Heritage

by Judy Nunn

  There were some who were becoming hysterical, realising the significance of the queues. It was always at that point that things became chaotic, Klaus thought. If only people could conform and respond in an orderly fashion, it would be so much more efficient. Hysteria would not alter the outcome of their lives, or their deaths, all of which were predestined. And hysteria always affected the thugs on duty. He glanced either side of him at the Nazi soldiers who stood, rifles poised. Yes, they were longing to kill.

  As the hysteria reached fever pitch, one of the soldiers grabbed at the baby in the arms of a young mother standing directly in front of the woman. The mother refused to relinquish the baby, Mengele gave the order, and the soldier shot them both.

  Then the same soldier pulled the child from behind the skirt of the woman who was desperately trying to shield it. He threw the infant down on the ramp and shot it, then turned to shoot the woman who, in lunging forward, had fallen beside her child.

  ‘Nein!’

  It was not Josef Mengele’s voice that barked the order, but Klaus Henkel’s, and the soldier, rifle still poised, glanced at his commanding officer.

  Mengele nodded abruptly and resumed his direction of the traffic, but he was not pleased. He had been about to halt the execution himself – he, too, had noticed the woman’s beauty – but Klaus had usurped his authority, and he didn’t like it.

  Klaus stepped forward and, taking the woman by the shoulders, gently lifted her to her feet. She did not resist, but stood shaking, her breath coming in small strangled gasps as she stared at her child. She was in a state of shock. She didn’t resist as he led her away, her head craning back for a last glimpse of the infant.

  At the gates of the Auschwitz compound, he handed her into the care of one of the kapos, those inmates who had been allotted duties, very often of a most unsavoury kind, in exchange for their lives. The kapo would take the woman, along with the other females who were to be spared, into the building known as The Sauna. There, before being showered, the hair would be shaved from their heads, their armpits and their groins. Klaus would have liked to have saved the woman from such indignity, but he had pushed his authority far enough, he decided.

  When he returned to the ramp, Mengele refused to look at him, and Klaus noted that he’d stopped whistling. Beppo was displeased, he thought, but he didn’t care. For whatever reason – perhaps simply as a tribute to her beauty, he wasn’t sure – Klaus had wanted the woman spared. He wondered if Beppo would take him to task for his insubordination.

  But nothing was said over the ensuing days, although Klaus registered a slight coldness in his friend’s attitude towards him. No matter, he thought, Beppo would recover from the slight. He would not allow it to affect their relationship.

  Three days later, however, there was a further confrontation, and again it was over the woman.

  A dozen or so of the best-looking females were to be paraded naked before Mengele for the customary examination and interview, and Klaus, who had for the past several weeks absented himself from the proceedings, this time attended, sure that the woman would be present.

  She was, standing among the group of frightened women whose nakedness was rendered more stark and vulnerable by their shaved heads and groins. But unlike the others who clung together, eyes downcast in shame and humiliation, avoiding the gaze of the doctors, trying to edge behind each other and cover their nakedness with their hands, the woman stood unashamed. She stared vacantly into space as if she were not there in that bleak room with its bare floorboards and its ominous examination table upon which sat a metal bowl with medical tools of the trade and neatly folded grey army blankets. Klaus wondered whether perhaps she’d lost her mind or whether she might still be in shock.

  He’d ordered one of the female kapos to keep a special watch on the woman in case of any suicide attempt, and the kapo had been faithful in her duty, never letting the woman out of her sight, knowing that her own life was at stake if she did. The woman, whose name was Ruth, the kapo had told him, didn’t talk to the others, and she didn’t eat. The others took the food from her but she didn’t appear to care. She obeyed orders, the kapo said, but she seemed in a daze.

  Klaus looked at Mengele. Mengele couldn’t take his eyes from the woman, which was hardly surprising – her body was flawless. Even the bare dome of her skull did little to detract from the perfection of her beauty. Klaus did not want to hear the questions Beppo would ask her; it was not right to treat a woman of such breeding in so degrading a manner, he thought.

  Mengele signalled the woman to approach him. She appeared not to comprehend the order, then one of the other women, thankful that she herself would not be the first to undergo the ordeal, prodded her and she stepped forward. Still unashamed and seemingly unaware of her nakedness.

  Mengele looked her up and down approvingly. He was about to ask her how she did it with her husband. How many times a week, what position did she prefer, was her husband a good lover, was he faithful, had she herself had other lovers? But he didn’t even manage to voice the first question before Klaus interceded.

  ‘This is an extremely interesting case psychologically, Josef.’ Klaus never used Beppo’s nickname in public, nor in the presence of the other camp doctors, two of whom were present. ‘As you can see by her demeanour, she appears to be in shock. I should like to interview her personally …’ He crossed to the examination table. ‘Alone,’ he added as he picked up one of the folded grey army blankets and shook it out, ‘… with your permission, of course.’

  He placed the blanket around the woman’s shoulders, and she looked at it momentarily as if it were something quite foreign, then, comforted by the feel of it, she pulled it closely and protectively about her body. It was a healthy sign, Klaus thought.

  ‘With my permission, Klaus?’ Mengele’s voice was laden with menace and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. Klaus hoped he wasn’t about to throw one of his tantrums; it would be so undignified, particularly in the presence of the other two doctors.

  ‘Naturally.’ He met Mengele’s gaze and held it steadily, his eyes signalling Beppo that it would be unwise to make a scene. ‘With your permission, of course,’ he said.

  The room was deathly still, the doctors waiting for Mengele’s anger to vent itself, the women sensing the tension.

  Mengele’s gloved fingers hovered over the flap of his holster. He wanted to take out his pistol and shoot the woman between the eyes just to teach Klaus a lesson. He would certainly have done so if any other of his subordinates had so flouted his authority.

  ‘I would be most grateful, Josef.’ Klaus’s tone was both friendly and respectful, the perfect balance between medical comrade and loyal fellow officer, but his eyes told Beppo to leave the pistol where it was.

  The moment passed, and Mengele turned away.

  ‘Permission granted,’ he said curtly, to the surprise of the doctors, and he nodded towards the next of the inmates who, arms cradled about her body in an attempt to hide her nudity, shuffled forward.

  ‘Thank you.’ Klaus nodded respectfully and ushered the woman towards the door, ignoring Mengele’s contemptuous glance.

  They stepped outside where the midsummer sun beat mercilessly down on the barren grounds of the camp.

  ‘Ruth, isn’t it?’ he asked, softly.

  She reacted to the caring voice and the sound of her name, and as she looked at him the cloud of uncertainty cleared from her eyes a little.

  ‘Your name, it is Ruth, is it not?’ Gently, he repeated the question.

  ‘Yes, my name is Ruth,’ she said.

  ‘So you decided to keep the Jew whore to yourself, Klaus.’

  It was the following morning and Beppo had called him into his office the moment he’d arrived at the Experimentation Block. Klaus had avoided the officers’ mess the preceding night, dining alone in his quarters, giving Beppo time to cool down. But the moment they were alone in the well-ordered room with its polished wooden desk, its filing cabinets and
its shelves lined with jars of specimens, Mengele’s anger had been apparent.

  Klaus made no reply. Beppo was obviously still upset. It was wisest to let him get it out of his system, he thought.

  ‘Did you enjoy her last night? What was she like? A tigress? I’ll bet she was wild in bed – that sort of Jew whore would be.’

  Klaus wished that Beppo would get to the point and reprimand him for his insubordination, but the man was whipping himself into a rage. It was typical of Beppo’s behaviour these days.

  ‘I interviewed her, Josef,’ he replied evenly, ‘just as I said I would.’

  It was true. He’d taken the woman to his quarters and clothed and fed her, although she’d eaten little. Then he’d talked to her quietly, and she’d responded well – in fact, far more lucidly than he’d expected. The man who had arrived with her, she’d said, was not her husband and he must be saved.

  ‘He is not my husband and he is not a Jew,’ she’d insisted. ‘He is a Roman Catholic and he is Aryan – he does not belong here. You must save him! Please, I beg you!’

  How quickly she’d recovered her senses, he’d thought. She’d recognised him as her saviour, and already she was capable of the lie that might save her husband. He admired her cunning – it made her even more fascinating.

  ‘You interviewed her.’ Mengele’s tone dripped sarcasm. ‘And in which particular position did you interview her?’

  Klaus was becoming annoyed; again he wished that Beppo would get to the point.

  ‘What exactly is it I’ve done that so angers you, Beppo?’

  The enquiry was made in all apparent innocence, but the use of the nickname was deliberately provocative, and Mengele exploded, just as Klaus had intended he should.

  ‘How dare you take it upon yourself to undermine my authority in such a way, and in the presence of my colleagues. How dare you so flaunt the chain of command!’

  At last, Klaus thought, they were dealing with protocol.

  ‘Forgive me, Josef. It was wrong of me, and I apologise most sincerely. It will not happen again.’

  Mengele stopped in his tracks; he’d been about to rant further.

  ‘I am yours to command, you know that,’ Klaus said. ‘I will obey your every order always, as is my duty.’

  He had Mengele’s full attention, he could tell, and he was glad that they’d sorted out his abuse of Beppo’s command, but now they needed to deal with the specific issue which was of interest to him.

  ‘In the meantime, however, Josef, I have a favour to ask of you,’ he continued. ‘I would like your permission to study this woman …’

  ‘To study her!’

  Mengele gave a short derisive laugh, but Klaus took no notice.

  ‘I find her an interesting case. I believe she is a perfect subject for psychoanalysis …’

  ‘Don’t expect me to believe such shit, Klaus. You don’t want to analyse her, you want to fuck her. You want to keep her to yourself and fuck her every night without sharing her around. Be honest, for God’s sake.’

  Mengele’s face was twisted with scorn. For a handsome man he looked extremely ugly, Klaus thought.

  ‘Very well, I’ll be honest,’ he said. ‘You are quite right. I wish to keep the woman to myself.’

  Beppo was not right at all, he thought, he did not want to fuck the woman. But more importantly, he did not want the others to fuck her. He would not allow the woman to be abused by the thugs.

  ‘I have never asked a favour of you, Beppo, but I would like you to grant me this request.’ His tone was mild, but his eyes sent the strongest of signals. The woman belongs to me, his eyes said, no-one else is to touch her. ‘I would like it very much.’

  Mengele met the force of his gaze.

  ‘And what will you do, Klaus, if I refuse?’

  ‘What could I possibly do? You are my commanding officer.’ Klaus smiled, and the smile was that of a friend to a friend. ‘I would abide by your decision, of course, Beppo. I would always abide by your decision.’

  They stood for a moment, then Mengele broke eye contact, turning away to sit at his desk. ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said as he took a file from the tray in front of him, ‘keep your Jew whore, Klaus, what do I care?’

  The woman called Ruth became an obsession to Klaus Henkel. He told himself at first that she was simply an interesting case study; her beauty was pleasing, of course, but she was a Jew and of no sexual interest to him. He allotted her regular and easy work in the infirmary, and when he realised that she was stealing drugs and extra food rations for her fellow inmates, he ignored it, for her own safety. Some women serving as prostitutes had suffered at the hands of their fellow inmates, and it was highly likely that the other prisoners found her preferential treatment suspect. As a valuable provider, they would not dare vent their wrath upon her, even if they believed her to be a German whore.

  But she was not a whore. He had not touched her.

  She was summoned to his quarters several nights a week, where he would give her the use of his bathroom. She would scrub herself clean and she would dress in the bathrobe he provided for her, the grey-striped dress of the Auschwitz inmate discarded for the several hours she was there. Then she would drape the silk scarf over her shaved head, and he would forget that she was a Jew.

  She’d been puzzled when he’d first handed her the white silk scarf.

  ‘I am not cold,’ she had said.

  She’d understood, however, when he’d gestured at her bare skull. It appeared that he found her unsightly, and she’d obediently draped the scarf over her head like a prayer shawl.

  She would sit in the big comfortable armchair, her legs curled under her, while he sat on a hardback chair at the table, and he would play music to her on his gramophone. His favourite recording of all was the Comedian Harmonists’ rendition of ‘Barcarole’ from The Tales of Hoffmann, and he would sing along to the lyrics, softly and melodically. He would offer her good food, and she would eat sparingly. Despite her deprivation, food appeared to be of no major interest. Until the night he told her she could take it with her.

  ‘Have it later,’ he said.

  ‘I will,’ she replied, and she shovelled it into the paper bags he provided.

  They didn’t speak as the music played. He was content to watch her while she stared into space. She made no pretence of listening, and he doubted whether she was hearing the melodies at all. When he’d turned off the gramophone they would talk a little, or rather he would, about music and literature and the arts in general – always things of beauty, as if they were chatting in a Berlin salon. Occasionally he would talk about himself and his devotion as a doctor to the preservation of life, carefully distancing himself in her eyes from Mengele and the rumoured medical procedures that were conducted at the Experimentation Block. She would answer politely enough but monosyllabically for the most part, and always, when she was once again in her grey-striped dress and about to leave, she would plead for her husband.

  ‘Is there any further news about Manfred, Klaus? When will he be freed?’

  It hadn’t taken her long to call him by his name. The enticement, he’d discovered, had been the promise of her husband’s freedom.

  ‘He is not my husband and he is not a Jew,’ she’d pleaded over and over, ‘he is a friend who has sacrificed himself for me. He does not belong here, Herr Doktor. Please, you must save him!’

  ‘Klaus,’ he’d said. ‘You are to call me Klaus, Ruth,’ and his suggestion had carried the promise that it might expedite matters. She’d called him Klaus from that day on.

  He’d come to believe, however, that she might not be lying.

  ‘His name is Manfred Brandauer,’ she’d said, ‘and he is the son of Stefan Brandauer, the prominent politician. You must surely have heard of him.’

  Of course he’d heard of Stefan Brandauer. He’d met the man in Berlin on several occasions during his university days, a well-known Jew-lover who’d been rightfully sent packing in 1936.


  ‘Ah yes,’ he’d replied, ‘Stefan Brandauer, I knew him. A fine man who served the German government well.’

  So this was Stefan Brandauer’s son. She was wrong, he decided, the man most certainly belonged here. Another Jew-lover like his father, he deserved no clemency. Let him suffer along with his friends. Klaus gave no further thought to the matter.

  But the more she pleaded, the more suspicious he became. Manfred Brandauer was her lover, he decided. Why else was she so desperate to save him? And the stronger his suspicions grew, the more his jealousy consumed him. He’d have Brandauer shot, he decided. But then, if he did so, his negotiating power would diminish; she believed that he intended to save her lover. He was in a dilemma.

  Klaus had come to recognise his obsession; he could no longer dismiss it: he wanted Ruth more than he’d ever wanted a woman. But he wanted her to come to him of her own volition; he did not wish to force himself upon her. It would be demeaning to them both, he had decided.

  So he wooed her. While the music played and she stared vacantly at the wall, he massaged her shoulders and he sang to her, always ‘Barcarole’.

  ‘Schöne Nacht, du Liebesnacht, o stille mein Verlangen …’

  He had a good ear and a pleasant tenor voice.

  ‘Süsser als der Tag und lacht die schöne Liebesnacht.’

  It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. She reacted to the singing the same way she reacted to the music, as if she didn’t really hear it, and she suffered the massage, neither flinching from his touch, nor relishing it. Then, as always, before she left, she pleaded for Brandauer’s release, and, as always, he placated her with the promise that he was doing what he could and that these things took time.

  Klaus’s desire was driving him mad, and one night he decided that he could wait no longer. But he broached his ultimatum with care.