THE MADNESS LOCKER

by EDDIE RUSSELL

  “How come you speak Russian?”

  I explain about the Minsk sisters.

  “Are they here?”

  “No. At a huge camp.” I point westwards. “One of them died from illness and starvation.”

  “Oświęcim?”

  I look at him questioningly. He explains that it is a town some fifty kilometres west. There is a very large concentration camp next to it with tens of thousands of inmates. A lot of dead, a lot of dying; he knows little else. But he has heard reports. Bodies piled high. The Germans in charge were taken prisoner.

  An idea sparks in me. I ask to borrow his combat knife. He hands it to me hesitantly. I pull up my dress to reveal my inner thigh, not feeling even slightly immodest. With the sharp edge of the knife I cut through a crude scar in the flesh. Immediately blood seeps out. I wipe it away with my hem, exposing the wound, and pull out a diamond ring with a gold band. I salvaged it in one of my first days at the camp.

  I initially took it because the woman headed to the shower was so beautiful that I couldn’t let her be destroyed without retaining something of her memory. When she tossed the ring onto the mound next to where I was standing, I grabbed it and slipped it between my toes. I was working so fast that the Kapos failed to notice the sleight of hand. That night, while relieving myself, I placed it inside my vagina. Later on, when I was transferred to sewing, I stitched it inside my thigh. It’s been there ever since.

  I hand the knife back.

  My Russian officer is called Marat Fedchenkov. He is twenty-eight and from St Petersburg. He is staring at the ring, emitting a long, soft whistle. “Yours?” he enquires with a chuckle.

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. I am sure that you have earned it.”

  “I want something for it.”

  He nods.

  I point to the pistol holstered at his side and make the universal sign for money.

  “The gun is no problem. Money - how much?”

  I am dumbstruck. There are multiple reasons I can’t answer that question: I don’t know the value of Russian money; and if I did, how much does one need out in the world? Can Russian money be spent in Germany? The only currency that I understand is my food and my health. The loss of either means the loss of my life.

  I don’t answer.

  “What is your name?”

  I am so used to answering to the name on the roll call that I am about to say ‘Ruth’. But I am free; I no longer have to dissemble.

  “Helga Dreschler. I am from Munich.” That simple admission reinforces my sense of freedom.

  He rises and walks away. After about ten minutes he returns and hands me a heavy object wrapped in a grey woollen cloth. The gun.

  “There’s six bullets. Be careful. There is also money. I don’t know if that’s enough, but that is all I have.”

  I stand up and hug him; not easy for me after all that I have experienced, culminating in the rape. We separate. I hand him the ring. He wishes me good luck and heads over to his men.

  I follow to where Major Fedchenkov is issuing orders.

  “How do I get to Oświęcim?”

  He leans over and whispers, “You have more jewellery?”

  I am about to shake my head when he breaks out in laughter. He points to a jeep with a Russian soldier seated behind the wheel. I eagerly head over, but then I recall my last trip with a soldier. But two others, one a woman officer, join us.

  We travel for nearly an hour along a trail that is strewn with rubble, burnt-out tanks, armoured vehicles and charred bodies lying on the ground in abnormal shapes: hewn by the all-consuming fire.

  As we approach Oświęcim, we avoid the actual town and first head west and then south to arrive at a large contingent surrounding the camp. At first I don’t see it, but as we get closer I can’t fail to notice the ominous slogan over the massive gates that greeted me on that overcast day all those years ago. I shiver, even though I am bundled in a warm overcoat. The jeep pulls up alongside a group of soldiers that are lounging by a truck.

  The driver points casually at the gate. “Oświęcim.”

  I nod, and step out of the jeep firmly clutching my woollen parcel. I already have a story to get me into the camp. As expected, I am stopped at the gate.

  “I am a nurse. Major Fedchenkov sent me.”

  “Papers.”

  “I don’t have papers. But that jeep brought me, you can ask them.”

  He looks over at the driver, who is still seated firmly behind the wheel. The guard cocks his head at him. The driver nods. The guard steps aside to let me in.

  I didn’t know in what state I would find the camp. I look over to my right along the fence that leads to the killing hall. There are mounds of unsorted clothing and luggage lining the path. The massive doors to the hall are open, with three wooden carts standing empty and askew by the entrance. There are no bodies on the carts or in the hall that I can see from where I stand. I edge closer. The putrid odour of death still lingers in the air. I wonder how long ago the murders ceased. From the untended mounds on the ground, I presume not too long.

  I walk further into the camp and look to my right at the barrack where I spent years sewing, first with Hannah and later with Sarah. I don’t expect to find Sarah, but there are several piles of emaciated bodies lying dejectedly by the wall, discarded carcasses like washing ready to be hung. Every so often a gaunt, lifeless face peers at me from within dead, sunken eyes.

  The corpses were stockpiled in transit to the crematorium. Deserting soldiers and Kapos fleeing the advancing Russian army have left their handiwork in full display. I have seen and not acknowledged this before when I worked as a sorter. Bodies pulled out from the hall, transfixed in masks of terror, sometimes clutching one another, other times a mother holding a baby or young children. Then I ignored it in my need to remain sane, banishing the images to my madness locker. I now absorb and reflect that I need to get on with the task I came to execute.

  I want to believe that Sarah has survived, or at the least is in one of these piles and I can grant her some dignity by touching her body and saying a few words. I don’t pray. But it is a hopeless thought; the bodies are too wasted to identify men from women. The only way to tell would be to examine genitalia, and even then I would never recognise a face.

  I walk away, one hand clutching my mouth, the other my woollen parcel.

  In the compound where we mustered every roll call to watch hangings, shootings and clubbings, and to be repeatedly threatened with death for every slight infraction, I see it. Hundreds of German soldiers seated on the ground with their hands resting on their heads. I am immediately disheartened. How am I going to find one lowly private in amongst these many prisoners?

  The German prisoners are divided into similar groups as we were, several hundred in a loosely cordoned circle. Beside each group are two Russian soldiers noting the rank, name and number of each prisoner on a pad. I think of an excuse as I approach the first group.

  “I am looking for a German soldier. His first name is Klaus. I don’t have his last name. But he is either a private or a corporal.”

  The man closest to me doesn’t look up for my paperwork. “Your interest?”

  “I am a nurse sent over by Major Fedchenkov. This soldier has a very infectious disease. I need to take him out of the group and place him in quarantine.”

  “I don’t know this Fedchenkov. I report to Colonel Volkov. He is over there. If he says it’s OK, then it’s OK.”

  I turn to look at where he is pointing. A stout man with a large handlebar moustache is barking out orders to a group of men hauling supplies. Judging from the medals and epaulettes adorning his torso and shoulders he appears to be a veteran officer who is not going to be easy to bluff.

  I walk over and stand deferentially just to his right.

  He is about to turn and stomp in my direction when he nearly bumps into me. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

  “I am sorry. Major Fedchenkov sent
me. I am to pick up a German soldier who is carrying a highly infectious disease and place him in quarantine.”

  “Major who?” he shouts, impatient to get on with his task.

  “Fedchenkov.”

  “Never heard of him. Why do you come to me? I am in charge of this whole division. I have two days to clear this mess and transport the Germans to an internment camp. I don’t know anything about Fenenko or this sick German. They are all sick. Go and speak to the men over there. They have the lists.”

  “It’s Major Fedchenkov. And do I have your permission to escort the man?”

  Volkov has already stormed off to another part of the compound. He is waving his hand dismissively at me. I take that as a yes.

  “Klaus is the first name. And Volkov said yes.” I am back with the sergeant who told me to get permission from the colonel.

  He is perusing the list. “No one here by that name. Try the next lot.”

  I search about six groups of prisoners numbering close to eight hundred men. A couple of them are named Klaus, but when I peer over the crowd I don’t recognise anyone.

  I cover several more groups of men. No luck. I am starting to think that maybe he deserted or was killed, when I notice a number of men hauling corpses away, commanded by Russian soldiers. The corpses are being placed on carts and wheeled to a large pit. I quickly walk towards them and study the desultory group of a dozen German prisoners loading up the carts. I see him.

  “That man needs to come out of the group.”

  “Why?” A stocky, unshaven officer looks over at me sullenly. He is brandishing a pistol that he is using as an incentive to make the prisoners work faster. He is shouting at them in Russian to do so. I doubt that they understand what he is saying. But they get the message reinforced by the pistol.

  “He is carrying an infectious disease.”

  “Who authorised this?”

  “Volkov.” It’s an easy answer. He is never going to go and get confirmation from the irascible colonel.

  “What is his name?”

  “Klaus.”

  He picks up a list that is lying on the ground, checks the name, then walks over to Klaus. He slaps him hard on the back of the skull just as he is loading another corpse onto the cart. “You are sick. Get out of here.”

  Klaus cowers and stares up at the Russian soldier. But remains in place.

  The Russian officer kicks him and points toward me, commanding in Russian, “Go! Go!”

  Klaus peers at me, thinks he is saved from this abuse, then recognises me. He falters, then stops a few feet away. “What... what is he saying? Why is he hitting me? Are they going to kill me?”

  I smile warmly at him. “No. They are going to give you a medal of honour.”

  He remains standing where he is.

  “Come. You need to come with me.”

  “Why? Why?” He looks back at the Russian officer, who brushes him off. “Where are you taking me? Are you going to kill me because of... what happened?” He is limping by my side, nagging me with his questions.

  “No. I am not going to kill you. But I had syphilis. So you need to be treated or you will go mad.”

  He clutches his face. “Oh my God! I have parents in Frankfurt. A brother. A sister. If I die... oh my God!”

  On the way to the gate we pass a truck with medical supplies and nurses tending to a queue of camp inmates. I walk up to one of the nurses and ask for two masks. She reaches into a box next to her and hands them over.

  I place one across my face and hand one to Klaus. “Put this on.”

  “Why?” He pinches the mask like it’s a filthy rag.

  “If you don’t put this on,” my voice through the mask is muffled, “they will take you into custody. If they find out you have a deadly, infectious disease they will put you to death. You will never see Frankfurt again.”

  “Oh my God!” He slips the mask on with shaking hands.

  We proceed to the gate. I am stopped again.

  “You can leave. But you can’t take this man with you. He is a prisoner.”

  I stand my ground. “This man is sick. He has an infectious disease. If he remains here he will infect everyone else, including you. Do you want that?”

  The guard hesitates briefly. “Where are your orders?”

  “Volkov gave the order. He didn’t have time to write it up. You want me to leave this man in your custody and get the order?”

  He looks at Klaus anxiously. “What could happen to me?”

  “You could lose your penis.” I presume to threaten his masculinity.

  The soldier steps aside and waves us through.

  An unattended jeep is parked haphazardly nearby, one of many.

  “We already know you can drive. Get in.”

  Klaus quickly climbs in and waits for me to do the same. I point him in the direction of the woods where he raped me. He nods, starts the engine and the jeep kicks up a cloud of dust behind us. I remove my mask and he follows suit.

  We reach the outskirts of the woods and he drives along the same path as he did the last time. Once we are by the copse where he attacked me, I order him to stop the jeep. He continues driving. I jab the gun into his side.

  “Stop the jeep and get out or I will shoot you.”

  He looks over, sees me brandishing the pistol and brakes hard. We both pitch forward. He lunges for the gun and attempts to wrestle it from me. But I have the upper hand. I shove him with my free arm and whack the side of his head with the butt. He falls sideways.

  “Turn the engine off. Get up. Now, and get out of the jeep!” I am out of the vehicle, poised menacingly in front of the grille. Should he attempt to drive off I have the gun pointed directly at him and I won’t hesitate to shoot.

  His right hand trembles as he reaches for the key and the engine falls silent. Placing his left hand over his head, he clambers out of the jeep and comes to stand by its side. He places his other hand over his head.

  “Are you going to kill me?” His voice is steady but frightened.

  “I haven’t decided.” I direct him with the gun to walk over to the right and sit on a mound.

  “It was a mistake.”

  “No! A mistake is when you buy the wrong size. What you did was rape me.”

  “I thought you were a Jew.”

  I am flabbergasted. “What does that even mean?”

  He is smirking. “Well, they are killing them anyway, so I thought why not have some fun?”

  “Some fun. So you are thinking, This person is about to be killed, so I will rape them and spit on them?”

  He is shaking his head. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

  “Yes, you should have. On your knees.”

  “What, are you really going to shoot me?” His eyes fill with fear.

  “No. We will pretend.”

  His mouth trembles and he starts sobbing. “I have a brother and sister—”

  “I don’t want to hear about your brother and sister, or your parents, or about damned Frankfurt. Shut up!” I am screaming at the top of my voice, unleashing my pent-up hatred and fury.

  “You can’t just shoot me and leave me here to die.”

  “Why not? You raped me here. So what’s the difference?”

  “I am only twenty-three. I didn’t mean to do what I did. It was stupid, very stupid. I have a baby sister who doesn’t even know me.” He is bawling pathetically, glancing left and right in the hope that someone will save him.

  “Say your prayer.”

  “What?”

  “Say your final prayer.”

  “I don’t know how to pray.”

  “Neither do I. So it’s too bad for you.”

  He looks up at me, horrified, unable to believe that his life is about to end. I have seen that expression before, but carried with more dignity, in the eyes of those about to be hung or shot to death. And the two young boys on the train - their memory enrages me.

  I pump two bullets into this coward’s head
. It explodes with shards of bone and gushes of blood. He wobbles for second, then falls over.

  I lower my gun hand and feel expiated. One single, solitary, miserable life to right all the wrongs that I have witnessed, all the injury and pain that I endured. Yet I feel relieved. I am just a single, small, broken person, and this is the best that I could do to even the score.

  “Are you finished? Or are there more Germans you need to kill?”

  I jump and spin around with the gun raised. It’s Major Fedchenkov. He is standing next to the jeep, arms crossed over his chest, grinning smugly.

  My heart is drumming in my ears. “What are you going to do?”

  He cocks his head at Klaus’s dead body. “I saw him try to escape.”

  “Why did you follow me?”

  “To make sure that he didn’t kill you.”

  “You knew about this?”

  “No. But you gave me a very valuable ring for a handgun and some money. I figured that it must be worth a great deal to you. I wanted to see what you’d do with it.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “This is our job, to kill Germans. You want to come work with us?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then what?”

  “There is something I don’t understand. I must go back to Berlin.”

  “OK. I’ll drive you to Oświęcim. From there you can get a train across the border and to Berlin.”

  I climb into the jeep and we drive off, leaving his motorcycle behind which I can see further afield. I am satisfied. For now. But there is still a great part of my life that I can’t account for: the last horrible six years that will forever haunt me. I need to learn how I got here in the company of the Lipschutzes and ended up with their daughter’s ID.

  Marat Fedchenkov drops me off in Oświęcim; a picturesque little Polish town bordering hell nearby where countless people were gassed to death. No one heard a single scream. Like me, they chose to bury the horror to stay sane.

  We hug again. I even venture a comradely kiss on his cheek. He holds his palm open. “You won’t need this any more. You are free now.”

  I place the gun in his hand and walk away into the train station. No, I won’t need the gun. But I won’t be free, truly free, until I know what happened to me.