Holocaust

by Gerald Green

Tesch lifted the glass cover. From the tiny blue grain, wisps of gray smoke rose, infusing the air with a harsh acrid odor. I pressed a handkerchief to my nose.

  Berlin

  January 1943

  Hoess came to our headquarters today, complaining that it was wrong to take him off the job, with all the work we had burdened him with. But he was pleased with my report on Zyklon B.

  He showed me photographs of the interior of a typical chamber—shower heads (false ones), faucets, pipes, tile walls. Outside, signs reading BATH HOUSE —DELOUSING.

  He explained the differences between the four chambers, the two underground units, with their intricate machinery, and the two aboveground chambers. There were apertures on the roofs or the side through which the cyanide pellets could be introduced.

  I reminded him that a peephole at each chamber might be a good idea. How else could he determine what was taking place? He agreed.

  He had made plans for moving his huge diesel engines about, and in fact, thousands were already being “resettled” with the carbon monoxide system. I told him he would not need them at all any more. They were cumbersome and inefficient, and we had found a better way.

  Hoess, ever obedient, nodded. “You’d better order a stockpile. Auschwitz, Sobibor, Chelmno, Maidanek, Treblinka—they’ll be going full blast.”

  I made a note. A steady supply will be a problem. Tesch informed me that Zyklon B had a life—even canned—of only three months. It is unthinkable to stockpile useless material. Therefore a continuous flow of the agent will be necessary, a system whereby the centers will be able to maintain a supply of fresh, usable gas.

  As I was mentally trying to solve this problem—perhaps a central supply depot at SS Hygiene Headquarters could do the job—Ernst Kaltenbrunner entered my office.

  He is a huge man, almost seven feet tall, with a scarred face, not from any dueling incident or combat, but from an automobile accident. Why Himmler selected him to succeed an intellectual, creative man like Heydrich I do not know. True, Kaltenbrunner was a lawyer, but he has no fineness in him, no subtlety. He is a man I fear.

  “Dorf. Hoess.” He glanced at the photographs Hoess brought with him.

  “General,” I said, “Major Hoess and I have been reviewing the special handling problems.”

  “Special handling!” Kaltenbrunner laughed. “By God, Dorf, I was warned when I got this job that I’d have a master of language on my staff. You mean killing centers, don’t you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Hoess,” he said. “Will you excuse us a minute?”

  Hoess saluted, picked up his photos and diagrams and left.

  Kaltenbrunner had brought a rather odd item into my office. He was hardly the sensitive type, yet it looked like an artist’s portfolio.

  He smiled at me—the smile of a polar bear, a shark. “By now you’ve learned I’m a different sort than that violin-playing half-breed you worked for.”

  I told him he was being unfair to Heydrich’s memory.

  “Oh, screw him. He’s dead. Jesus, those deathbed rantings of his. Forgiveness for what he’d done to the Jews. He was a kike himself.”

  “He was in agony. His spine was severed. Delirium.”

  “Don’t bother defending him. Worry about yourself.”

  What is the truth about Heydrich? He was more of an enigma than I will ever know. Is it true, as some said, he lived only to “kill the Jew in himself’? Who knows the truth? It does not matter any more. We are knee-deep in blood. Any pause, any faltering, will imply—as Heydrich’s alleged deathbed mutterings did—that we doubt the rightness of our mission.

  As much as I am terrified of Kaltenbrunner, I need him. I am part of the cause, the great campaign to change Europe, the holy crusade. Flattery got me far with Heydrich; I tried more of the same on this hideous giant.

  “Why should I worry? The job is getting done, thanks to your superb work. The ghettoes are being reduced. The new camps are ready to start functioning on a larger scale.”

  “Stop babbling.” He pointed a finger the size of a bratwurst at me. “Black marks against you, Dorf. I’ve seen the letters in your file. Father maybe a Red.”

  “I was investigated and cleared.”

  “Blobel, Nebe, some of the others complain about you. Schemer, informer.”

  I said nothing. What good does it do to fight liars? They are in trouble themselves. The Einsatzgruppen are giving way to a far more thorough, speedy program.

  Kaltenbrunner dropped the subject. Then he opened the portfolio on his desk and with his giant hands began to spread five large pen-and-ink drawings on the table.

  “What the hell do you make of these?” he asked.

  I studied the drawings. They were obviously originals. They were unsigned. And they were done by professionals, men with talent.

  They bore titles, and were evidently depictions of life inside one of our camps. The style was frightening, satiric, rather like George Grosz at his worst, pictures full of bitterness and anger, distortions of the human condition.

  I read the titles as I studied each work. “‘Waiting for the End.’ Old people. What’s this one? ‘Routine Punishment.’” It was a drawing of a gallows with four Jews dangling from the crossbeam. SS guards, shown as fat, apelike creatures, stood around grinning.

  There was one called “The Master Race”—more piggish humanoids. Another, “Ghetto Children,” kids with starved, haunted eyes. And one entitled “Roll Call”—a rather terrifying sea of people standing as if under a great cloud, while SS guards checked their ranks.

  “One of our agents found them in Prague,” Kaltenbrunner said. “All we need is for the Red Cross to see this kind of crap.”

  I could appreciate his concern. We are going to enormous expense and effort to sell the world the notion of Theresienstadt as a lovely vacation home, a resort for Jews. Recently, one of our best documentary film makers shot a movie there called “The Führer Gives a City to the Jews.” It was superb—happy, smiling Jewish women in the dress shops, Jewish orchestras, a bakery where one could almost smell the fresh rye bread, athletic contests, all in a most attractive setting. It is designed to get the few remaining Jews in Germany—wealthy hostages, VIPs, decorated war veterans—to volunteer for Theresienstadt. More important, it is designed to show to those who have been protesting our alleged ill treatment of Jews.

  But this kind of horror propaganda, these dreadful drawings, if put in circulation, can destroy all our efforts in this direction.

  “Dorf, get down to Czechoslovakia and get in touch with Eichmann,” said Kaltenbrunner. “Between the two of you, you should be able to find out who drew this shit.”

  “I assure you, sir, I’ll find out.”

  “You goddam well better.” His ogrelike figure bent over the desk, angrily looking at the pictures. “If these bastards did five, maybe they’ve done fifty. Maybe they want to smuggle this stuff out in batches, and undo all our work.”

  “May I take these?” I asked.

  “Yes. And find out who drew them, Dorf. If you don’t I’ll start reading your file again.”

  I saluted, tried to hide my fear.

  As I left, he began to dress down Hoess for not moving fast enough at Auschwitz.

  Rudi Weiss’ Story

  Karl was now a full-fledged member of the “artist’ cabal” at Theresienstadt.

  Each night, with drawn blinds, he and Felsher and Frey and a few others worked at producing a damning record, in pen-and-ink, charcoal, water colors, of what life was like in that pesthole. They knew about the lying film the Nazis had made; they would counteract the lies with their art. (Most of the people who appeared in that film. “The Führer Gives a City to the Jews,” were eventually gassed in Auschwitz.)

  Frey was the head of the team. One night, as they were at work, Frey began checking one of the folios. He noticed something awry and turned to Felsher. “Those sketches we did last week? You know … Karl’s of the children. The one called “Th
e Master Race”? I can’t seem to locate them.”

  Felsher looked about nervously. He knew that the pictures, if discovered by the SS, could produce disastrous results. “I … I sold them,” he said.

  The others stopped working and looked up.

  “You sold them?” Frey asked.

  “Yes … yes. One of the Czech policemen wanted some. He’s a decent guy, he likes us. I only sold five of them.”

  Frey was upset. “Felsher, we agreed that those pictures must stay hidden in the camp. If the Nazis get hold of them, we’re finished. Besides, some of them were mine, some were Weiss’.”

  Poor Felsher! Maria Kalova recalls that he looked as if he wanted to cry. “Look, Frey, I needed cigarettes, a jar of marmalade. I … I won’t do it again. I’ll share the cigarettes.”

  “To hell with the cigarettes,” Frey said.

  Maria came forward. “You’ve put us in great danger,” she said.

  Karl spoke. “What’s the difference? We play this game thinking our pictures will ever make a difference. Don’t feel guilty, Felsher.”

  But Frey was worried. “I pray the Gestapo doesn’t get its hands on them. All of you pray.”

  Felsher was frightened. He kept muttering, “Is it a crime to want a pack of cigarettes?”

  They returned to their tables, their easels.

  “Poor guy,” Karl said. “I sometimes wonder whether all this secret work is worth it.”

  “So do I,” Maria sighed.

  Karl was drawing a picture entitled “Transport East.” More and more, old, sick so-called “unproductives” were being sent to some unknown destination in Poland. Rest homes, they were told; places where they could get better medical care. The sketch showed a line of stooped, defeated Jews, all marked with the yellow star, boarding a train.

  “What is this all about?” Karl asked. “Why are they sending them away?”

  Maria looked at her own drawing. “I’m not sure. But there are stories … of course, no one believes them.”

  There was a sound of footsteps outside. Normally the guards and the ghetto police left the studio alone at night. It was assumed the artists loved their work so much that they worked overtime.

  Everyone began to hide their work—in the tables, in drawers.

  “Go on, Weiss, see who it is,” Frey said.

  Karl walked to the door, opened it—and was face to face with his wife, Inga.

  “Inga …”

  “Karl, my darling.”

  They did not embrace at once, so dumfounded was Karl. She was carrying a valise. Her hair was bound in a scarf. She had just arrived with a small shipment of Christian “enemies of the state.” There was a special section of Theresienstadt reserved for non-Jews; among these prisoners were numerous Czech clergymen who had protested Nazi measures.

  For a moment she stood in the dim light, staring at his gaunt face. She had to make the first gesture of love. She came to him and embraced him. They kissed. But he was like an automaton, a robot, barely responding. He seemed almost fearful of her.

  “How … how did you get here?”

  “Getting into a camp is no problem. I decided I could not let you be without me. If I could not free you, I would come to you.”

  He tried to talk, found his mouth dry.

  “Oh, my darling. You’re pale and thin. Your hair is gray. But you are as handsome as ever.”

  Embarrassed, Karl led her into the main studio. “I’m all right. You can see. I have a job, an easy one. Friends.”

  He introduced the others. “Frey, Felsher, Maria Kalova.”

  Maria came forward and hugged Inga. “Karl has spoken of you a great deal. He has never forgotten you.”

  Inga smiled. “I’m happy to meet all of you.”

  Frey tried to be cheerful. “I don’t know what you know about this place. But it is better than other camps, if you keep busy. And we’re all pretty busy here.”

  “That’s right,” Felsher said. “We’re still around.”

  Frey gave Karl the key to the storeroom. A cot was kept there, where the ghetto police sometimes stole a snooze while on duty. “Here,” he said. “You must want to talk to her.”

  “There might even be some tea left,” Maria said. “Go, have a happy reunion.”

  As soon as they were in the small dark room, Inga seized him and kissed him passionately. She had hungered for him. It was as if she wanted to erase the stain of Muller’s defilement with her love for Karl. He resisted at first—not so much resisted, as remained cold, apart. Then as her mouth kept probing his, her face nestling closer, her hands stroking his lean back, he responded.

  “Oh, my darling Inga,” he sobbed. “I never thought I would see you again. They burn your hopes out. They make you hate yourself, hate life …”

  “I told you not to despair, Karl.”

  “Yes, I remember your letters to Buchenwald. Always full of hope, kind words.” He broke away from her and faced the wall. “And I remember who brought them.”

  “Muller told you,” she said.

  “He bragged about it.”

  “I knew he would. I could not help it.”

  Karl turned, crying gently. “Inga … why?”

  “To reach you. To keep us together.”

  “You chose a strange way. When I think of that pig, that beast, with you … joined … with you, Inga …”

  “Karl, you must believe me. I tried not to. There was never any love for him. I hated him. I felt like a whore when I was with him. I hate him even more now.”

  “God, I would have preferred not hearing from you.”

  “Would you?”

  “Others have been brave enough to remain alone—no letters, no family. And they’ve survived. Old Felsher doesn’t have a soul in the world. Maria Kalova’s husband was shot by the Gestapo the day they entered her city.”

  “I felt you were not like other people. You needed my love, if only in a letter.”

  “You mean I am weaker than other people. Yes, there’s truth to that. The poor Karl, the frail artist, who couldn’t survive without word from his wife.”

  “Karl … we must put that in the past.” She touched his lips. “Remember when you used to call me your Saskia? Rembrandt’s wife? We’ll make the best of it. And we’ll be free. I know it.”

  “No. They’ll get rid of us long before they surrender. There’s a story going around that a whole damned German army was captured at Stalingrad. But they’ll keep fighting to the end, and when they start really losing, they’ll blame us, and get rid of us.”

  “We won’t give in! Not so long as I am here!”

  “And what have you got? A third-rate artist. I’ve got a lump of clay where my heart should be. You think these camps make people better? No. The artists out there are an exception. We have a kind of … camaraderie. But most of the prisoners would kill each other for a piece of bread. I damned near did once … long ago.”

  She sat at the edge of the cot, indicated that he sit next to her. Like a dutiful child, Karl obeyed.

  “Remember when your father left for Poland,” Inga said. “How he kissed your mother, and told the children to be brave, and then he said she must remember her Latin—Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all.”

  “All the love in the world can’t get the best of their guns, and clubs and jails. And worst of all, their diabolical cunning.”

  “I know what you have suffered, Karl. I know. But we are with each other again. I can help you.”

  He got up from the cot, rested his head in his arms against the wall. “You should not have come. Let me make the best of what’s left to me. You and that bastard Muller …”

  “I beg of you not to talk about him any more. Please, Karl. You say that these camps often bring out the worst in people. They kill for a piece of bread. You and I will be different.”

  “How different were you when you—”

  He was about to start the accusations about Muller again, but he stopped. Seated on the narrow c
ot, her back straight, her hands folded, she was as beautiful in her strong serene way as the day he had seen her in the art school, a prim, efficient secretary, Karl had battled my parents interminably over marrying her. For the first time in his life he had shown determination, refused to bend to Mama’s will. (Anna and I had cheered him on. We told him we would back him to the hilt.)

  Now he recalled how he had had to fight for her love. And how good she had been for him. They had been tireless museum-goers, never missed an art-show opening, took courses when they could afford them. They had long talked about a trip to Italy. Karl’s dearest possession was a book on Renaissance art Inga had given him on his twenty-second birthday. Perhaps all these memories flooded over him.

  The sin, (if sin it was), that she had committed with Muller had to be seen as an effort to reach out to him, to give him the support of her letters, to let him know she still cared. He was beginning to understand now.

  “Karl, I know we will be free someday,” she said. “You’ve suffered far more than I have. I want to share your suffering. I want to be hungry and cold and despised. We will share the bad things, just as we shared so much that was good. Do you remember the holiday we had in Vienna? When I could not get you to leave the rooms full of Rembrandts?”

  He was smiling. The memories revived him and softened his feelings toward her. They had shared a great deal. They had so many times experienced that communion, that elevation of the spirit in the presence of a great work. Once, in Amsterdam, Karl told me, he and Inga had had to sit, and think, and be silent, just holding hands, in the presence of “The Night-Watch.”

  “You are my husband and I love you,” she said. “Come sit with me. I will never leave you.”

  Karl fell to his knees in front of her, buried his head in her lap. In the darkness, they were man and wife again.

  But as Karl knew, and as Frey had feared, life in Theresienstadt was a great lie. Inga was required to live in the Christian women’s barracks. Karl remained in his quarters, packed in, four people to each narrow bunk, several hundred in a building intended to hold forty.

  One day there was a commotion in the streets.

  Frey looked from the large window and saw an SS squad, with rifles at port arms, running at doubletime through the street. They were headed right for the studio.