The Fires of Lilliput

by Michael Martin

  Strauss tried to smile. He raised a cup to his lips. Himmler took off a glove. He leaned forward and pursed his eyes.

  “You,” he said to Strauss “fascinate me.” He encircled Strauss’ fingers and the teacup in his soft, white hand.

  “You flatter again, Reichsführer,” Strauss said. “But I think I see—isn’t your daughter called Gudrun?”

  Himmler withdrew his hand. He looked around at his men. Wölke walked over and took up the jacket. The men moved to new positions near the double glass doors that opened onto the balcony. Himmler went to stand and Wölke motioned with his eyes to Strauss, who stood first.

  “Time to relax,” Himmler said. “I have a diversion—perhaps you can join us.”

  Wölke made with his eyes again.

  “Certainly, Reichsführer,” Strauss said. The sweet and sour smell wafted over him—he thought of something dead covered up. “When and where? I mean, should I arrive.”

  “Well—you’ve already arrived it seems,” Himmler said.

  “No, I mean—Herr Reichsführer—for the diversion,” Strauss said.

  “Yes, the diversion. The diversion.”

  Wölke made a face over Himmler’s head. Strauss restrained a grin.

  “Tomorrow—in the morning. I’ll send a car for you,” Himmler said.

  “I’ll be waiting, Reichsführer,” Strauss said. Himmler stepped toward the lobby, before his men. “What time, Herr Reichsführer?” Strauss asked.

  But the Reichsführer didn’t hear him and was gone.

  STRAUSS SUFFOCATED THE NIGHT with a laudanum-like mixture. Without the drug, dreams awakened him that recalled better places. London was all horizon and no landfall, Gretty, the romance of plying his intellect to win a woman and the admiration of his peers. He was clean and clear and smug, a man who held a hidden vassal of truth behind a facade of playing along and getting ahead. Were Strauss the rebellious intellectual he admired in Wagner and Nietzsche, he might have become a nihilist. But he was not a true rebel. As he lay engulfed in a haze of alcohol and opium, he was a pretender under a setting sun watching the horizon recede.

  AT 0700 HOURS ON 15 AUGUST 1941, HIMMLER and his adjutants, Einsatzgruppe B leader Artur Nebe and Erich von dem Bach-Zelewski, police leader Russia center group, stood in their finely-pressed uniforms at the edge of a long pit. Trucks drove up and parked. Soldiers herded Jews, a few Russians, and some patients from a local asylum.

  “Reichsführer,” Bach-Zelewski said. “So pleased you could join us.”

  Himmler smiled. “What are they doing there?” He pointed with his riding crop at a line of people entering the pit.

  “Sardinenpackung,” Bach-Zelewski said.

  Himmler watched the pit fill. “They’re lying down?” he said.

  “For convenience,” Nebe said.

  “Raise arms,” they heard.

  A group of shooters on the side of the pit raised and cocked their rifles. Himmler turned to his photographer, Walter Frentz. “No pictures,” he said.

  “Fire!” The guns echoed and smoke filled the air and anyone still standing in the pit fell. Himmler looked confused.

  “Walk, Reichsführer?” Nebe, Bach-Zelewski and Himmler walked along the edge of the pit. Himmler looked down at the dead. Their faces were unrecognizable. A new group filed in, walking in front of the fallen.

  “Raise arms.” The rifles cocked again. “Fire!” The air crackled. Then a shooter dropped his rifle. He turned his head and ran toward Frentz, who was wearing a Luftwaffe uniform.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” the gunner said. His face was red. “I need to get posted somewhere else.”

  Frentz looked at Bach-Zelewski.

  “Fall out,” Bach-Zelewski told the shooter.

  Himmler’s entourage stood close to the pit as twenty-five more civilians marched in and lined up.

  “Raise arms.”

  Himmler perspired. He wiped his head. He watched the gunners and the people in the pit. Nebe poked Bach-Zelewski and nodded toward the Reichsführer.

  “Fire!”

  Himmler felt something hit his shoe. He looked down. Only one shoe glistened in the rising sun. He breathed rapidly and looked at Nebe.

  “Reichsführer?” Nebe said.

  Himmler bent and braced himself. “Reichsführer!” His men surrounded him. They bent down to him. Himmler huffed and panted. His glasses slid down his nose and fell. Bach-Zelewski caught them.

  “Reichsführer—are you all right? Can we do anything?”

  “Yes,” he said. He was breathless. “This must be more humane.”

  “Humane, Reichsführer?” Nebe said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “They don’t suffer,” Nebe said. “It’s quick and painless.”

  “Quick and painless for them,” Himmler said.

  SNEEZING AWAKENED STRAUSS LATE that same August 15th morning. His room was dark but he could see light at the periphery of drawn window shades. Gunk from allergies coated his eyes and his head throbbed. He lifted a shade. The sun seemed high for early morning. He showered in cold water.

  He unlocked the rear door of the cathedral and entered through the sacristy. He was surprised to find a soul-less place. He thought the men would be at work. Dust fluoresced in the stained glass-colored sun. The place smelled musty and old. Columns of paintings propped six and seven deep lined the east wall along the floor. Strauss’ face reddened at the sight of an unprotected Titian that Venetian traders left centuries ago. He covered it with an old altar cloth. Outside, he heard car motors and voices. He unlatched the double wooden doors and saw Wölke walking alongside Himmler’s car. The car and the soldiers beside it disappeared around a corner toward the Hotel Europe. Soldiers joined Strauss about an hour later. He outranked them so they spoke only necessities. They worked in the placid half-light of the muggy afternoon.

  “Where were you?” Wölke stood at the church entrance.

  “What?” Strauss’ shirt and hair were wet with perspiration.

  “Where were you?” Wölke walked over to Strauss. “We missed you. Himmler’s diversion. Remember?”

  Recognition dawned on Strauss. “Himmler’s men never showed up.”

  “Yes they did,” Wölke said. “They said they pounded on your door and almost broke it down.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Strauss said.

  “You were fucked up.”

  Strauss flushed. He turned away. “Did Himmler say anything?”

  “He doesn’t say—he does. Did he say anything to you? Did he come by here today to find out how you were doing, if you were sick, whether or not you were feeling all right?”

  “It wasn’t an order,” Strauss said.

  “It was an order. Yes it was.”

  “So I fucked up. What did I miss?”

  “Everything,” Wölke said. “You missed history. They shot a hundred. Himmler got brains on one of his fancy ass shoes.”

  Strauss smirked. “Are you serious? Why was he standing that close?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Wölke said. “It happened and because of it, the Third Reich will no longer engage firing squads for the execution of persons numbering over ten.”

  “So where did they find a hundred criminals to execute?”

  This time Wölke smirked. He shuffled up to Strauss and took his shoulders. “These weren’t criminals—well, I mean—they weren’t all criminals. The brains came from a boy who couldn’t have been more than six.”

  Strauss pushed Wölke away. “And they don’t want us fucked up?”

  “Only Himmler was sober,” Wölke said. “Why the fuck else would he care about brains on his shoes?”

  “Six years old?” Strauss said.

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  “I fucking hate it,” Wölke said. “But he was the enemy.”

  “A PAINTING.” STANDARTENFÜHRER (COLONEL) Fritz Hösselman sat with his legs crossed facing the Alps from a porch-t
op perch on a high hotel with the sun on his face and a crystal glass of champagne in his hand resting on the table beside him.

  “I can’t think of anything else that could better describe it,” he said.

  “If I may propose a toast,” Sturmbannführer Stephan Bunger said. Hösselman turned to the six people around the table. Franz Strauss shifted his gaze from the Austrian peaks to the mountains of food spread across a white cloth. A pained look crept into his eyes. Greta was oblivious.

  Bunger raised his glass. “Zum Leben!” he said. “To Life!” He smiled and his white teeth caught the light.

  A mumbled chorus followed and glasses clinked. Strauss was late raising his glass. Greta swept the table with her eyes.

  “So—duty is upon you.” Hösselman looked at Strauss. “Selecting out the bad grapes so that fine wines may emerge.”

  “Fine.” Greta raised her glass and sipped.

  “I understand Melinka is a pretty place,” Bunger said. He sipped.

  “Beautiful,” Hösselman said. He sipped and choked. “I’ve skied around there. Near Zakopane.”

  “It sounds special,” Frau Hösselman—the Colonel’s wife—said to Strauss.

  “It’s not,” Strauss said.

  “Is so,” Greta said. “Franny’s just angry he doesn’t get to play bachelor anymore. We’ve been separated for a year.”

  “It hasn’t been a year.”

  “Virtually.”

  “At least you’re getting a promotion out of it,” Hösselman said.

  “What a joke,” Strauss said.

  “You shouldn’t have pissed off Himmler,” Bunger said.

  “He didn’t piss off anyone,” Greta said. “He just overslept.”

  “He wanted you there,” Major Bunger said. “He wanted witnesses.”

  “He didn’t make a big deal of it,” Strauss said. “It was no more nor less than a cordial invitation to a ‘diversion’.”

  “It was a command,” Bunger said. “And you shouldn’t have mentioned his daughter. You never, never discuss his family.”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Every good soldier knows the peccadilloes of his commandant,” said the major’s wife, Frau Bunger.

  “Franny is a fine soldier,” Greta said. “Himmler needs to communicate better.”

  “I’m not a soldier.” Strauss said.

  “Don’t say that,” Greta said. “You’re an officer.”

  The conversation paused. “I told them I’d never kill anybody,” Strauss said.

  “You said what?” Hösselman almost spit.

  “I said I would never kill anyone,” Strauss said.

  “Who did you say this to?”

  “I’ve said it to several people.”

  “To Himmler?”

  “Not directly.”

  “What does that mean—‘not directly?’”

  “I might have said it to one of his aides.”

  “Well,” Bunger said. He slapped his knee. “Then it is a cruel joke.” He leaned forward and looked at Strauss. “Why on Earth did you join the Schutz?”

  “They had desk jobs,” Strauss said.

  “You haven’t been behind a desk yet,” Greta said. “You’ve been in the field leading men. Just like you.” She looked at Major Bunger. “And you.” She looked at Colonel Hösselman. “You want to know something else?” Greta smiled peevishly through her champagne glass and moved her eyes from her husband to the group. “Franny is an outstanding fuck.” She looked at her husband. “Aren’t you, darling?”

  “Really,” Frau Bunger said.

  “Outstanding,” Greta repeated.

  Everyone but Strauss laughed.

  “I say that because I was told that once Franny joined the Schutz, our sex life would be over.” Greta sipped. Major Bunger changed the subject.

  “I hear you’re having a greenhouse built.”

  “For me,” Greta said.

  “It’s a good idea,” Bunger said. “I’ve heard of another commandant who did that. It kept the smell down and he had all the fertilizer he could ever want.”

  Frau Hösselman looked perplexed. “How so?”

  “How so what?” the Major asked.

  “How so fertilizer.”

  “Muselmänner,” her husband said.

  “Muscle manor?” Greta said.

  “Human skeletons,” Hösselman said. “A unique feature of those facilities.”

  “What's so unique about a human skeleton?” Frau Hösselman asked. “I saw one in a hospital once.”

  “These skeletons are alive, liebchen,” her husband said.

  “Isn't anything else more fascinating to talk about than this?” Strauss asked.

  “Don't concern yourself, darling,” Greta laughed. “With all your flowers, you won't ever have to look at or smell one ugly Muselmänner.”

  “Will I have to look at you?” he said. She was drunk and Strauss hated her indignity.

  Greta glared at her husband and tossed her champagne at his face but it landed across his shoulder. She giggled and poured another glass.

  Thirty One

  “Schütze.”

  Private Höfstaller marched into the major’s office. Petersdorf sat at his desk and held up the letter about Chelzak.

  “Have you heard anything back about this?” he asked.

  “Which, sir?”

  “This letter—about the man from Warsaw?”

  “May I, sir?”

  The major turned the letter and Höfstaller approached. He bent down to look, then stood straight.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did I tell you to do?”

  “I contacted them, Herr Sturmbannführer. By telephone and letter.”

  “And you don’t know if they’ve responded?”

  “I haven’t had time to go through the mail, Herr Sturmbannführer. Not for three days.”

  “What did they say on the phone?”

  “That my message would be left and someone would get back to me.”

  “Call them again. And go through the mail. Get back to me today.”

  “Ja, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

  “And bring this Chelzak fellow.”

  THE INFIRMARY AND THE CREMATORIA were the only prisoner-occupied buildings that had real floors—in both cases, cement. Distinct from the hospital blocks, where hopelessly-sick prisoners were left to die, the infirmary offered limited medical help to kapos, valued laborers, and medical experiment subjects who invariably ended up in the hospital block. Jakub Chelzak walked the floor of the infirmary with a bucket, ladling rust-tainted water to the lips of the infirm, who lay, not in beds, but on the concrete, many naked, without padding, pillows, or covers of any kind.

  “Over here, over here.” A man leaning on his elbow pointed to another man in the next row. “Over here—quick.”

  Jakub came to the two men.

  “He needs water,” the pointing man said. “Give him mine—he needs it worse than me.”

  Jakub knelt next to the other man, who was mumbling and turning his head.

  “He’s feverish,” his neighbor explained. “Feel his forehead.”

  Jakub put his hand on the feverish man’s head. He ladled water and placed it near the man’s lips, but the man moved his head away.

  Jakub dipped his sleeve into the water and brought it to the man’s forehead. He felt the heat through the damp cloth and let it rest there.

  “Typhus,” the other man said. “That’s why he’s here.”

  “Typhus?” Jakub said. “Everyone will get it.”

  “That’s right,” the man said.

  But it wasn’t typhus. It was tick fever and no one could get it from this man.

  “Where are the doctors?” Jakub asked.

  “Doctors? No such thing.”

  The feverish man turned finally to Jakub and looked at him. Recognition shaped his eyes.

  �
�You’re Chelzak,” he said softly.

  “Don’t talk,” Jakub said.

  “Did they bring you here?” the man croaked. Jakub brought the man’s head up and let him sip from the ladle. “It’s a good thing,” he said. “They’re short on doctors.”

  Jakub lay the man’s head down. Footsteps approached—two sets, one set stepping evenly, the second unevenly and slower, with one foot hitting the floor harder than the other. Four black shoes stopped—two on either side of Jakub Chelzak.

  “166097,” Lieutenant von Kempt said. Sergeant Schmidt stood with him.

  MAJOR PETERSDORF LOOKED AT JAKUB in his office. “Where do I know this face?” the major said. “Where?”

  “He has a common face,” von Kempt said. “I myself thought I recognized him.”

  “No—I’ve seen you before,” the major said.

  Sergeant Schmidt, who knew good Polish, translated.

  “You aren’t familiar to me,” Jakub said.

  “What were you doing in Warsaw?” Petersdorf asked. “This letter tells me you had phony papers and no identity card.”

  “The papers came from a priest,” Jakub said.

  “A priest?” Petersdorf said.

  “They were not mine.”

  “How did you come to get papers from a priest?”

  “I was asked to hold them. I did.”

  “No one wanders freely in Warsaw without papers,” von Kempt said.

  “I’m aware of that, Leutnant.” Petersdorf studied Jakub’s face. “Yes,” he said. “I know you but I can’t place you. You’re from Warsaw?”

  “Yes,” Jakub said.

  “He talks like a peasant,” von Kempt said. “Not like a city boy.”

  “Warsaw,” the major said. “Yes—that’s what it said. Let me see.” The major rummaged through the papers on his desk. He found the letter from Warsaw and picked it up. “You claim to be a permanent resident. You have family there?”

  Jakub said nothing.

  “You have family?”

  “I live alone,” Jakub said.

  “You don’t look like much of an insurgent,” Petersdorf said. “And you don’t look like much of a Jew.”