Finding Rebecca: A Novel of Love and the Holocaust (22 page)

“What goes on in Blocks 10 and 11?”

“They’re the punishment blocks.”

Christopher walked beside Lahm as he
led him out into the yard outside their block. The lights of the camp were
casting down harsh beams of white and Christopher raised a hand above his eyes
as they went. Auschwitz was silent, the thirty thousand or so prisoners, only a
few hundred yards away, making little sound. Christopher breathed deeply,
evenly, trying to calm himself, trying not to seem like an imposter. He wondered
about the conversation he’d had with Breitner and the Kapo, Frankl. Was it too
soon to stand out? He remembered the words of Friedrich and knew that by showing
any kind of sympathy to the prisoners he was risking his own life, and more
importantly, the chance to save Rebecca’s. But it was impossible to do nothing.
How could be do nothing and still be himself, still be human? There had to be
some way of affecting this. He was only one man, but he had some power, and
there would be money. He thought of the masses of currency he had seen just
that day. There would always be money.

Lahm led Christopher across the yard.
There were SS men passing them on all sides, milling back and forth. Most were
slovenly dressed, their collars open and shirts untucked, some seemed drunk,
meandering from side to side. Lahm greeted several of them and introduced
Christopher to one as they reached their destination. Christopher tried to be
as cordial as he could as he shook the man’s hand, and walked behind him and
Lahm, who immediately engaged in conversation. They led him to an open room at
the end of the hallway where seven or eight SS men sat around a wooden table.
There was money in the center and each man held cards in front of his face. The
room was full of a thick haze of cigarette smoke, and there were beer glasses
and bottles of vodka strewn all over the table. Lahm was greeted by all as he
walked in and he smiled back. “Everybody, this is the new man over in the
Economic Department, Christopher Seeler. Where are you from again, Seeler?”

“Berlin, originally but I grew up in
Jersey.”

“Jersey, isn’t that in Britain?” a
soldier answered from across the table.

“Not anymore!” the man beside him
shouted before Christopher could answer and they all erupted laughing.

Lahm sat down with a smile, Christopher
beside him. “Do you play cards, Seeler?”

“Not well.”

“Perfect, and working in the Economic
Department too, you’ll fit in very well here,” the same SS man who had made the
comment about Jersey said, and they all laughed again. “Deal that man in.” The
comedian’s name was Ganz. Christopher laughed too as they threw the cards at
him. Two hours later and having said almost nothing, Christopher had almost
doubled his original stake in the game and the other SS men’s faces were not as
friendly as they had been when he sat down. Ganz dealt the cards again. There
were seven of them at the table, all drunk, all smoking. Christopher felt his
eyelids heavy and the cards blurry in front of him.

“Hey, new guy, you gonna give us back
our money?” Sturmer, one of the guards said. He was a thin blonde haired man,
about Christopher’s age and the smile he flashed at Christopher was less than
friendly. He ground his teeth and closed his mouth.

“Can’t accept the way the cards
fall?” Lahm slurred and stared down at his cards, avoiding the glance from
Christopher.

Christopher looked at his hand, and
the glass of vodka in front of him on the table. It slid down his throat and
began its assault on his stomach lining. He looked around the table. His father
had taught him this game. It wasn’t about cards, but people. If they could see
through him at the card table, why couldn’t they see through him during the
day, in the camp? He pushed another pile of chips out into the middle, raising
the ante. The cards in his hand were nothing, but that didn’t matter, it wasn’t
about them. He studied the faces through the smoke. There had been little
talking during the hands for the last hour or so, just drinking. Christopher
watched as the faces around the table dropped as each man folded and it was
just he and Lahm. Lahm went to put down his cards and smiled, picking them back
up.

“I think that you’re a fake. I can see through you,” he said,
and Christopher felt the chill run through his entire body. Lahm’s serious face
gave way to a mischievous smile. “Let’s see what you have.” Christopher just
looked back at him. Lahm laid down his cards, three kings and a pair of sixes.
He reached out and gathered the money in, sweeping it back towards himself with
outstretched hands. “In fact, don’t even bother showing me your cards. I know
you don’t have anything.”

He dreamt about her. She was on the
beach in Jersey, the wind sweeping through her hair and he could see her, but
only as a dark outline of the grey sky, and as he ran towards her, she turned
to him and smiled. The blue of her eyes shone through the dark and outwards,
bright until he could see nothing else. Her face was in front of him, soft and
smooth and beautiful, and she was laughing as she skipped towards the
Butterfly’s Table as a child. He followed her down to the sea, boiling and
booming, throwing white water high in the air, but she was not there.

Lahm was still asleep as Christopher
awoke. The picture of Rebecca came to him again, as it did every morning upon
opening his eyes. The bare floorboards were cold as he stood up and he quickly
pulled on a fresh pair of socks and the grey trousers of his SS uniform. They
slid on easily; more comfortably than they had the previous week or even the
previous day. He approached the mirror in the corner of the room above the
simple sink covered in Lahm’s shaving materials and soap. Christopher looked
into his eyes and ran a gentle finger along the length of a bloodshot vein,
poking through scarlet, in the pool of grey white. There was a great pressure
in his chest, a weight inside him and he could barely move back to the bed to
sit down to pull his boots on. He stood back up and made the effort to shave
before buttoning up his shirt and pulling on his jacket. Lahm didn’t stir from
his sleep as Christopher shut the door behind him and made his way down the
hallway to the latrine. There were two other SS men in the bathroom. One nodded
to him as he brushed past, but the other man ignored Christopher and continued
washing his hands, scrubbing them harder and harder under the hot water.

It was a cold October morning, the
smell of the coming winter heavy in the air. Christopher tried to imagine how
it would be for the prisoners when the snows came. He had stolen brief glimpses
inside their living quarters, had seen them huddled together, four prisoners in
a cot made for one, their emaciated bodies huddling together to try to stave
off the cold. He thought of them and he thought of Rebecca again. Auschwitz,
with its massive prisoner population and its centralized administrative unit,
seemed like the best place to begin the search. Perhaps she was in the camp;
perhaps he could see her, but then what? Christopher walked around, past the
Blockführer’s office to the front gate and flashed his papers to the SS guard
on duty, who yawned as he bade him to walk through. It was almost eight o’clock
and the first shipment was due in less than an hour. Christopher cursed himself
for oversleeping; once the train arrived there would be no time for anything
other than murder and theft.

The block housing prisoners’ records
and the lists of those murdered as enemies of the Reich was just inside the
main gate and Christopher had no real reason to be there. SS men were not
encouraged to wander around the camp. Christopher’s role as Obersturmführer in
the Economic Department gave him some leeway, but not to be nosing around in
the camp’s records for a Jewish prisoner. There was another guard at the door
and Christopher presented him his papers. The guard looked at them and then
back at Christopher.

“You’re a long way from Birkenau,
Herr Obersturmführer. What are you doing down here?”

Christopher took deep breath of cold
air into his lungs and stared back at the guard trying to look as casual, even
bored, as he possibly could. “Listen, I’ve got plenty of better things to be
doing, my Rapportführer over in the Economic Section wants me to speak to…a
Karl Liebermann.”

“The head of prisoner records?” the
guard sneered. “Herr Liebermann is a busy man.”

“And so am I,” Christopher looked at
the guard, straight into his blank green eyes.

The guard shook his head and stood
aside to let Christopher pass. The door the guard had directed him to was open,
but Christopher knocked on it before pushing it open. Liebermann was sitting at
his desk and looked up as though Christopher had just caught him doing
something he shouldn’t have been. Christopher smiled as he took the chair in
front of Liebermann’s immaculately clean desk before he could even say
anything.

“Who are you and why are you in my
office?” Liebermann said. He was in his late forties and had a healthy double
chin and rounded glasses falling onto the tip of a straight nose.

“My name is Obersturmführer Seeler,
and I need your help.” Christopher stopped, waiting for a reply but Liebermann
sat back in his seat, didn’t say a word. “I heard you were a man with power in
the camp, power that could help solve a little problem that has come up for
me.” Christopher looked at Liebermann, again waiting for him to reply, but he
didn’t, so Christopher continued. “I am looking for a particular prisoner and I
don’t know if she is in this camp or…”

“She? Obersturmführer Seeler, why are
you looking for this prisoner?” Accusing eyes met Christopher’s across the
desk.

Christopher took a packet of
cigarettes out of his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.”

Christopher pursed his lips and
placed the cigarettes back in his pocket. “I suppose I can wait.”

“If we could get back to the business
at hand, Herr Seeler…”

“Ok, we’re all busy, I understand.”
Christopher held his hand up and leant forward, placing both hands on
Liebermann’s desk as he spoke. “You could say that I have a vested interest in
this prisoner. Her family contacted me, made me an offer for information.”
Christopher smiled, hoping that Liebermann would reciprocate, but again he
didn’t, instead shifting in his seat before putting a meaty hand up to his chin.

“This is highly irregular. These
people we deal with here are enemies of the state, you know that,
Obersturmführer Seeler.”

“I understand my role and your role
in this camp and I ask you to understand this, Herr Liebermann; this Jew is
rich, very rich. The idea that I have any attachment to this…. person is
laughable.”

Liebermann looked back across at him
and down at the desk between them. “Sifting through prisoner records would take
time,” Liebermann replied.

Christopher felt the bulge of cash in
his pocket from the wages he had just received. He took his hand out, left the
notes on the table. Liebermann’s eyes moved to the money and back up to
Christopher, and then back again. Christopher felt the sweat pooling in his
palms.

“I don’t accept bribes, Herr Seeler.”

“I don’t offer bribes, Herr
Liebermann.”

Liebermann took a piece of paper and
placed it down on the desk on top of the wad of bills. “I’ll see if I can find
this person in our camp. Have you a name for this mysterious lady?”

“All the details are here.”
Christopher replied and pushed a piece of paper across. “There is no time to
waste. The family will not pay much for news of a dead daughter.”

“Come back tomorrow morning and I’ll
see if we have some news for you.”

“Excellent,” Christopher said, and he
felt the flame inside him once more. “I’m sure you are busy and I need to get
to my own duties.” Christopher got out of the chair and made for the door.

“Herr Obersturmführer, I’m sure I
don’t need to mention the sensitive nature of this matter.” Liebermann said, as
Christopher reached the door.

“Of course not.” Christopher replied
and walked out and down the corridor.

The next shipment came less than an
hour later and the gruesome spectacle played out in much the same way as before,
as the screams of the murdered were drowned out by the roar of the engines of
the trucks. There were more for the gas chambers later that day and more for
the women of Canada to sort through. Christopher had not the strength to leave
his office the rest of that day. He was disgusted at himself for feeling a
sense of hope in a place where it could not exist. His quest seemed so tiny, so
utterly inconsequential in the face of all of this death, like chipping away at
the edge of a glacier with an ice pick. He was determined, more determined than
ever, to rescue her, but it didn’t seem like a satisfactory end, even if he
could somehow smuggle her out of the camp to escape. He had no idea how he
would do that, even if he did find her, but one thing at a time. He would find
her first, and then worry about what the next step was to be. He was trapped
here himself, trapped in this SS uniform, masquerading as one of them. He tried
to remember the words his father had left him with; to always remain true to
who he was, to not let the perverted ideals of the SS invade his being and
corrupt his soul, but that was already proving impossible. He was already
changed. What good was it to find her but lose himself?