The Zone of Interest (4 page)

With impatiently quaking fingers Paul Doll upended the decanter over his brandy balloon. He drank, as if for thirst, and poured again. He said over his shoulder,

‘D’you want some of this?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, Major,’ I said. ‘Ah. Many thanks.’

‘So they’ve decided. Yea or nay? Let me guess. Yea.’

‘Why’re you so sure?’

He went and threw himself down on the leather chair, and roughly unbuttoned his tunic.

‘Because it’ll cause me more difficulties. That seems to be the guiding principle. Let’s cause Paul Doll more difficulties.’

‘You’re right, as usual, sir. I opposed it but it is to come about. Kat Zet III,’ I began.

On the chimney piece in Doll’s office there stood a framed photograph of perhaps half a metre square with a professional burnish to it (the cameraman was not the Commandant: this was pre-Doll). The background was sharply bisected, a hazy radiance on one side, and a felt-thick darkness on the other. A very young Hannah stood in the light, centre stage (and it
was
a stage – a ball? a masquerade? amateur theatricals?), in a sashed evening gown, cradling a bunch of flowers in arms gloved to the elbow; she was beaming with embarrassment at the extent of her own delight. The sheer gown was cinched at the waist, and there it all lay before you . . .

This was thirteen or fourteen years ago – and she was
far
better now.

They say that it is one of the most terrifying manifestations in nature: a bull elephant in a state of
must
. Twin streams of vile-smelling liquid flow from the ducts of the temples and into the corners of the jaws. At these times the great beast will gore giraffes and hippos, will break the backs of cringeing rhinoceri. This was male-elephantine
heat
.

Must
: it derived via Urdu from the Persian
mast
or
maest
– ‘intoxicated’. But I had settled for the modal verb. I must, I must, I just
must
.

The next morning (it was a Saturday) I slipped out of the Buna-Werke with a heavy valise and went back to Dzilka Street, where I began to go through the weekly construction report. This of course would include a mass of estimates for the new amenity at Monowitz.

At two I had a caller; and for forty-five minutes I entertained a young woman called Loremarie Ballach. This meeting was also a parting. She was the wife of Peter Ballach, a colleague of mine (a friendly and capable metallurgist). Loremarie didn’t love it here, and neither did her husband. The cartel had finally authorised his transfer back to HQ.

‘Don’t write,’ she said as she dressed. ‘Not until it’s all over.’

I worked on. This much cement, this much timber, this much barbed wire. At odd moments I registered my relief, as well as my regret, that Loremarie was no more (and would have to be replaced). Adulterous philanderers had a motto:
Seduce the wife, traduce the husband
; and when I was in bed with Loremarie, I always felt a sedimentary unease about Peter – his plump lips, his spluttering laugh, his misbuttoned waistcoat.

That wouldn’t apply in the case of Hannah Doll. The fact that Hannah had married the Commandant: this was not a good reason to be in love with her – but it was a good reason to be in bed with her. I worked on, adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, and yearning for the sound of Boris’s motorbike (with its inviting sidecar).

Around half past eight I got up from my desk, intending to fetch a bottle of Sancerre from the roped fridge.

Max – Maksik – sat erect and still on the bare white slats. In his custody, restrained by a negligent paw, was a small and dusty grey mouse. Still trembling with life, it was looking up at him, and seemed to be smiling – seemed to be smiling an apologetic smile; then the life fluttered out of it while Max gazed elsewhere. Was it the pressure of the claws? Was it mortal fright? Whichever it was Max at once settled down to his meal.

I went outside and descended the slope to the Stare Miasto. Empty, as if under curfew.

What was the mouse saying? It was saying, All I can offer, in mitigation, in appeasement, is the totality, the perfection, of my defencelessness.

What was the cat saying? It wasn’t saying anything, naturally. Glassy, starry, imperial, of another order, of another world.

When I got back to my rooms Max was stretched out on the carpet in the study. The mouse was gone, devoured without trace, tail and all.

That night, over the black endlessness of the Eurasian plain, the sky held on to its indigo and violet till very late – the colour of a bruise beneath a fingernail.

It was the August of 1942.

*

2. DOLL: THE SELEKTION

‘If Berlin has a change of heart,’ said my caller, ‘I’ll let you know. Sleep well, Major.’ And he was gone.

As you might expect, that ghastly incident on the ramp has left me with a splitting headache. I have just taken 2 aspirin (650 mg; 20.43) and shall doubtlessly rely on a Phanodorm at bedtime. Not a word of solicitude from Hannah, of course. Whilst she could clearly see that I was shaken to the core, she simply turned away with a little lift of the chin – as if, for all the world,
her
hardships were greater than my own . . .

Ah, what’s the matter, dearest sweetling? Have those naughty little girls been ‘playing you up’? Has Bronislawa again fallen short? Are your precious poppies refusing to flower? Dear oh dear – why, that’s almost too tragic to bear. I’ve some suggestions, my petkins. Try doing something for your country, Madam! Try dealing with vicious spoilers like Eikel and Prufer! Try extending Protective Custody to 30, 40, 50,000 people!

Try your hand, fine lady, at receiving Sonderzug 105 . . .

Well, I can’t claim I wasn’t warned. Or can I? I was alerted, true, but to quite another eventuality. Acute tension, then extreme relief – then, once again, drastic pressure. I ought now to be enjoying a moment of respite. But what confronts me, on my return home?
More
difficulties.

Konzentrationslager 3, indeed. No wonder my head is splitting!

There were 2 telegrams. The official communication, from Berlin, read as follows:

JUNE 25

BOURGET – DRANCY DEP 01.00 ARR COMPIEGNE 03.40 DEP 04.40 ARR LAON 06.45 DEP 07.05 ARR REIMS 08.07 DEP 08.38 ARR FRONTIER 14.11 DEP 15.05

JUNE 26

ARRIVE KZA(I) 19.03 END

Perusing this, one had every reason to expect a ‘soft’ transport, as the evacuees would be spending a mere 2 days in transit. Yes, but the 1st missive was followed by a 2nd, from Paris:

DEAR COMRADE DOLL STOP AS OLD FRIEND ADVISE EXTREME CAUTION VIZ SPECIAL TRAIN 105 STOP YOUR ABILITIES TESTED TO LIMITS STOP COURAGE STOP WALTHER PABST SALUTES YOU FROM SACRE COEUR END

Now over the years I have developed a dictum:
Fail to prepare? Prepare to fail!
So I made my arrangements accordingly.

It was now 18.57; and we were primed.

Nobody can say that I don’t cut a pretty imposing figure on the ramp: chest out, with sturdy fists planted on jodhpured hips, and the soles of my jackboots at least a metre apart. And look of what I wielded: I had with me my number 2, Wolfram Prufer, 3 labour managers, 6 physicians and as many disinfectors, my trusty Sonderkommandofuhrer, Szmul, with his 12-man team (3 of whom spoke French), 8 Kapos plus the hosing crew, and a full Storm of 96 troops under Captain Boris Eltz, reinforced by the 8-strong unit deploying the belt-fed, tripod-based heavy machine gun and the 2 flamethrowers. I had also called upon a) Senior Supervisor Grese and her platoon (Grese is admirably firm with recalcitrant females), and b) the current ‘orchestra’ – not the usual dog’s breakfast of banjoes and accordions and didgeridoos, but a ‘septet’ of 1st-rate violinists from Innsbruck.

(I
like
numbers. They speak of logic, exactitude, and thrift. I’m a little uncertain, sometimes, about ‘one’ – about whether it denotes quantity, or is being used as a . . . ‘pronoun’? But consistency’s the thing. And I
like
numbers. Numbers, numerals, integers. Digits!)

19.01 very slowly became 19.02. We felt the hums and tremors in the rails, and I too felt a rush of energy and strength. There we stood, quite still for a moment, the waiting figures on the spur, at the far end of a rising plain, steppelike in its vastness. The track stretched halfway to the horizon, where, at last, ST 105 silently materialised.

On it came. Coolly I raised my powerful binoculars: the high-shouldered torso of the locomotive, with its single eye, its squat spout. Now the train leaned sideways as it climbed.

‘Passenger cars,’ I said. This was not so unusual with transports from the west. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘3
classes
’ . . . The carriages streamed sideways, carriages of yellow and terracotta,
Première
,
Deuxième
,
Troisième
–
JEP
,
NORD
,
La Flèche d’Or
. Professor Zulz, our head doctor, said drily,

‘Three classes? Well, you know the French. They do everything in style.’

‘Too true, Professor,’ I rejoined. ‘Even the way they hoist the white flag has a certain – a certain
je ne sais quoi
. Not so?’

The good doctor chuckled heartily and said, ‘Damn you, Paul. Touché, my Kommandant.’

Oh yes, we bantered and smiled in the collegial fashion, but make no mistake: we were ready. I motioned with my right hand to Captain Eltz, as the troops – under orders to stand back – took up their positions along the length of the siding. The
Golden Arrow
pulled in, slowed, and halted with a fierce pneumatic sigh.

Now they’re quite right when they say that 1,000 per train is the soundest ‘rule of thumb’ (and that up to 90% of them will be selected Left). I was already surmising, however, that the customary guidelines would be of scant help to me here.

First to disembark were not the usual trotting shapes of uniformed servicemen or gendarmes but a scattered contingent of baffled-looking middle-aged ‘stewards’ (they wore white bands on the sleeves of their civilian suits). There came another exhausted gasp from the engine, and the scene settled into silence.

Another carriage door swung open. And who alighted? A little boy of about 8 or 9, in a sailor suit, with extravagant bell-bottomed trousers; then an elderly gentleman in an astrakhan overcoat; and then a cronelike figure bent over the pearl handle of an ebony cane – so bent, indeed, that the stick was too high for her, and she had to reach upwards to keep her palm on its glossy knob. Now the other carriage doors opened, and the other passengers detrained.

Well, by this time I was grinning widely and shaking my head, and quietly cursing that old lunatic Walli Pabst – as his telegram of ‘warning’ was clearly nothing more than a practical joke!