The Fires of Lilliput

by Michael Martin

  The guards emptied the chambers and hauled the corpses away. They crammed in the next group, packed them like sardines. They shut and latched the big heavy doors. The light in the chamber went out.

  “Halten.”

  The light came on again. The door opened. Sergeant Schmidt and another guard pushed through, forcing people aside. They came to a woman with an unshaved head. Her hair was dirty. Her clothing was shabby. Schmidt took her by the shoulder. He whisked her around.

  “This one still has hair,” he yelled back.

  Shosha Mordechai stepped into the light. They dragged her out and away.

  Forty Seven

  At dusk, when Greta Strauss didn’t return from her ride, her husband ordered Lieutenant von Kempt to conduct a search. Sergeant Schmidt assembled a detail. “Get Hehl in case she’s hurt,” Strauss said.

  The Commandant led the men outside the camp, into the valley. About an hour later, “Gretty!” Her husband ran to her. She lay still on the ground. The horse was gone. Strauss lifted her head and saw blood in her hair. Hehl listened to her chest.

  “Is she breathing?” her husband asked.

  “Yes.”

  They put cold cloths on her face and smelling salts to her nostrils. She stayed asleep.

  “She’s unconscious,” Hehl said. “We’ll take her back and get her to a proper hospital.”

  Strauss tucked his wife’s head under his chin and kissed her hair. He stroked her face. Hehl put a stethoscope to her chest.

  “Heart’s beating. Nice and strong.” He put the stethoscope near her stomach, listening for an infant.

  “What can you hear there?” Strauss asked.

  “Nothing,” Hehl said.

  They took Greta Strauss back to the camp in the only vehicle long enough to accommodate a stretcher—a gas van. They kept her body straight with splints.

  GRETA LAY UNCONSCIOUS IN THE OFFICER’S INFIRMARY with a bandage around her head. Her husband stood with her. Hehl felt around her neck.

  “It doesn’t feel broken,” he said.

  Her husband sighed.

  “She may have a concussion,” Hehl said.

  “Is she comfortable? Can you tell?”

  “I’d say. But we need to get her to Munich or Berlin.”

  “I’m working on it,” Strauss said. “It’s not so easy—the hospitals are over flowing.”

  Hehl sat next to his patient. He placed his hand on the underside of her right breast and palpated it.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You need to know some things,” Hehl said. “Your wife may be pregnant.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said your wife may have a baby.”

  Strauss felt his knees weaken. His mouth went dry. He took the doctor’s arm.

  “She said nothing.”

  “Go sit,” Hehl said. “There’s more.”

  The doctor led Strauss to a chair.

  “What else could there be?” Strauss said.

  Hehl pulled up a chair and sat beside Strauss. “She didn’t tell you anything?”

  “Nothing,” Strauss said.

  The doctor placed his palm over his commander’s hand. “She has a growth in her breast,” he said.

  Strauss looked up. “A growth? Like a cancer?”

  “May be,” Hehl said.

  “I don’t believe it,” Strauss said. “Why didn’t she say anything?”

  “She didn’t know how to tell you,” Hehl said.

  “I don’t believe this. I can’t believe it.”

  Hehl looked at Strauss. “I can show you.” They walked to her together. “Give me your hand,” the doctor said. Hehl placed Strauss’ fingers on the underside of his wife’s left breast. “They can grow faster with the hormones of pregnancy,” he said.

  Strauss felt around. “I don’t feel anything,” he said. “What should I feel?”

  “A hard lump.”

  “It’s all soft. A little bumpy, maybe.”

  Hehl stepped in and Strauss pulled his hand away. The doctor palpated the familiar area of Greta’s breast. He felt above, below, around. “I’m certain it was her left breast,” Hehl said. He looked at his bedside notes. “Yes—left breast. There—see for yourself.” He palpated her right breast to be sure.

  Strauss looked at the doctor’s notes. He saw a sketch of the breast and the approximate location of the mass. He saw his wife’s name. “When were you planning to tell me?” Strauss said.

  “She would have had my head,” Hehl said. “I planned to leave the telling to her.”

  Strauss went back and palpated his wife’s breasts again. “I don’t feel any hard lump anywhere,” he said. “Maybe you were wrong.”

  FROM HIS DESK, MAJOR PETERSDORF HEARD a gentle knock at his open door. “Come.”

  Newly-promoted Corporal Höfstaller stuck his head in. “The Leutnant and Unterscharführer Schmidt to see you, Herr Stürmbannführer.”

  Petersdorf nodded without looking up from his papers. He heard the studied footsteps of a familiar limp.

  “Stürmbannführer,” von Kempt said.

  Petersdorf mumbled.

  “Schmidt has information.”

  “Hmm.”

  Schmidt hovered at near attention over the major’s desk. Von Kempt just stood.

  “Herr Stürmbannführer,” Schmidt said. “The peasant Chelzak was with the Kommandant’s wife before her accident.”

  “Really?” Petersdorf said.

  “He tells me he left her alive and conscious.”

  “That’s not the point of interest,” von Kempt said. “He told us Frau Strauss was ill.”

  “Ill? How so?”

  “He didn’t say, Herr Stürmbannführer.”

  “How would he know such a thing? “ Petersdorf said.

  “We have no idea,” Schmidt said.

  “Frau Strauss would not have told him anything like this. Or anything at all,” Petersdorf said. He rubbed his hand through his hair. “Anything else?”

  “We thought you’d want to know,” Schmidt said.

  “Ja,” Petersdorf said. “It is interesting.”

  STRAUSS DINED WITH HIS SENIOR OFFICERS at least once a month and after an early supper, all but Strauss stood on his balcony smoking Cuban cigars overlooking the dusky Koscieliska. They sipped cognac, commented about the valley’s scenery, and tried to disguise and ignore the stench of the camp. They continued their dinner conversation without their Commandant. He had begged out early to visit his wife in the infirmary.

  “It’s absolutely true,” Dr. Hehl reiterated. “She had a lump. I felt it. I examined her.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” Dr. Fiddler said. “Imagine if we could bottle that.”

  “It is unbelievable,” Petersdorf said. “And I don’t believe it.”

  “I’ve checked and re-checked,” Hehl said. “Now, nothing.”

  “Toast,” Fiddler said. Everyone toasted.

  Petersdorf went inside and sat in a plush red chair. The other officers—von Kempt and the two doctors—trickled in behind him.

  “Perhaps Chelzak healed her,” Petersdorf said. “He knew she was ill, apparently.”

  “Nonsense,” Fiddler said.

  “If not, perhaps our doctor should concede a mistake,” Petersdorf said.

  “I wouldn’t make a mistake like that,” Hehl said. “If anything, I would give Greta Strauss a higher standard of care. I wouldn’t deliver such a diagnosis lightly and if I were in any way uncertain I would have told her immediately. Instead, I reconfirmed it myself on three separate occasions. The lump was evident.”

  Petersdorf sipped his drink.

  “Shall I tell you what else?” Hehl said. “Greta Strauss may be pregnant.”

  “Toast to that,” Fiddler said. Glasses clinked.

  “I had no idea,” Petersdorf said.

  “What a thing to have happen,” von Kempt said. “How is she?”

  “Resting,” Hehl said. “Her breathing is regular, her he
artbeat is normal.”

  “Rest is the best thing,” Fiddler said.

  “Did they figure out what happened?”

  “She had contusions on her head.”

  “Sounds serious,” von Kempt said.

  “Bruises,” Hehl said. “A bump. She fell off the horse. I told her not to ride.”

  “Maybe it bucked her.”

  “That wouldn’t happen,” Petersdorf said. “Greta was an equestrian.”

  “Chelzak was with her.”

  “For a short time,” Petersdorf said.

  “How did he know she was sick?” Fiddler asked. “Could he have done this?”

  “A strong woman,” Petersdorf said. “Versus a man, weak and hungry?”

  “He could have scared the horse. Deliberately.”

  “Even if he did, Greta could have subdued the animal.”

  “You’d think she’d be careful,” von Kempt said.

  “Here, here,” Fiddler said. He raised his glass and his stogie. “A cigar for the good father.” He looked around. “Wherever he may be.”

  STRAUSS STOOD NEXT TO HIS UNCONSCIOUS WIFE in the officer’s infirmary. He held her hand and sang softly.

  Der Vollmond strahlt auf Bergeshöhn

  Wie hab ich dich vermißt!

  Du süßes Herz! Es ist so schön.

  The full moon shines on mountaintops

  How badly I missed you!

  Oh, heart, so sweet! How lovely it is.

  He heard Hehl come into the room. “How is she?” Strauss said.

  “She breathes fine and her heart is well,” Hehl said.

  “The baby?”

  “I don’t know. Alive, if there is a baby.”

  Strauss looked at his wife. He sighed in a low way. “What about Berlin?”

  “I’ve been trying,” Hehl said. “The hospitals are a mess.”

  “Munich? Frankfurt? Dresden?”

  “Same,” Hehl said. “Though I don’t know anyone in Dresden.”

  “What about Vienna?” Strauss said.

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “No doctors. They were mostly Jews.”

  Strauss squeezed his wife’s hand. “Still no lump?” he said.

  “I stopped checking. It may have been a cyst.”

  “A tense muscle that has since relaxed.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hehl said.

  “Maybe cancer.”

  “No,” Hehl said. “I don’t see how.”

  “But you told her it was.”

  “Yes.”

  “It must have depressed her.”

  Hehl said nothing.

  “She was depressed. I could tell.”

  “She did seem sad,” Hehl said.

  “She talked to you. What did she say?”

  “I’ve told you enough,” Hehl said.

  “I could order you,” Strauss said. He looked at his wife. “Did she say she wanted to die?”

  “No,” Hehl said.

  “But how do we know?” Strauss said. “Could the diagnosis have depressed her to the point of taking her own life?”

  “Not her life,” Hehl said.

  Strauss looked at his wife. “What?”

  “I told her to stay off the horse,” Hehl said. “If she was pregnant.”

  Forty Eight

  Dr. Fiddler saw a familiar Kriegslokomotive creeping toward the camp on October 13. “God damn,” he said.

  Major Petersdorf walked toward the selections ramps. “No cattle cars,” he yelled. “We don’t take cattle cars.”

  But a long line of cattle cars with people crammed inside trundled into the camp and went a ways beyond it. The engine stopped and steamed and the boxcars slowed and settled. Petersdorf and Fiddler stood motionless and watched. The air was cool and still. The people, by the hundreds up and down the track, were quiet but for whispers. Arms and legs and coats and pants rustled like leaves in a breeze. Boilers sighed and brakes relaxed and wisps of steam slipped away. The people looked out, with hollow eyes. The boxcars creaked and stirred. Someone coughed and someone sneezed. A baby cried. Someone hushed a child.

  “We can’t handle this many,” Fiddler told the major. “How do they expect us to?”

  “I don’t know,” Petersdorf said.

  SERGEANT SCHMIDT CAME INTO the Commandant’s stable. Two enlisted men followed him. “Chelzak.” He moved around the room. “Jakub Chelzak.” He saw Jakub sleeping in a hay pile. “On your feet,” Schmidt said.

  Jakub tried to stand.

  “I said on your feet.” The two guards grabbed his arms and pulled him up. They hauled him into the sun. He winced and closed his eyes. They dragged him to the officer’s infirmary.

  “You didn’t rough him up, did you?” Hehl asked.

  “Nein.”

  “Take him in there,” Hehl said. They took Jakub into an empty exam room. “Put him on the bed. Let him get his wits about him.”

  Jakub opened his eyes in the soft October light. The room was dark except for a window with parted shades. He felt a man standing over him and saw a face after his eyes adjusted.

  “Herr Chelzak,” Strauss said. “Are you feeling rested?”

  Schmidt interpreted the words in Polish. Jakub mumbled something.

  “You must be hungry,” Strauss said. Jakub said nothing.

  “Fine,” Strauss said. “I’ve asked our doctor to let you clean up and bring you some clean clothes. Unterfeldwebel Schmidt will bring you around to my quarters.”

  Jakub sat where no other prisoner would ever sit—in the Commandant’s private dining room. Strauss sat across from him—not at the head of the table, but at the side. Schmidt sat next to Jakub. Hehl sat beside Strauss. Kapos brought plates of food and bottles of wine and brandy. Rain pattered the windows. Strauss cut a tender lamb.

  “Can you tell me, Herr Chelzak, what happened that day?”

  Schmidt translated from German to Polish and vice versa.

  “We went out on the horse,” Jakub said. He drank the brandy.

  “And how many times had you done this before?”

  Jakub thought. “A few,” he said.

  “How was my wife?”

  After hearing the translated question, Jakub shrugged.

  “He’s not sure what you mean,” Schmidt said.

  “Was Gretty angry?” Strauss said. “Sad? How did she behave?”

  Jakub thought. “She didn’t want the child.”

  Schmidt looked at Jakub and struggled with the translation.

  Strauss choked. “What?” he said.

  “She did not want the child.”

  Strauss put his knife down. “He said it again. Did he say Gretty doesn’t want our child?”

  “Didn’t want, Herr Kommandant.”

  “She said nothing of the kind to me,” Hehl said.

  Strauss looked at Jakub. “Did she tell you this? Did she confide this to you?”

  “I knew it,” Jakub said.

  “How?” Strauss said. “How could you know this? Is it possible you had too much to drink that day?”

  “I’m barely given water to drink,” Jakub said.

  “My wife didn’t pack anything? No wine, no brandy? She didn’t offer you anything to drink?”

  “No,” Jakub said.

  Strauss leaned back in his chair and swept his head around the room. “My God,” he said.

  “If Frau Strauss didn’t want the child, I think she would have confided that,” Hehl said. “She seemed...anticipatory, at least.”

  “Anticipatory,” Strauss repeated. He looked at Jakub. “You were not there when she fell off the horse?”

  “She asked me to leave,” Jakub said. “She was sitting on the horse when I left her.”

  Strauss sighed. “Well,” he said. Strauss contemplated the man.

  Jakub whispered to Schmidt.

  “Did you want to know anything else, Herr Kommandant?” Schmidt asked.

  Strauss considered the question, then leaned forwa
rd and picked up his knife. “No,” he said. Schmidt went to take Jakub out. “Leave him,” Strauss said. “Let him eat.”

  After dinner, Strauss gave Jakub the leftover food. He gave him the leftover wine and some brandy. Hehl returned to his quarters. Schmidt led Jakub past a kapo who held the front door of the Commandant's house.

  “Herr Chelzak,” Strauss said. They turned to see Strauss on his porch in the light from the open door. “I appreciate your candor.”

  JAKUB SLEPT ON A BUNK IN THE STABLE made with flat boards. He used hay to make it softer. He lay on the bunk and looked at the ceiling and thought about time. How much longer before he would be free? He thought about his mother. He saw his house in his mind and it looked clean. He thought she must be worried. What could he do? What power did one man have against all this? He thought Karl would reassure her. Karl knew him better than his mother did, and Karl would know that he was not dead.

  He heard footsteps. He never heard anyone here at night so he swung his legs over and stood. He saw Klaus von Kempt and Sergeant Schmidt.

  “Herr Chelzak,” Schmidt said in Polish. “Good evening.”

  They came to him.

  “Remember we spoke to you about Kommandant’s wife?”

  “Yes,” Jakub said.

  “Did you touch her?” Schmidt asked in Polish.

  Jakub said nothing.

  “Did you touch her?”

  “No,” Jakub said. “She touched me.”

  Schmidt and von Kempt looked at each other. The lieutenant prodded the sergeant.

  “Herr Leutnant was wondering.” The sergeant stammered. Von Kempt prodded him again. “Herr Leutnant was wondering if you could touch his leg.”

  Jakub looked at them.

  “Maybe you should show him,” Schmidt said to von Kempt.

  The lieutenant stood on one foot and pointed at his left leg, which was shorter than his right and scarred from failed surgeries.

  “Well?” Schmidt said to Jakub.

  “He would be better off dead,” Jakub said.

  “What’s that?”

  “He would be better off dead,” Jakub said again.

  “What’s he saying?” von Kempt asked.