Warsaw (17 page)

"They must still need many of us to work. Why else did
they give out the bread and jam before, if not to keep our strength up?...We
are not coming back...Be brave..."

Despair, fortitude, numbness and fear swirled around and
inside the woman like a rainbow of colour in a pool of oil. She unconsciously
began to rock like a child, partly due to wanting to relieve herself, partly
due to the tortuous wait. Just as Halina began to wonder again how long they
would have to wait a couple of whistles sounded and the dishevelled flock of
people began to be funnelled through the barrier which led to the final
selection area. Officious soldiers and a few smartly dressed civilians in
suits, counting out loud in more than one language, were dotted around the
narrow entrance. With her arm around his waist Halina encouraged her morose
husband to walk, or rather shuffle, into the final compound before they all
reached the trains. They kept to the sanctuary of the middle of the group;
being hemmed in meant that they might escape the blows of the policemen and
soldiers who shouted at and struck those evacuees who moved too reticently.

Once in the selection area a further horde of soldiers and
policemen descended upon the group. Some of the healthier looking men were
extracted and would escape deportation through their fitness for labour. Papers
were again requested. Those same documents which had so readily condemned a
candidate for selection a couple of hours ago now suddenly saved them. It was a
lottery. The winners however, led away through an exit to the left of the
selection compound, were few and far between.

Christian Kleist amused himself and played to the galleries
of his equally amused soldiers by mingling with and addressing a portion of the
evacuees - as was his custom to do once a week or so. Descending from his
wooden platform, which could also serve as a makeshift gallows, he first spoke
to an old, club-footed woman who caught his eye.

"How are you mother? Would you like me to get one of my
men to help you with your bundle?" the Lieutenant remarked with mock
concern. His men laughed - and in particular Dietmar Klos grinned in
appreciation of his senior officer's sense of humour - at the terrified and
perplexed expression upon the old woman's face. She didn't even realise the
German officer was joking with her, to which the Lieutenant played-up his part
even more.

"You have done well to survive this long mother. You
will be safe now. Perhaps we will get you a job working with your hands in the
East, so as to rest your foot."

"Yes, thank you" the old woman replied, her face
transforming itself into a gummy smile. Not recognising the German's sarcasm -
and believing in the minor miracle because the woman had nothing else to
believe in - the aged widow's expression shone with a semblance of mawkish
hope.

"If you wait over there mother, one of my men will see
to you and make sure you're given the right papers and put upon the correct car
of the train," the charming Lieutenant kindly whispered to the
hairy-chinned woman, putting his arm around her and pointing his gloved hand to
where she should wait. Christian also kept nodding and smiling until the woman
copied his expression and assented. Livia Rozett (an ex-school teacher and
mother of three) was hesitant in complying with the German officer as he seemed
to be directing her to wait next to a pile of dead bodies which were heaped up
against the wall of the selection area. Sensing her hesitancy though Christian
placed a firm hand upon her back and guided her a few yards towards her
destination. Livia Rozett warily looked back a couple of times as she
stutteringly walked towards her supposed sanctuary, fearing something to be
amiss with every step almost - but each time she turned back the German officer
smiled encouragingly at her. About fifteen yards or so from the pile of bodies
the gentle old woman stopped, queasy from the sight and stench in front of her:
contorted, blood-caked corpses; swarms of flies dancing in front of her face
and settling upon open wounds, glistening in the mizzle. Groans and subtle
movements animated parts of the group. Some would be buried alive. Before the
fetid odour of the corpses finally made her sick a single shot spliced the air
and Livia Rozett fell to the floor. Drunken guffaws then reverberated in the
Umschlag as the Lieutenant's entourage clapped their hands and shouted
"good shot" and "capital fun" to their leader. The bullet
had entered the back of the woman's skull and then blown the front of her face
off. Christian pulled his arm back from its firing position and, ignoring the
laughter and comments from his comrades, he gazed down and nodded at the pistol
in appreciation. For a change he had swapped his P.08 Luger for a Browning 9mm
Automatic, which had been given and recommended to Christian by a fellow
officer. In his journal later that evening Christian posited how he believed
the Browning to be as "accurate and efficient" as reported, but that
he preferred the German Luger, "not only for its weight and range, but for
the trust" he had in the weapon. He half-jokingly wrote how he tested the
pistol by killing a Jew in "the name of science, or ballistics...
Fortunately I was granted the chance to give the pistol a second (and third and
fourth) opportunity to convince me of its merits."

After ordering the old woman to be piled up with the rest of
the bodies against the wall the Lieutenant approached a bedraggled column of
Jews, clearly relishing the sport and foreboding he was creating. He holstered
the pistol and addressed a young man, Samuel Grocher (a former classmate of
Adam Duritz turned smuggler). It was understandable why Christian selected the
young man. He owned an intelligent face underneath his peaked cap; his frame
was also sturdy and he carried himself differently (bravely, confidently) in
relation to many of the hunched creatures around him.

"You there, what's your name?"

"Samuel Grocher," the proud Jew replied, looking
the SS officer in the eye.

"You have survived the ghetto well it seems. Perhaps
you stole your neighbour's food."

"No, I bribed your soldiers until I no longer had
anything else to give them," he retorted with honesty more than insolence
in his tone (albeit one could have mistook the honesty for insolence). Samuel
had promised himself a long time ago that, when the time came, he would die
with dignity, stoicism. Coming to terms with the inevitable bred a strange
philosophical confidence in the young man, who before the occupation had
flirted with the vocation of becoming a Rabbi.

Christian's amused expression faltered a little at the
quickness and daring of the reply but then he continued to deal with the Jew
with the pleasure of knowing that he could end his life at any moment.

"Do you know where you are going?"

"Yes, the same place as you."

"And where might that be?" Christian replied -
riled, amused and feigning amusement at the conceited air of the doomed Jew.

"I am going to die. The sum of our lives will add up to
the same thing. In that respect we are the same."

"You will get to that place before me that I can assure
you."

"But you'll be following me sooner than you
think."

"I wouldn't want you to be too lonely before I get
there though. You shall have some company for your journey."

Baring his sharp white teeth Christian then suddenly
unclipped his holster and removed his pistol. In a paroxysm of hatred he gunned
down, without a pause or flicker of remorse, four random evacuees who stood
either side of the man. Smiling, his eyes ablaze with sadism, the German then
raised the pistol to the defiant Jew's face. Samuel Grocher tried to hold back
his tears and fear - and not give the SS psychotic the pleasure of bowing
before his intimidation - but his mask of courage couldn't help but slip as
Christian Kleist first fired a bullet into the young man's puffed-out chest.
Standing over the ashen youth, blood gurgling in his throat and spilling out of
his mouth as he tried to speak, the German then shot the troublesome Jew in the
face and spat on his smoking corpse.

Halina Rubenstein heard shots and felt the surge in the
column as people scrambled to move away from the danger or stood on tip-toe to
catch a look at the latest gruesome tragedy. Halina and Solomon did neither as
they kept their heads down and continued to edge towards the awaiting trains.
They would not be deselected for work duty. They would not even be asked to
have their papers looked at.

The enervated woman tried to recall a happy memory to lift
her spirits or take her mind off things, but the immediate peril and visceral
scenes overwhelmed her brittle attempts. Life before the occupation had grown
so distant, dim. And the memories of the past so often darkened or highlighted
the savage gloom of the present. She felt a chill again. The light rain was
being scooped up by the wind and blown into their faces.

Before Halina and Solomon Rubenstein even reached the trains
they breathed in the thick, chlorinated odour of the wooden carriages. Solomon
became suddenly animated, but in a coughing fit. His eyes became rheumy,
closing themselves up to the corrosive world. Brawny soldiers all but tossed
people into the compartments and ordered every person to squeeze into the
corners and to the backs of the giant wooden crates. Vociferous shouting.
Pleas. Examples made. Once the evacuees began to spill out of the carriages for
being so full one last order was given and the doors were unceremoniously shut.
Halina winced in sympathy as she eyed the white, frightened countenances
through slits in the splintered carriages.

They trundled along the makeshift platforms, fenced in by
the trains and wall of soldiers who moved them along and shunted groups into
fresh freight cars. For a brief moment Halina was distracted through catching
sight of Stefania Wlast, the widow of the Rabbi that had married her and
Solomon. Her aged yet unmistakably kind face shone out from beneath a
full-length wrap which had been made through sewing a couple of prayer shawls
together. A couple of young men, flanking her, seemed to be taking care of the
dignified woman. They were her nephews. Although they had the chance to escape
the aktion they both decided to stay with their beloved aunt, who had so
lovingly and wisely taken care of them during the first half of their lives.

Halina's sweaty palm made her husband's hand slip out of her
grip more easily as he was suddenly wrenched away from her by an impassive
German. Halina screamed and immediately, with outstretched arms, tried to force
her way through the densely packed crowd to re-reach her husband. Solomon
looked back at his distraught wife as he was dragged up from the platform and
thrown, as if he were a rag-doll, into a half-empty carriage - but his
expression was hauntingly blank. And he was gone.

The frantic woman slapped her bony hands to her face in
distress but then re-attempted to get to her husband. A soldier however had
sprung up in front of the cluster of people in Halina's way. He opened up his
muscular arms and forced them all back towards the previous carriage. Still
Halina tried to squeeze her way through the throng, swimming in vain against a
more powerful current.

"My husband. My husband," the powerless woman
implored, her voice uncovering new strains of despair.

From over the shoulder of one soldier came the base of a
rifle butt from another Private, jabbing Halina across her right temple and
cheek bone. Vital seconds passed as Halina was knocked senseless for a few
moments. A stranger helped her up. Blood tricked down her burning cheek but so
concerned was she with finding Solomon that, at first, the dismayed woman
didn't notice. As she got to her feet though Halina's heart sank - and
something inside of her broke like fine china smashing to the ground - as she
witnessed the doors to Solomon's carriage being nailed shut.

Halina was half in a daze as she was buffeted and shoved
into her own carriage. Such was the swelling already around her right eye that
she could no longer properly see out of it. People spluttered and complained -
but not directly to any soldier - that they couldn't breathe. Halina too began
to wheeze and suffocate as more and more people were loaded into the car. A
young man with a heavily pock-marked face kindly gave up his space and allowed
Halina to stand next to one of the windows, air holes, in the carriage.
Criss-crossed strands of barbed wire served as bars to the moving prison.
Halina pressed her mournful face right up to the narrow vent - so close as to
occasionally scratch her forehead upon the wire when people inadvertently
squashed into her.

A commotion was suddenly caused outside of the carriage when
a man began to violently convulse and froth at the mouth. He had taken a
cyanide pill. Perhaps before entering the final selection area he had still
been suffused with enough hope to resist such a desperate act - yet perhaps now
it was insane not to take his life in his own hands. Annoyed by the disturbance
the Germans nevertheless removed the dead Jew's body and then proceeded to load
up the compartments again as if nothing had happened.

The floor beneath Halina's tired feet began to vibrate and
the train finally rattled and screeched into life. The final task had been to
post a group of Ukrainian soldiers on the back of the train, whose orders were to
shoot any deportee who tried to jump off and escape. Families huddled together
and clutched each other. The air rippled with a multitude of murmurings and
groans. Many were quiet, absorbed in their own resignation and misery. Those
that were overly vocal were ignored, or told to pipe down as they asked where
they were going? - and what would happen to them?

Solomon Rubenstein's mouth hung open. He was unable to
muster the strength or effort to clamp it shut. He shivered whilst most of the
rest of the people in the carriage perspired from the dirty heat. He tried to
picture his children, his wife, but he couldn't concentrate. The photographs
always seemed to fall off the mental mantelpiece when he tried to stand them
up. His inner eyes were weakening and the images were blurred, or blown away
like castles in the sand. Half-way to Treblinka Solomon Rubenstein passed away
in a darkened corner of the freight car. His heart stopped beating.