*
The Women’s Pavilion One early December morning, Adrian’s crew had been assigned to ditch-digging around one of the outlying areas of the hospital’s gardens. Frosty nights and an early fall of snow had hindered previous attempts to complete the work. By now, only a few weeks left to go before Christmas and, if the new vegetable plots were to be drained and dug before the serious cold set in, all who could had to help. Adrian was grateful to get away. He was fed up of the stench of stale sweat and old urine that hung around Gangly wherever he went, and after only a few hundred metres’ march in the preferred army-style ranks, he was amazed at how much light and open sky you could find even here, in obscure corners of the walled-in hospital site. They worked for three hours before midday and then sat down to eat the meagre rations they had been given. The place that was to become part of the gardens was a low-lying meadow between two intersecting roads. Pavilion 23, the so-called women’s pavilion, stood behind tall trees on the other side of the meadow. It looked like their own pavilion, Adrian thought, but perhaps a bit longer. It would have seemed abandoned but for the smoke rising from one of the chimneys. When they had been sitting with their spades across their knees for some twenty minutes, two female guards came out and stopped just outside the main entrance. Their clipped voices resounded under the frost-white sky. Soon, twenty-odd young women, in some kind of prison outfits, came outside, stood to attention – Habt-Acht! – and then received an order delivered at screaming pitch, turned and came marching straight towards the boys. Who just stared. The women marched briskly, two by two. When about half the line had passed, one of them suddenly turned to the boys, ripped off her prisoner’s cap and exposed her clean-shaven skull. A little later, two of the other women did the same and raised their arms triumphantly in the air. It enraged the guard in front. She blew her whistle and then walked along the line, slapping the prisoners as she went. The boys were fascinated and kept staring:
Zavlacky, you want to stay away from women like that lot
and Adrian, wonder where they’re off to
and Zavlacky, if they’re not off to labour camp it’s their lucky day
and Adrian, what kind of labour camp?
but by then Zavlacky seemed not to listen anymore, only smiled as if at some sudden inner vision. And then he spat between his drawn-up knees into the grass. Instead, Miseryguts had to step in with missing information:
it’s what they do to punish them for being brazen
they flog the shit out of them
and the entire crew naturally burst out laughing so it was no good trying to find out more. But once they had returned to the Bunker that afternoon, Zavlacky sat down next to Adrian and said that he had better not expect to be allowed to stay. The punishment bunker was a transit station, just like everywhere else. Sooner or later, they would all be called to appear in front of the commission. Adrian didn’t even know what the commission was all about. The commission, Zavlacky explained, is the authority that decides if you’re smart enough to be sent to labour camp or if you’re to join the idiots. And, when Adrian just kept staring at him (Miseryguts: don’t say you fancied that punishment meant sitting around in a heated bunker all day long …) Zavlacky went on to say that he knew of several Bunker inmates who had been sent off to labour camp. Some said it was like a concentration camp though they didn’t treat you like the Commies or the Jews. For a bit, Adrian kept staring at them (Miseryguts: hey, are you to join the idiots or what?) and then asked, was there really no other choice? Zavlacky suggested: try to sell it to the commission that you’re too stupid to be in a camp but just smart enough not to end up with the idiots, it’s not easy but some people make it, nodding towards Gangly who was sitting a bit further away but started at once to chatter and grin as if he couldn’t agree more.
*
A Parcel From that day on, Adrian expected to be called to appear in front of the commission. He wasn’t. Instead, he received a parcel. It was two days until Christmas Eve. His mother had written his name on the parcel in large letters and, to prevent any mistakes, drawn a ring around the number of his old pavilion. So, she hadn’t been informed about his failed escape attempt, nor where he might end up next. The parcel contained a box of dry biscuits (Adrian shared them at once with Zavlacky and Gangly), a sweater and a pair of socks knitted in thick, grey wool. He couldn’t recall ever having seen his mother knit. She wouldn’t have been able to afford the yarn, didn’t have the time, what with four young children to look after, and, besides, had she had no time to spare, there were other more important things to do. Where did that yarn come from? And was the sweater even meant for him? He tried to put it on and when he saw his bare arms sticking out of the far too short sleeves, the lump forming in his throat swelled and, in the end, even Gangly looked away. The sweater must have been for Helmut, or did his mother truly think he still was that small?
*
Christmas At this time last year, they had been housed at Ybbs and all Adrian remembered of that Christmas celebration was tired apples being handed out and the booming sound of the river on the other side of the thick, ice-cold walls. The river was heard so distinctly then, as if there had been no other sounds to listen to that freezing winter’s night. It was as cold this year. On the morning of Christmas Eve, they had to scrub their section of the pavilion. Kohler opened all the cell doors and organised two bucket chains: one lot of boys dealt with the buckets and basins full of hot, soapy water from the kitchen, and the other with the buckets of clean rinsing water. Within a few hours, the section was awash with floor-soap foam and water and, because the pavilion wasn’t ever properly heated, the floors soon turned as slippery as oiled glass. It was particularly bad just inside the front door, propped open by Kohler. Inevitably, someone slipped on the wet floor, a frail-looking boy called Felix Rausch. He was on the hot-water team, so boiling water washed over him and he had to be carried, screaming with pain, to casualty. The outcome of this incident was that they were late for the hospital board’s specially arranged Christmas party that every ward and section of the entire institution were under strict orders to attend. The talk was of a Weihnachtsfest, but actually, everything to do with Christmas was forbidden. Not even Christmassy words, so glitteringly light and heart-warming, like Weihnachtsfeier or Weihnachtslieder, were allowed. You’re to say ‘Feast of Light’, Kohler told them, no argument. But there was not much light to be seen in the snowy yard in front of pavilion 3, where the punishment-block boys were lined up to wait for Felix, the burns patient, to come outside. And there he was at last, a strange-looking figure leaning on Kohler. Felix’s head had been bandaged so generously that only the tip of his nose and half of one ear stuck out. Now that their number was complete, they marched off across the creaking layer of snow. Large banners with swastikas on them had been hung from the second floor windows of the institution’s theatre and, outside its entrance, Hitlerjugend youths formed a guard of honour. They held large flaming torches that gave off a sour smell of oil and smoke. But inside the theatre it was dark – and so silent; an almost tangible silence, like in a crypt. Adrian craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of some of the children from his old pavilion but all he could see was a sea of stiff backs, slightly bent as if for a beating. There was a large podium set up on the stage and on it all the nurses and other members of staff were on parade, their faces turned to the audience. A little to the left of centre, he spotted Mutsch and Demeter, neatly attired in starched uniforms. There was a lectern, too, with swastika flags placed on either side of it. The board members as well as the administrative staff, including accountants and secretaries, stood around the lectern and Doctor Krenek himself stood behind it, speaking from a large bundle of notes. But although he spoke loudly and enunciated clearly, it was as if the words wouldn’t quite take off from his mouth but instead hung on like large bubbles and, all the while, even more word-bubbles were pushing forward from wherever they were created. Unser über alles geliebter Führer – the leader we love mo
re than anyone and anything – made one bubble; der Endsieg and then der ewige Tag eines grossdeutschen Reiches were other bubbles – the final victory, and the eternal day of the greater German Reich – and all the while more saliva-sprinkled bubbles kept being produced, now about the soldiers who fought in snow and ice for their German homeland, and as he spoke, he stroked his head with his hand, again and again. Had something had got stuck in his hair? Adrian was just going to point this out to the boy next to him when he – it was Miseryguts – said:
A LARGE BIRD SITS UP THERE AND SHITS ON HIS HEAD.
He whispered but articulated every syllable very clearly. A wave of subdued laughter ran through the row of boys. In the next moment Doctor Krenek inevitably lifted his hand to his head again and Zavlacky followed up with:
MAYBE IT’S THE FÜHRER HIMSELF WHO SITS
THERE AND SHITS IN HONOUR OF THE DAY.
The whisper was just as quiet, almost inaudible, but impossible not to hear. By then they couldn’t keep their laughter down anymore. It fizzed and fermented with such irresistible force that the only way seemed to be to bend forward and try to strangle it between your knees. Adrian just had time to see Kohler’s alarmed face turn towards them from the row in front. Just as well that it grew no worse, as far as the anxious Kohler was concerned, because when the laughter was about to spread to the rows in front and behind them, everything was drowned out by the enormous roar made when the entire audience stood as one man and shouted:
HEIL HITLER …!
Doctor Krenek had just that moment produced another huge bubble with Heil Hitler inside and stood with his right hand stretched up and out. All around him and the lectern, and all over the podium, where the doctors and nurses and allied staff were standing, either in professional whites or in their best outfits, arms were raised in the German greeting. In the audience, the model patients in their grey institutional uniforms aped everyone else, held up their arms and shouted Heil Hitler! in their hoarse voices. All joined in, except Miseryguts who muttered Grüss Gott. But by then Kohler had already got the group moving. Because they had been among the last to get in, they were let out early. Even before the singing had had time to erupt inside the theatre, they were ordered to line up in Zweiereiher and run back to their pavilion. They truly sounded like chain-gang prisoners as they jogged along, breathing heavily, the cold prickling around their eyes. When they arrived, they were not even allowed to go into the Bunker but were told to undress immediately and go to bed. Adrian slept with the ugly, far too small and roughly knitted sweater jammed between his legs, and went to sleep wondering if being brazen might be something as seemingly innocent as to take one’s cap off to show one’s shaved head. When he got down into the Bunker the next morning, neither Miseryguts nor Zavlacky was there. Adrian asked around to find out where they had gone but nobody knew. Gangly only showed his yellow teeth in his usual grin and talked wildly. Felix Rausch, the boy whose face had been scalded, had vanished and his destination was also unknown.
*
Facing the Commission Four days into the New Year, on Monday 4 January 1943, Adrian Ziegler finally appeared in front of the commission. The interrogation took place in pavilion 1, the same pavilion in which Doctor Gross on another January day two years earlier had measured and described all Adrian’s unseemly flaws. Half a dozen people were seated behind tables placed in a semi-circle around the central area of the room where he was told to stand at Habt-Acht. The director of the reform school Doctor Krenek, occupied the middle of the semi-circle as the would-be leader of the inquisition. To Krenek’s left and right, grimly concentrated men and women sat behind piles of documents and folders. Many of them he had never seen before but he assumed they must be the providers of ‘expertise’ – pedagogically trained staff from the social services department who had been called in to attend the questioning. He did recognise the psychologist Edeltraud Baar and one of the teachers from the school pavilion, a Mr Ritter. The usual Führer portrait hung on the wall behind just behind Ritter. One of the experts, who seemed to function as some kind of secretary because he was writing all the time, addressed Adrian without even looking up from his notes, telling him to state his name and when he was born, and then, because he obviously wasn’t speaking distinctly enough, demanded that he repeated the answers several times. When at last everyone was satisfied, Doctor Krenek opened one of the folders and started to read aloud in a declamatory, almost indignant voice from what seemed to be an official compilation of various reports, all about Adrian.
DOCTOR KRENEK: [reads] Adrian Z has shown himself to be a degenerate, ingratiating character, which stems from his depraved and filthy home conditions and his upbringing by an alcoholic father and a frivolous, flighty mother with unmistakably limited gifts. [Leafs through the pages.] Erbbiologisch ist die Sippe sehr minderwertig – the family’s biological inheritance is of very low quality. On the father’s side, a long history of work-shy individuals and drunkenness; on the mother’s, of debility and imbecility. One of the mother’s brothers was kept at Steinhof for a considerable length of time. Adrian learnt early to use cringing as his approach to life. His nature is essentially frivolous, obsequious and full of tricks while on the trail of personal advantage, otherwise he is idle and recalcitrant.
One care worker has reported that A. Z. occasionally finds it so difficult to concentrate that he seems barely aware of his surroundings and, thus, only physical means serve to make him conscious of his situation. The veracity of this observation is confirmed by several other, mutually independent witnesses:
[A. Z.] has a certain ability to think on his feet, an expression of fast reflexes rather than of intelligence. He is well versed in deceit, ‘hardened’ and, in his ‘gang’, assumes a leadership role but is ready to submit when challenged.
When told to write a school essay on the subject of his aspirations for work in the future, he stated a wish to train as a waiter because his father knew somebody who could take him on. In other words, the degenerate pattern is repeated in the youth’s dreams about the future. To him, work entails pretending to oblige, the aim of service is to steal and so forth.
The disciplinary issues pertaining to Adrian Z add up to a formidable list:
On 22 March last year, he was entrusted with the task of fetching an additional portion of the evening meal from the institution’s kitchen but skulked in an unknown location before returning from his errand. When required to explain the delay, he threw the tray on the floor in a fit of rage. His punishment was to be isolated from the other children for a brief period but, instead of spending the time in reflection about his severe misdemeanours, he enticed his carer into the cell on the pretence of having ‘something to show her’ and then attacked her ‘with blows and kicks’.
Adrian Z’s character traits emerge clearly from these notes. Ostensibly, he gives the impression of a well-behaved boy – although far from gifted. However, behind the quiet surface lurks a manipulative intelligence worthy of a ruthless criminal. Thus, for example, immediately prior to the escape attempt on 22 October this year, was a period of reasonable calm. Day-notes entries include:
06/10 A. Z. causes no trouble, well-behaved; pays attention to his work and completed it …
14/10 A. Z. works hard; offers to help with doing the dishes …
16/10 A. Z. replies politely and shows interest …
In fact, throughout this period he had stealthily planned the escape that he executed on 22 October: A. Z. asks leave to go to the toilet, then breaks the window locks with a tool he must have had in readiness to this very end. Later, he is picked up in a very poor state and taken to Wilhelminenspital where he is cared for overnight.
Even though his attempt to run away was a pathetic failure and clumsily executed, it had obviously been planned for a long time with the help of at least one, if not several, helpers or conspirators.
EXPERT 1: [interrupts his note-taking] Doctor Krenek. In my opinion, this youth isn’t paying full attention to the pro
ceedings. He appears to be laughing.
DOCTOR KRENEK: [irritably, to Adrian] What are you looking at?
ADRIAN Z: Nothing … at our Führer.
DOCTOR KRENEK: You’re to listen and look at me, and speak up when you’re spoken to.
ADRIAN Z: [stares straight ahead]
EXPERT 1: As a matter of fact, he was laughing.
DOCTOR KRENEK: Do you have any understanding of why you’re here?
ADRIAN Z: […]
DOCTOR KRENEK: You might begin by telling us who helped you to run away. Then we’ll have that matter out of the way, once and for all.
ADRIAN Z: […]
EXPERT 2: [leafs through documents] In my view, it’s high time to go to the root of the trouble. Now, as far as I can see, the youth spent three years in the Münnichplatz primary school and was, even then, a knowing rebel. He failed in most subjects. Despite being urged to, he refused to join in the Heimabend programme of home get-togethers for the young.
ADRIAN Z: I couldn’t go to any of the Heimabenden because I had to look after my brother.
EXPERT 2: That’s a lie. He didn’t attend any Heimabend because his father had been deemed of inferior racial stock. Hence, he was unfit for wartime service.
ADRIAN Z: That was before, when I was with the Haidingers.
DOCTOR KRENEK: Quiet unless spoken to!
EXPERT 2: Can this boy tell us anything he has learnt in school? Anything at all?
EXPERT 1: Describe a right-angled triangle.
ADRIAN Z: […]
The Chosen Ones Page 23