No Light

by Costello, Michael

  They shot one hundred and seventy three men and razed the village to the ground. The women and children were all dispersed among the camp system. I was transferred to Paris as a result of a complaint made by Böhme to my superiors and arrived there on the 16th June. I did not inform Leni or mother of my whereabouts.

  12.

  Paris, 16th July 1942

  I was lucky they didn’t demote me. The work in Paris was similar to Prague. We were very close to rounding up all Jews who were not naturalised French citizens and transporting them to the camps. On the night of the 15th July 1942 I sat in my barracks in Kaserne preparing for the roundup the following morning. Two officers, Oberscharfuhrer Markus Foerster and Hauptscharfuhrer Wenzel Muller joined me. They had some brandy and we drank and spoke for a while, mostly trading stories about our time in the Hitler-Jugend. Markus came from Stuttgart and had spent some time in Munich so I asked him if he knew Jurgen.

  “Know him? How could I not know him? He’s legendary”, he said, “totally irresistible. Where is he now? Last I heard he was in Poland.”

  “Yes”, I replied, “He’s at KZ Auschwitz.”

  “God help him”, Wenzel exclaimed, “By all accounts its mayhem there.”

  “In what way is it mayhem?” I asked.

  “Well, you know what they do there, don’t you?”

  “It’s a camp, isn’t it?”

  They both laughed. Markus leaned over and grabbed my shoulder.

  “It’s a camp of Death!” he replied emphasising the word “Death” in a contrived deep voice. They both thought that was extremely funny before realising that I didn’t understand what they were referring to.

  “They kill Jews there Ralf. Did you not know?”

  I told them I did not, but our round-up involved sending transports to Auschwitz so I was intrigued to hear more.

  “What do you mean, kill them?”

  They looked at me in disbelief.

  “You were in Prague, were you not, at the office of Obersturmbannführer Eichmann? You must have had some inkling of what was going on. Were you not aware of the directive from Wannsee? Your boss Heydrich issued it and Eichmann implemented it”

  I knew where Wannsee was. I had spent many Sundays there walking by the Kleiner Lake with Leni and Resi. I told them my work in Prague involved enacting ordinances that ensured Jews and other undesirables would leave thus guaranteeing the Germanisation of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia.

  “Where did you think they were going to go?” Markus asked me.

  “It wasn’t my business to know that”, I replied, “I worked behind a desk.”

  “Yes, but you saw what happened at Liditz?”

  His question took me by surprise.

  “Yes, but that was retaliation for Heydrich’s assassination.”

  “Maybe so, but we only shot the men. The women and children were sent to camps.”

  “For re-settlement in the East, yes.”

  “They were sent to Auschwitz, Ralf and most of them were gassed as soon as they arrived.”

  “Special treatment!” interrupted Wenzel.

  “What?”

  “They received special treatment as part of the final solution. We’re not supposed to say what really happened to them anymore.”

  “Oh yes, Sprachregelung! Your friend Eichmann thought of that one, Ralf. We have to use politically correct language now, words and phrases that are either neutral or positive. So instead of saying we are getting rid of the Jews by slaughtering them, we say we are sending them for special treatment as part of the final solution to the Jewish problem. It sounds a lot less unsavoury don’t you think?”

  I was becoming concerned. I had read the words final solution and special treatment in a few of my recent communiqués regarding the Parisian round-up but had ignored them for exactly that reason.

  “Is that what we are doing in the morning”, I asked, “rounding them up so we can slaughter them?”

  “Yep!” Wenzel replied, “Are you up to it?”

  I didn’t know if I was. I had failed in Liditz.

  “We know what happened in Liditz.” Markus said. “Don’t worry about it too much. It was your first time and Böhme is a pig…”

  “…with a big mouth.” Wenzel added. “You don’t have to shoot anyone tomorrow Ralf. Just get them out of the houses and on to the trucks. The police will do the rest. ”

  “How do you feel about what we are doing to the Jews?” I asked.

  “Do you want the official party answer?” Markus joked. I shook my head.

  “No. Tell me what you really think.”

  “Why should I tell you?” Markus replied. “You worked for Eichmann.”

  “I don’t anymore. And I’m a bit drunk now so I probably won’t remember any of this in the morning.”

  Markus laughed. Wenzel poured me another drink.

  “To be honest, I couldn’t give a shit about them.” Markus said, “I couldn’t give a shit about anyone really. I’m here to look after myself…”

  “…and me!” Wenzel added.

  “And you and Ralf and my family.” He raised his glass.

  “What about our National Socialist ideals?” I asked.

  They looked at each other, paused then burst into raucous laughter.

  “Our what?” Wenzel spluttered.

  “Our commitment to racial purity. Isn’t that why we are getting rid of the Jews?”

  “You don’t believe all that nonsense, do you?” asked Markus. “All the talk about the Aryans and Atlantis and the Holy Grail was just Himmler’s fantasy Ralf. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “So why are you doing it?”

  “I’m doing it because they tell me to do it. I’m a soldier and we are at war. You do what you’re told during war Ralf. No questions asked.”

  “Me too!” Wenzel said. “People do it for all sorts of reasons. Some like Böhme enjoy killing, others really believe what they have been told and many are in it for what they can get out of it, but the majority just do it. What about you Ralf? Why are you doing it?

  I wasn’t sure. I had thought I knew why but after Liditz everything changed. I had believed I was making a career for myself, looking after my family and I had believed all that I had heard at Nuremburg, everything I had been told about belonging to a new age, my destiny and my youth. After they left I sat for a while thinking about what I was doing. I thought about Leni. I didn’t love her and never had. I had been forced to marry her. I could have refused but I was frightened. That was why I admired Jurgen. He knew no fear. He stood tall and took responsibility for himself. I merely pretended to do that. I hid behind the words of others and this justified my actions. It was a convenience. I didn’t have to think about what I was doing. But now I was thinking. Did I believe what the Fuhrer told me? I remembered his words at Nuremburg; you are experiencing the birth of a great age but the words that kept returning to me were Thomas Mann’s,

  ...to rest in the arms of perfection is the desire of any man intent upon creating excellence.

  The Fuhrer talked about perfection and he demanded excellence. Markus and Wenzel did not care about the Jews but I did. I cared about how different they were and how their blood was so different to mine. I cared about my country, my history, my legacy and how it was being destroyed by those who did not care. Yes I had accepted favours like the apartment in Prague but I deserved it. I had worked hard for our project to succeed. I had thought briefly about the family who had to give way so I could have their home. Where were they now? Did I really care? No. Ours was the perfect ideal. I believed it.

  I wakened the following morning at two am. We were to move before dawn when everyone was sleeping. That way we could be sure of maximum success. I was assigned to Le Marais, the Jewish quarter and had lists of all Jews selected for re-settlement. We travelled in a convoy of jeeps and trucks arriving there at three. Waiting for us was a large contingent of police who would direct us to the addresses. We began to move from hou
se to house. Each house contained a number of apartments so progress was slow as we had to interview everyone in each apartment and ascertain their identity. There was some resistance and on occasion some police resorted to violence. I permitted it but drew the line at looting.

  Eventually we came to Place du Marché Sainte-Catherine, a small square with lots of beech trees. I instructed one group of soldiers and police to begin at the flower shop on the corner and work round. I would start at the other end. Three policemen accompanied me. Eventually we entered one house and began moving through the building. On the first floor we banged the door as usual. I heard someone complaining. When the door opened I saw an old man with a beard. One of the policemen opened the door wider and shouted for everyone in the apartment to wake up. The bearded man led us to the living room. I noticed he was walking with a stick and I felt that I had met him before. He was joined by his son and daughter-in law.

  “Are you the Rabbi?” I asked the middle-aged man. He looked at me blankly before replying,

  “I have no idea what you are saying.”

  One of the policemen translated.

  “Are you the Rabbi? Answer quickly.”

  He looked at me again.

  “Have we met before sir? I seem to recognise you.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by that and I could see the policemen smiling. This was becoming ridiculous. I stepped forward and slapped him hard on the cheek forcing him to stumble back on to the couch.

  “Tell me old man tell me quick, for I want to know everything now.” I shouted at him. The policemen translated. The woman pleaded with me to stop. I turned to the son and asked him in French,

  “Is he the Rabbi?”

  The son nodded. I told the policemen to take him. The son said something about the Rabbi’s stick. The policemen stopped.

  “No, take him, take him”, I ordered. “He won’t need his walking stick.”

  I instantly regretted saying that but carried on regardless. The woman was now crying so I beckoned the couple to sit and lifted a chair from the dining table. I noticed some dust on the seat so I shook it before sitting down. I was wary of getting stains on my trousers so was quite cautious of how sat on the chair. I removed my cap, placed it on my lap and introduced myself.

  “I am Oberscharfuhrer Ralf Hartmaan. You are?” I asked them.

  The man introduced himself as Paul Politzer and his wife was Camille. I asked him if the Rabbi was his father. He said he was and then began asking me where the police had taken him. I told him to forget about his father and asked him about his work.

  “I own a small art shop in Rue des Rosiers.” He replied.

  “Jewish Art?” I enquired.

  “Not particularly! Most of the work is my own.”

  I remembered my mother telling me about the art shops in Le Marais.

  “And your wife?”

  “She teaches music at L’Academie Musicale de Villecroze.”

  I looked at his wife. She was uncannily Aryan in appearance and reminded me of Leni. Politzer suddenly shouted,

  “Can you please not touch those?”

  I noticed the remaining policeman examining a fine collection of Samovars on the sideboard. They looked silver. He smiled and showed me one. I remarked on how nice it looked. Politzer asked me to tell the policeman to put the samovar down but I ignored him. I was more interested in his wife Camille and asked her if she was a singer. She looked frightened so I re-assured her by telling her about my mother. I described her singing from Peer Gynt and how she stood at the window silhouetted against the light. I could see it so clearly. Camille looked at me. I felt that she understood.

  “You are a singer also?” I repeated my question.

  “And you are Cecilia Hartmaan’s son, Ralf”

  “You know my mother?”

  She told me she sang with her in Carmen. I tried to remember if I had seen her the night I attended the performance.

  “You visited Paris and joined us in La Coupole after the performance. I remember you not being that impressed with Alex. He kept making fun of you”

  Of course, she was the girl from the Cathar country.

  “You didn’t like the word, crusade.” I remarked.

  She nodded and smiled,

  “I will sing for you Herr Hartmaan”, she replied, “and when you return to Berlin please tell your mother you met Camille Berman and that she sends her love.”

  The gendarme laughed.

  She began to sing. Her voice was beautiful. I could not understand the words but I had no problem understanding the music; a joyous evocation of love. Then the uneasiness I felt the previous night returned and with it the confusion. I heard the policeman laughing. Böhme’s words rang in my ear,

  “What are you doing here? You’re a fucking disgrace”.

  I felt nauseas and at that moment my heart returned to Leni and Resi. For a second it shone with desire as I imagined their smiling faces blessing me with love. I noticed tears gathering in Camille’s eyes as she sang to me but they were not tears of joy. It was the same look I had witnessed on the faces of the men and boys at Liditz.

  This had to end.

  I stood up and reached for my pistol.

  Solomon

  Hope is the thing with feathers

  that perches in the soul

  and sings the tune without the words

  And never stops at all

  (Emily Dickinson)

  13.

  They drag me down the stairs and out into the square where they throw me in to a covered truck. I have little time to notice the mayhem. The air is on fire. There are people everywhere running and shouting some screaming, soldiers, gendarmes, trucks with large arc lights trained on the buildings and the inevitable German voices. They look at me with grotesque faces and I watch their lips move when they speak to me,

  “Wie ist dein name Juden? Wer bist du?”

  I cannot understand what they are saying. Sitting in the truck and looking out into the square I feel like I am watching a movie. In the distance I see two gendarmes interrogate someone. He protests angrily and they hit him with punches to the head. He falls to his knees and they kick him demanding he stands up. A German soldier enters right and stands with his back to me. He looks around nervously then exits. Someone else is bundled on to the truck and another and another until we are half full. I recognise them all, Monsieur Lunel who owns the bakery, my neighbour Monsieur Rehal and his wife Marianne, Gaston Piquet who was the caretaker of the Synagogue before they burnt it.

  The burning of the Synagogue was a catastrophe. We tried pleading with them but they threatened to throw us into the flames. These were mostly young French men infected with a self indulgence and ignorance that nourished sordid desires and corrupted their reasoning. They gazed upon us with contempt or worse, complete indifference. Their inspiration, Monsieur Hitler, had surely contaminated their minds with an ideology of cruelty and violence. I understood him to be an artist and often thought how someone who willingly engaged in the creative process could have so many certainties regarding life. Paul is an artist and he struggles with life. Often he inhabits a space between darkness and light and he is attracted to both. I don’t have the luxury of uncertainty. The space where artists dwell does not exist for me. As Rabbi I am required to clarify uncertainties through my understanding of the Torah. That is why it was written. It presents human beings with a blueprint for life. Without it we would quickly descend into darkness and it is in darkness where we find our sins. Some call them demons others refer to them as defects but whatever they are they cannot live in light.

  I am now sitting in the dark surrounded by people who were once my friends and neighbours. Most are silent except for Gaston who protests against the injustice of what is happening.

  “They have no right. The government promised us immunity.”

  Someone tells him to be quiet. I want to tell him to be strong but I do not feel strong. I am aware of the tightening muscles in my leg. Soo
n I will visited by a relentless pain. So I remain silent and concentrate my mind on conquering the pain by grasping my knee tightly in the hope of silencing the debilitating ache.

  Someone else is dumped on to the truck. I am shocked to see it is Paul. He is alone and he looks bewildered. His face is covered in blood. I call his name. Surprised, he stumbles to the back of the bus and sits beside me. I can see now that his nose appears to be broken. What has happened? He grasps his forehead and mutters something about Camille.

  “She has been shot!”

  At that moment my soul is gripped with uncertainty.

  “Who shot her?”

  “The German?”

  Paul tells me what has happened.