Schreiber's Secret (3 page)

The Berliner began collecting the parcels of food. The array was mouthwatering, from blocks of Gouda and Edam, some still encased in their chessels, to Bratwurst and Knackwurst, resplendent in length and aroma. The Nazis would take their fill, but there remained much that would be shared among the veteran prisoners of the ghetto.

Soferman passed the food to Springer who, in turn, handed the items to Little Emil for stacking and packing. It was the Waif who organized the shortfall. Empty wooden crates were brought forward and quickly filled. But some had false bottoms and no one paid much attention to a prisoner laboring under a load of ostensibly empty crates. The bottom crate of each stack contained the lifeblood of the ghetto.

It was about half an hour after the arrival of the transport that cries of “Achtung! Achtung!” rent the dank air of the sluice. Jewish kapos and Czech gendarmes pushed the throng back as a lone figure stood silhouetted in the main entrance directly to the right of the counters.

Soferman peered intently at the form. It was the Waif who revealed the identity of the spectre in the doorway. “It’s Rahm,” he whispered.

As Obersturmbannführer Karl Rahm continued to linger in the sunlit entrance, a passing cloud reduced the halo effect. The new arrivals would soon find out that here was indeed an icon; that the stubby apparition before them held sway over all life and death in the ghetto.

Rahm, hands clasped behind his back, strutted forward. The unlit cigar projecting from his mouth seemed to act as a pointer. He stopped at the first stall and leaned against it. Standing to his left were two SS guards armed with sub-machine guns.

There was absolute silence, save for the inevitable rustling and stifled coughing of a room packed with people.

Soferman had seen Rahm only twice before, and each time the Kommandant had made one or two prisoners suffer his ire. It was unwise to look the Nazi in the eye, for the riding crop in his right hand did not brook insolence kindly.

At last the brute spoke.

“It has come to my notice”, he said calmly, his eyes directed at the veteran prisoners behind the counters, “that some of our long-term guests have been abusing their privileges.” The cigar, a large Havana, meandered around Rahm’s mouth menacingly as he waited for his words to have the desired effect. He then withdrew it and crushed it beneath his jackboot.

Soferman glanced nervously at Novotny. The gendarme reddened but shook his head in protestation of his innocence. The Berliner then felt a rustling at his feet. Out of sight of the Nazis, Emil Lustig was squeezing himself into one of the green wooden crates.

“Food, gentlemen,” Rahm sneered. “You swine have been pilfering good, honest Dutch food.”

Soferman felt the icy tentacles of panic grip his stomach, but not on his own account. The Waif must be protected at all costs. Without him, hundreds would starve to death.

“I need a volunteer,” Rahm screamed suddenly, bringing his crop violently down on the counter with a crack. There must have been at least a hundred people in the room and every one of them, prisoners, gendarmes and even the two SS
hatchet-men, flinched.

Rahm again spoke in a quiet yet menacing voice. “I am not asking much. ‘Just one lousy Jew-pig to set an example to our new guests here. But let me warn you. Should there be no volunteer, I will take fifty of these clogdancers and have them shot.” The Kommandant chuckled malevolently. “We will plant tulips on their graves.”

This was a signal for the gendarmes and even the Jewish kapos to laugh conspiratorially. The crate by Soferman’s feet creaked. To the Berliner, it sounded like the crack of a pistol. Thankfully, Rahm appeared not to have heard it.

“Well,” the pumpkin face blurted, “my patience is wearing thin.”

Soferman felt a movement to his right. “No, Springer,” he cried inwardly, “don’t do it. The Dutch will die anyway.”

Oskar Springer, a lone lemming in a colony dedicated to self-preservation, shuffled from behind the counter and stood in front of the portly Rahm, head bowed. The peacock and the sparrow, thought Soferman.
One vain and the other humble. But the sparrow would have his day, one day.

“
Schwei
n
!” Rahm exploded, slashing the whip fiercely across the lupine face. “You Jew-pigs would steal from your own children.”

Springer collapsed on one knee, blood pouring from the wound on his cheek.

Soferman did not fully understand why he did it, but Oskar Springer represented to him the only family he had left. He had vowed never to leave him, and certainly not in this, his hour of greatest need. The tall Berliner stepped out from behind the counter.

“I am guilty too, Obersturmbannführer,” he said firmly.

Rahm glared at the man before him. The Jew was fair-haired. He could even have passed for an Aryan. He reminded him of someone, but he could not place who.

“Take them away,” he ordered, his lips pursing in a rictus of hatred.

A feeling of emptiness gripped Soferman as one of the guards pulled him roughly by the arm. The Berliner did not look, but he felt Springer’s quicker steps padding behind him. There was no doubting their destination. Rahm felt unfulfilled unless he sent at least two Jews a day to the Small Fortress.

The fort was sited a few hundred metres away on the other side of the river Ohre. The eyes of fellow prisoners turned away as they left th
e
schleus
e
on the short journey to Hades. Soferman asked himself whether their furtive glances were of pity or relief, or perhaps both.

The Berliner felt a moment of sublime giddiness as he relished the smells

of the river. He had never been a country lad at heart. But after the confines of the ghetto, he found himself savouring the intoxicating fresh air. The morning was cool and pleasant, and the sound of birdsong was at once both strange and familiar. He sighed wearily, wishing at that moment that he were as free as the swallows.

“
Schnell! Schnell
!
” cried the guard, angry at his ward’s faltering step.

Soferman’s brief interlude of exultation was cut short by a stinging blow to the back of the head. The Berliner quickened his pace as they neared the fortress.
It was surrounded by trenches, and standing sentinel within its walls of ashlar and burnt brick was a row of barred windows.

The two prisoners were hustled into a small room to the right of the entrance. The guards stood either side of the door as they ordered Soferman and Springer to attention in the middle of the room. For what seemed an eternity they waited, not daring to move. The Berliner tried to organize his emotions. He had not looked directly at Springer since their arrest. He did not think he could bear the eyes that he knew were beseeching him. He had made his decision and to regret it was futile. He convinced himself that they were doomed anyway. The Germans would lose the war and they would probably slaughter all the Jews in order to leave no witnesses. It was simply a matter of time.

The sun was by now a little higher, and its warming rays shone through the room’s solitary barred window to their right. They were facing away from the guards and did not hear the entrance of a tall, blond man dressed in the crisp black uniform of an SS Obersturmführer.

Suddenly Soferman sensed a presence behind him. He dared not move. He felt the breath of the man on his right ear. It was
scented, reminding him of the sprigs of lavender he used to bring to his mother on his way home from school.

“Pig-eaters,” a voice whispered venomously. “You sons of bitches from Jerusalem.
You world criminals. You arseholes.” Hans Schreiber lingered a moment longer by Soferman’s ear before stepping forward to face the two men. Soferman looked the Beast of the Small Fortress directly in the eye but kept his face expressionless. So this was Schreiber, he thought. The Nazi must have been about the same age as himself. He was blond and handsome in the sort of way revered by National Socialist ideology. The sole physical blemish was the pair of small hazel eyes. Where was the azure of Aryan mythology?

The epitome of evil stood about a metre from them, hands clasped firmly behind back and legs apart. The expression on the clean-shaven and perfumed face was a mixture of vanity and contempt.

“You have been brought here to die, Jews,” he said at length. “The manner in which you die will be decided by me, Hans Schreiber. If you please me, it will be quick. But if you displease me ...”

Schreiber crossed his arms and waited for the imaginations of the prisoners to reach their own conclusions. He enjoyed sporting with these degenerates. They would find out soon enough what he had in store for them. “Your identity cards,” he barked, thrusting out a perfectly manicured hand.

Soferman stared in fascination at the long, slender fingers as Schreiber read aloud.

“HERschel Soferman and OSkar Springer,” he enunciated with heavy and deliberate emphasis. “Both Germans.”

Schreiber’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you from?” he said to Springer.

“Frankfurt, Herr Obersturmführer,” the little man said shakily.

“And you?”

“Berlin, Obersturmführer,” said Soferman, his eyes unwavering.

“Ah, good. My home town, SOFERman.”

Schreiber’s tone became threatening. “You know that if it wasn’t for you Jew-pigs there would be no war. Back home they tell me that
my city is being bombed by the Allies. You must answer for your sins, SOFERman.” He pocketed the identity cards. “You won’t be needing these any more.”

Suddenly, something quite extraordinary happened. The dust in the room caused Springer to sneeze. Schreiber sprung backwards, raising his hands to protect his face. He reddened and for a moment clasped one hand over his mouth. Then he leapt forward and dealt Springer a vicious blow to the face.

“Don’t you ever spread your Jew-germs in my presence again,” he shrieked. “Fritz, take them to the Jew-cell. Make sure they get a good night’s sleep. I want them fresh in the morning.”

With this, Schreiber turned on his heels and strode out of the room.

“I’m sorry, Herschel,” Springer croaked. His eyes, hollow and helpless, sought forgiveness.

“Shut up, you pig’s arse,” cursed the guard named Fritz, moving threateningly towards them. “Follow me.”

Springer shuffled into line behind Soferman as they made their way out of the room and into a cold, unwelcoming corridor. After some twenty metres, they turned into another room. It was a cell about six metres by six. In one corner were two buckets for excrement. The prisoners gagged on the stench.

“This is where you will eat and sleep,” said the guard, backing away. “Don’t worry, it won’t be for long. Wait here until you are collected for the work detail.”

The absence of any guards gave Soferman and Springer the opportunity to share their feelings. Both struggled to shake off the fear that had clamped their minds.

“So that is Hans Schreiber,” Soferman whispered. “The devil incarnate.”

Springer turned to face his friend. “It’s strange, but ...”

Soferman looked down at the elfin eyes
, which were staring at him with a mixture of wonder and apprehension. “Go on, Oskar.”

“It’s stupid, but you and he are so alike physically. If you just had a few more kilos on
you ...”

Just then a man appeared in the doorway. He was emaciated, his striped prison garb filthy and tattered. The yellow star was barely discernible through the grime. “Come,” he croaked.

They followed the angular figure out of the block and into a large courtyard. At the far end they could see two groups of prisoners working by the fortification walls. Soferman could make out the symbol that denoted politicals on the garb of those in one corner. The other group, to the right, was Jews.

“These are the old fortification walls,” said their guide in a resigned monotone. “We have to pull them down. Take these.” The m
an pointed to two pickaxes that were lying on the ground.

As he stooped to pick one up, Soferman noticed Schreiber standing about fifteen metres away. The Nazi, a riding crop held diagonally across his chest, seemed to be staring at him intently.

“You two, Soferman and Springer, join the gang on top of the wall,” he called out. “And be quick about it.”

The man who had led them to the wall was working with a group in a pit running along its base. “Quickly, do as he says,” he gasped in Yiddish.

Soferman grabbed his friend’s hand and began climbing a mound that brought them to the top of the six-metre-high wall. The rampart was about a metre thick. Several other Jews were chipping away at the coping.

The two friends had hardly begun working at the top before there was a loud explosion. They screamed as the wall gave way beneath their feet. Soferman felt himself sliding towards the ground amid an avalanche of masonry. His body, engulfed in brick dust, was racked with pain as it thudded into the rubble. For a few moments the Berliner was stunned, unable to heed the terrible cries of men crushed and suffocating beneath him. “Oskar, Oskar, are you all right?” he called out desperately.

“I think so, Herschel,” came the hoarse reply. “Just a bit bruised.”