The Fires of Lilliput

by Michael Martin

  Heil Hitler!

  Beruge Stain

  Chief

  For Heaven’s sake, Petersdorf thought. Four months later they send this information. Nothing about the previous inquiry, nothing about how this man ended up here, not a word of instruction or command. He dumped the contents of the envelope on his desk. Black and white photos of Chelzak talking with a rabbi; standing by a wall; eating a piece of bread; speaking with a young woman.

  Petersdorf looked for a date stamp on the photographs, wondering at what late date a rabbi was walking around freely in Warsaw. He saw memos signed by members of Sammern-Frankenegg’s staff, and other memos under Jurgen Stroop. The new commander, Franz Kutschera, was young. Thirty years old, Petersdorf had read. Stroop would be a tough act to follow, but Kutschera was no pushover. He ordered mass liquidations of hundreds of Jews in the first weeks of his arrival—something Petersdorf didn’t read about that would not have impressed him anyway. Stroop had the reputation of being a great warrior, Sammern-Frankenegg a yes man to Himmler. Kutschera was building a reputation out of neither soldierly diligence nor obsequiousness, but rather, out of blood. A memo Sammern-Frankenegg signed—in a pile of memos and letters his underlings signed—caught Petersdorf’s eye. He picked it up.

  1943/4/15

  From: Forward Command

  Warsaw District

  Office of SS-Oberführer

  To: Field Commanders and Staff

  Warsaw District

  This office has received several inquiries about the status of Jakub Chelzak, a reported stigmatic who appears to be visiting a family in the Jewish district. The Reich's official position on the stigmata is that it is a form of hysteria and not miraculous. However, this office is sensitive to the concerns of staff and field personnel and so it is hereby ORDERED that no members of Command Staff nor their subordinates shall harm or cause to be harmed Jakub Chelzak.

  Signed,

  Ferdinand von Sammern-Frankenegg

  Oberführer

  Forward Command

  Warsaw District

  cc: Jürgen Stroop

  Stigmatic? The image conjured Saint Francis in Petersdorf’s Catholic mind. Sammern-Frankenegg—the outgoing commander—writing a letter about what should have been Stroop’s concern as the incoming commander also struck Petersdorf as unusual. The major set the letter aside and looked at a photo out of place with the others. This photo showed Chelzak, not in a city, but near a farm or in the country. People stood near a house—some villagers, a woman, and in the center next to Chelzak, a priest with a big floppy hat. Petersdorf held the picture up to the light from the window.

  The Nazi Party’s obsession with mysticism probably drove the Reich’s concerns about Jakub Chelzak. Prominent among Hitler’s cronies was the Thule Society, a nationalistic, pro-Aryan fraternal organization founded in 1918 that borrowed heavily from middle-Eastern mysticism.

  “Thule members were the people to whom Hitler first turned and who first allied themselves with Hitler,” wrote the society’s founder, Rudolf von Sebottendorf, a student of Sufi meditation and astrology. The Thule Society claimed several top Nazis, including Rudolf Hess and the dentist Friedrich Krohn, who converted a symbol of middle-Eastern spirituality, the swastika, into the Nazi Party’s guiding insignia. A great Thule influence on Hitler was the man to whom he dedicated Mein Kampf, Dietrich Eckart. A wealthy newspaper publisher and occult aficionado, Eckart supposedly taught the future Führer public speaking techniques that involved voodoo-like methods of persuasion.

  Heinrich Himmler founded the Ahnenerbe Society, dedicated to the study of Aryan heritage through occult-oriented treks such as the search for Atlantis and the Holy Grail. The society organized costly expeditions to Tibet, Nepal, Greece, and the Arctic to find remnants of Hyperborea, a mythical Aryan nation, and its capital, Ultima Thule. Himmler embraced the legend extraterrestrial beings from the star Aldebaran had founded Hyperborea, becoming otherworldly Aryan ancestors set apart from the rest of humanity.

  AFTER INSURGENTS IN WARSAW ATTEMPTED to kill Franz Kutschera, Warsaw command stepped up retaliations against Jews and Poles. The Gestapo sent a letter to every resettlement facility demanding renewed interrogations of all former Warsovians, which Heinrich Petersdorf carried with him in a folder as he crossed the camp in a light morning rain. Petersdorf found the Commandant typing in his office. Strauss looked at the letter.

  “So?” Strauss said.

  “They’re implying we torture him if we don’t get ‘good’ information this time.”

  “Did they define ‘good’?”

  “No.”

  “Then what should it matter?”

  Petersdorf thought. “In my opinion Franz, we should release him.”

  “And tell Warsaw what?”

  “That he escaped. That we let him go before we got the directive. Whatever.”

  “No,” Strauss said.

  “I’m uncomfortable,” Petersdorf said. “You know that.”

  “The stigmata is Catholic nonsense—no offense to you. It’s never been verified by any real science.”

  “Not true. The Church has taken great pains to verify these wounds in dozens of people.”

  “Have you seen any wounds?”

  Petersdorf hesitated. “No,” he finally said.

  “When you do, let me know.” Strauss continued typing.

  IN HIS OFFICE THAT AFTERNOON, STRAUSS had two magnetophones. He clicked one on. He listened to music. He switched on the other magnetophone and spoke into the microphone.

  “Dearest Gretty. Today we have background music—one of your favorite pieces. Dr. Hehl wrangled the other magnetophone out of Farben for an extra large order.” He inhaled and sighed. “I miss you very, very much. I so enjoyed our short visit. Without you, where is my strength?”

  Strauss paused and held the microphone toward the music.

  “I haven’t time for a long letter today. Himmler sent out a district-wide memo stepping up Operation Heydrich. We both know what that means. More inmates, more drunkenness among the men, more problems, and less leave time for Vienna evenings. So I want you to visit me. I have a beautiful present for you that I bought in the village. I know you will like it.” He held the microphone to the music again. “PS. How do you like the tapes? And the music? I’ll send another shortly. PSS. I’ve made all the arrangements. I can’t wait to see you. With more love than your heart could ever hold, your loving husband, Franny.” He leaned back and let the music play.

  RAIN FELL IN THE EVENING. IN MELINKA VILLAGE, a man wrapped in a black raincoat ran toward the rear of a small building. He knocked. He stood. He knocked again. Then he pounded on the narrow door. Another man unlocked the door and opened it barely. He was a silhouette in the light of a fire. He saw a rare visitor with a familiar face. Major Petersdorf peered back at him from beneath his hood.

  “I’m here to see Father,” Petersdorf said.

  The man hesitated. He saw the major’s sidearm.

  “Bitte,” Petersdorf said.

  “It’s okay,” Father Waleska spoke in Polish from behind.

  The man stepped aside. Petersdorf entered. A smoldering fire lighted the room.

  “What brings you here on such a night?” the priest asked the major in German.

  Petersdorf stepped closer. Fr. Waleska signaled to his servant.

  “The führer’s coat, please.”

  Petersdorf slipped his coat into the manservant’s hands.

  “I’m not the Führer,” he said.

  The priest showed the major into the living area. Petersdorf hesitated.

  “Please.”

  The major sat. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “I haven’t slept in a few nights.”

  “I’m surprised you ever do.”

  “I didn’t come here for criticism,” Petersdorf said.

  “What then?” Waleska stood.

  Petersdorf looked at the fire. “I wanted to be a
priest once,” he said.

  Rain blew against the window. Waleska stoked the fire. He looked up and saw the door to the upstairs ajar. He moved and it closed. He walked to it and opened it and saw a squat little woman walking up the stairs.

  “Meara,” he said in Polish. “Some coffee, please.”

  She stopped.

  “Meara.”

  She turned and stepped down the stairs. She looked at Major Petersdorf and went into the kitchen.

  “I want you to do something for me,” Petersdorf said to the priest.

  “What?”

  “Hear my confession.”

  Waleska went to the window and looked at the rain. “What good would it do?”

  The major felt a chill. “That’s a thing to say.”

  Meara returned with a tray and two cups of coffee. She set it down on a table before the two men.

  “Thank you,” Waleska said.

  She stared at Petersdorf.

  “Meara—good night,” the priest said.

  She turned and went through the door to the second story, her footsteps on the hardwood stairs.

  “You want absolution,” the priest said to Petersdorf. “It’s not in my power.”

  “You’re a priest,” Petersdorf said. “Whatever you loose is loosed.”

  Waleska sipped his coffee. “I can’t absolve you.”

  Petersdorf picked up his coffee cup. Then he set it down and stood. “I could leave the Reich,” he said.

  “You’ve said that before. You haven’t yet. It’s not in you.”

  “You think I’m a coward?” The major took the Father’s arm. “You want me to beg?” he said.

  Waleska looked at the fire, and the light from it. “It would be a sham.”

  Petersdorf kneeled with his hands on the Father’s arm. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” he said.

  Thirty Six

  German words on the loudspeaker, then a second voice translating—Czech, English, Polish: “Guests—it is my pleasure to welcome you to the Melinka Resettlement Facility.”

  In the crowd of “guests,” some were talking, ignoring the Arbeitsführer as he blathered on about this or that rule, this or that directive from the podium that overlooked the ramp.

  “Over there,” a man near the ramp said. “He was killed over there. They tell me by a doctor.”

  “A doctor?” asked a woman.

  “He was killed by a doctor?” someone choked.

  “With an injection.”

  The chatter rose, until it became an audible din begging for reproach.

  “And our Führer has decided,” the Arbeitsführer was saying. “No talking. No talking in ranks.”

  The Arbeitsführer motioned to the guards with his eyes. They moved into the crowd.

  “No talking,” they said. “No talking.”

  Someone shouted from the ranks.

  “No talking. Shut up!”

  A guard hit a man with the end of his rifle. Another guard pushed toward a group of hecklers. Pandemonium advanced. Chaos moved from one person to the next, like a wave. Then part of the crowd fell silent. The wave flattened. A truck came into view, overflowing with suitcases and purses and wallets and bags. The truck approached the railroad track and struggled to get over it. The engine groaned and the driver floored the gas pedal. The truck lurched back and forth. It bounced and bucked and crept onto the tracks. A thin wail rose from the crowd. With a desperate lurch, the old lorry cleared the tracks. The inmates started to flee. Guards fired into the crowd. Nimble “guests” slid under the rail cars. Others stormed the ramps. The Arbeitsführer jumped from the podium and ran. A pregnant woman pressed through the rioting crowd. She made her way around the selections ramp and through an opening in a low wire fence. She was a thin woman and she tried to run down a narrow alley behind the barracks. She almost stumbled twice. She emerged where soldiers were heading toward the Commandant’s quarters.

  AT THE COMMANDANT’S QUARTERS, A SOLDIER opened a staff car door. Greta Strauss stepped out. Strauss was writing at his desk when he saw his wife for the first time in months.

  “Gretty!” He stood and took her reserved arms into his and kissed her. “Oh Gretty.”

  She doled out a kiss. “Where’s the lovely gift you promised me?” she asked.

  Strauss led his wife down the stairs to the back entrance and out. They walked toward the stables and heard voices on the camp loudspeaker. They went into a barn. Sunlight streaked between the planks. Bits of hay floated in the air.

  “Close your eyes,” Strauss said.

  “Close my eyes?”

  “Close them.” Strauss put his hands around her eyes. “Closed?”

  “Yes, Goofo.”

  He took his hands away. He took her hand and led her to the front of a stall.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Greta saw a stallion swiping flies with his tail. “Franny—he’s beautiful.” She threw her arms around her husband’s neck and kissed him. “When can I ride him?”

  “Now, if you like.”

  Strauss opened the stall and a voice intruded.

  “Kommandant.” Von Kempt stood near the entrance of the stables. “I’m sorry to intrude, Kommandant, but we have a situation.”

  “So—handle it. I’m busy.”

  “We may not be able to, Kommandant.”

  “You want to saddle him?” Strauss said to his wife.

  “No—just bareback.”

  Strauss helped his wife onto the horse.

  “Kommandant,” von Kempt said.

  “What, goddamn it?”

  Greta Strauss lay forward and hugged the horse. She set her head on its mane and looked down at the lieutenant.

  “Well, Leutnant?” Strauss said.

  Von Kempt regained his stiff poise. “We’ll handle it, Herr Kommandant.” He turned and limped out.

  Frau Strauss looked at her husband. “Herr Kommandant,” she purred.

  THE SOLDIERS IN FRONT OF THE COMMANDANT’S residence saw the pregnant woman. She turned and tried to run but they were on her in an instant. Coming from the stables, von Kempt yelled at them and they took her by both arms and walked toward the house.

  “What is this?” von Kempt said. “Kommandant’s coming.”

  Strauss walked with his wife on the horse. The woman looked at Strauss and in her desperation, thought his face gentle.

  “Kommandant,” she said. “Herr Kommandant.”

  But Strauss didn’t look at the woman and kept walking. At the front of the house, Greta started to slip down from the horse. A guard released the woman and ran to help the Commandant’s wife. The woman broke free from the other guard and ran to Strauss.

  “Bitte, Herr Kommandant. Bitte!” She grabbed his arm, but before he could act, Greta drew his pistol from its holster, undid the safety, and shot the woman. Strauss grabbed his wife’s arm.

  “My God!” Strauss said. He shook the gun out of her hands. “What are you doing?”

  “She was trying to attack you.” Her body stiffened. A pathetic pucker gripped her face from forehead to chin. She buried her face in Strauss’ jacket. “I’m sorry,” Greta choked. She moved back and looked at Strauss with a reddened, scrunched-up face. She raised her hands to his cheeks and pressed her palms against him. “You have to forgive me,” she said.

  The guards held the dying woman.

  “She’s pregnant,” Strauss said to Greta. “How could you?” He looked at his men. “Take her to the infirmary.”

  Von Kempt picked up the gun and handed it to Strauss. But Greta intercepted it.

  “You need to get me one of these,” she said to her husband. “It isn’t safe here.”

  IN THE COMMANDANT’S OFFICE, LIEUTENANT von Kempt read his end-of-week report. Petersdorf stood. Strauss sat while a kapo shaved his face through a thick layer of foam, and a prisoner shined his shoes.

  “This week, despite the uprising,” von Kempt noted, “one thousand seven hundred and thirty six Jews, seven hundred a
nd fifty two gypsies, two hundred and seventy three mental deficients, one hundred and sixteen deviant homosexuals and seventy three miscellaneous undesirables were gassed.”

  “How many casualties did we take?” Strauss asked.

  “Final count—four, Kommandant.”

  Petersdorf interrupted. “I warned you, Franz. I warned you that this could happen.”

  “You did.”

  “What happened couldn’t be helped,” von Kempt said.

  “It couldn’t?” Petersdorf said. “Why not?”

  Sergeant Schmidt tapped on the door.

  “Come,” Strauss said.

  “Herr Kommandant.” Schmidt nodded to someone in the hall.

  Private Höfstaller entered with Jakub Chelzak. His head was shaved and he had lost weight. Strauss eyed him through a cloud of shaving cream.

  “What’s this?” Petersdorf asked.

  “Herr Leutnant,” Schmidt said.

  “I ordered it,” von Kempt said.

  “Franz,” Petersdorf said.

  “Ja—bitte. Leutnant—what are you intending here?”

  “An interrogation,” von Kempt said. “If Herr Sturmbannführer would like to ask the questions.”

  “We’ve already been through this,” Petersdorf said.

  Von Kempt turned to Jakub. “Are you a spy?” he asked. Schmidt translated in Polish.

  “No.”

  “Do you work for the resistance?”

  “No.”

  “Are you with the allied forces?”

  Jakub turned a sallow face on von Kempt. “No.”

  “Have you ever bled here?” Petersdorf interjected. Jakub looked at him. Petersdorf took Jakub’s hand. “I can see the scar, here. See.”

  He held up Jakub’s hand. Strauss leaned forward for a look. Von Kempt stood fast. Schmidt translated back and forth.

  “How do you explain this?” Petersdorf said.