Holocaust

by Gerald Green

  The other sentry—the man at the box—began to shout. But he did not fire. Our guard started to get to his feet, and I gave it to him once more, a violent kick under the chin that knocked him out.

  “Lajos? What happened?” the other called.

  We heard his boots, the breaking of tree limbs.

  In a rage, I leveled the rifle at Lajos’ head, pulled the bolt. I would blast the bastard’s head off. Partial payment to the Jew-haters of the world. Then I would take care of the one running toward us.

  “No, no!” Helena screamed.

  I did not shoot. But I grabbed her arm. The two of us raced for the barbed-wire barrier we had just crossed. We ran forever, it seemed. I dragged her, as wicked branches scratched her face and grabbed at her clothing, and roots tripped our feet.

  “Run, dammit, run,” I shouted.

  “Can’t … can’t …”

  “You’ll run or you’ll die.”

  The other sentry had apparently stopped to examine his comrade—the one whose head I’d kicked as if it were a soccer ball.

  “Stupid goddam Jews!” he shouted. “You can’t get away.”

  Shots pinged around us, breaking branches, whistling and whining. But he was shooting blindly. I forced Helena to bend low. The shots ceased. He had no stomach to follow us. Not after he had seen what I had done to his buddy. And knowing I was armed. Bullies and brutes have this common trait, I had learned as a kid—they hesitate when they think they will be in a fair fight, or at a disadvantage.

  “No more … no more …” Helena wept. “Rudi … stop … my chest is burning …”

  We rested a moment against a pine. The sweet smell of its branches reminded me of winter vacations when I was little—Mama and Papa, and the three of us, Karl, Anna and me, in an Austrian hotel learning to ski, skating.

  “That’s enough,” I said angrily. “We must keep running.”

  “No … no … no more …” She was becoming hysterical. “We’re finished, Rudi.”

  “No. They’ll have to kill us before I give up.”

  I looked at the rifle. It was like a carbine, with a large clip for the bullets.

  I grabbed Helena’s arm and we veered off the path again. Soon I noticed that the barbed-wire barrier seemed to have been cut in several places, as if others had tried the same route we had. We followed it, then had to do no more than step across a fallen section.

  “What a joke,” I said. “I think we’re back in Czechoslovakia.”

  “Does it matter, Rudi?” she cried.

  “I’m not sure.” I took her arms, held her gently, kissed her forehead, tried to make her stop crying. “We’ll try again, Helena. I’m not ready to die for them yet. And you must not be either.”

  Erik Dorf’s Diary

  Berlin

  April 1941

  The talk everywhere—in government circles, at least—is of the Führer’s so-called “Commissar Order” of last month. It will involve our people deeply.

  I wasn’t present at the meeting, since it was largely for the benefit of some two hundred senior army officers. It is no secret that a vast invasion of Russia “from the Baltic to the Black Sea” is imminent.

  Hitler made these points among others: the war with the Soviet Union will be unlike any war in the past, and cannot be conducted in “knightly fashion” (his exact words). The Bolshevist-Jewish intelligentsia must be eliminated. (A junior officer who pointed out that many of the Bolshevik hierarchy and commissars were Great Russians, Ukrainians, Armenians, and God knows what else was quickly silenced.)

  This job of “eliminating” on a grand scale all enemies of the Reich—Jews, Bolsheviks, clergy, commissars, intelligentsia—is so grave that it cannot be entrusted to the army. Heydrich, telling me this with a grin on his face, said that the army leaders, Jodl, Keitel, all those haughty types, swallowed this like children taking castor oil. On the one hand they hate the idea of losing jurisdiction, but on the other, they are relieved not to have to undertake tasks that only our SS, our fearless “Black Crows,” will be courageous enough to undertake.

  Not a single voice was raised at that meeting to protest what amounts to a blueprint for the mass killing of civilians, prisoners and anyone who remotely fits the Führer’s all-inclusive categories. Keitel, that supreme prostitute, elaborated on the order by specifying that the Reichsführer SS (Himmler) and his men would be responsible for “tasks entailed by the final struggle that will have to be carried out between two opposing political systems.” This rather elaborate phraseology simply means that the SS will be entrusted with the killing of Jews. (I use these words only in the secrecy of this diary; I would not dare use such terms in aide-memoires, or even conversation.)

  To implement this “Commissar Order,” Heydrich, ever the brilliant organizer, drew up a plan for four Einsatzgruppen, Action Commandos, who will divide the Soviet Union into four jurisdictions. The commander of each such team—they are designated A, B, C and D—will have full responsibility for cleansing these areas.

  We are now, in effect, mobile killing teams, equipped to do away with vast numbers of racial and political enemies of Germany. We soon learned that the gallant Wehrmacht, so proud of its chivalrous traditions, not only is keeping out of our way, but is aiding us generously, and sometimes joining in the bloody business of eliminating these subhuman foes of civilization.

  What went through my mind as these plans were delineated?

  First, Eichmann’s dictum—obey. But even obedience requires some understanding of precisely what orders one is obeying. And today, April 21, 1941, I realize that our mandate is part of an encompassing plan. An overview, if one wishes. I must blot from my mind notions of individual Jews. They are not important. Instead I must think of the Führer’s grand plan for a new Europe, indeed a new world—ruled by the finest of men, we Aryans, and governed not by mushy antiquated concepts, but by the New Order of strength, will, pure racial strains and unlimited power.

  The words sound a bit alien to me as I write them. But I see the profound historical validity of these concepts now. After all, American colonists decimated their Red Indians to form a new, potent nation. The British Empire was not built with kind words and soup kitchens. Zulus and Hindus were blown to bits, the innocent as well as the malcontents, to create a vast commercial system.

  And the Führer’s goal is far more honorable, more glorious than a mere empire of factories and farms. It involves the highest aspirations of the human spirit. The Jews stand in our way. All sentiment, all hand-wringing, all the rusty, useless Christian notions of charity and pity must be laid aside. I understand this a great deal better today than I ever did. Certainly better than that day I walked into Heydrich’s office and acted like a naif.

  To announce the Einsatzgruppen, Heydrich hosted a buffet at his headquarters. The atmosphere was informal, unbuttoned. No orders were read or distributed. The talk was loose, friendly, general. We understood one another. There was a large map of the Soviet Union on the wall, to which the chief referred now and then, showing how the USSR was to be carved into areas of operation for our teams. Only the map gave any hint that this was anything more than a social gathering.

  As a junior member of the SS, I was astonished and delighted to see what a high caliber of German had been attracted to our ranks. Many of the new group commanders had been in the field a long time, and were known to me only as names on a file card, in a dossier. Heydrich was bragging about his underlings, the men who would be in charge of rendering Europe “Jew-free.”

  “Colonel Blobel, for example,” Heydrich was saying. We all were drinking fine French champagne. He pointed with his glass. “An eminent architect.”

  Paul Blobel, a bit overweight, a rather noisy fellow, given to boozing, nodded. “With ingenious designs for the Jews of Russia,” he said.

  Heydrich went on, “Colonel Ohlendorf is a lawyer—like you, Dorf—and an economic expert. Weinmann is a physician. Klingelhoffer was an opera singer. And our prize—Col
onel Biberstein, a former Lutheran minister.”

  I was truly impressed. The foreign press has tried to depict us as thugs and murderers. I wish they could see the high quality of officer in our ranks.

  “Biberstein,” Heydrich teased. “Tell us about that organization you formed when you left the pulpit. What was it called … ?”

  Colonel Biberstein blushed. “The Brotherhood of Love.”

  Ohlendorf laughed. “What the devil was the Brotherhood of Love?”

  Biberstein knew he was being ragged, but he was a good sport about it. We are truly a fraternity, a group united in the knowledge of the grave tasks ahead of us. “I felt the need for a civilian organization, something outside the church as it were, to encourage human love through Christian faith.”

  “How did it work out?” Blobel asked.

  “Badly, I’m afraid. That’s how I ended up in the SS. First as a chaplain, now in a new line of work.”

  “Spreading the gospel, eh, Biberstein?” Blobel taunted.

  “Oh, no need to spread it here,” the former churchman said. “Here we are all converts to a new faith.”

  Blobel roared at this, and even more serious men like Ohlendorf and Colonel Artur Nebe smiled. I saw nothing funny about it, although Heydrich did not seem perturbed.

  “A new faith, yes,” I said. “And we’re the apostles.”

  “Listen to Captain Dorf!” Blobel bellowed. “If that’s the case, which one is Peter?”

  “I’ll be Doubting Thomas,” said Ohlendorf.

  “So long as we have no Judas,” I said.

  Blobel looked at me with sly contempt. He was drunk. At the buffet, he had babbled on about French champagne, Polish ham, Belgian endive salad, Dutch cheeses. All that was needed was Russian caviar, Blobel said, and that would come soon enough.

  “A Judas?” Blobel repeated. “In this group?”

  “I’m quite certain there’ll be no betrayals,” Heydrich said pleasantly. “What Captain Dorf was referring to, I believe, was the need for secrecy.”

  “How do you keep jobs like this secret?” Blobel persisted.

  “No written orders,” I said quickly. “No references to the Führer. Full cooperation from the army. The resettlement program must take place quickly, surgically, with no traces left. Even in casual conversation, let alone written reports, we are not to use the precise words that describe what the Einsatzgruppen will be doing.”

  Colonel Ohlendorf—bespectacled, handsome, fair, the very model of a scholar-turned-officer—tapped the side of his glass. “It may not be easy,” he said. (He is not only a lawyer and an economist, but a Doctor of Jurisprudence.)

  “Nothing important is,” I said.

  Ohlendorf stared at me. He was a bit offended. After all I am not only a junior officer, but a fellow lawyer.

  Suddenly Blobel took my elbow and steered me away from the group. Biberstein was being teased again about his clerical career. Ohlendorf was asking him a theoretical question about Christian sanction for anti-Bolshevik measures.

  “I’ve heard about you, Dorf,” Blobel said. There was a mean tone to his voice. It was a spongy voice. “Heydrich’s monitor, his spy. I’m told you gave Hans Frank a bawling out that had his ears ringing.”

  I have learned a great deal since joining the service. One thing is never to show fear, even if you feel it. Blobel outranks me, and has a great deal of service in the field, but I am close to Heydrich.

  “You heard incorrectly, Colonel,” I said. “Governor Frank and I had a useful, constructive talk.”

  His loose mouth was forging into a sneer preparatory to a retort when Heydrich summoned us to the map of Russia.

  “A big area,” Heydrich said. “And an even bigger job. Efficiency and production will be demanded. You’ll be watched. Captain Dorf here will be assigned to the Russian front, as a sort of traveling representative of my office.”

  “Selling what?” Blobel blurted out. “Extermination?”

  There was some nervous laughter from the men. I did not join in it.

  “Careful with your choice of words, Blobel,” Heydrich said. “You will inform Captain Dorf of your actions, your campaigns, but you will put as little as possible in writing.”

  “And may I suggest, sir,” I added, “that the Führer’s name be kept out of this. The Führer himself hasn’t put this down on paper—precisely what he has in mind—although he made himself quite clear to the generals.”

  I could see them, the various colonels and majors, the men who would head the mobile teams, looking at me with mixed respect, distrust and a bit of puzzlement. Some oí them had heard about the bright young fellow in Heydrich’s office, and some had met me, if briefly. They were measuring me, and they were not entirely pleased.

  I could swear I heard Ohlendorf mutter to Blobel, “He will have to be handled.”

  Heydrich turned to the wall map. “More than a thousand miles of the Russian front to manage after we invade,” he said. “The Baltic to the Black Sea.”

  “And our groups will total only three thousand men?” asked Blobel.

  “That’s part of the challenge, Colonel,” I said. “The plan includes the recruiting of sympathetic local militia—Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Balts. They’ll be glad to help in the resettlement of Jews.”

  Ohlendorf, legal man that he is, shook his head. “Permit me to say, General, that these contemplated actions are a lot more comprehensive than mere resettlements. Herding Jews into Warsaw or Lublin, or some camp, is one thing. This is quite another.”

  “But in a sense easier,” Heydrich said. “They need not be fed, clothed, given medical attention.”

  “Yes. but think of the piles of ammunition cases,” Blobel said, laughing. No one laughed with him.

  Heydrich liked Ohlendorf. He was very much like me—serious, precise, analytic. “Colonel Ohlendorf has a point. Bear in mind that the key to our operations will be mobility. The instant an area is secured by the army, we must be a step behind, ready to round up Bolsheviks, commissars, Jews, gypsies, any undesirable elements. The army will cooperate. It took the Führer’s Commissar Order and even improved on it. Dorf, read them that recent army order.”

  I went to my briefcase and found the document to which the chief had referred. “‘General instructions for dealing with political leaders and others, following the Führer’s order of March 1941. Eleven categories of persons in the Soviet Union are listed as subject to our jurisdiction.’”

  “Jurisdiction!” shouted Blobel, by now quite drunk. “A ditch and a machine gun!”

  We ignored him. I read on. “‘The categories include criminal elements, gypsies, officials of the Soviet State and party, agitators, Communists, and all Jews.’”

  “This is an army list?” Biberstein asked. “Not an SS list?”

  “Quite,” Heydrich said. “They’ve taken the Führer at his word. Of course, the only thing is, the jurisdiction over these groups will be ours. But it gives you an idea of Keitel and the others’ sincere desire to cooperate.”

  “I’m curious,” asked Ohlendorf. “Will there be exceptions?”

  “Exceptions?” Heydrich asked.

  “Yes. People useful to us … labor … collaborators …”

  Heydrich nodded. “Of course. Certain anti-Bolshevik elements will be used, certainly Ukrainians. And the Russians themselves, the nonpolitical ones, will be used as slave labor, which is all they’re good for.”

  Biberstein was kneading his fingers. “And … in the case of Jews? Any exceptions to the Führer’s order?”

  “None,” said Heydrich.

  Blobel belched loudly. “That’s clear enough. I thought that’s what this meeting was really about.”

  “Let no one have any doubts,” Heydrich said. “Europe will be rid of Jews, one way or the other.”

  “Are we to assume this order comes from … ?” Ohlendorf left the query hanging.

  Heydrich looked at me. “Dorf, from your bottomless file of excellent memoranda,
find that notation concerning the Führer’s conversation with the Italian ambassador.”

  I dug into my briefcase and found the paper in question.

  “Yes,” I said. “A few years back, Mussolini’s ambassador complained that Il Duce was upset about our anti-Jewish campaign. Afraid it would offend the foreign press, and so on.”

  “Typically Italian,” Ohlendorf said. We all laughed.

  “The Führer informed the envoy that in five hundred years, if for nothing else, Adolf Hitler would be honored for one thing—as the man who wiped the Jews from the face of the earth.”

  Rudi Weiss’ Story

  Helena and I found our way to Russia—whether for better or worse I do not know—in June 1941.

  In the extreme western corner of the Ukraine, at the point where Czechoslovakia, Hungary and the Soviet Union converge—I had stolen a map from a railroad station some weeks before—we simply walked through a wire fence, and gave ourselves up to a Russian soldier.

  He was a farm boy in a baggy gray uniform, and he relieved me of the rifle I’d taken from the Hungarian some months back, and marched us off to a Red Army encampment.

  The slovenliness and indifference of the Soviets astonished me. All through Czechoslovakia we had seen troop movements, tanks and trucks moving eastward. For what purpose? Helena and I had been hidden by some Slovak farmers for several months, working in the fields for a bed in a hayloft and our food. Some days the sky would be hazed over with a film of yellow dust, from the endless parade of mechanized equipment on the move. The Slovaks treated us rather decently. The village was so obscure, the SS never bothered to send an inspection team there.

  But now we were in Russia, standing in front of a Red Army infantry captain, who sat with his soft boots on a field table, eyeing us with disfavor, indifference.

  “Where’d you get the rifle?” he asked Helena. He saw that it was of Italian make, an old bolt-action weapon.

  “I stole it,” I said.

  Helena, who spoke excellent Russian, cautioned me to be quiet. She’d do the talking. I’m not sure what she told the Russian officer, but he seemed unimpressed. She turned to me helplessly. “The same story,” she said. “He says they have no argument with the Germans. Don’t we know Stalin and Hitler signed a treaty, and that they’re good friends?”