Warsaw (29 page)

Kleist also noticed an ostracised Dietmar, looking bored and
lost. Rather than resolving to rescue him from his isolation though Christian
thought how it might have been an error in judgement to have invited the
non-commissioned adjutant. He had only invited the youth out of a sense of
guilt for not taking him to Berlin. He would make it up to his companion
though, but not now. Christian half hoped that in a quiet moment Dietmar would
approach him and, using the excuse of feeling tired, he would prematurely head
back to the apartment. Partly the Lieutenant wished this so as to save the
youth from what he would have to witness and endure later on in the evening.

"Take Laurel and Hardy behind me there, Major Barkmann
and his appendage, our Second Lieutenant Wittmann. Although I can't see them I
have no doubt that they are making a couple somewhere in the room."

Thomas pursed his lips in a smirk at Walter's comment about
them being a Teutonic impersonation of the comedy duo. He nodded also to
confirm that yes, the pair were indeed still joined at the hip.

"My job has afforded me the opportunity over the past
six months or so to talk and correspond with the Lieutenant in private.
Contrary to appearances I have found him to be exceedingly well-read, generous
and far from prickly. He is an inveterate snob, but I can forgive him for that
as easily I can forgive myself for that minor sin, or virtue. It is far from
difficult nowadays to look down upon the mob - and bourgeoisie. Before the war
Michael used to be an accountant and you could say that in his present position
he still employs some of the skills of his former profession. He works in an
adjoining office to the good Major over there and tallies up the figures that
various officers hand him in relation to the amount of Jews the SS have
dispatched for the week. He drowns out the sound of Barkmann having sex with
his latest secretary in his office next door by listening to Elgar and Gilbert
and Sullivan. Perhaps the stirrings of his conscience are also similarly
muffled by such sweetness and light, I don't know. But I confess I have grown
to enjoy, or at least tolerate, the man's company. The principle reason why I
have spent so much time with Michael of late is that he is helping me with a
project you might say. He has been assisting me - in terms of wording the
letters and letting me know who to send the correspondence to - in regards to
protesting about the needless mistreatment and deaths occurring in our
factories. It would be a fanciful and fruitless task appealing to them on
humanitarian grounds, so I do my best to save as many lives as possible by
arguing that they can kill as many Jews in the ghetto as they like - a good Jew
is a dead Jew I trot out - but I protest that a good worker cannot possibly be
a dead or malnourished one. I have to appeal to them on the grounds of productivity,
but it sometimes works. Although it has remained unsaid I believe that Michael
has helped me for the right reasons. Saying that though, I am also doing him a
favour in return. I am presently reading over for him a radio play which he
first developed long before the war. He has conceded though that he will now
have to alter the work if ever he is to lay the would-be pearl before the swine
of the German masses. In his own words I have heard him describe the work as
"nihilistic", "Wagnerian" and even "whimsical".
It is an eminently mediocre piece of amateurism that contains as many merits as
it does faults. My apologies, I used to be a theatre critic many moons ago. I
rarely have a chance to unsheathe my tongue nowadays. Before I slip off my
soap-box though I must just spout a theory I have - that German theatre died on
the day that Rathenau was assassinated. Under Bruning no one could afford to
either set-up or attend a worthwhile production - and under our current
whip-wielding ringmaster and his troupe of bloodthirsty clowns there is nothing
worth seeing. But my point is this, if indeed it is a point - we are all
hypocrites. Our Lieutenant Wittmann will rightly tell you in a confidential
moment that the waste and horrors of this war must come to an end. But then he
will finish having his cup of milky coffee with you and return to his work,
typing up suggestions on how various stages of production can improve the
process of the elimination of an entire race of people. I used to colour my
cowardice during our slow but inexorable descent into barbarism by deeming
myself an ironist Thomas. I was detached and amused by the great game being
played out before my tipsy eyes. And when I became too depressed or I too
suffered stirrings of conscience, I just went shopping either for a new affair
or silk tie. But yet then I argued with myself - and I gave myself credit for
my honesty - that I was a hypocrite. And was that not better than being a
sadist or slave? After all aren't we all hypocrites? We all can say one thing
and do another. What with the various masques and trades we experience in
society hypocrisy is a necessity, a prerequisite for success - or for
functioning even. If one can reconcile oneself with becoming a hypocrite then
can we not reconcile ourselves to anything? I once thought this perhaps, but I
feel unreconciled now because I am a hypocrite. Hypocrisy is the glue which
binds together the institutions of civilisation itself, but there are still
finer things in life. I used to believe that partly why being a hypocrite was
permissible was that we all experienced the social malady, or remedy. We're all
two-faced are we not? - Or at least I considered that until I encountered
specimens such as Major Barkmann behind you. There's no pretence or contradiction
in the man, he truly believes in what he says and does. What you see is what
you get. He embodies the progression and evolution that National Socialism
hopes to confer on its loyal servants. How about this for a contorted
syllogism? - Animals are not hypocrites. Barkmann is not a hypocrite. Therefore
Barkmann is an animal. And I dare say he's proud of the fact. He will doubtless
bombastically remark this evening, as has done so a countless number of other
times, that "I am just a soldier". In terms of another quote which I
found interesting - when I was in Berlin last and suffering a senior Party
member's Hitlerian speechifying - listen the following. I believe it is
originally an aphorism from Nietzsche under the title of "Truth as Circe"
but no matter. The parvenu filled his lungs with air, paused to check that he
had his audience's attention and sagely spouted "Error has transformed
animals into men; is truth not perhaps capable of changing man back into an
animal?” The enemy of Nazism is not the Jew, or Bolshivist; it is far more
ambitious and nefarious than that. The enemy of Nazism is civilisation itself:
freedom, sensibility, art, tolerance, decency, compassion, irony. Anyway,
speaking of irony, I feel I am now speechifying myself. Sorry, but when I have
the fortune to meet someone like yourself I fear I suddenly turn into
Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and I must capture your ear in order to unburden
myself. Am I right in thinking that the clatter of heels upon the wooden floor
means that our pretty waitress is returning to top us up?"

Thomas couldn't help but just stop and gaze at the amiable
gentleman for a second or two as Fest - as if he had just broken off a
meaningless conversation about the rising price canned soup – turned and
greeted his young waitress for the evening. He winked and asked for a re-fill
in his glass. Still there was hesitancy in the Wehrmacht Corporal as to how
much trust and friendliness he wished to invest in his satirical companion. But
the soldier's reticence may have just been due to how confounded Thomas was at
what he had just heard in the middle of a party for senior SS officers. Thomas
smiled, partly due to the incredulousness of the scene - and partly due to his
admiration for the unassuming gad-fly of the state. Walter Fest, chewing upon
another piece of bread smothered in pheasant pate, grinned in reply, witnessing
the expression on the Corporal's face as the waitress also filled the soldier's
glass. If he had not been an old friend of Oscar's Thomas would have undoubtedly
suspected that Walter might have been Gestapo, commissioned by Kleist in order
to entrap him. For once Thomas was at a loss as to what to say. It was
Christian Kleist of all people however that saved the Corporal from
compromising himself, either way, to this stranger or would-be friend.

"My apologies gentlemen. I would've come over earlier
but we were talking shop. How are you Walter? Have you upset anyone with your
razor-sharp wit yet?"

"No, as the Russians are finding out much to their cost
it's very difficult to out-flank the SS, even in a battle of wits. This is a
wonderful party by the way," the critic added, waving his arm out in front
of him and surveying the array of distinguished guests, "this pate is
absolutely delicious".

Christian politely smiled in reply, his expression strained.
He could not be sure whether the comment was genuine or meant to traduce the
evening. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of sarcasm," Walter would
express to Thomas in a whispered aside later on in the evening. Christian again
could not evince whether the self-proclaimed wit was being serious or not. And
Fest was always clever and glib enough to be free from any sincerity in his
double-edged comments. Thomas grinned into his wine glass at the man's sardonic
timing. He was amused in that it was the normally intimidating Lieutenant who
was at a loss as to how to deal with the moneyed civilian.

"Thank you. I hope also that you are enjoying yourself
Corporal. I actually have a present for you. Having visited your recreational
area I know how all the Wehrmacht enjoy their beer - and so when I happened
upon a case of some particularly strong stuff in Berlin, I thought of you. I
think I've got a bottle of two here somewhere. Please, excuse me for a second
and I'll get you one. I'd be interested to know your expert opinion"
Christian remarked, friendly - yet somewhat patronising the soldier also.

Thomas turned and shrugged his shoulders to an equally
miffed Walter Fest. A buoyant Kleist soon returned with a tall glass of the gravy-brown
beer. Indeed as Thomas held it in his hand and eyed the dark liquid he could
see how much the drink resembled gravy in its texture, as well as tincture.
Before he even sampled the beverage Thomas rightly suspected how strong it was.
He wanted to wince at its pungent strength but Thomas swallowed it and said it
was "good" - and duly thanked the Lieutenant when he insisted upon
sending over a case to his platoon in the morning.

Jessica pulled her bedclothes up to her chin and turned over
on to her other side again. She couldn't sleep, thinking about Adam. After
dinner it was decided that they all should have an early night so as to be
rested for the following day. During dinner Adam and a desirous Jessica
couldn't keep their eyes off each other. Clandestine glances and telling smiles
were expressed and reciprocated. If Kolya did notice something about the
peculiar atmosphere across the table then he relegated its importance, as hopes
and fears fittingly occupied the youth concerning their escape. When the boy's
back was turned as he got ready for bed Jessica even boldly squeezed Duritz's
hand and then, when Kolya's back was turned again, the stimulated, stimulating
woman quickly ran her hand up the shirt of Adam and stroked his back. She
nearly laughed upon witnessing the shocked expression upon his face.

Jessica closed her eyes again, either in a wish for sleep or
for Adam to descend upon her. The needful woman wanted him to come into her
room and, without a word said, take her in his arms...

"Double the number of Deaths Head regiments and you'll
quadruple our successes, mark my words gentlemen," Major Barkmann loudly
pronounced, perhaps in order that the Wehrmacht Corporal might overhear. What
was Fest doing talking to him for all this time anyway?

"Here, here," an oleaginous Second Lieutenant on
the Major's staff chimed in.

"More control should be given to the SS, not less, if
we are to win this war. Germany is haemorrhaging men and progress is faltering.
Rommel is a self-serving glory hunter. And Von Paulus is weak. It should be out
with the old guard... As Himmler rightly prophesised, the future belongs to
us."

Although the Major was hesitant in his respect and praise
for Himmler - the "anti-soldier" as he was occasionally dubbed as a
result of the ex-fertiliser salesman's lack of military service - the veteran
member of the SA and then SS believed in and often quoted the Reichsfuhrer's
pseudo-philosophies and speeches. Indeed this very night he would trot out
Himmler's tenets - more and more as the drink flowed - in order to stress his
own arguments.

"Blood, selection, toughness. The law of nature is
simply this: whatever is tough is good, whatever is strong is good, that which
prevails in the struggle for life, physically, spiritually, and through effort
of the will, is the Good... eradicate the weak and unfit through selection by
physical appearance, through constant exertion and through selectivity, applied
brutally and without human sentimentality," the Major preached.

Hans Barkmann initially grew up on a pig farm. As a teenager
he lost his livelihood when a Jewish syndicate of businessmen bought up all of
the farms in the area and then rationalised the labour force. Although only in
his teens Hans Barkmann turned to drink and, bitter and resentful of his lot,
he was quick to get into fights. By the age of twenty he'd had his nose broken
four times. With little schooling and opportunity the "ardent
patriot" signed up immediately when the Great War broke out. He, along
with Germany, would show the world what they were made of. He enjoyed it when
people cheered him and girls blew him kisses at the train station. His uniform
brought him a certain respect, self-esteem. His service record was untainted,
if unremarkable. He returned home feeling betrayed by the military and his
government - and blaming them for Germany's defeat. He was homeless and
jobless. For a year or so he turned to crime, petty theft and housebreaking. He
spent six months in prison for assault. Seeking employment Hans Barkmann moved
to Munich and stayed with an old trench comrade, who had recently become a
recruit in an organisation called the SA. Hans first enjoyed the comradeship
and recreational activities of the group, the drinking and brawling - but the
proud German soon conformed to other ideas of what it meant to be a National
Socialist. For once things started to make sense and have meaning for the
soldier. He was part of something bigger than him. He and Germany could give
themselves a second chance. He was a willing follower and was proud of the fact
that, when asked to do a job by Rohm or Schreck, he got it done, whether it was
with an "eraser" (rubber truncheon) or "lighter" (pistol) -
both of which Barkmann still kept in his office as fond reminders of the old
days. The foot-soldier rose through the ranks and was happy to sacrifice the
friendship of some of his embittered SA comrades to join the elite,
Hitler-patronised unit of the SS. He felt honoured. He enjoyed being a soldier
again, fighting for something he believed in - a vessel and mouth-piece for
Nazi propaganda. Although far from bored from being involved in policing the
Party's own demonstrations - and breaking up its opponents (Jews, Communists,
Liberals) - Hans Barkmann accepted the offer, which rumour had it that it came
from the Fuhrer himself, to be involved in Himmler's recruitment drive for the
SS. He was told, by a secretary of Himmler's, that he spoke "the people's
language" and would be an asset in his new role. Hans Barkmann did however
become bored with the position, which increasingly involved too much paperwork
for the ill-educated member of the SS. He proceeded to serve under Theodore
Eicke - first in a position of training SS recruits but then as a
Sergeant-Major at Dachau. Impressed by his zeal for the cause Eicke recommended
his brutal foreman for promotion. Such was Eicke's influence that Hans Barkmann
finally received his new rank. Religiously believing that the SS were, in the
Fuhrer's own words, "the vanguard of Germany's awakening", Hans
Barkmann was a devout soldier. He was decorated for his courage and leadership
in Poland. In France - frustrated and bloodthirsty - he murdered surrendering
French and English POWs, rather than spare the manpower to guard them, during
the British evacuation at Dunkirk. He had committed far worse crimes at Dachau
and Lodz. Seizing the opportunity of further promotion (which Heydrich did
indeed thankfully bestow upon the good National Socialist a month before the
architect of the Final Solution was murdered in cold blood by two assassins)
Hans Barkmann signed up to help administer the occupation of Warsaw and the
transportation of its Jews. Thanks to the officers and legislation that
Heydrich - and then Eichmann - put into place his commission was not an
over-taxing one though. Indeed, when not attending a function similar to
Kleist's party or working his way through the female clerical staff at his
headquarters, Barkmann invested most of his time in arranging for his spoils of
war (valuables and monies confiscated from Jews who had no need of them
anymore) to be safely dispatched back home to his wife. But no one could
question the veteran's commitment to the cause. And hadn't he earned his
rewards? Besides, everyone was doing it. And he was not born with a silver spoon
in his mouth like Kleist.