The Zone of Interest (16 page)

On Friday, as I walked from the Old Town to Kat Zet I, I found I wasn’t being followed; so I turned east and made the trek to the Summer Huts, without the least expectation that I would have company there. Swift and sticky rain, thin and cold, and smoke-soiled low-hanging clouds; the playground deserted, the sodden chalets all shuttered up. Everything answered to my mood, and to my hopes of Hannah. I pressed on through the sand and the scrub.

‘Well it’s all off now,’ Boris had said the night before. ‘Golo, I’d’ve liked nothing better than to see you put the horns on the Old Boozer. But it was always stupidly dangerous.’

And this from a colonel of the Waffen-SS (with three Iron Crosses) and a wild philanderer, who adored all danger . . . I said,

‘It’s good about the pyjama bottoms, isn’t it.’

‘Yes. Very. Here’s a husband who tries it on with his wife and gets smashed in the face. And then falls over with his cock out in the garden. But that makes it all worse, Golo. Even murkier. The brew’s too thick.’

‘Maybe just once in the Hotel Zotar. I went down there and it’s not
that
dirty and there’s only one—’

‘Don’t be a moron, Golo. Listen. All the things that are laughable about the Old Boozer – they make him more of a menace, not less. And he has the powers.’

One did not make such an enemy in the concentrationary universe, where the pressure of death was everywhere; all Doll would need to do was nudge it in the direction he chose.

‘Think,’ said Boris. ‘You – you’d probably survive it. You’re a scion of the New Order. But what about her?’

Hugging my coat, I walked on. Realsexuellpolitik. All’s fair in love and . . . Yes, and look how Germany waged it. The Commandant’s erring wife could expect no help from the provisions of the Hague and Geneva Conventions; it would be Vernichtungskrieg – to-nothing war.

. . . I reached a coppice of decrepit birches where the smell of natural decay blessedly overwhelmed the circumambient air. Natural decay, unadulterated, and not the work of man; and a smell thick with memories . . . After a while I defeatedly dragged my thoughts elsewhere: to Marlene Muthig, the wife of an IG petrologist, with whom I often bantered in the market square; to Lotte Burstinger, a recent addition to the ranks of the Helferinnen; and to Agnes’s eldest sister (the only unmarried one), Kzryztina.

Up ahead, just in front of the high hedgerow that marked the Zonal boundary, someone or other had started erecting a pavilion or gazebo – and then run out of time and timber. A planked backing, two side walls of different lengths, and half a roof. It looked like the shelter of a rural bus stop. I came round the front of it.

Paneless windows, a flat wooden bench. And Hannah Doll, in the corner, with a blue oilskin spread over her lap.

And she was dead to the world.

The hour that followed was marked by great stillness, but it was far from uneventful. Every few minutes she frowned, and the frowns varied (varieties of puzzlement and pain); three or four times her nostrils flared with subliminal yawns; a single tear gathered and dropped and melted into her cheek; and once a childish hiccup briefly shook her. And then there was the rhythm of her sleep, her breath, the surge of her soft insufflations. This was life, moving in her, this was the proof, the iterated proof of her existence . . .

Hannah’s eyes opened and she looked at me with so little loss of composure that I felt I was already there, fully established in her dream. Her mouth opened along all its width and she made a sound – like the sound of the tide of a distant sea.

‘Was tun wir hier,’ she said steadily and unrhetorically (as if really wanting to know), ‘mit diesen undenkbaren Leichenfresser?’

What are we doing here
, she said,
with these unimaginable ghouls
. . .

She stood, and we embraced. We didn’t kiss. Even when she started crying and we were probably both thinking how delicious it would be, we didn’t kiss, not on the lips. But I knew I was in it.

‘Dieter Kruger,’ she eventually began.

Whatever it was, I was in it. And whatever it was, it would have to go forward.

Where now? Where to?

2. DOLL: STUCKE

If little things may be compared to large, and if a cat can look at a king, then it seems that I, Paul Doll, as Kommandant (the spearhead of this great national programme of applied hygiene), have certain affinities with the secret smoker!

Take Hannah. Yes, she will do very well, I believe, she will do nicely, I fancy, as an example of the secret smoker. And what do Hannah and myself have in common?

1stly, she has to find somewhere secluded for the gratification of her ‘secret’ need. 2ndly, she must bring about the disappearance of the remains: there is always the fag end, doubtlessly smeared with some loud lipstick, the butt, the stub (and to be perfectly direct about it, corpses are the bane of my life). 3rdly, she is required to deal with the odour, not only of the smoke itself but also of its residue, clinging to the clothes and especially to the hair (and in her case befouling the breath, for whilst the aroma of an expensive cigar lends authority to the internal scents of the Mensch, the reek of a penny Davidoff desecrates the salubrious waft of the Madchen). 4thly and finally, she has the obligation, if honesty is a concept she even acknowledges let alone understands, to account to herself for her
compulsion
to do what she does – stinking herself up, and wearing her guilt like some dirty little slut rancidly emerging from a strenuous joust on a hot afternoon . . .

Here the 2 of us happen to part company, and the analogy breaks down. Yes, we part company here.

For she does what she does out of wrongness and weakness. And I do what I do out of rectitude and indomitable might!

‘You’re wearing Mama’s make-up.’

Sybil’s hand flew to her face.

‘You thought you’d washed it all off, didn’t you? But I can still see traces of rouge. Or are you blushing?’

‘. . . I didn’t!’

‘Don’t tell lies, Sybil. You know why German girls shouldn’t use cosmetics? It affects their morals. They start telling lies. Like your mother.’

‘What do you mean, Vati?’

‘. . . Are you excited about the pony? Better than a silly old tortoise, nicht?’

Even the most stalwart National Socialist, I think, would have to concede that the task the SS set itself in Kulmhof, in the January of this year, was exceptionally sharp. Yech, that was a somewhat extreme measure, bordering, perhaps, on the excessive – the Aktion leading to the recruitment and induction of the Sonder, Szmul. To this day it is mildly famous; people think it stands as a rare behavioural curiosity, quite possibly a 1-off. We informally call it the time of the silent boys.

(Reminder: Szmul’s wife lingers in Litzmannstadt. Find out where.)

And by the way, if there are still a few fantasists who somehow retain sympathy for our Hebrew brethren, well, they ought to take a thorough look – as I was obliged to do (in Warsaw, last May) – at the Jewish Quarters in the cities of Poland. Seeing this race en masse, and left to itself, will shoo away any humanitarian sentimentality, and pretty sharpish, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Nightmare apparitions, miserable destitutes, sexually indistinguishable men and women throng the corpse-strewn thoroughfares. (As a loving father, I found it particularly hard to stomach their vicious neglect of the semi-naked children who howl, beg, sing, moan, and tremble, yellow-faced, like tiny lepers.) In Warsaw there are a dozen new cases of typhus every week, and of the ½ a million Jews 5–6,000 die every month, such is the apathy, the degeneracy, and, to be quite frank about it, the want of even the rudiments of self-respect.

On a lighter note, let me describe a little incident where myself and my travelling companion (Heinz Uebelhoer, a charming ‘young turk’ in the offices of the Reichsfuhrer-SS) managed to alleviate the gloom. We were at the Jewish cemetery, chatting to the noted film director Gottlob Hamm (he was making a documentary for the Ministry of Enlightenment), when a Kraft durch Freude motor coach pulled up and all the Jugend disembarked. Well, Gottlob, Heinz, and myself interrupted the funeral service then under way to take a few photographs. We set up some ‘genre’ pictures: you know, Old Jew Stands Over Cadaver of Young Girl. The Strength through Joy schoolboys were in stitches (but these ‘snaps’ unfortunately came to light whilst I was visiting Hannah at Abbey Timbers and there was hell to pay. Moral: not everyone is blessed with ‘a sense of humour’).

And yet, and yet . . . Szmul’s wife gallivants round the streets of Litzmannstadt – or ‘Łódź’, as the Poles call it (pronouncing it
Whoodge
or some such).

Shulamith may be needed.

I think I shall send a communication to the head of the Jewish Council there, whose name – where did I put that report? – is ‘Chaim Rumkowski’.

Of course, muggins here
did
have to go down to Katowitz for more petrol refuse. I motored there (with 2 guards) in my 8-cylinder diesel Steyr 600, heading a convoy of trucks.

At the conclusion of business I took afternoon tea in the office of our civilian contractor, 1 Helmut Adolzfurt, a middle-aged Volksdeutscher (with his pince-nez and his widow’s peak). Then, as usual, Adolzfurt produced a bottle and we were putting away a few drams. Suddenly he said,

‘Sturmbannfuhrer. Do you know that from about 6 in the evening to about 10 at night, here in town, no one can swallow a mouthful?’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because the wind turns and gusts up from the south. Because of the smell, Sturmbannfuhrer. The smell comes up from the south.’

‘To here? Oh, nonsense,’ I said with a carefree laugh. ‘That’s 50 kilometres.’

‘These windows are double-glazed. It’s 20 to 7. Let’s go outside. If you would, sir.’

We duly traipsed downstairs and into the yard (where my men had almost finished their work). I wondered out loud,

‘Is it
always
this strong?’

‘It was much harsher a month ago. It’s slightly better now it’s colder. What
causes
it, Sturmbannfuhrer?’

‘Ah, well the truth is, Adolzfurt,’ I said (for I’m not unaccustomed to quick thinking), ‘the truth is, we have a very sizable piggery in the agricultural station, and there’s been an epidemic. Of porcine sepsis. Caused by worms. So we’ve had no choice, do you see, but to destroy and incinerate. Nicht?’

‘Everyone talks, Sturmbannfuhrer.’

‘Well tell everyone that then. About the piggery.’

The last of the tanks of benzene were now aboard. I waved the drivers on. Shortly thereafter, I forked out the 1,800 zlotys, subsequently obtaining the requisite receipt.

During the drive back, whilst the guards dozed (I myself was of course at the controls of the prestigious machine), I kept pulling over and sticking my head out of the window and taking a sniff. It was as bad as I’ve ever known it, and it just got worse and worse and worse . . .

I felt as if I were in one of those cloacal dreams that all of us have from time to time – you know, where you seem to turn into a frothing geyser of hot filth, like a stupendous oil strike, and it just keeps on coming and coming and piling up everywhere no matter what you try and do.

*

‘They spent about 2 or 3 minutes talking, Herr Kommandant. In the enclosure behind the ranch.’

He meant the riding school. My Kapo, Steinke (a Trotskyite cut-throat in civilian life), meant the riding school – the Equestrian Academy . . . So, 2 meetings: the Summer Huts and the Equestrian Academy. And now 2 letters.

‘You mean the riding school. The Equestrian Academy, Steinke. Christ, it’s boiling in here . . . They talked in plain sight?’

‘Yes, Herr Kommandant. There were a lot of people about.’

‘And they just talked, you say. Did any documents change hands?’

‘Documents? No, Herr Kommandant.’

‘Written material? . . . Yes, well you see, you’re not looking hard enough, Steinke. There
was
a transfer of written material. You just failed to spot it.’

‘I lost sight of them for a few seconds when all these horses went past, Herr Kommandant.’

‘Yes. Well you get horses at riding schools,’ I said. ‘Steinke, have you seen the signs mad people wear here? Saying
dumm
? Saying
Ich bin ein Kretin
? I think we’ll order 1 of those for you.’ Yes, and 1 for Prufer while we’re at it. ‘Steinke, you
get
horses at riding schools . . . And listen. From now on don’t bother with him. Just monitor her. Klar?’

‘Yes, Herr Kommandant.’

‘How did they greet each other?’

‘With a handshake.’

‘With a handshake, Herr Kommandant. How did they say goodbye?’

‘With a handshake, Herr Kommandant.’

We stepped aside as a group of Poles (implausibly overburdened) edged by. Steinke and myself were in 1 of the storehouses affixed to the tannery. It is here that the cheapest odds and ends of the evacuees are stacked prior to their elimination, as fuel, in the tannery furnace – cardboard shoes and plastic handbags and slabby wooden prams and so on and so forth.