by Judy Nunn
‘Mengele has not shown a great interest in Brandauer’s case, I must admit,’ he said, ‘although, as you know, I’ve spoken to him on a number of occasions. To Eichmann also.’ He had not spoken to Eichmann, and he could just hear Beppo’s hoot of derisive laughter if he ever brought up the subject. ‘So your Jew whore wants you to save her lover, Klaus,’ Beppo would say. ‘Why don’t you just put a bullet through his head and be done with it?’
The prospect had been more than tempting for the past two months.
‘What do we do then?’ Ruth asked. ‘There must be another course of action, Klaus. Where do we go? Who do we see?’
We. He felt a flicker of amusement at her use of the word, and he admired her audacity. We are not going anywhere, he thought, we are not seeing anyone. You are here in Auschwitz, my beauty, and you are alive at my whim.
‘Without direct permission from a senior camp commander, Ruth,’ he said carefully, ‘to free someone from Auschwitz is no easy task. There is the bureaucratic process which needs to be addressed, the proof of mistaken identity …’
‘But I gave you his address: Viktoria-Luise-Platz in Berlin. His papers will be there. I gave you a list of his Aryan friends who will vouch for him. There is solid proof of his identity …’
‘I know, I know,’ he said reassuringly, although irritated; the only time she showed any passion or vitality was when she spoke of Brandauer. ‘I will contact Berlin Headquarters tomorrow and set the wheels in motion.’
‘Thank you, Klaus,’ she whispered, and there was the shadow of a smile in her gratitude. She believed him. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
She was seated in the comfortable armchair, as always, in her robe with her legs curled under her, and, as he crossed to sit on the arm beside her, she looked directly into his eyes. He trailed his fingers through the soft spikes of her hair – she no longer wore the silk scarf, it was not necessary, he had decided – and he thought how incredibly young she looked. Young and gamine, like a girl on the brink of womanhood.
‘We are in this together, Ruth, we are a team,’ he said, caressing her cheek and her throat. Tenderly, like a lover.
‘Yes.’
He could see it in her eyes. She had been expecting this moment.
‘Perhaps, as a team, you and I …’ He lowered his face to her, and she parted her lips in anticipation of his kiss.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will do anything you wish.’
It wasn’t the way he’d wished it at all, he thought, but at least the stalemate had been breached. He was thankful that he hadn’t had Manfred Brandauer shot – the man had proved useful.
But, several weeks later, he was once again cursing Brandauer. His promise of the man’s freedom, and her subsequent gratitude, had not unleashed any passion in her. She responded to his lovemaking in the same mindless way she responded to his massage, and Klaus found it deeply insulting. In his bed, her mind was elsewhere, no doubt with Brandauer, he thought. Well, she’d sealed her lover’s death sentence. His patience had been tried for far too long, he should have had the man shot months ago. And perhaps, he thought hopefully, following the demise of her lover, whose life he had so diligently fought to preserve, perhaps in her grief she might seek his consolation.
Having made his decision, he ordered the execution for three o’clock the following afternoon, a firing squad of four. He himself would not be present to give the command, which was a pity – he would have enjoyed it.
He summoned her to his quarters the day after the execution, prepared to break the news to her gently and to offer his heartfelt sympathy over the death of the man who had been wrongfully imprisoned and whose freedom they had both so keenly sought.
But she made the announcement herself. ‘Manfred Brandauer is dead.’ She said it the moment she stepped in the door. ‘He was executed by firing squad yesterday.’
He was annoyed that she’d already heard of Brandauer’s death; he’d underestimated the grapevine system that existed in Auschwitz. And he was further annoyed by her lack of etiquette. She had not showered and changed into the bathrobe, and he had no wish to communicate with her while she was dressed in her prisoner garb. But he quelled his irritation.
‘I know. I heard this afternoon, I had no idea Mengele had ordered it. I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do, it was too late.’
She was staring at him strangely. Her grief was evident – he could tell that she’d been weeping – but there was something else in her eyes which he’d not seen before. Was it accusation? Impossible. She couldn’t know that he had ordered the execution.
He turned away, refusing to speak to her any longer while she wore the grey stripes that pronounced her status. The sight of the uniform disgusted him.
‘Go and clean yourself and change into the bathrobe,’ he said.
She did not immediately respond to his order as she normally did, and although his eyes remained averted, he knew she was staring at him with that same look of accusation. Then she walked off abruptly to the bathroom.
She couldn’t possibly know, he thought. Who would have told her? Certainly not the soldiers who had formed the firing squad – they would not confide in a Jewish inmate. And nor would Schoneberger, the attendant doctor. Schoneberger would never threaten the comfortable relationship he shared with the Nazis. He was too much of a survivor; a loyal sycophant to his masters, he was despised by his own kind.
She didn’t know. Her accusation was a manifestation of her grief, he decided. She held all Nazis, himself included, responsible for her lover’s death.
Five minutes later, she returned in the bathrobe. Her short-cropped hair, wet and tousled, framed her face beautifully, he thought. She was once again ‘his Ruth’ and he was prepared to play out the charade.
‘It is a tragic occurrence, Ruth,’ he said. ‘I cannot understand why Mengele would issue such an order, but he’s a strange man. Perhaps we pushed him too far with our demands, who can tell?’ He shrugged, enjoying the use of we. Let her bear a little of the guilt, he thought. She had, after all, in her own way, brought about Brandauer’s death. ‘Mengele does not like to be dictated to. Perhaps …’ He gave another heartfelt shrug. ‘Perhaps if we had not been so aggressive in our attempt to save him, Manfred might still be alive.’
‘Don’t call him by his first name. Please.’
He was nonplussed.
‘You have never called him by his first name before. Please don’t do so now.’
The look in her eyes was far more than accusation, he realised, it was hatred.
‘What is it, Ruth?’ How dare she look at him like that. Didn’t she realise he could send her to the gas chamber? ‘Is there something you wish to say to me?’ She remained silent and he prompted her further. ‘A question you wish to ask, perhaps?’
‘No, there is nothing I wish to ask.’
She was not going to confront him, which was wise, he thought, he’d have sent her to her death if she’d dared. But the hatred was still there, and the rebelliousness in her excited him.
‘Very well.’ He smiled. ‘Shall we forgo the music tonight? I think, under the circumstances, comfort of a more physical nature would be apt, do you not agree?’
He felt her tense as he put his arm around her, but she allowed him to lead her towards the bedroom. He was aroused. Their relationship had undergone a change for the better after all. If he was never to succeed in gaining her love, at least he was no longer merely a means to Brandauer’s freedom. Her hatred, he thought, was vastly preferable to her indifference.
Manfred Brandauer’s name was never again mentioned, and over the ensuing months the charade continued. He still wooed her – it had become a ritual which he enjoyed. He still sang along to ‘Barcarole’ and massaged her shoulders, but these days she no longer stared vacantly at the wall. He was aware all the while of her hatred and he continued to find it a source of arousal. In the past she’d cared nothing for her own life; she had existed purely to save her lover – but n
ow she wanted to live and he was her means of survival. He owned her, body and soul. And after all, he told himself, hatred was a powerful emotion, very akin to love. One day she would come to realise that.
Nineteen forty-four was not a good year for Germany. The tide of war had turned and when the Allied Forces landed on the Normandy beaches on June 6, defeat appeared inevitable. Months dragged on and, as Christmas approached, all hope was lost. How could it have happened? Klaus wondered. How could the right and might of Germany possibly have failed? But somehow the days of the Third Reich were over.
‘I am leaving Auschwitz tomorrow,’ he said.
It was Christmas Eve, and she was sitting in the bathrobe which was now hers, in the armchair which he’d come to think of as her domain, and she was looking extraordinarily beautiful. It would be their last night together.
‘Yes, I gathered that.’ She’d noticed the priest’s cassock draped over the chair and had seen the identity papers lying openly on the desk; he hadn’t bothered to hide them. So Klaus Henkel was going into hiding in the guise of a priest, she thought, how ironic.
His departure appeared to be of little concern to her, he realised, but surely he deserved her thanks – he’d preserved her life for a whole eighteen months. Perhaps she would show a little more gratitude when he told her of the plans he’d made for her own safety.
‘There is a transport of workers departing for Bergen-Belsen tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You will be one of them; I have had you listed.’
‘Why are you sending me to Bergen-Belsen? Auschwitz will be liberated any moment now.’
He didn’t know which irritated him most, her arrogance or her prescience. How did she know that the enemy was on their doorstep? Inmates were not privy to news from the outside world. But he refused to demean himself by asking how she’d come by such information.
‘And exactly who do you think will “liberate” Auschwitz, Ruth?’ he sneered. ‘Your friendly allies, the Americans?’ He rose from his hardback chair by the table and crossed to the gramophone. ‘No, no, it will be the Russians who will enter Auschwitz.’
The familiar melody flooded the room, ‘Barcarole’, the harmony group singing softly, unobtrusively, but he didn’t sing along with them this time. He walked silently to stand behind the armchair and ran his fingers through her hair.
‘And you know what the Russians will do to a beautiful woman like you?’ He was no longer annoyed. The feel of her hair soothed him. It was shoulder length now, and like flaxen gold – how he loved her hair. ‘They will defile you, Ruth. I will not let that happen.’ He encircled her skull with his hands. ‘I would kill you myself before I would allow the filthy Bolshevik pigs to defile you.’
His fingers strayed to her neck and her throat, and she remained quite still as he slipped the bathrobe from her shoulders.
‘But you will live, Ruth,’ he said, massaging her gently, tracing the bones of her spine and her shoulder blades. ‘You will go to Bergen-Belsen, which will be liberated by the Americans. And for the rest of your days, you will remember that you owe me your life.’
He waited for her to say something; he deserved some expression of gratitude, surely. But none was forthcoming.
‘Get up.’
She rose.
He circled the chair to stand in front of her. He looked at her breasts, then untied the belt of the robe. It slid to the floor and she stood naked before him.
‘Surely I deserve some thanks, Ruth.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. Thank you.’
‘Thank you who, and thank you for what?’ he asked, irritated by her lack of respect.
‘Thank you, Klaus, for saving my life.’
There was no animation in her: she spoke the words like an automaton, and he felt a sudden flash of rage. Then he saw that there appeared no hatred in her either; her face was a mask. He curbed his anger and reached out a hand to caress her.
‘Ah well,’ he said, his fingers tracing the curve of her breast, ‘actions speak louder than words, do they not?’ He pulled her gently to him, her body compliant. ‘There are other ways you can show your gratitude.’ He kissed her, and her lips obediently parted.
‘Love me,’ he whispered.
Just as obediently, she embraced him.
‘Love me, Ruth, love me.’
Her hands were caressing his back. She wanted him, he could sense it in her touch, she had never caressed him like this before.
‘Love me, love me,’ he repeated over and over, his excitement mounting as he felt her respond.
He fumbled with his trousers, freeing himself, kneading her breasts, his tongue seeking hers, his desire stronger than it had ever been. She was his, she was offering herself to him, he could feel it. Her thighs were parting as he thrust himself at her. He could feel her breath, she was panting; soon she would moan, he wanted to hear her voice.
‘Love me, Ruth, love me.’
There was no time to undress or to take her into the bedroom, his need was too urgent, he would have her here on the floor, and he would hear her, lost in pleasure. He broke away from the embrace, ripping at his trousers, then he made the mistake of looking at her.
Her eyes held nothing but pure contempt.
At the sight of her undisguised loathing, his rage exploded and he struck her across the cheek with all the force he could muster, sending her reeling across the room and smashing into the table.
‘Whore!’
He threw himself upon her.
‘Filthy whore!’ He covered her body with his, pinioning her wrists to the floorboards. ‘You think you’re different from the others?’ he screamed, in insane rage. ‘You think because I grant you favours you can look at me in that way? You belong in the ovens along with the rest of your tribe …’ He spat in her face. ‘You filthy Jew whore!’
She made no attempt to struggle free, but her chest was heaving, she was gasping for air. He could see she was terrified and the insanity of his rage lessened a little. Good, at last she knew her place – a Jew was meant to feel terror.
‘Would you like to know what the Russians would do to you, Ruth?’ He slapped her face. ‘Would you like that? I’ll show you, shall I?’ He slapped her again and she whimpered with fear. He felt a stab of pleasure. He rolled her over on her belly.
‘Kneel,’ he said, taking off his trousers. ‘Kneel and spread your legs.’
‘No,’ she begged, ‘please, Klaus …’
But he hauled her to her knees. It was too late to beg for favours. He pushed her head to the floor, ripped her buttocks apart and forced himself into her. She screamed with the pain.
‘Do you like being taken by the Russians, Ruth?’ he panted. ‘They’re animals, the Russians, pigs, every one of them. And this,’ he grunted as he sodomised her, ‘this is what they do to Jew whores.’
When it was over and he was dressing himself, he watched her crawl on her hands and knees to cower in a corner of the room. She was bleeding, he noticed: a thin trickle of blood ran down her thigh. He crossed to the gramophone which was making scratching noises; the record was probably ruined now.
It had not been the way he’d wished, but she’d brought it upon herself, she had pushed him beyond his limits. He rarely lost his temper, he preferred to remain in control at all times. It was most regrettable that she had so angered him.
‘Wash and dress yourself,’ he said.
He must put her out of his mind, he thought. He would be leaving the camp the next day. All had been arranged and he must concentrate on his escape plan. Mengele had already left Auschwitz, and the Russians could arrive at any moment – he was running out of time.
Several minutes later, she returned from the bathroom wearing her faded striped uniform.
‘Come here,’ he said.
She approached him fearfully, and she flinched when he put a hand to her face.
‘No, no,’ he assured her, ‘I am not going to hurt you any more.’ Tenderly, he touched the cut on her temple where she had struck the t
able. ‘You will be safe in Bergen-Belsen,’ he said. Then he ran his fingers through her hair for the last time. ‘It was not meant to happen like this. You should have loved me, Ruth.’
In 1944 a secret meeting of top German industrialists and bankers was held at the Maison Rouge Hotel in Strasbourg. It had become clear that the Third Reich would not survive the war, and their new aim was to ensure the safety of their Nazi leaders, along with Germany’s wealth. The future resurrection of the party depended on safeguarding the nation’s assets, much of which had been acquired through plunder, and aiding Nazi officials in their escape to havens outside the country, where they would be safe from prosecution for war crimes.
The meeting led to the genesis of a highly efficient organisation which, following the war, would be called the Organisation Der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, or ‘the Organisation of Former SS Members’, but which would become widely known as ‘Odessa’.
The organisation’s basic plans were quickly set in place. By the end of the year, funds were arranged, safe houses set up, false identities available, and escape routes devised.
Klaus Henkel had opted to escape rather than remain hidden in Germany and, as a highly valued doctor and committed Nazi, he’d been among those to receive preferential treatment. He had obtained funds, the false identity of Catholic priest Father Paul Brummer and explicit instructions on the two principal escape routes.
He was to make his way to a major Italian seaport, he’d been informed, and he could get there by either Switzerland or Austria. Once in Italy he would be relatively safe, but he would have to remain there under an assumed identity until his passage to South America had been arranged.
Klaus had chosen his escape via Austria, deciding that, if he was to be captured en route, he would prefer it to be by the Allied Forces advancing from the south, rather than by the Russians. The Austrian route, he’d been told, was through the small Bavarian town of Memmingen. From there he was to make for Innsbruck, then over the Brenner Pass into Italy and south to the port of Genoa where a sea passage would be arranged for him.