Finding Rebecca: A Novel of Love and the Holocaust (39 page)

“Not in work today?” Christopher said
as he heard Stefan pick up.

“No, I’m very busy with the
arrangements we were trying to organize together.”

“How is your health, Father?”

“The same. I’m still hanging on.”

“I wanted to call you about our
arrangements. Things have changed. I’ve been offered a wonderful opportunity to
serve the Reich directly on the Eastern Front.” Christopher paused, waiting for
his father’s reaction, but there was only silence. “I’ll most likely be
shipping out next week.”

“So, is our arrangement off?”

“No, but it’s going to have to be
pushed forward to Friday of this week.”

“Friday? Today is Tuesday.”

“Yes, I know what day it is.”
Christopher pushed a breath out. “This is the way it has to be. Can you do it?”

“Well, I suppose that I’ll just have
to, won’t I?”

“Yes. It’s the only way. The same
thing we discussed, but just this Friday.”

“I understand. Stay safe, my son,
we’re thinking about you all the time.”

“Good luck, Father.” He hung up the
phone.

Christopher took a breath deep down
into his lungs and thought about Breitner in this very seat. The handover would
not be easy, in so many ways. There had to be some way to stop it. Without him
there to protect the ladies in Canada…There was so much to do. There were three
shipments coming in that day and he had still not caught up with the work from
yesterday. Christopher stood up and opened the door to the main office.
Breitner and Flick were at their desks. Breitner threw eyes at Christopher and
then back at the work in front of him.

“Herr Breitner, can I see you for a
moment?”

Breitner raised his head, his skin a
paler grey than usual. He looked across at Flick, who didn’t raise his head,
and back at Christopher before he nodded and stood up.

“Sit down, Wolfgang,” Christopher
said as Breitner closed the door behind him. “We’ve never really gotten to know
one another too well, have we?” Once again Christopher was behind his desk.

“How do you mean, Herr
Obersturmführer?”

“Socially I mean. You’re never around
after dark to play cards with us. Where do you go? What do you do?”

He seemed nervous and his eyes flew
around the room, resting in one corner then moving to explore another before
finally coming to rest on Christopher. “I am in a different part of the
barracks, quite far from you.”

“Quite far, yes, one could certainly
say that much.” Christopher stared across the table at him. Breitner’s thin
features contorted with discomfort that Christopher was enjoying. “Do you enjoy
working here, Breitner?”

“Yes.”

“But not especially, no?” Christopher
clasped his hands together. “Do you feel you might be happier getting closer to
the action, as it were? What I’m trying to get at is-would you be more
contented to be on the front, with the rest of our brave lads? It’s not
everyone who’s cut out for that. Perhaps you’re not.”

Breitner seemed to tense. “What makes
you think I’m not able for that?”

“I never said that. It’s just that
you’re not really that good of an accountant and I have to submit a report to
the Lagerkommandant saying as much. There are just too many mistakes, too much
shoddy work, Wolfgang, I’m sure you understand.”

Breitner grimaced. “Well, that’s your
opinion. No one works harder than I do around here. Perhaps I’m not the
politician that…. some people are, but I’m a hard worker.” He was struggling
for words. It was a pleasure to see.

“Yes but sometimes there’s more to
work than just putting the hours in. This work requires skill and patience. I
just had a meeting with Rapportführer Friedrich, he said very much the same
thing and, unfortunately, we are in agreement over what needs to happen to
you.” Christopher kept the invective from his voice, though it was bubbling
over inside him.

‘”Is that right?” Breitner was
smiling now. “Herr Friedrich said that, did he?”

“Do you know something that I don’t,
Wolfgang?”

“No, of course not.” Breitner
replied.

“That will be all, Breitner,”
Christopher said, and Breitner left. It was clear to Christopher that the
conspiracy against him was going to have to be broken before Friday morning.
But how? Christopher thought of Pierre Cassin, working in Crematorium 4 with
the other men, shaving hair off dead bodies to be turned into blankets and
nylons. What could he do? Even if Christopher could somehow convince him, or
another prisoner to kill Friedrich and somehow got away with it, a feat that
seemed impossible, there would be horrible retributions. There had to be
another way.

Friday morning came with dreams of
Rebecca, or was it Anka? It was hard to think of one without the other. They
ran together like separate streams into the same river, mingling in his mind to
become one. They were with him as he dressed, shaved, in everything he did.
Lahm shifted in his sleep and cast an eye towards Christopher before closing it
again. There was nothing to be done about Lahm now, but that day would come.
This war would be over someday and the power that Lahm yielded would be broken.
All of this would end, all of this. And who would know that he, Christopher
Seeler, was any different from Lahm and the others? Who would know what he had
tried to do here? Christopher took Anka’s drawing out of his pocket, the folds
deep in the flimsy white paper. He ran his eyes over it again, the lemon sun
high in the sky over the rectangular farmhouse, and in the field three brown
cows. Perhaps it was her home, drawn from memory or perhaps not. He would never
know. He wished he had been able to bring a photograph of Rebecca, a record of
her beauty to keep for himself. Instead he looked into the mirror and saw her
in his own eyes.

The snow was thick on the ground as
Christopher made his way out to the shed where his bicycle was kept. The roads
had been cleared already. The SS enjoyed the snow, enjoyed making the prisoners
shovel it. Christopher had seen Blockführers and Kapos force prisoners to cover
the road with the snow that they had just shoveled off it, just so that they
would have to dig it out again. Christopher cycled past skeleton people,
standing barefoot in snowdrifts as they struggled to lift shovels to plunge
into the snow. He heard the screams of the Kapo as one man seemed too slow, and
more screams as the SS man came across. Christopher cycled away, trying to
escape the sound of what he knew was to come, but he couldn’t, and the shot
rang out and found his ears. But Christopher wiped it from his mind, as he
always did, as he had to. He looked at his watch. It was not long now, the
first shipment of the day, the children would be from the same part of
Czechoslovakia Schultz was from. That would be Christopher’s tribute to him.
 

Christopher arrived first at the
office, as always, although the ladies in Canada had been working for more than
two hours already. Christopher unlocked the door to his office and saw the
envelope lying on his desk. He opened it and read the letter inside again. It
would be enough. He placed it back into the envelope, put the envelope into his
pocket and walked into the snow outside. He wandered into one of the warehouses
where fifteen ladies were rummaging through winter coats, scarves and hats.
Christopher looked over toward the guard on duty, who
was having a cigarette in the corner. The room was cold, barely any warmer than
the air outside, and each of the workers was huddled in coats and scarves of
their own, their breath plumes of icy white in front of them.
Petra
Kocianova was sitting in front of a large table, her
sister Martina by her side. Christopher felt himself drawn to where she was
sitting, and, without knowing he had moved, he was standing directly beside
her. She looked up at him. He wanted to apologize to her, for saving her and
leaving her in a world without her children, surrounded by pain, misery and
death. His hand was resting on the table beside her and he looked away, but
then felt the touch of her. She was looking up at him, her hand resting on his,
and he looked at Martina. She was smiling through her tears, looking directly
into his eyes.

Christopher
was there as the train arrived and the prisoners spilled off the cattle carts
and onto the gravel below. The shouting, the dogs, the line up and the
selections began. Christopher was looking at the administrator and waiting for
him to call out the orders. It seemed to take an age, but finally he did. The
Krupp factory needed forty-five children, young children under the age of seven,
and they began to step forward. SS men walked up and down the lines picking out
the children Christopher had bought, and they gathered together in a shivering
mass. Many of them cried, reaching out for their mothers, but some of them just
stood silently as if somehow they knew what was going on. Then they were loaded
onto the truck to take them away. Christopher watched as they crowded into the
truck. There was barely space for them, but the SS men packed them in, some on
top of others. They had no idea of the long journey they had ahead of them,
first to the factory and then from there to the meeting point with Stefan and
Alexandra in Leipzig, and then to the orphanage in the convent where Stefan had
organized the purchase and furnishing of an old unused wing for them to live
in. They would have food and a place to sleep somewhere the war would never
find them. They would be kept as war orphans, complete with papers. Christopher
stood there watching as the truck left and the children waved, shouted goodbye
to the parents they were leaving behind. Then they were gone.

It was
starting to snow again, tiny specks of white trickling down onto the shoulders
of the prisoners as they lined up for selection. Christopher was close enough
to hear the doctors proclaiming the sentence of death, or life as slave, each
decision made in five seconds or less. Christopher turned away and saw
Friedrich, talking with Breitner. He walked towards them.

“Good
morning, Rapportführer, good morning, Herr Breitner.”

Friedrich
smirked as he turned to him, Breitner merely nodding his head. “Good morning to
you, Seeler, did you enjoy your last trip to Berlin yesterday? I think I will
take that particular role myself upon your departure. This time next week,
you’ll be one more of our brave boys on the front line. Exciting times eh?” He
turned to Breitner who was smiling now too.

“That’s
what I wanted to talk to you about,” Christopher began. “Have you put in the
orders for the transfer yet?”

“No, not
quite yet, don’t you worry though, Seeler it’s only a matter of a few hours….”

“Good,
I’m glad you won’t have to waste your time. I do know how valuable your time
is.”

“What
are you talking about?” Friedrich asked, still sneering.

Christopher
reached into his pocket and passed the envelope to Friedrich, who looked at
Breitner before he opened it. Christopher watched his eyes, waiting for them to
move down the page before he spoke.

“As you
can see, the rumors of my transfer out of the camp have been sorely
exaggerated. It seems like I’ll be staying here after all.”

“This
isn’t real,” Friedrich said, holding the letter out in front of him as Breitner
struggled to push his head across to read it. “This can’t be real.”

“Check
the signature, and the seal. You’ll find that it’s completely genuine.”
Christopher stared back at Friedrich and then at Breitner. “Breitner, the
transfer we spoke about previously will be going through later on today.”
Christopher looked at Friedrich.
 
“I
will expect a countersignature from you, Herr Rapportführer; we really don’t
want to bother the Lagerführer with the likes of this. I will, however, be
reinstituting the rules in Canada regarding the execution of prisoners and
resuming my role as head of the Anti-Corruption Committee.” Friedrich didn’t
speak, just handed the letter back. Christopher looked at SS Reichsführer
Heinrich Himmler’s signature and seal at the bottom once more before folding it
back into the envelope. Not bad, Christopher thought, and it only cost him
three thousand Reich marks. Himmler’s secretary should have charged more,
particularly as he had guaranteed to cover the letter if anyone called to check
on it. Christopher would have paid double that. Christopher turned and saluted,
and then walked away.

Christopher
finished up the paperwork for Breitner’s transfer to the front and sat back in
his seat. Friedrich would have to wait, but the Rapportführer wouldn’t bother
him anymore, not after this. He thought of Himmler’s secretary and the letter
it had taken him ten minutes to persuade him to write and wondered how many
times he had done it for other officers with money to throw at their problems. He
must have known that the house of cards was coming down. Christopher picked up
the phone. Herz’s secretary pretended not to know him, even after the flowers
he had sent her the previous week. She was good. Herz answered with a cough,
and Christopher pictured him, the decanter already half drunk at three in the
afternoon.