“What do you mean, obsessed?”
“What I mean is, she positively refused to see the reality around her. All she wanted to know was her Franz and her books.”
“Books?”
“Yes.” A hint of a sad smile touched upon Róžínka’s lips. “After her illness, she was still very weak to work full shifts, so Herr Dahler would take her daily to his office and lock her there alone on one pretext or another to allow her some rest. Supposedly, she was cleaning there or doing some other chores but in reality, he’d let her just sit there and read books he’d bring from the Kanada instead of burning them. In the evening, when we’d return to the barrack, she would lie next to me and whisper about the stories she read, in my ear. For the first few days, I thought she had actually gone mad from the fever while she was sick with typhus. She didn’t want to talk about the camp or anything else. Only about the books and Franz.”
“What would she say about the defendant?”
A smirk, also melancholy. “About their plans for the future.” She sighed, before elaborating. “That was one of the reasons why I thought that she’d gone mad. She told me, with that scary, blissful smile on her face, that Franz wanted to marry her after the war and she’d said yes. That they would live in his native Austria with his mother before they would buy their own house. That she couldn’t wait to meet his dog, Prinz, because she missed nice dogs, not the camp kind and that she couldn’t wait to start a new life with him. I thought she had invented all that. I knew that he liked her, but… that kind of talk, I just couldn’t associate it with an SS man, do you understand? It was too inconceivable that he would make plans of this sort with an inmate. Soon enough, though, I believed it.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“It wasn’t just me. By the summer of 1943, the whole Kanada knew about their relationship. They were just too obvious.”
“In what respect?”
She gave a small shrug. “He would constantly loiter near her station. Talk to her whenever he could, about innocent enough things but if you were in Auschwitz, you’d notice right that instant, how unnatural it looked, an SS guard speaking to an inmate about the quality of the material of a certain jacket, for instance. He would find excuses to touch her, ‘to show her how to properly fold something’ for example. He was always near her. And she always looked at him in that certain way… You know, the love-sick glances and half-smiles. Sometimes, they exchanged notes. She would stay past curfew time and he would later bring her back into the barrack. No one would ask him any questions, of course, as to where she was but everyone knew. It would have all been considered very discreet in any other case but in Auschwitz, they might as well have announced their engagement to everyone in writing. So, yes, inmates certainly knew.”
“Did you ever speak with her directly about their relationship?”
“I tried but abandoned the idea rather quickly. It wasn’t doing anyone any good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, as soon as I would try to say something about him…” Róžínka rubbed her forehead and exhaled in irritation. “God, he was an SS man and she was an inmate and a Jew. Do you understand how atrocious it all sounds? To me, personally, it was like a slap in the face. He wore the uniform of the people who killed my children. Our entire family! And here she goes, proclaiming her undying love for him. I wanted to shake her until I’d bring some sense into her. If she did it for survival only, I’d understand. I really would. But she was so genuinely in love with him, she was disgusting me with it!” She waved her hand dismissively. “There was no talking to her, anyway. As soon as I’d try to put some reason into her head, she’d become all hysterical again. How could I accuse her for loving the only person who cared about her? How could I not wish her happiness, whoever it was with? How could I not be grateful – after all, we’re only alive thanks to him? That sort of thing. Mad talk. But she didn’t understand what she was saying. As I said, she became dependent on him to the point of obsessiveness. Without him, the world would end. She still thinks this way. She can’t even leave the house unless he’s with her.”
The glance that she cast her sister, who still sat with her eyes downcast in shame, was full of sorrow this time, not an accusation. It was a parent reprimanding a child who doesn’t know any better. Or a psychiatrist, looking upon a patient that would never get well, with sympathetic regret, Dr. Hoffman thought to himself.
“Is that her wish or his, concerning leaving the house alone?” The Chairman immediately jumped on the statement.
“Hers and hers alone. He had tried multiple times to encourage her to go on walks or shopping or whatnot but Helena gets panic attacks in the street. I tried going with her once and she just…” She sighed. “After only a few minutes outside, she became so overwhelmed, she dropped down on her knees and couldn’t get another breath in her. She actually fainted and an American soldier helped me carry her back to the apartment. I didn’t try to take her out afterward. When she’s with her husband, she seems to be alright though. She even manages to enter a full movie theater and sit there through the whole motion picture but only as long as he holds her hand. She constantly needs to know that he’s near, otherwise, she completely loses her head. As I said, she’s dependent on him to an unhealthy degree. She was this way in the camp already. Although, I suppose their relationship wasn’t such a bad thing after all. He began to change too but unlike Helena, he grew much calmer with time, more controlled. He wasn’t jumping on us with his whip anymore and generally became nicer to inmates.”
“In what respect?”
“Well, Helena would give away a lot of things whenever she could. Since we worked in the Kanada, we had access to, well, everything really. Sometimes, when the workload became too overwhelming, they would send help to our Kommando from the women’s camp. They were all extremely malnourished compared to us and lacked the most basic of necessities. Helena always tried helping them the best she could. She’d give them whatever food items she’d find, underwear – they didn’t even have that – good shoes to replace their wooden ones. Toothbrushes, medicine, money to buy something on the black market – you name it, she’d give it to them whenever she could. Mostly, it was Dahler who supervised her sector and so, he would just look the other way whenever she distributed the goods. He knew what she was doing and pretended to ignore it entirely. So, he was helping in his own way.”
“Would you say the defendant was anti-Semitic?”
“Well, he belonged to the type of the guards that believed that orders concerning the extermination of the Jewish race must have been correct even if they didn’t understand them. They believed that if their Führer said so, then it must be the right thing to do even if they personally had doubts about it all. Later, he began thinking for himself at last and even started helping the inmates… It all takes a very gradual change.”
“Would you call him a natural Jew-hater?”
“No. I would call him a very confused human being. But he didn’t hate us like Wolff or Moll or the others, so, no.” She paused. “I ought to be grateful to him solely for keeping my sister alive. Not just physically saving her but staying by her when she needed all the support she could use mentally. Those two times that they were separated in Auschwitz, I genuinely feared for her life.”
“Separated?” Lieutenant Carter pulled forward, shedding his role as a mere observer, for a moment. “Are you talking about that time when the defendant went on leave?”
“That would make it three times.” A faint semblance of a grin from Róžínka. “No, I’m talking about when they were forcefully separated in 1943 and in early 1944. The first time was when some commission arrived from Germany to investigate corruption and he got temporarily arrested. The second, when they both got arrested. But I believe my sister is better qualified to tell this story.”
In the front row, Dr. Hutson was all attention.
“We’ll definitely listen to Frau Dahler’s testimony after t
he recess.” The Chairman reluctantly banged his gavel, dismissing the court for lunch.
Chapter 24
Helena
Auschwitz-Birkenau. Autumn 1943
The Appell was an odd affair that morning, with only Rottenführer Wolff present. I kept throwing concerned glances in the direction of Franz’s office, which remained locked as the hours slipped by. Next to me, Róžínka was recounting the best family recipes. What a feast she would cook as soon as the Allies liberated us! We were still too afraid to believe it, yet couldn’t help hoping, dreaming, whispering about it. After the German loss in Stalingrad, which the entire camp discretely celebrated with hushed congratulations and renewed hopes, the tide of the war had turned for the Germans. The camp was alive with rumors, most contradicting each other. Some were delivered by the new arrivals who were selected for work; some – overheard on the clandestine radios that some barracks had managed to put together from stolen parts and which for concealing, that entire barrack would be executed. However, they cared not one wit for such trifles. The hope was more important to us than the constant threat of death. To the latter, we had long grown used. It had become a part of us, as real and permanent as the tattoos on our skin.
“But the best part is the glazing on the baked fish,” Róžínka continued, oblivious to my mood, which was heavy with worry. Lately, such talks had become our usual entertainment to pass the day but that afternoon, I barely heard her murmuring, my eyes glued to the closed door of Franz’s office. Where was he? “If you mix the onions and the mushrooms together and add just a bit of—”
She quickly dropped the dress she was folding and pulled herself up to attention. I did the same, secretly hoping for Franz to walk in and greet Wolff with a smirk and the usual, “How goes it, you old mushroom?”
Instead, a delegation of several uniformed men marched straight past our section and toward the offices of the SS. Recognizing Kommandant Höss and Untersturmführer Grabner from the Political Department, my heart sank even deeper, burying itself somewhere in the pit of my stomach. A wave of nausea washed over me, as soon as they demanded from Rottenführer Wolff if he had spare keys to the two other offices. He insisted that he didn’t and remained near the door of his own as the newly arrived SS men were virtually turning it upside down. From where I stood, I caught sight of the drawers being pulled out entirely and tapped at, as the men checked for double bottoms, floorboards poked and prodded at; even the walls didn’t escape the SS men’s attention. Behind my back, one of the inmates barely whispered an astounded, “what’s going on?”
No one knew, not even Wolff, suddenly pale and terrified beyond any measure, judging by the sheen of sweat which broke out on his forehead.
Only after the verdict of “Alles in Ordnung,” did he seem to release the breath he was holding. The SS men had already shifted their attention to two other offices.
“Who occupies these two?”
“Rottenführer Gröning and Unterscharführer Dahler,” Wolff promptly supplied. “Gröning is responsible for currency and valuables and Dahler is the Kommandoführer in charge of the entire detail and also the leather factory.”
Someone had already obtained the spare keys with typical German efficiency. In mere minutes, the fate of Wolff’s office, was caught up to, by the other two.
“What are they searching for?” Róžínka asked breathlessly, suddenly alarmed.
“Who knows?” I replied, unable to tear my eyes off the unraveling scene. For some reason, the entire action had a faint echo of something sinister and disastrous to it, the effect of which couldn’t be averted with the best will in the world. We knew very well what such searches meant for us, the Jews, however, we had not the faintest idea that the dreaded SS were susceptible to the same treatment and just that thought alone terrified everyone around, worse than any barrack search.
“Where is Rottenführer Gröning?” Grabner demanded from Wolff as the delegation emerged from the office, leaving it in horrible disarray.
Wolff pulled himself up even more. “He’s in Berlin, Herr Untersturmführer. Delivering the money and valuables to the Reichsbank.”
Kommandant Höss nodded his affirmation, his face impenetrable. Grabner turned to another man, who watched the entire search from the outside, flanked by two SS men of a lower rank. “Herr Obersturmführer, since he’s not here, perhaps it would be—”
“When is he coming back?” Herr Obersturmführer not only interrupted Grabner, one of the most feared men in the whole of Auschwitz but ignored him with such astounding nonchalance about him that it had become clear to everyone present at once, who was the authority with superior strength. Even the Kommandant stood a bit aside from him, positively aloof yet visibly watchful of every movement Herr Obersturmführer made.
“In a few days, I believe, Herr Obersturmführer.” Wolff shot a quick glance in Höss’s direction. Help me, will you? You’re in charge here; I haven’t a clue how to talk to these people and how to respond so as not to get all of us in hot water, his eyes seemingly pleaded. The Kommandant thoroughly pretended not to notice his urgent looks.
“He doesn’t inform you of the exact days?”
“No, Herr Obersturmführer. Only approximately. With all the recent bombing, the train tracks—” Wolff quickly bit his lip and paled even more at the annihilating look the Obersturmführer threw him after those carelessly uttered words. “I meant to say, sometimes the trains get delayed, so he can’t tell exactly when he’s going to be back,” Wolff carefully corrected himself.
“For how long has he been employed here?”
“A little over a year, Herr Obersturmführer.”
“Would you say he’s an honest and conscientious worker?”
“With all certainty, Herr Obersturmführer.” Wolff diligently inclined his head in confirmation of his words.
“How do you know that he’s not pocketing the money?”
Wolff’s head shot up at the unexpected and brutally straightforward question. “How do I know?”
“Yes.”
“It’s…” Another pleading sidelong glance in the Kommandant’s direction, also thoroughly ignored. “It’s physically impossible, Herr Obersturmführer. The process of collecting and processing the valuables is such that it excludes all possibility of appropriating even one dollar.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“All of the valuables and money that inmates find during the sorting are dropped into a wooden box with a slit in it, which stands in the middle of barracks. As soon as it gets full, the inmate who’s on ‘box duty’ that day takes it into the accountant’s office – Gröning’s, that is. There, they stay with him until he counts all the money, transfers the exact sum into his accountant book, and writes down all valuables – their weight, metal type, etc. – into another book. Only then does he return the box to the inmate.”
The SS interrogator suddenly turned on his heel to face us. “Who was on box duty right before Gröning’s departure?”
My heart stopped beating entirely. Wet with sweat, I stepped forward. “I was, Herr Obersturmführer.”
“Name?”
It was an odd question in Auschwitz. We were numbers to them, not people any longer. I blinked once, twice, but supplied him with the name. He motioned me closer.
“Was the process that Rottenführer Wolff has just described always conducted in this manner?”
“Yes, Herr Obersturmführer.”
“And you never saw Rottenführer Gröning slip anything into his pocket?”
I shook my head vehemently. I really didn’t.
He stepped even closer, grinning faintly this time. “And he never offered you money to keep your mouth shut?”
“No, Herr Obersturmführer!” I protested louder than I intended. “They would never do that…”
“Do what?” he asked very quietly. His face was almost next to mine now.
“Conduct any sort of deals with the Jews,” I replied, lowering my eyes instinctively.
A few women stepped forward – all of them Polish with red triangles of political prisoners sewn onto their clothes.
“Has any of your SS supervisors ever offered you any bribes in exchange for your silence?”
Their nein came out in a commendable unison. No wonder, when Wolff was staring them down behind Obersturmführer’s back with such intensity that it turned even my stomach in knots. The interrogator appeared to catch on to that collective fear. He was smiling kindly again.
“You needn’t worry about your fate if you make a confession of accepting such bribes from your immediate supervisors. On the contrary, for aiding the investigation, you shall be not only protected by my personal authority but rewarded with an instant release from the camp.”
Kommandant Höss scowled slightly and was just about to object when the Obersturmführer shot him a pointed glare. Some sort of a silent exchange passed between the two – just go along with me if you know what’s good for you, will you? – and Höss stepped back, visibly satisfied. Only, the inmates were much too well-trained by Auschwitz to recognize sweet lies fed to them with such ease and particularly the Kanada Kommando. Everyone wisely remained silent.
“If you make such an admission, you shall be immediately transferred into the main camp, where my officers will sign your release papers as soon as we finish writing down your testimony,” the interrogator made another attempt to untie a few tongues. Unsuccessfully, much to Wolff’s relief.
Auschwitz Syndrome: a Holocaust novel based on a true story (Women and the Holocaust Book 3) Page 21
