The One Man

by Andrew Gross

  “Emergency over…?” the sergeant who knew Rozen rolled his eyes and smirked. “I’m sure the women there are probably all taking baths with all their fresh, new water.”

  “Pass,” the second guard ordered Rozen, holding out his hand. “Let me see.” This one was clearly new, and seemed to take his duties a bit more conscientiously than his senior partner. He had narrow blue eyes, blond hair under his cap, and a short, flat nose.

  Rozen handed his to him.

  “And yours…” he barked at Blum officiously.

  Blum handed him the small white paper.

  He looked it over, checked it even down to the date, it seemed, taking the whole thing very seriously.

  “At times they use the men’s water pump over in the women’s camp.” The sergeant seemed to explain the ropes to him. “Happens all the time, does it not, Rozen?” he said with a complicit wink.

  “It does, sir. All the time.”

  “Now and then,” the senior guard laughed, “even the Jews have to dip their little peckers into the soup, right?”

  “And what a hot soup it was,” Rozen said conspiratorially with a glance to Blum.

  The blond-headed corporal, his SS uniform new and pressed, stepped around the pump. He looked at the cart’s wobbly wheels and the rickety wooden platform and then, to Blum’s horror, tapped on the metal housing with the tip of his gun. There was a hollow sound. “What’s in there?”

  “The pump, sir,” Rozen said.

  “The pump…” The guard tapped on the housing again. “Open it. Let me see.”

  Blum froze.

  The sergeant rolled his eyes at Rozen with kind of a helpless sigh, as if grousing, New man here. Just oblige him. He has to do his job. But Blum knew what would happen if they opened it and found Leisa inside.

  “It’s just the pump, Corporal,” Rozen said again.

  The new guard stared back at him. He looked at the door. “Then open it.”

  Panic wormed its way through Blum’s bowels. He couldn’t open it. If he opened that door, they were all dead. Leisa would be barely able to hold together inside. Stay very still, he commanded her silently. She had to have heard everything that was happening. Blum glanced at Rozen. There was nothing they could say. The guard tapped the door again. “Now.”

  “Whatever you say…” Rozen shrugged, a cospiratorial glance toward Blum, and stepped around the pump. “But if you fucking Germans would just allow us to fix the damn pipes there once and for all, we wouldn’t have to fucking lug this contraption over all the time.”

  “What did you say?” The guard’s eyes stretched wide in disbelief.

  “Nothing.” Rozen stood upright, awaiting the rain of blows that was about to follow. “I just—”

  “Fucking Germans…?” The corporal took his rifle and butted it into Rozen’s jaw. The prisoner went down. His mouth filled up with blood, a tooth coming out onto the ground. “Fucking Jews!” he glowered, his face red with rage. He kicked Rozen in the ribs and groin, as the repairman tried to cover himself up. “Filthy pieces of shit!” he screamed, and kicked him over and over. He took his gun and pulled back the bolt, and put it to Rozen’s head.

  Blum’s blood stirred in riot. He desperately wanted to interfere. Rozen might easily be shot or beaten to death. But do what? Whatever he could do would be suicidal for him, and for Leisa too, inside.

  Rozen covered up his head, awaiting the end.

  “Corporal…” The sergeant put a hand on his colleague’s arm. “I know him. He’s been around here from the start. He’ll get his soon enough…”

  The younger guard tensed on the trigger, trained on Rozen, his eyes ablaze.

  “But maybe not today. What do you say there? You’ll have your shot,” the older guard said. “But I agree, fucking Germans…” He went up and kicked Rozen sharply in the ribs. The repairman let out a gasp, clutching his side. The sergeant kicked him again. “Let me hear you say a word like that again and my new corporal here can do all he wants, do you understand? And with my blessing.”

  Curled in a ball, Rozen spat blood out of his mouth and nodded gratefully. “I do, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Now get your asses out of here. Are we okay, Corporal?” he said to the younger guard, who still had his gun pointed at Rozen’s head.

  “Mark your days, Jew.” The younger one finally lowered the gun. He gave Rozen one last kick to the ribs. The repairman rolled over and groaned. “Now get the fuck going and count your luck. Now!”

  “Yes, sir.” Rozen picked himself up to his knees and the corporal kicked him in the rear and sent him sprawling forward, his face in the dirt. Blum ran around and helped him to his feet, and picked up the towing rod. “Thank you, sirs. Both of you.” Blum pulled the pump, at the same time assisting Rozen, who was doubled over, coughing up bloody spit, staggering alongside him. Blum looked back and saw the sergeant slap the new guard on the shoulder with an understanding grin.

  They’d made it through.

  “God, that was lucky. Are you all right?” Blum said under his breath, as soon as they were out of earshot. A few prisoners and even SS men who were nearby turned to watch.

  Rozen coughed and nodded. Then he winked at Blum with a victorious smile. “A few kicks to the ribs are a lot better than a bullet to the head if he’d opened the door. And luck…?” He snorted. “The only luck is that I’ve greased that bastard’s palm so many times, the thought of spending the rest of the war without it was obviously too much for him.”

  Blum looked in the canny prisoner’s eyes and lit up into a smile as well.

  “And who needs fucking teeth in here anyway?” Rozen spat out a little more blood. “All they ever feed you is soup.”

  They wheeled the pump back to the repair shed. No one was around. Seeing the coast was clear, Blum opened the door to the housing and whispered inside, “Leisa, you can come out now. It’s safe.”

  They let out the hose a bit and she crawled out, white, afraid. Elated, she threw her arms around Blum, afraid to let go. She gave Rozen a grateful hug as well.

  “Here.” Blum handed her the uniform Shetman had provided him. “Put this on, quick. Over there.”

  She went around the side of a truck, took off her dress, and slipped into the small striped uniform.

  It was a little large and hung off her shoulders; it just made her look like skin and bones. Blum handed her his own cap. With her shaved head and smooth skin, she looked like a boy of fourteen or fifteen. But that was enough.

  “Here…” Rozen took a little dirt from the ground, rubbed his hands together, and applied it to Leisa’s cheeks and under her eyes. It maybe made her look a year or two older. “Now at least you look fit for work. Welcome to the men’s camp.” He winked conspiratorially, then rubbed his side. “Whatever it is you are here to do.”

  Blum shook the man’s hand. “Thank you.”

  He never thought he could feel so happy to be back in this hellhole.

  Only four hours left to go.

  FIFTY-SIX

  “Kurt…” Greta Ackermann turned in surprise as her husband unexpectedly stepped into the bedroom.

  It was just three, and she was in the midst of changing to go to the infirmary. He rarely showed up at home this time of the afternoon. She had just finished brushing out her hair and had picked out a modest dress. “I didn’t hear you come up the stairs. Have you had lunch?”

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, and came around her in the mirror as she was set to slip the dress over her undergarments. “Here, let me help you with that.”

  “I could have Hedda put something out for you. I think there’s still some chicken left in the refrigerator…”

  “I’ve had my lunch,” he said, keeping his eyes on her. He wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Mmmm, you smell nice. It’s been awhile.”

  “Not now. Kurt, please…” She tried to pull herself away. “I was just heading over to the infirmary for an hour or two. I said I would assist the nurses in the—�
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  “What a shame to waste how you smell on those disease-ridden yids,” he said, not letting her go. He sank his face in her neck beneath her hair. “They’ll be dead in a short while anyway. Or maybe you have a date with your young Jew boyfriend … You would dress up for him, wouldn’t you? You would open a button or two and give him a free glance. Don’t think I don’t know…”

  “Know what, Kurt…? You’re talking idiocy.” She tried to reach for her dress. “He’s just a boy. Besides, it’s Thursday. Our matches are Tuesdays. And anyway, you asked me not to play with him anymore, so I’ve put our game on hold.”

  “That’s good.” Inside, he brightened. That solved one issue. Now on to the next. He removed his hat and tossed it onto the bed. He unbuttoned the top buttons on his jacket. “It’s been a long time. You haven’t fucked me since the night of the Von Hoellens’ party. It’s been months.”

  “Yes, and you were drunk that night, as I recall. Anyway, Kurt, please, I need to go. They’re expecting me.” She tried to twist out of his grasp.

  He tightened around her from behind, one arm underneath her breast, the other on her shoulder, and pulled her into him.

  “Kurt, please … Go back to the office if that’s what you’re here for. It’s not the time for this now.”

  “Not now, not anytime, it seems.” He licked the back of her ear and tightened his hold on her. He whispered in an even voice, “You’d do it for him, wouldn’t you? The little yid chess player. You’d get all primped up and fuck him, right? But not me. Your husband.”

  “What are you talking about, Kurt? I— And you’re hurting me … Please, let me go.” She tried to wrestle away, but he gripped her even more firmly. He wouldn’t let her go. She loathed him when he got like this, single-minded, bullying. Usually when he was drunk. She felt him behind her, getting hard and ready. He was right—she hadn’t let him inside her in months. She could barely tolerate the random brush of him against her in bed. At their meals, she listened to the numbing details of his days: numbers in, numbers out; work completed. She went to his officers’ parties and watched as he and his cronies got drunk and sang their stupid songs, all the while pretending to smile. She listened to his incessant chattering about the sacrifices for his career; his ambition and true worth; his goal to replace Hoss, who would soon be pegged for a bigger job; to use this pit of hell he was responsible for to elevate their future. All the while loathing the sound of his voice, the very touch of him against her, regretting with whatever shame she could still summon her youthful decision to have allowed herself to be swept away, to have married him. And the trap she now found herself caught in. Always scared, as he turned to her in bed, what if she became pregnant? What if she carried his child? What then?

  “Kurt, no.” She would rather a reptile ran its tongue along her neck. She pushed him away. “Please…”

  “Not no—yes,” he replied. His tone seemed to carry a warning in it. “Today, you do not push me away. Today, it is not no, Greta. It is yes.”

  “I’m not one of your prisoners here, Kurt.” She glared at him behind her in the mirror. “You do not order me around or tell me what to do.”

  “But in fact you are my prisoner, Greta. You are my wife. And I do. I do order you.” He ran his fingertips along her arm. “There’s no way that can be undone.”

  She spun around in his arms and her eyes had fire in them too. “Then the answer is yes, Kurt.”

  “Yes…?” He smiled; he seemed pleased to have finally persuaded her.

  “Yes, I would rather a little Jew fuck me than you.”

  “You little slut!” He raised his arm as blood rushed into his face and hit her with the back of his hand.

  Greta let out a gasp. She stumbled onto the bed. She touched her lip. Blood oozed down her chin. “You are a bastard, Kurt!”

  “Not today, did I hear it right…?” He struck her again and she fell. “Oh, yes, today.” He kneeled over her, wedging his knees between her thighs, unbuckling his trousers. She tried to wrestle away, slapping at him, fending him off, but he pinned her, one hand under her chin, which sucked the air from her, as the other pulled down her girdle and he pushed his dick close. She glared back at him, tears forming in her eyes as he declared triumphantly, “Today, Greta, I get to fuck you.”

  * * *

  Later, after he had put his hand over her mouth to cover her screams while he forced her legs up and pushed himself deep inside her; after he had ripped her bra and left his dreaded ooze all over her thighs and sheets; after he left her whimpering and drying her tears, Kurt rolled off the bed and laughed, a wrathful, loveless laugh between his sated breaths.

  “See,” he said, a mocking gleam in his eye. “I can still be a man to you in a way no one else can.”

  “You are a bastard to me, Kurt. You are the devil.”

  “Please, you give me far too much credit, Greta. I am still only Lagerkommandant. But anyway, I have a busy day and night still in front of me. Two trains. One from the West. Prague, I think. The other from Hungary.” He stood up and buckled up his trousers. “And then there’s the matter of our intelligence ferret from Warsaw … Sniff, sniff.” He scrunched up his nose like a weasel. “He believes someone has entered the camp from the outside. And who knows, he may be right. In any case, we will have him soon. In the meantime, all it’s doing is slowing our numbers for the day.” He picked up his jacket and brushed the wrinkles out. “And those numbers are our future, Greta … You know that, right?”

  She did not answer. She just stared vacantly out the window. The view was not of wires and low-hanging smoke but of the forest, far in the distance. Something pleasing, green.

  Far away from here.

  “Anyway, we’ll have him soon. His little truffle hunter.” Kurt put his arms through his jacket and tucked the lapels close. “And on that other matter, darling, I really wouldn’t get too sweet on him, if I were you.” He buttoned his jacket.

  “What other matter, Kurt,” Greta said distractedly. “Who?”

  “Your little chess boy. It would be quite a waste, you know. Of your attention. Special arrangements are being speeded up.”

  “Special arrangements…?”

  “Don’t be naïve, darling. You know precisely what we do here as well as I. What is it called, that little clock that times your moves in chess?”

  “The game clock, Kurt,” she answered.

  “Yes, the game clock. Well, you’d better turn it on, my dear. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick … Because you don’t have much time left.”

  She sat up, worry building inside her. She knew Kurt, and she didn’t like how he sounded now. There was something in his mocking tone that sounded as if some decision had already been made. “I’ve already stopped playing with him, Kurt. Just as you asked. You said you would look out for him.” She pulled her dress over her breasts.

  “I believe I said for as long as I could…” He looked in the mirror and smoothed out his jacket. “But now I’m afraid the matter is out of my hands.”

  “You promised, Kurt.” Greta stood up. “You can still save a single Jew in this hellhole. You’re just doing this to hurt me.”

  “I’m afraid my hands are tied.” He shrugged and turned back. “It’s all straight from Berlin. Right from the top. Tick, tock. The clock is speeded up. Right, my dear…?”

  She stared, revulsion rising up in her like sweat bubbling through her skin. “Who the hell are you, Kurt?”

  “Who am I…?” His question carried a slight smile.

  “What have you become? Something I don’t recognize. We used to dream of how our life would unfold. You thought you would practice law. What kind of animal are you now?”

  “The same kind of animal that is all around us, Greta. You look at it every day, you just don’t see it. Are you blind? Yes, a big night tonight…” He put a hand on her cheek and smiled. “And you know how I like to welcome our new guests.”

  Kurt looked back at himself in the mirror and seemed pleased
. He picked up his cap and put it on his head, and tilted it at just the right angle. “Now onto the matter of our little intelligence friend and his truffle hunter … Turns out, the little weasel has a sister in here. In the orchestra, of all things. But not to worry, dear, we’re about to sort all that out.” He bent down and placed a kiss on her cheek, dry as sandpaper. “Have a nice afternoon, my love.” He went to the door. “Oh, and darling?”

  She looked up at him, an ache throbbing in her belly like she was carrying a child she knew was dead.

  “Say hello to the good doctor for me when you’re at the infirmary, would you? We should have them for dinner soon, don’t you agree?”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Blum took Leisa back to his block and hid her in the area reserved for those who were ill, near the rear.

  “Lie down here,” he whispered, putting her onto a cot. He handed her a thin blanket. “Keep this over you.” It was getting late. The work details would be filing back soon. “You’ll be safe back here. No one will know.”

  Only one other prisoner was stretched out on a cot, his mouth open, looking more dead than alive.

  “Nathan, I can’t believe you’re actually here.” Leisa placed her hands on his face, her eyes gushing in wonderment. “That I’m actually touching you.”

  “And I can’t believe that after everything, you’re actually alive! For so long, I was sure that—”

  “Don’t speak that now.” She put a finger to his lips.

  “I can’t help it. To me, it’s like you’ve risen from the dead. That I have my sister back. Do you remember the name I called you when we were kids?”

  “Of course. Doleczki,” she said. “Dimples. But I’m afraid you can barely see them now. And you were Myszka. Because you were always like a little mouse. For your agility at getting yourself in an out of trouble.”

  Blum laughed. “Yes, Myszka … I can hear Mother calling me that. Whisking me out of the kitchen. ‘Away, Myszka, shoo, shoo, or I’ll call the big cat on you.’” His eyes lit up as he brought back the fond memory. Then he looked away. “You know I’ve never forgiven myself. Not for a second. For leaving. For abandoning them. And you.”