The Commandant of Lubizec: A Novel of the Holocaust and Operation Reinhard

by Patrick Hicks

  The guards, however, mostly acted in unison and they took their blood oath to the SS very seriously. They delighted in acts of group brutality because it fortified their own beliefs while simultaneously reminding them they were members of an elite squad. As every German citizen knew from the newsreels and newspapers, not everyone could join the SS—only the best men with the best blood were accepted. The guards at Lubizec wanted to prove their place within the SS, and this often meant they became wild agents of destruction.

  One story highlights this in a particularly awful way. It happened sometime in the winter of 1942 when a group of women were beaten down the Road to Heaven. It was −30°C and the wind was howling. Tendrils of snow snaked through the air and it was hard to see more than a few meters. When the women arrived at the gas chamber, the door was shut, and the guards watched them, naked and shivering. They laughed at the women and watched them stand storklike first on one foot, then the other.

  “Please let us in.”

  “We’ll f-f-freeze to death out here.”

  They covered their chests and leaned into each other for warmth. Jets of hot breath escaped from their mouths as they danced around, but still the guards wouldn’t let them in.

  They stood outside for thirty minutes as the men smoked cigarettes and talked about potbelly stoves. One of the guards, Rudolf Oberhauser, opened the gas chamber door and shut it quickly.

  “Whew. It’s hot in there. Like a sauna.”

  The other guards laughed as these women rubbed their goose-pimpled flesh. Their jaws chattered as they danced around.

  “Please let us in.”

  They tucked their fingers into their armpits and hunched into little balls.

  “P-p-please.”

  When the door was finally opened, the women pushed into the brick building as a funnel of flesh. The engine was started and thirty minutes later their bodies were tossed into a snowbank. Later that night, as their flesh burned and popped, the guards joked about how these women were warm at last.

  “The bitches aren’t complaining now, are they?” Oberhauser laughed.

  Cruelty took on many forms at Lubizec: People had to wait in the freezing cold, women were groped, glasses were stomped on, arms were broken with truncheons, and victims had to sing as they ran down the Road to Heaven. We also know that if a prisoner was hit in the face and a large purple bruise appeared, that prisoner was shot because the guards didn’t want incoming victims to see such wounds. If the new arrivals on the platform saw black eyes or split lips it might frighten them, so we have these heartbreaking stories of prisoners trying to cover their bruised faces. Sometimes a prisoner was deliberately hit on the cheek with a pistol just so they would know, absolutely and definitively, that they would be shot within twenty-four hours. Protecting one’s face at Lubizec became more important than eating or sleeping.

  “A bruise on your cheek was cured by a bullet to the head,” Chaim Zischer later said.

  We want these guards to have a moral awakening, but no such awakening can happen within the confines of Lubizec. What do the words mercy, compassion, and kindness mean in a place so far beyond the boundaries of civilization? True, the Nazis did not invent anti-Semitism, nor did they invent laws that forbade Jews to become full members of a society, but they took these historical weapons of hate and pushed them in new and terrible directions. This is how we find naked women huddled outside a gas chamber in subzero weather while the guards are wrapped in warm trench coats. This is why they can laugh and mock. For if they couldn’t laugh and mock, they never would have been able to kill. Laughter was the first step towards killing.

  Although Chaim Zischer became numb to the physical and psychological cruelties of Lubizec, even he wasn’t prepared for what happened one night in January 1943. It would rank as one of the strangest evenings he experienced in camp, and it began when Commandant Guth opened the wooden door to their barrack and clicked on his flashlight.

  “Get up,” Heinrich Niemann yelled. “Get up, you pieces of shit.” He banged a rubber hose against the bunks and carried an oil lamp. A large dirty bubble of light followed him as he moved deeper into the barrack. Shadows stretched across the walls.

  “Up, up, up,” sang Birdie.

  Zischer slept near the entrance because he wanted to be the first one into the Rose Garden each morning (it meant he could stand in the middle of the parade ground and avoid being hit), but on that particular night, when he heard the door open, he jumped down from the top bunk with his shoes already on and he almost ran into Guth. The commandant pointed his flashlight at Zischer and this made him shield his eyes. He expected to be hit on the cheek, but the man in a heavy leather trench coat just stood there.

  What’s going on? Zischer thought. What time is it?

  Other prisoners stood beside their bunks, equally confused. Dark shadows were pushed away by Heinrich Niemann’s oil lamp as he walked back to the entrance. The bulk of his stomach pushed prisoners out of the way.

  “Get up, little chickens. Get up.”

  There was no electricity or heat in the barracks so the prisoners stood in the cold dark. Flashlights moved over squinting faces and the rubber hose continued to whomp against the triple-layered bunk beds.

  Is this the end? Zischer wondered.

  A murmur of panic charged the darkness. Eyes darted left and right. Muscles tensed.

  “Listen up!” Birdie shouted, pushing someone out of his way. “Your commandant has a message for you.”

  The wind howled and a clapboard on the roof began to vibrate. It banged and slapped against the rafters. There was a dark orange glow on the northern end of the camp. The Roasts, thought Zischer. He hadn’t thought about it when he went to bed, but with the guards shoving men out of the way he wondered if his body would be on fire in the next few minutes. Was this it? He exhaled, and the precious heat from inside his body clouded the air.

  Guth stepped away from the door and a cone of flashlight followed him as if he were on a stage. He carried a large canvas sack. He had gone several days without shaving and, when he spoke, it was obvious he had been drinking.

  “We have … a new guard at Lubizec,” he slurred. He sucked on his lower lip and held out his arm. “Come here Sebas … Sebastian. Come here.” Guth rocked on his heels and steadied himself against a wooden post. “Say hello.”

  Because it was so dark no one noticed the man in the shadows of the entrance. The new guard stepped into the light and adjusted his peaked SS cap. The death’s head emblem gleamed and his uniform was neatly pressed, freshly ironed. He didn’t appear drunk.

  Heinrich Niemann pushed his oil lamp forward. “Tell them what you said.”

  “Yeah,” Birdie echoed. “Tell them what’s going to happen.”

  The new guard’s name was Sebastian Schemise and he enjoyed telling people he was fated to join the SS thanks to his initials: S. S. He was originally from Munich and he believed that Hitler was a great man, a savior of Germany, a modern-day Caesar in charge of a mighty army. Schemise was as thin as an umbrella and he took great pleasure in killing. In any other society he would have been labeled a psychopath and locked up, but thanks to the fog of war he was able to float up the ranks of the SS almost effortlessly. He thrived on cruelty and it was often noted how calm he was, especially when he was beating someone. As far as anyone could tell, his heart rate never went up. He hit and shot and punched—all without appearing to be angry or out of control. It made him terrifying because he seemed to have no feelings whatsoever. Even the other guards would later comment on how ruthless he was.

  Schemise cleared his throat. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m delighted to be a part of this camp and I look forward to killing some of you soon. I hope you don’t take it personally.”

  “Good humor. I like this kid,” Niemann said.

  “Hear, hear,” Birdie added. He lifted a silver flask and took a swig.

  Guth reentered the bleached cone of the flashlight. He tried to put one arm around Schemise
but stumbled. It was the first time anyone had seen Guth so out of character, so loose, so informal, and the prisoners looked at each other with worry.

  And then, as if realizing how chummy he was getting, Guth straightened himself. He blinked a few times. He said slowly and with great care, “We were talking with Sebas … tian here. He is interested in your Jew life. What was it you said? Back in the canteen?”

  “That we should study the Jews before they’re gone. They’re a dying breed. They’ll be extinct soon.”

  Guth pointed. “That’s it. Yes.”

  “Tell them about the meal,” Birdie laughed.

  Schemise pulled out a cigarette. A flame danced on the lighter as he brought it up to his lips. One puff, two puffs. He snapped it shut and looked serious.

  “Everyone knows the Jews will be gone in Europe by 1950, so if we want to see their customs and rituals we need to do it now. In a few years such things will be just a memory. A myth. A rumor.” A pause as he looked around. “You won’t even find anything about Jew life in museums or libraries, but we can tell our grandchildren we saw their way of life once. Imagine seeing the last Neanderthal around a campfire? How did he act before dying off forever? What language did he speak before Homo sapiens raised a club over his head?”

  “I like this kid,” Niemann beamed.

  “Hear, hear,” added Birdie, taking another swig.

  “So,” Guth interrupted. “We want to see your Jew rituals and how you celebrate—what’s the damn thing called again, Schemise?”

  “Pesach. The Passover Seder.”

  “Yes. That.”

  Guth went over to the canvas sack he brought into Barrack 14 and started pulling out a loaf of bread, a lamb chop, some hard-boiled eggs, and a bottle of wine. He tossed everything onto the dirt floor and pointed at six men. He made a gun of his finger and picked them out randomly by pretending to shoot them.

  “You, you, you, you … you … and you.”

  The meal would take place on the floor because there were no tables or chairs. Chaim Zischer was next to Guth so he was chosen. Dov Damiel was also chosen when Guth’s finger was pointed at him. Four other men joined them on the icy dirt and they sat cross-legged. The flashlights and oil lamps swam in like gigantic underwater eyes and this made the darkness seem much worse. Zischer felt like he was at the bottom of the ocean, like he was drowning, and even though he was wombed in light, it felt like darkness was crushing in on him.

  He closed his eyes and told himself to breathe.

  When he opened his eyes he began to gather up the bread and the brown wilting lettuce. The shells of the boiled eggs were warm in his hands—the yolks would taste good and he had to restrain himself from devouring them on the spot.

  Guth pulled out his silver cigarette case. “You use unleavened bread for this thing? This dinner? We don’t have such bread at Lubizec. Wheat will have to do.”

  The hot breath of the prisoners floated up in the light. So this is it, Zischer thought. This is how I’m going to die.

  Sebastian Schemise uncorked the wine bottle and passed it to a prisoner.

  “Fascinating,” he said with wide eyes. He kneeled down and spoke as if they were children. “Now pretend we’re not here. Do the Seder like you normally would. You may begin whenever you’re ready.”

  Zischer looked at how the green wine bottle cast an odd shadow on the floor. The bread had burnt seeds on top and there were little pebbles stuck to the lamb chop. A Seder? he thought. In this place? Not for the first time, he wondered how the Nazis could kill them without understanding anything at all about a religious way of life that went back millennia. The Germans destroyed without even bothering to learn the basics of what they hated. It made no sense. What was the wellspring of their hatred?

  In a moment of unbelievable stupidity, he spoke directly to Guth. Prisoners never did such a thing but the words tumbled out of his mouth before his brain could catch them. The sentence hung in the air like a poisonous cloud.

  Guth was surprised. “Did you speak?”

  Zischer had to say the sentence again or risk being beaten. He looked at the floor. “Herr Commandant, with respect, Passover isn’t until April.”

  Guth took a long drag on his cigarette. The orange tip glowed bright and he held the smoke inside his body for a moment. He leaned forward and his leather trench coat sounded like a door creaking open. He said, “Celebrate it now. You won’t be here in April.”

  “Yes, make it count,” Schemise beamed. “This might be the last Seder celebrated in Poland, ever.”

  Dust floated in the illuminated air and it was so quiet Zischer could hear himself breathe through his nose. His lower intestines gurgled and his heart rocked gently inside his chest. The delicate machinery of his body was still alive, still working, and he closed his eyes to notice it all.

  Passover was meant to commemorate not only the bondage of his people in Egypt thousands of years ago, but it was also a reminder of how death passed over his ancestors. It was about hope and survival. Above all else, it was about the exodus of his people from slavery into freedom.

  He looked down at his calloused, dirty hands. Dried blood was beneath his fingernails and he couldn’t believe these same hands once sat at a dinner table in Lublin. His whole family was there and they dipped vegetables into saltwater. They ate matzah, bitter herbs, sweet paste made from fruits, and of course there was wine. The words of another life floated into his ears and offered him comfort. Haggadah. Maror. Charoset. Karpas. At a very young age he asked the Four Questions and his grandfather, who had a scraggily beard, explained to all the children gathered around the table why this night was different from all other nights. The Seder was about family and connection. It was about remembrance and the past. It was about rebirth and hope.

  Zischer focused on the dried blood beneath his fingernails and wanted to weep. Everyone who sat around the Seder tables of his past were now gone. Their ashes had been scattered like chaff to the wind and he was the only one left. He looked up at the glowing ember of Guth’s cigarette and in that moment the man seemed like a demon who kept fire chained to the leash of his cigarette. Each night this demon-man strolled through the forest and stained the night with blood.

  This was much worse than bondage and slavery, Zischer thought. Much worse.

  He glanced at the green wine bottle and the lamb chop. What would happen when the mock Seder was over? Would they be shot?

  It reminded him yet again that being in Lubizec was like living in those seconds before a car crash. You can see it coming but you’re powerless to stop it. Your nerves tingle, your body is a coiled spring, your muscles lock, but you can’t do anything because the physics of the rushing world are beyond you.

  “BEGIN!” Schemise shouted. He pulled out his pistol and nudged it against the head closest to him. “Begin. We are tired of waiting.”

  The man with a cocked gun against his ear was Moshe Taube. Zischer and the others didn’t know much about him because he hadn’t yet earned the right of their interest. He was a new face, a new arrival, and if he survived a few more nights without hanging himself or getting shot by Birdie they might show him a few tricks. For the time being, he was just another shadow waiting to be pulled into the Roasts. What Zischer and the others didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that Moshe would soon be holding their lives in the palm of his hands.

  Schemise pushed the barrel into Moshe’s temple and this prompted the man to reach for the wine. He began to murmur the words of blessing.

  “Is he speaking in Jew?” Niemann shouted. “Is that Jew?” He lifted his oil lamp and cast dirty light onto the prayer. “I can’t hear.”

  Schemise stood up and crossed his arms. “Louder. Louder.”

  Moshe Taube paused for a moment, blinked, and nodded as if coming to some kind of inner decision. He raised the bottle of wine as if offering a toast and he intoned the ancient tongue of his people. He spoke with a Ukrainian accent and seemed fearless. “Ma nish-ta-naw ha-lai-
law ha-zeh mee-kawl ha-lay-los?”

  The other men on the floor immediately knew this wasn’t the proper order of the Seder but they stuffed bread into their mouths and peeled boiled eggs. They were hungry and they didn’t know what else to do.

  As for the newcomer, Moshe Taube, he asked the first of the Four Questions again: “Ma nish-ta-naw ha-lai-law ha-zeh mee-kawl ha-lay-los?”

  The other men passed the wine amongst themselves. They left ghostly fingerprints on the bottle, and after each of them took a long swallow, they repeated the phrase. It was a small act of rebellion and it filled them with strength.

  When it was Zischer’s turn to drink he glanced at the chiseled face of Sebastian Schemise and wondered if this German knew what they were doing.

  The prisoners continued saying that single phrase—“Why is this night different from all other nights?”—as they tore off chunks of bread and peeled speckled shells away from boiled eggs. It didn’t represent a Seder in any way and this made Zischer feel like he wasn’t dishonoring his past. The six men continued stuffing food into their mouths because they were hungry, scared, and confused. They chewed and swallowed. They murmured that single line of Hebrew as the bottle was passed from hand to hand. Zischer bit into an egg and felt yolk on his tongue. It was the first time he had eaten an egg in years. It felt magical. Alive.

  Birdie clapped as if he were watching a play. “Great show.”

  “Yes,” Schemise said. “What comes next?”

  The new prisoner, Moshe, looked angry for a moment—he was clearly tired of being mocked and ridiculed—and then he did something dangerous. He got onto his knees as the words of his ancestors continued flowing over his tongue and, while he recited the prayer for the dead, he stood up awkwardly in a pool of dusty light.

  His voice grew stronger, more defiant.