Max

by Sarah Cohen-Scali

  Next, we wash ourselves—in cold water, summer and winter. Then breakfast at 7.30. All the children gather in a huge dining hall. The big kids, up to twelve years old, are in one half of the room, and the under tens, like me, are in the other half. From the number of empty spots in their rows, I’d say a lot more of the big kids are being punished. That’s normal. The older kids find it harder to accept Germanisation: they’re confused by too many precise memories, and gymnastics is not enough to get rid of them. But, apart from wetting the bed, the young ones are well behaved for the most part. Of course, they don’t cope very well with being tied up to a post in the middle of the courtyard and whipped if they misbehave. The older kids think they’ll hold out, but most of the time they overestimate their strength and end up screaming out ‘Mamo!’ too. But Mamo doesn’t get them untied from the post or stop the whippings. Only the warden decides, depending on her mood, when to put an end to the torture.

  Breakfast doesn’t last long. We just have time to gobble a bowl of chicory and a slice of black bread before we assemble for roll call in the courtyard and then an hour of total silence, under pain of further punishment. Often this is when we see trucks arriving with newcomers, who have to go through the selection process in a room that’s out of bounds to us.

  The rest of the morning is devoted to schoolwork. When the teacher arrives, we have to salute her, ‘Heil Hitler!’, with a raised arm. It’s become a reflex for me: I’m used to springing to attention and extending my arm as soon as I see a uniform, but my buddies haven’t got it yet; their salutes are too limp. More punishment.

  As soon as the teacher sits down at her desk, each child in turn has to call out his first name and date of birth. It’s not as easy as it sounds. Because it’s got to be their new German first name, the one they were given when they arrived at Kalish. Same thing for their date of birth, the false one provided by Doctor Ebner. Immediate punishment for any boy stumbling over the pronunciation of his name. Some of them are lucky, going, for example, from ‘Jan’ to ‘Johann’. But it’s harder to go from ‘Ryszard’ to ‘Rutger’, from ‘Tadeusz’ to ‘Tomas’, or from ‘Wojciech’ to ‘Wolfgang’. And if their dates of birth don’t correspond to those on the teacher’s roll, more punishment.

  ‘You?’ asks the teacher, pointing randomly to a boy.

  ‘What happened to your parents?’

  ‘My father was killed by a Polish criminal.’

  Good answer.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘My mother had tuberculosis and died.’

  Not bad.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘My mother died because she was an alcoholic.’

  Much better.

  This is the best answer: ‘My mother died because she was a whore.’ But no matter how many times the teacher repeats it, the kids hardly ever remember it. When I’m asked, I have no problem at all saying that my mother was a whore. The whores in Poznan were kind to me; I remember them well.

  The main thing is never to answer, ‘My parents were shot.’ Or, ‘They died in a bombing raid.’ That could get you the worst punishment of all.

  Die Kapelle. The chapel.

  The children go pale and tremble in fear when they hear that word. If you’re banished to the chapel at the entrance of the monastery, you have to stay kneeling all night long on the icy floor, arms spread-eagled, watched the whole time by the warden, who beats you if you so much as twitch.

  The kids in my class hardly ever give the wrong answer, but the older kids often do. At the end of your answer, you have to repeat the following line, which the whole class chants with you: ‘I am grateful to Germany for rescuing me from my degenerate family.’

  When I’m interrogated, I reply straight up, in a loud voice and in perfect German, ‘My name is Konrad. I was born on the 20th of April, 1936. I have no parents, only my father and guide, the Führer, and my mother country, Germany!’

  The teacher orders my buddies to clap in appreciation of my performance. And for the next hour they have to repeat after me all the new German words on the agenda for that day, making sure they don’t use the broken German they usually speak—although I find it amusing—and trying to get rid of their Polish accents. You don’t say, ‘Me happy adopt by German family’, but ‘I’m happy to have been adopted by a German family’.

  After a short break, during which it is forbidden to speak Polish, under pain of punishment at the post or in the chapel, class starts again. Depending on the day, we do History, Maths or Singing. In History, we have to colour in a map—pink for all the countries that make up the Reich, and green for those soon to be part of the Reich. Easy-peasy! Pink: Poland, Ukraine, Yugoslavia, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, Denmark, Sweden, Greece. Green: Russia, North Africa, Britain. So as not to make a mistake, the trick is to scribble green on all the countries that aren’t pink. Bingo!

  In Maths, we do calculations like this: For his birthday, Helmut’s mother ordered a cake. If the cake was attacked during the night by Jews who stole three quarters of it, how much of Helmut’s cake is left? The answer is obvious, at least to me, because I was already doing these sort of problems with Frau Lotte in Poznan. Poor Helmut only gets a quarter of his cake.

  Some days, instead of classes, we have surprise tests. We’re shown pictures and we have to identify the different ranks of SS uniforms. While my buddies panic at these tests, I give the answers in a flash. I’ve known the SS ranks by heart since I was a baby.

  Late morning is a goosestep parade in front of Johanna Sander. In the afternoon, while the kids undergo their punishments, the others do gardening or woodwork.

  And that’s it for the day. After dinner, lights out. Off to beddy-byes.

  The thing I like best about Kalish is the playground, with all my buddies.

  I like my buddies a lot and I enjoy being with them. They soon understood that I’m the best, the leader, the role model. They see me smiling, well nourished—they have no idea that I get extra rations—and they realise that because I excel in my schoolwork I don’t get punished, so naturally they think that if they imitate me they’ll be able to have a better time. They just have to do their homework.

  Nevertheless, some of them are curious about my behaviour and ask me questions when the teacher isn’t looking. ‘Konrad? True, you never think Mother? You never more speak Polish? You never want cry, die?’

  By way of response, I launch into a long, half-invented story. One thing I’ve learned is that, for a lie to sound credible, you have to add some elements of the truth. So I embroider the story that Josefa told me dozens of times when I was in the Home, about being stolen by the dissident whore, being hidden in a cellar…

  I tell my buddies that sometimes I do think about Mamo—I scatter a few Polish words throughout my story to make it sound more authentic—but this Mamo doesn’t have a face anymore. I tell them that we were both in a cellar so we’d be protected from the bombings in Warsaw, that Mamo was wounded, that she died and I was left for three days in her arms, which were as stiff as hooks, with nothing to eat or drink. I’d be dead too, if a German nurse, Josefa, hadn’t found me and taken me to Doctor Ebner. As soon as I mention his name, my buddies flinch and their eyes widen in terror. So I hasten to add: Doctor Ebner looks mean with his bald head, his big pulsing vein and his icy eyes, but in fact he’s really kind. And he’s a great doctor, because he cured my dehydration when I was a baby. I end the story by saying that it’s not hard to forget your Mamo. Look, I’m the proof!

  When I’ve finished, my buddies look at me in awe and admiration, and call out, ‘Poor baby Konrad! You much suffer! Some kind Germans, possible, this?’

  The result: the students in my class make huge progress and head off quickly for adoption. A new lot arrives and I’m back helping again.

  I like some of the subjects and compulsory activities, and I hate others. (I guess it’s the same in all schools, not just Kalish.)

  My favourite activities in ascending order:r />
  Morning gymnastics. I’d like the sessions to be longer, more difficult, and include obstacle courses like the ones the big kids have. I can run fast and I’m strong.

  Goosestepping. I love it. Except it’s stupid to goosestep when you’re wearing shorts and ankle socks. You need a uniform and a weapon in your belt.

  What I don’t like:

  Making my bed. In Poznan, Frau Lotte never forced me to make my bed. A Polish prisoner did it, as well as the rest of the housekeeping. Most of the time I manage to get my dormitory neighbour, Wolfgang (ex-Wojciech) to make mine. In exchange, I let him copy off me during the surprise tests and I pass him my breakfast under the table. (Because I’m BBFH, I can go to the kitchen whenever I like and get more food.)

  History and Maths. My class is just too weak. I can do it all with my eyes shut, so I’m bored off my face, yawning the whole time. And I hate being locked up in a classroom all morning.

  What I hate the most: going to bed early at night. I just can’t get used to it.

  Sometimes I get sick of being the model child. It’s not enough stimulation for my Draufgängertum. I’ll end up a sissy if I’m not careful. So I do something stupid: I start loudly talking in Polish, or I answer the questions wrongly in class, or I colour in green the areas that should be pink, or, worse still, I leave blank the countries that should be invaded by Germany. I speak in broken German, I sing out of tune, I change the words of ‘Ther Horst Wessel Song’. Instead of singing ‘An empty road for the brown battalions’, I sing ‘for the red battalions’.

  It really annoys the wardens and the teachers. They’d like to use their whips on me. They’re dying to: they go bright red in the face, and start mumbling that I must be tired. That way they resist the temptation of beating me to a pulp—or else they take it out on another kid. Ha! It won’t be long before I get one of them to crack!

  The person I hate the most is Frau Sander, the director. She’s the reason I had a stomach-ache for several days. Not the stomach-ache you get from the revolting food in the dining hall. (BBFH gets better food than the others.) It’s the gut-ache from psychological disturbance. The illness I thought I was immune to now.

  It happened one morning just before roll call in the courtyard. I was walking with Wolfgang, my dormitory neighbour who is now my friend. An SS guy was crossing the courtyard in front of us. All of a sudden, I heard bang! Wolfgang collapsed. A sticky, hot liquid spattered my cheeks. Then I saw red stuff all over my shirt, on my shorts, on the ground, coming out of Wolfgang’s head. A dribble that became a puddle. I realised it was blood, that the bang was a gunshot, that Wolfgang was dead.

  Tot. Kaput.

  At first I thought the SS guy had killed him. But he hadn’t stopped when we walked past. And he couldn’t have used a gun because he was carrying a big pile of dossiers. From the sound, I could tell the shot had come from above. I looked up and saw Frau Sander at the window of her office. She was putting her Luger back in the holster, leaning on the ledge, smoking a cigarette.

  She shot Wolfgang in the head. She was observing the courtyard, as she did every morning, and saw that Wolfgang didn’t salute the SS guy correctly. From her window she saw that he didn’t raise his arm. She saw Wolfgang, but she didn’t hear him.

  ‘Konrad,’ he asked me, just before the shot, ‘me forget if salute officer with one star and a stripe or two stars?’

  I didn’t have time to tell him: you salute them when they have one star and a stripe—that is, exactly what was on the uniform of the Scharführer before us. Wolfgang drew a blank right at that moment, whereas the day before, during the surprise test, he knew it all, without even copying off me.

  That blank earned him a bullet in the head that was definitely not a blank.

  That night in the dormitory I found it even harder to go to sleep. Usually, after lights-out, I got Wolfgang to recite the list of stars and stripes and their corresponding ranks. It helped him to feel confident for next day’s class, in case there was a test, and the murmur of his recitation helped me to fall asleep. It was more effective than counting sheep.

  The empty bed next to me gave me a stomach-ache. And the stomach-ache reminded me of what I’d been through in the Poznan house after Bibiana disappeared. I thought I’d forgotten Bibiana and there I was remembering her. Her face suddenly popped up in one of the compartments of my brain. Her face is associated with my stomach-aches. And, because memories come in a domino effect, I remembered the terrible stomach-ache I’d had in the Home at Steinhöring. But there was no face attached to that memory. It was too long ago.

  When I was playing in the bombed-out house in Poznan, I saw SS soldiers shoot Polish people, but it was from the window of the attic on the top floor. From that distance, the Polish people and the soldiers looked tiny, like figurines, toys. The blood on the walls looked like paint.

  The blood didn’t splash onto me.

  In Poznan, Frau Lotte took me into my room so I wouldn’t see the bullet go into the back of Bibiana’s neck. But I definitely saw the one that went into Wolfgang’s forehead.

  I had nightmares for two nights running. I dreamed that Bibiana’s head with the hole in her neck was lying on top of Wolfgang’s body. I dreamed that Wolgang’s head with the hole in his forehead was lying on top of Bibiana’s body. I dreamed that my head had a hole in the neck and the forehead.

  I wet my bed. Twice. I wasn’t punished by the warden, because BBFH can’t be punished, but if she’d so much as tried, I would have killed her. I would have riddled her head with a thousand holes!

  Over those two nights, while the bed next to me was empty, I learned that memories are not that easy to eradicate. Even with a full schedule like at Kalish. Even when you’ve got a dolichocephalic head.

  The bed next to me is occupied now. Wolfgang was replaced quickly.

  I recovered from my stomach-ache. But not from my inclination to stay up late after bedtime. My new neighbour, exhausted by the Kalish routine, sleeps like a log as soon as his head hits the pillow.

  So I’m bored. But I’ve got an idea, one I’ve been harbouring for a while.

  Girls.

  We’re separated from them. You get a glimpse of them when they arrive and climb out of the trucks, and then poof! They disappear. But I know they go through the selection process before leaving. Here, at night. I know they’re completely naked for the selection process.

  I get out of bed and find the warden. Of course, rather than telling her I’m going to spy on naked girls, I tell her that I have to speak to Doctor Ebner. It’s late and the warden is grumpy; she frowns, hesitates, and then lets me go. She doesn’t have a choice; she’s obliged to agree to requests from BBFH, especially when he asks for his protector, Doctor Ebner. Especially since Wolfgang’s death. Because, since that day, BBFH treats the wardens like shit. He tells on them when he sees them smoking in secret. He tells on them when he sees them going to rendezvous with soldiers outside the monastery wall. Or when they sneak some of the supplies. Or when they’re on their break and they turn off the radio during a broadcast of one of our Führer’s speeches. BBFH denounces them at every opportunity, even when they’re not breaking a rule. BBFH is not afraid to lie. BBFH knows that the Führer encourages people to inform on others.

  The selection of newcomers takes place in two basement rooms: one for boys, and one for girls. When I ask Doctor Ebner’s permission to stay with him in the boys’ room, he seems surprised, but doesn’t say no. Johanna Sander has told him how well behaved I am, and what a good influence I am on my buddies. Sometimes, of course, I do misbehave, but hardly ever and, besides, my occasional slip-ups make me seem more like a real little Polish kid in the eyes of my buddies. My nightly wanderings annoy the staff but, after all, isn’t insomnia a sign of a strong character? My presence during the selection process could be useful. Dirty and exhausted, after their long train trip in overcrowded carriages, the new arrivals would see a flesh-and-blood example of what Kalish will make of them in a few weeks: an
attractive, lively child with pink cheeks, clean hair and smart clothes. (BBFH’s cheeks and clothes no longer sport traces of Wolfgang’s blood, and now he’s got a smile on his beautiful angel face.) I would calm their fears.

  Doctor Ebner agrees on condition that I stay in the corner and don’t interrupt. I promise to be as good as gold. I sit on a stool and I’m so quiet that after a while no one notices when I slip into the next room.

  It was a good move; there are lots of girls! Blonde, blue-eyed (maybe I won’t bother mentioning those particular details anymore), aged between two and twelve. And, just as I’d imagined, they’re all naked. I’m only interested in the older ones, not the little girls, who snivel when a warden takes away their teddy bear or a favourite toy they’d managed to hold on to during their kidnapping.

  The older ones are snivelling too, because a warden with a club is hitting them—to make them drop their arms and stop trying to cover their breasts. It’s just a gentle tap; they can’t be damaged before the selection process. I don’t see why the girls are carrying on like that. They’ve got nothing to hide. Just two little budding titties, some more prominent than others. Most are mere bulges, nothing resembling decent breasts.

  It’s funny how they obediently drop their arms, only to put their hands straightaway over their lower belly to hide what’s down below. So, hey presto, another hit from the club to keep their arms at their sides. And they’ve got nothing to hide down there either, in my opinion. No pubic hair at all. Nothing, just the outline of the slit between two bits of pink flesh. I know exactly what that is. I saw it in Poznan when the whores took off their clothes to have sex with the SS soldiers. A big tuft of pubic hair and, underneath, a slit that stretches open, like an elastic band, to let the SS penises in.

  The girls line up in front of a Sister in a white lab coat. She measures them with a ruler: head, hips, pelvis. For some it’s over quickly. ‘Bad impression,’ says the Sister, before moving on to the next girl. I can tell that’s a code expression. ‘Bad impression’ means ‘Discard’. Translation: ‘Kill’, or, better: ‘Transfer to a camp.’