kriminalkommissar.

  “Sending petitions of protest to the Chancellor objecting to policy does not show support for the common cause of the Third Reich.”

  Helmut’s reserve evaporated instantly. “Interfering with the practice of freedom in academic institutions hardly shows support for that most hallowed of all principles.”

  The Kriminalkommissar was undaunted; nary an eyebrow twitched. “Freedom? To some extent. We can’t have enemies of the state wandering freely in the university to disseminate their poison.”

  At this Helmut straightened from his nonchalant slouch and leaned in closer to the Kriminalkommissar. “Professor Leiblinz an enemy? Disseminating poison? I am astonished that a man of your intellect should believe such drivel.” No harm, Helmut thought to himself, in mixing criticism and compliment in the same phrase. Use some of the same technique as the Gestapo.

  “Herr Professor, it is policy that citizens of Jewish birth are considered enemies of the Reich. Again, I am not here to debate policy with you; I am simply making sure that it is being carried out, and that others adhere to it. I have taken the time to come here, rather than invite you to the Plaza for this conversation, so I hope you take and appreciate the gesture for what it is.”

  Without any further discussion, Hans Oberschaltz stood up from his chair, ramrod straight, as if his back were propped up by a pole. Running hi
s palm over his hair that had remained unruffled, in a gesture meant more to convey meticulousness, he reached for his cap, glided it smoothly onto his head and turned to walk out the door.

  Helmut, unable to resist his curiosity, asked, “Kriminalkommissar, would you kindly indulge me in one personal question?”

  Kriminalkommissar Oberschaltz paused as if to consider the propriety of the request within the context of his assignment, then grudgingly turned back to face the professor, standing fully erect in his uniform as if to intimidate his subject.

  “Before this, before the war started and Germany went mad, what were you? I mean to say, what was your profession in civilian life?” Helmut smiled sheepishly at Oberschaltz as if to intimate that this was just idle curiosity, no more.

  Without hesitation Oberschaltz clipped the edge of his cap’s visor. “I was a banker.” With that he turned again and walked briskly to the door. Opening it onto the street, he strode out in carefully measured steps and walked towards the open door of the waiting command car.

  Helmut could not help noticing, even from the distance of the dining room, the three-pointed star emblem of the black Mercedes-Benz; a car normally reserved for the higher echelons of the Nazi Party. But even with his limited knowledge of protocol it was abundantly clear that Hans Oberschaltz was not a regular officer, or for that matter a man to be trifled with. If he had been granted this reprieve to banter with the Kriminalkommissar it was out of respect for his cousin, one of the elite commanders of the Third Reich. Certainly not in any deference to his brother-in-law Martin, who was an officer of little consequence holding down a mere desk job.

  No doubt if Helmut continued on this path, the next visit would be in the company of Gestapo goons who would usher him unceremoniously to the headquarters at Prinz-Albrecht-Straße-8. There he would not be given the luxury of slouching comfortably to banter with senior officers. Instead he would be shackled to a hard wooden chair and have questions barked at him by some lowly thug. He would be kept there for at least a week, and the routine of harsh interrogation, solitary incarceration, interrupted sleep and measly meals would be kept up until he recanted his views. He would then be escorted to the university and asked to vacate his office to be reassigned to some degrading role such as that of a library assistant.