“You reap what you sow, you Nazi stinkers!”
“You want food? So did we, in the camps to which you put us!”
“Trot along, Hitlerite swine!”
“You deserve to starve to death, you fascist bastards!”
Pale-faced and trembling from some strange emotion, Tadek stared after the Germans and only whispered something unintelligible, “really shouldn’t… they have children with them…”
No one heard him in the general commotion. Suddenly, he felt even more alone and abandoned than ever. The Soviets were not his people, but these gloating strangers, it had occurred to him just now, weren’t either. So desperately he wished to believe that with the end of the war, all the hatred, all the vileness would somehow miraculously disappear from people’s hearts but it was still here, on full display and coming from his own comrades at that. Soiled, all of them soiled and marked with it and there was no salvation from it any longer. Everything seemed lost. Lost and without hope, all around him.
With the heat outside, the air inside the temporary quarters that housed the liberated men soon grew thick with breath and stale sweat. Much too like the undressing rooms in the crematorium, in which he had spent his days – and nights, when some special Aktion was announced and the new, night shift was added to the day one so that the SS would fill their killing quota. After all, there must have been some killing quota given by someone from Berlin and Herr Kommandant was much too efficient of a servant to his beloved Führer. He couldn’t quite have failed him, could he now? Of course not. The infamous German Ordnung and all that rot.
Suddenly, annoyed and restless, Tadek jumped to his feet and rushed out of the room, just so as not to see these faces around him anymore – sunken eyes, toothless mouths, bony skulls with leathery, scaly skin covering them. As if the dead had come alive and come to get him at last. For the last few meters along the former school’s corridor, Tadek broke into a run and nearly took one of the Americans off his feet at the door.
“Whoa, where’s the fire, kid?” The American’s teeth gleamed white in the blinding afternoon but the amused smile quickly dropped. “What’s the matter? You all right?”
In Tadek’s throat, the simple words can’t breathe suddenly stuck. He barely managed to tear into the collar of his shirt in a fruitless effort to loosen it. Wide-eyed and panicking, he clawed at his own chest, his neck, the American’s sleeve and felt himself falling, as black spots began swimming in front of his eyes. The chilling, animalistic dread had crept upon him and caught him unawares. Everything that had been bottled up for so long had exploded and threatened to drown him in its invisible well, in which the water was poisoned, in which the SS gloved hand was dropping little Jewish infants… Against his will, his mind conjured up the past that threatened to obliterate him now. Distorted images swam before his eyes. Cold sweat was pouring down his back in streams.
“Come here.”
Even the American’s words sounded as if they were coming from underwater. A pair of strong hands were pulling Tadek aside and making him squat by the wall.
“Put your head between your knees. It’s the nerves. You ought to calm down.”
With the reassuring weight of the American’s hand on his back, Tadek managed to do the little that was asked from him. One breath in. One breath out. One in. One out. He sucked the air greedily out of the atmosphere, forcing his non-cooperating lungs under control. One in. One out. His heart was beating so wildly in his chest, he feared it would give in any moment now. Was it possible to die of a heart attack at twenty-years-old? One in. After Auschwitz, he thought anything was possible. One out.
“That’s it. Slow them down.”
The American was rubbing his back slightly – such a positively human gesture that suddenly choked Tadek with a spasm of tears. But just like the air, the tears also wouldn’t come. They were stuck somewhere behind his black eyes, just as black and full of poison.
“Auschwitz?” the American inquired, with quiet sympathy in his voice.
Instinctively, Tadek pulled the rolled sleeve of his shirt down, covering the hateful tattoo. Straight-backed and rigid at once, he tried to move away from the American’s palm but it was too late. He could keep his secret from the clipboard fellow but this one had already discovered it; felt the muscle and not bone under the shirt that concealed it so conveniently from the curious eyes.
“Were you in that special…” The American seemingly searched for the right word. “In that crematorium gang?”
Tadek nodded stiffly.
“Camp elite, from what I heard.” The American encouraged him with a well-meaning smile. It appeared, he wished to make it clear that he didn’t blame Tadek one bit for faring better than the rest of the inmates. “They weren’t as hard on you as on the outside gangs, were they?”
“No. They hardly ever beat us. We were allowed to keep books and have unlimited access to alcohol. Behind the crematorium, there was a football field. Every Sunday, we had matches – SS vs SK. They also fed us well, our supervisors. They needed us to be strong to hurl all of those…” He swallowed hard and straightened himself, sensing the same apologetic notes in his voice that always found their way in, despite all rational thinking. It wasn’t his fault that he was singled out during the very first selection, for his powerful build; not his fault either that he was made into a Nazi slave doing the worst possible job for them. It mattered not. The guilt was still there. He survived, while the others didn’t. He played ball with the SS, while the others died in their hundreds, from disease and malnutrition.
Silence. Tadek held his breath, wondering what the American thought of him. He knew well enough what his own fellow inmates had always thought of him.
Corpse-carrier.
Nazi accomplice.
Gas-chamber attendant.
“When the Soviets liberated us, I volunteered for their army,” Tadek murmured, as though in some perverse self-defense. For some reason, it was better to be a former soldier and not a Nazi slave, even though his soldier’s career only lasted a little over three months.
“You fought on the front then?”
In response, Tadek extracted his two medals from the pocket of his trousers. The American studied them carefully and nodded his appreciation.
“What’s your name, kid?” The tone was still warm, fatherly almost.
In the American’s brown eyes, surrounded by a net of wrinkles, kindness shone. Glasses, chestnut hair, sprinkled with gray near the temples – Tadek’s father had the same intelligent eyes, same build, and coloring when they were still free people; when neither the camps nor the ghetto existed; when Tadek’s father was still a respected Professor Baumann and not a disposable Jew.
“Tadek. Tadeusz Baumann.”
“From Poland?”
“Yes.”
“Jewish?”
He nodded and lowered his eyes, as though in an apology.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
The American whistled through his teeth. It was not a good kind of a whistle.
“Any living relatives?”
“No.”
“Have you searched for them through the Red Cross lists?”
“No need to. They all died in Auschwitz. Mother and father gassed upon arrival, along with my little brother and both sisters. My other brother lived for a couple of months but then he died too.” He paused and then added as though in an afterthought, “I helped put his body on a gurney. So, no. No relatives. I’m the only survivor.”
After a long moment of silence, the American offered him his hand. “Lieutenant Morris, OSS.”
Tadek grasped it firmly.
“Your English is very good.”
“Thank you. My father was a professor of linguistics.”
From Morris, a nod of approval. “And how is your German?”
“As good as my English. I also speak Polish, Russian, Yiddish, Hebrew, French, and a little bit of Italian.”
“Your
father taught you?”
“Yes. I wanted to become a linguist as well.” Tadek looked somewhere above Lt. Morris’s shoulder. “The SS made me into a corpse carrier instead.”
Something flashed in Lt. Morris’s eyes. “I assume, you’re not too fond of them, are you?”
“The SS?” A dark shadow passed over Tadek’s features. “That’s one way to put it.”
After another pregnant pause, the American asked quietly, “do you know what the Office of Strategic Services concerns itself with?”
Tadek shook his head.
“We’re the US Army Intelligence. During the war, we coordinated espionage activities behind enemy lines. Now, our interests have shifted in a slightly different direction. For instance, the group that I’m in charge of is a part of a bigger detachment that concerns itself with finding runaway Nazi war-criminals. As a matter of fact, I came here for a report from my men but…” He appeared to be working things out in his mind. “With your knowledge of languages and considering your history… I could really use your help in finding one particular SS criminal.”
Tadek made no reply, just stared at him without blinking, without breathing even. “Someone from the camp?” He managed to speak at last. “If that’s the case, then I wish nothing to do with it. I can identify him by a photo if you like, but don’t make me—”
“No, no,” Morris rushed to reassure him, “someone who gave orders to the men in the camp. Someone from the office in Berlin.”
For a long time, Tadek considered.
“You won’t have to look him in the eye. We don’t even think he’s in Germany. His daughter is, though. We need to make sure that when the said Nazi returns, she’ll inform us immediately.”
“Do you truly believe a high-ranking Nazi’s daughter will listen to a former Auschwitz inmate’s arguments?” Tadek’s mouth pulled into a skeptical smirk.
“She lives under our constant observation in the American sector of Berlin. She’s not allowed to leave the house or socialize with anyone besides her housekeeper. We don’t even allow her to read books, in the hope that it’ll help us crack her faster. She’s entirely isolated from the outside world.” Morris’s palm was back on Tadek’s shoulder. “She needs a friend, Tadeusz.”
Tadek laughed vacantly, quick to see the joke. Fat chance that a Nazi’s daughter would be all that desperate as to befriend him.
Morris only grinned. “When pushed to desperation, people befriend even their enemies. Did you not just tell me that you played ball with the SS?”
Tadek’s smile dropped at once. An expression of pure torment was back in its place; he had just opened his mouth to speak in his own defense but Morris already had his hand in the air to prevent any misunderstanding.
“In no way is it my intention to paint you as a guilty party here. That was not why I just said it. I only said it so you would see my reason.”
Pacified by the American’s non-hostile attitude, Tadek was listening.
“I know you doubt my plan but trust me, I know what I’m doing. The only question is whether you want to stay here and slowly drive yourself mad with panic attacks that I’ve just witnessed or concentrate on a task and clear your head, at last, from all that garbage of the past few years? I see that frontline life didn’t help you. Something tells me though, what would really help your mental state, is to see the man who is guilty of your family’s death, finally face the justice he deserves.”
After a moment’s thought, Tadek enclosed his palm into the OSS agent’s one. Perhaps, the American’s words were only aimed at making him agree to this doubtful enterprise. Perhaps, he would always be trapped inside this never-ending nightmare. But one thing Morris was right about – sitting here and driving himself mad was a certain way downward, if there was any bottom to Tadek’s misery, to begin with.
2
After hours of interrogation, the cigarette smoke scratched the back of her throat but Gerlinde’s stony face betrayed nothing. She stared at the wall above the Ami’s head with the silent disdain of royalty, detained by some lowly peasant. In her eyes, even a peasant was much too good of a term for this bum.
Chewing his gum like a cow, his legs thrown impudently onto the redwood desk.
Her father’s desk.
Under her marble-like, arrogant mask, invisible ire was seething.
“Still nothing, eh?” Her interrogator stubbed the unfinished cigarette in her father’s ashtray. Black marble with gilded sides, a rare stone perfection, of which Gruppenführer Neumann was so very proud. In Gerlinde’s lap, her hands closed into fists. How she wished to grab this ashtray and bash the Ami’s head in with it. “You’re just going to sit there, mute as a mule and hope for your daddy to come back on a white stallion and save you?”
As was her habit, Gerlinde didn’t deem the jab worthy of a reply, just regarded the ashtray more closely. What would they do to her if she indeed cracked one of their men’s skulls with it? Hardly they would execute her. She still was the only person who could give them Gruppenführer Neumann.
Noticing the dark gleam in the girl’s eyes, the American pulled the ashtray closer to himself, away from her reach. One of the mayors, newly appointed by the American Military Government in the liberated territory, had been killed just a few months ago by a hit-squad, consisting of two Hitlerjugend members and a BDM girl. With all of these brainwashed children of the Reich with their Werwolf movement, testing one’s luck in their presence wasn’t a wise thing to do.
“Don’t get any ideas. You’ll find yourself in the welcoming presence of the Russkies before you know what hit you.”
This got at least a smirk out of her.
“You think it to be funny?” He pulled forward. “Have you forgotten what they did with your kind here just a month ago and still do, for that matter?”
“You ought to be more original with your threats, Herr Turner.” Gerlinde knew that her interrogator loathed being addressed in the German way and made a point of doing just that. “Trying to frighten me with raping hordes of Asian barbarians is so… passé. Besides, we both know that you will never hand me over to your Russki friends. You want to be the ones to find my father. They already stole far too many men from under your noses. You want to get at least him, don’t you?” She smiled sweetly and all of a sudden looked like an innocent, sixteen-year-old girl with pure, striking features and bright fearless eyes. She lowered her long lashes and the illusion was complete. “That’s why, Herr Turner, you’ll never hand me over to your allies. Are they even still your allies? I’m surprised it lasted so long, to be truthful. You know, my brothers, when they were still alive, had a bet going on how fast you all will tear into each other’s throats after the end of the war.”
“We’re not here to discuss our relationship with the Russians. We’re here to find Otto Neumann and you’re wearing our patience thin, Fräulein. Maybe we will, after all, hand you over to the Russians. Their SMERSH is infamous for untying the tongues whereas we’re being much too lenient with you people. Perhaps, we’ll just invite them here and see if they can help us out.”
Gerlinde yawned, purposely not covering her mouth. Her mother would have slapped her for such a thing but her mother had decided to take the coward’s way out and Gerlinde had lost all respect for her when she’d found her lifeless body and a second cyanide capsule, she had left for her daughter to use. Gerlinde crushed it under her heel.
Now, it was just her left. Just her, her father’s daughter and she would see to it that no harm would come to him, as long as she was alive.
The villa was tremendous; obviously built in the past decade or so in the typical fashion of neo-German austerity combined with just-as-apparent neo-Roman grandiosity. It was standing, wreathed in bloom, in the same affluent area which even the bombs and the street-to-street fighting had miraculously spared.
Lt. Morris parked his jeep in a driveway and regarded the six colossal columns of white marble, positioned in a semicircle around the grand entrance. “B
eautiful, isn’t it? Gruppenführer Neumann sure had good taste.”
Tadek shifted in a seat next to him but made no reply. He had long lost the habit of seeing beautiful things, beautiful houses, beautiful people. He had grown much too used to death and devastation all around him and soon he could no longer remember what the word “beautiful” even stood for. In the crematorium, to their SS supervisor Voss, “beautiful” stood for the neat manner in which the Sonderkommando men positioned the corpses on the gurney – one normal one, to supply the fat to the two emaciated ones next to him and two little children, on top, to fill in the space. Burning corpses was an art form in Auschwitz. The new crematorium, with six industrial ovens, was “beautiful” too, in the same Voss’s terms. In the Red Army, the manner in which Katyushas obliterated enemy positions was “beautiful.” Tadek didn’t know what to do with this long-forgotten “beautiful” now.
“Your new lodgings, my good fellow.” Morris’s amicable clap on his shoulder brought Tadek out of his reverie. He turned to the American, suddenly alarmed but Morris only grinned in response. “I personally think you deserve some luxury after everything those bastards have put you through. What do you say to that?”
Tadek had nothing to say to that. Others would only dream of crashing their tired bones in grand lodgings like this mansion but Tadek found it too overpowering. He climbed out of the military jeep and stood, somber and somewhat intimidated, in front of the stone stairs; observed the bronze eagles, with their spread wings, guarding the entrance as though some medieval gargoyles. As though sensing his hesitation, Morris nudged him softly in the back. “Come. You’ll get used to it before you know it.”
The Road to Liberation: Trials and Triumphs of WWII Page 16
