The Commandant of Lubizec: A Novel of the Holocaust and Operation Reinhard

by Patrick Hicks

  We know what happened next because Guth’s second in command, Heinrich Niemann, the same man who was interrogated for “Allied Forces Report No. 3042,” was in the corner taking notes. Guth wanted a witness during this meeting so he asked his deputy to take notes about what was said. According to Niemann, Guth showed no signs of worry and he smiled frequently. He even leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The potbelly stove was lit and this filled the office with the pleasant odor of burning applewood. A clock ticked on the wall and Bolender watched the brass pendulum swing back and forth. It caught the sunlight.

  “A smoke perhaps?” Guth said, offering his silver cigarette case.

  Bolender hesitated for a moment but reached for one. He tapped it against the desk a few times and leaned in to the lighter when it was offered. The men sat back, not quite relaxed in each other’s company. They puffed away, tapping ash into a gigantic tray.

  “Let’s understand each other from the beginning,” Bolender said, looking at the tip of his burning cigarette. “I’m here to find out if anything was stolen from … Zurich? That’s what you call the warehouse here? I expect your full cooperation in this matter, Guth. And if I find anything out of order, or if I find you’ve hidden something from me, well then, things will get very nasty for you.”

  “My camp is at your disposal.”

  The young man spread his arms like a benevolent king. “Then we’ll get along just fine. Maybe I could get some coffee before you show me around?”

  Guth looked at Niemann, who in turn stood up and left the office. He hustled across the sandy ground and went into the canteen, where he went about the business of making a pot of coffee. The cupboards were packed full of bags of sugar, pickles, pots of jam, evaporated milk, jars of honey, and huge cans of tomato sauce. Near the door was an enormous wooden bin full of potatoes and turnips.

  The standard issue coffee from the army tasted vaguely of burnt acorns, and no matter how long the water steeped in the pot it never got dark. It remained the color of dishwater. However, next to this large bag of swastikaed coffee was a smaller one, one from the black market. Niemann couldn’t decide which beans to use—high quality, which would taste better, or standard issue, which wouldn’t raise any questions—so he mixed them together. Half came from the government and half came from the black market. It was a strange thing to worry about but Niemann let the decision rumble around in his mind as the water boiled.*

  When he returned to the office with a steaming pot and three cups hooked through his meaty fingers, the men were busy talking about Berlin. The mood was sunny.

  “So you’ve actually spent time with the man himself?” Guth asked.

  Bolender recrossed his legs. There was a look that said he enjoyed telling this story, and when he reached for his coffee, he nodded with great seriousness. “Oh yes, I’ve met him many times.”

  He took a sip and made a face before putting the coffee back on the desk. He gave it a little push and went on to talk about the first time he met Hitler. It was at the Reich Chancellery and he was wearing a business suit.

  “When he’s not in uniform the Führer looks like a schoolteacher or a hat salesman. There’s nothing particularly special about him. He’s very softspoken until something sets him off, and then Hitler can drill holes into the air with his eyes. His eyes are … utterly piercing. I’ve never seen anything like them and they’re very hypnotic. It’s almost like he’s holding on to your soul.”

  Guth offered another cigarette.

  The young SS judge reached across and continued speaking. “His mustache isn’t as dark as you’d expect either. The films and photographs make it appear darker than it really is. It’s more of a light brown in real life. You know he doesn’t drink, don’t you?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “He’s also a vegetarian. Won’t touch meat if his life depended on it.”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  Bolender tapped the desk. “No. That’s the truth.” He looked around as if he were about to share a secret. “Any guesses what his favorite movie is?”

  Guth shrugged.

  “Go on. Have a guess.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “King Kong. The Führer loves it. He can’t get enough of that hairy ape smashing New York to pieces. Plus he’s got these little fruit candies he likes to suck on. They’re made especially for him and they’ve got little swastikas stamped onto them. They’re not bad. A bit tart for my taste but I recommend the cherry if, that is, you ever get a chance to meet him.”

  Guth studied the wood patterns on his desk. He nodded at some inner thought before saying, “Germany is lucky to have him.”

  “We are indeed. He’s transforming Europe right before our very eyes. I mean, the man conquered France in a couple of weeks and that’s something we failed to do in four years of fighting in the last war. We’re a world power again, Guth. Even the Americans are trembling at the thought of dealing with our armies.” A short pause and then, “Mark my words. National Socialism is the future of Europe. Russia will soon be for us what India is to the British—unlimited colonial wealth beyond imagining. We’re the future of the world, Guth. We Germans.”

  The clock on the wall struck twice. The gears clicked forward and, almost immediately after, there were two quick blasts from a train whistle. It pierced the air.

  Guth stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “That’s the afternoon transport.”

  Bolender got up. He flicked ash off his sleeve, snapped the front of his uniform tight, and followed Guth outside. As they walked across the Rose Garden he lowered his voice and leaned in close.

  “It’s my first time in … in a camp like this. What’s the liquidation process like?”

  Guth kept walking. He ordered his guards to take up their positions beside the travel posters for Berlin, Athens, and Barcelona. A plume of obsidian smoke lifted up on the horizon and a train rolled closer and closer. Bolender gave the train a Hitler salute as it screeched to an earsplitting stop. The other guards did no such thing and they looked at him with controlled smiles and sideways glances. Muffled shouts for help could be heard from within the locked cattle cars. The engine ticked and huffed as Guth climbed onto his wooden box. A breeze picked up.

  He waited for a moment before shouting out a single word: “Begin.”

  The locks were swung open in blurring arcs of clanking steel. People flowed out of the cattle cars like a great stream of water finding a new riverbed and the guards began shouting for them to line up. Children cried. Families huddled in tight clusters. Suitcases were tossed out of carriages, hitting some people in the head. The stench of stale diarrhea, sweat, and death swirled into the air. The new arrivals squinted at their surroundings, sunblind. There was a mass of faces, hats, shawls, and Star of David armbands.

  “Where are we, Mama?”

  Guth held a microphone and cleared his throat. “Welcome to Lubizec.” The words echoed down the platform. “Welcome. My name is Obersturmführer Guth, commandant of this transit camp. We are sorry your journey wasn’t at all convenient but we’re at war and cannot spare more pleasant accommodation for your rail travel. You will be given bread and cups of tea shortly. I give you my word as an SS officer that everything will be better now. Leave your suitcases behind. Everything will be returned to you shortly.”

  When he lowered the microphone, the guards took out their rubber truncheons and began shouting for them to move. “Faster. Faster.”

  As the victims moved off in a river, bodies were pulled out of the transport and dumped onto the platform with sickening thuds. It started with the last car. Five bodies were tossed out like rag dolls, then two came from the carriage in front of that, seven were tossed from the next carriage, and so on, until, at last, the living had trooped beneath the massive WELCOME sign and the dead were left behind. There were so many of them—their limbs akimbo, their mouths and eyes open—that it was possible to walk down the platform b
y stepping only on suitcases, legs, and arms.

  Guth motioned for Bolender to follow. The two men walked beneath the WELCOME sign and it was Guth who personally closed the iron gates.

  Deep-throated and full-lunged screaming was taking place in the Rose Garden. Prayers were mumbled, love was declared, and during all of this terrible noise something odd and unaccountable happened. It hushed the entire camp and made everyone stop what they were doing. A huge cloud of butterflies appeared out of nowhere. There were hundreds of them and they fluttered and danced drunkenly through the air. A few landed on the SS and opened their wings like little flowered books. Children held out their hands. A young girl laughed as two got caught in her hair. Everything stopped as if peace had been sprinkled onto the camp. Even the SS guards smiled at the butterflies.

  And then, just as mysteriously as this orange cloud of silent wings appeared, it lifted over the barbed-wire fence and disappeared into the woods.

  A long moment passed.

  Then another.

  The guards shook themselves awake and went back to separating the Jews. They pulled families apart, but the sticky lingering of last-second hugs slowed everything down. If seen from above, this separating process might look like a cell dividing or like dough being ripped apart. The men were marched off and the women were forced to stay behind.

  “That was really quite beautiful,” Bolender said.

  “What was?”

  “The butterflies.”

  Guth nodded. “Yes. Beautiful. I’ve never seen anything quite like that before. My kids would’ve liked it, especially my daughter.” He shook his head as if to clear away an unwanted memory. “Shall we see Zurich now?”

  Bolender held up a hand. “No. I think I’d like to see the entire operation … from beginning to end.”

  “It’s brutal.”

  “I can handle brutal.”

  “As you like. This way.”

  They walked beneath a giant swastika flag that was limp in the windless air and then turned into a courtyard full of naked men. Two white walls acted as a funnel, and when the guards saw Guth appear they began hitting the men down the Road to Heaven all the harder. Rubber truncheons came down on skulls and backs. Purple bruises blossomed open on skin.

  “Run, you rags. Run!”

  Legs and penises and torsos stampeded down the path. Some of the older men soiled themselves and streams of shit ran down the inside of their legs.

  “Faster.”

  When the last of them had thundered by, Guth and Bolender strolled up the Road to Heaven with their hands behind their backs. Blood and shit peppered the sand. Footprints were everywhere and the white walls were sprayed with dark flecks of bodily fluid. A tooth was in the sand.

  Bolender pointed at the Hebrew inscription above the door of the gas chamber.

  “What’s that say?”

  Guth scratched the tip of his nose and smiled. “This is the Gate of the Lord. That was Birdie’s idea. He’s a good soldier, our Birdie. Very decent.”

  Bolender pointed at the flowerpots. “These are such a nice touch.”

  They stood outside the brick building and watched the guards push the last remaining men into a chamber. They used rake handles to squeeze them all in. The steel door boomed shut and the guards spun the winged screws. A muffled shouting could be heard and that’s when one of the guards, Rudolf Oberhauser, knocked on the door with a single knuckle. He put his mouth to the eyehole and shouted cheerfully, “Time to die.” He yelled it a few more times.

  “Time to die. Time to die. Time to die.”

  The victims slapped the walls.

  Guth nudged the young man who was his superior. “Follow me.”

  They stepped outside and moved towards a running engine. It was bolted to a concrete platform and, beside it, was a massive steel tank. A webbing of vents connected the engine to the building and Guth had to shout above the tremendous noise.

  “These two guards are the only ones allowed around the engine. Prisoners can’t be here.”

  “What?”

  “I said prisoners can’t be here. Acts of sabotage.”

  Bolender nodded. “How long does it take?” he shouted.

  “Twenty minutes. Sometimes thirty.”

  “What?”

  “Twenty minutes.” Guth held up two fingers.

  They watched the machine clatter away before they went back into the building. Instead of the sound of pistons riding up and down in fiery metal chambers, they now heard screams. Horrible screams. Throaty screams. Deathly screams. There were cries for help and wild bangs on the door.

  Rudolf Oberhauser smoked a cigarette as if he were waiting for a bus. Every now and then he leaned into the peephole to see what was happening. He stretched. He yawned.

  As they waited for the inevitable silence, the doors on either end of the building were propped open, which allowed wind to whistle through the corridor and make everyone’s shirts flap. It was cool and refreshing. Oberhauser’s cigarette smoke was snatched from his mouth and carried away into the bright light of day.

  Meanwhile the metal door kept banging and vibrating. Fists sounded like hammers.

  The screams were loud, terrible, and panicky.

  Bolender looked pale. “Is it always like this?” he asked.

  No one answered. Prisoners in ratty suits waited with leather straps and hooks. Some of them had stretchers. One or two had pliers.

  When the door was finally opened, the entire first row slumped out. Their lips were blue from carbon monoxide poisoning and their eyes had rolled back into their skulls, which made them look like they were glancing heavenward. The living began tugging at the dead. Streaks of blood were everywhere and some of the victims had lost their fingernails as they tried to climb the walls. The bodies were wet with sweat and blood and vomit. An ear lay on the floor. The living took away the first corpses that had tumbled out and they began to pull at those immediately beyond the door to make a path deeper into the chamber.

  When Bolender saw this he began to choke and rushed outside to throw up. A stream of chunky vomit poured from his mouth—it spattered his boots—and a long thread of clear snot hung from his nose. He threw up again.

  Guth was emotionless. “Get him a bottle of seltzer water. We still have the women and children to do.”

  Erich Bolender spent the rest of the day in front of enormous piles of jewelry. Birdie showed him around Zurich and they went into one musty barracks after another, but as these two men looked at typewritten charts full of numbers, Bolender wasn’t very talkative. He said little when they came to a table full of wedding rings. He said nothing at all when they stood before sacks of human hair. The burlap bulged out like giant tumors and they were all stamped with the inky words, REICH PROPERTY.

  When Chaim Zischer delivered a bucket of gold teeth, Bolender watched them tumble out into a little heap of enameled bone.

  “The sound of teeth clacking together isn’t something you’re likely to forget,” Zischer later said.

  Birdie asked the young judge if he wanted to see anything else.

  Bolender shook his head.

  “How about the Roasts? We sometimes find diamonds in the ash. We have these huge sieves to make sure nothing gets by us. It’s worth seeing, and of course we send everything back to Berlin because it’s the—… sir? Do you want to see the Roasts?”

  Bolender shook his head again, this time more slowly.

  “Maybe some dinner then? The food’s not bad here.” Birdie began to laugh. “We sometimes call it Café Lubizec.”

  The sun was beginning to go down when they walked back to Camp I. A chill was in the air and the wood-burning stoves were already blazing when they stepped into the canteen. The air inside was warm and pleasant. Guth was there. Niemann too. Others were hunched over chessboards or writing letters home. A phonograph was playing and the record wobbled slightly as it spun in a slow, lazy, black circle. Smoke wisped up from cigarettes and pipes. Every kind of comfort was a
vailable. Meats and cheeses. Steins of beer. Chocolate. Loaves of bread. Raspberries. Champagne. The guards were in various stages of drunkenness because their so-called work was finished for the day. The next train wouldn’t arrive until morning so they lifted their glasses. Many of them had large forearms from all the beatings they had carried out. A few rotated their shoulders and winced in pain as if they were nursing some kind of sporting injury. They laughed and told stories. Many of them ate herring with black bread, downing it all with mugs of warm beer.

  Someone gave Bolender a tall crystal glass of whiskey. The man who had come to pass judgment on Lubizec stared at it for a long moment. It was cut to resemble a pineapple and he gave the glass a slow turn in the candlelight.

  When the thick molten amber touched his lips he drank it back in one quick pull. He gave a sour shudder and replaced the glass on the table.

  “I’m going to bed,” he announced.

  He left early the next morning and his car drove away through falling leaves. He filed his report a few days later from Berlin and, in the warped sensibilities of the Nazi justice system, he found no evidence of crime.

  *During his interrogation in 1946 for “Allied Forces Report No. 3042,” Niemann was asked if he put as much thought into killing Jews as he did in choosing coffee beans. He said “No” and acted like the question was absurd.

  14

  EVIDENCE

  Today I will be a prophet once more. If international finance and Jewry inside and outside Europe should succeed in plunging the nations once more into a world war, the result will not be the Bolshevization of the world and the triumph of Jewry, but the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe.

  —Adolf Hitler, Reichstag, Berlin January 30, 1939

  I herewith commission you to carry out all preparations with regard to organization, the material side and financial viewpoints, for a solution of the Jewish Question in these territories in Europe which are under German influence.