Roots of Evil (31 page)

‘I know. It’s OK. Go on about – about him.’

About Alraune, said his mind. Alraune.
Mandragora officinarum
. The strange plant called by the Arabs ‘Satan’s Apple’ considered by the ancients to be a soporofic, but also to excite delirium and madness. Anathema to demons, it was said to shriek when uprooted, but was attributed with aphrodisiacal qualities. When he was fourteen Michael had looked up the word
alraune
in the local library, and although he had not understood all the
references, he had understood enough. At fourteen he had certainly understood about aphrodisiacs.

‘I loathed the name, of course,’ said Alice. ‘I knew quite well it was Dreyer’s way of branding the baby – because of the film and because of the stigma attached to the name. Alraune, the evil soulless child born from a bizarre sexual experiment…But when they gave me the birth certificate I just shrugged and looked bored.’

‘Lucretia’s shrug.’

‘Yes, I was always Lucretia inside Auschwitz. There was no reason to think the birth certificate was anything other than a properly registered document, and that was quite important. Officialdom ruled in Germany: if you didn’t have the right papers you couldn’t work or find anywhere to live or travel. So I thought the name would have to stay until I could reach England and have it legally changed. But I called him Alan – I thought it was sufficiently anonymous.’

‘In Pedlar’s Yard he was known to most people as Al.’

‘Al.’ She appeared to consider it. ‘It suggests a completely new persona, doesn’t it? Tougher and more masculine.’

‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘My mother knew who he was, didn’t she? She knew about Auschwitz.’

‘From what you’ve told me about her I think she must have known quite a lot. I used to talk to him about the Vienna years when he was very small – about meeting Conrad – the serving girl and the rich aristocrat. I tried to make it into a fairy-story for him.’

‘My mother knew all that. She told it to me as a fairy-story. But not Auschwitz.’

‘I never talked to Alraune about Auschwitz,’ said Alice. ‘But he lived there until he was almost four, and he would have had memories.’

‘I think my mother knew about Auschwitz, though. But she used to say there were dark places in the world, and that we would only ever make stories about the good places. The places full of light.’

‘When you tell me things like that about her, I regret very much that I didn’t know her,’ said Alice, rather sadly.

‘I wish you had known her. She was a bit like you – I don’t mean to look at. But when she talked – she could make you remember that there might be really good things waiting in life ahead of you. She could make you forget the bad things in life.’

‘That’s a very good quality to have,’ said Alice at once. ‘I think she’s passed it on to you.’

‘Do you? She hadn’t got it full-pelt, turbo-charged, like you have. But it was there.’ A pause. ‘D’you suppose that’s why he married her?’

‘Because she reminded him of me?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s possible. I’m sorry he made her so unhappy, though. I’m sorry she died like that – and I’m more sorry you had to be there when it all happened.’

‘She hated him in the end. I hated him as well. The brutality—’

Speaking very slowly, almost as if she might be fighting some inner battle, Alice said, ‘But you should try to forgive some of what he did, Michael. He was not entirely to blame.’

The cruel promise of spring was stirring beyond Auschwitz’s grim gates, and somehow Alraune had survived those first few months.

But it was as if there was a sullen core of smouldering hatred inside him, and there were times during those months after his birth when the dark eyes seemed to rest on Alice with unchildlike anger. And were they Leo Dreyer’s eyes? Or were they perhaps the eyes of the young officer who had made that faint gesture of apology? There would be a faint far-off comfort to be derived if the young officer could be his father, but could that blue-eyed Saxon have sired this black-visaged scrap of humanity? Please God, don’t let him be Dreyer’s son; please don’t let him grow up to resemble the man I loathe and fear most in all the world!

Alraune lived and slept in the hut with the women, and his playground was the recreation yard, where the
prisoners could exercise at set times each evening, and where the roll-call took place each morning. His clothes were whatever the women could fashion for him out of odds and ends of their own, and his toys were made from fragments of wood – carved figures or blocks which they stained in different colours with the dregs of the tasteless coffee they drank.

When the Polish women in one of the other huts received food parcels, they smuggled little gifts of food out for him. ‘A tin of meat for the baby,’ they said. ‘And a jar of meat essence – a spoonful to be dissolved in hot water – very nourishing.’ Very occasionally there would be a heart-breakingly tiny pot of jam. ‘Sweet,’ they said, nodding and smiling. ‘The little ones like to eat the sweet.’

One of the younger girls who had been brought to Auschwitz shortly after Alice was mourning the loss of a baby brother who had died in the
Kristallnacht
massacres. Her brother would have been the same age as Alraune, she said, and she liked to spend time with him, singing to him the songs she would never now sing to her brother, and telling him the stories her brother would never now hear. Alice could have wept over the pity of that, except…

‘Every time I look at him,’ she said to Ilena, ‘I see the faces of the men who raped me that night. Most of all I see Leo Dreyer’s face.’

‘But Alraune is half yours, no matter who the father was,’ said Ilena. ‘He has half your qualities – perhaps more than half. You’ll feel differently when he’s older – when you’ve grown away from what they did to you that night.’

Alice did not think she would ever feel differently and she was not sure if she would ever grow away from that night, but she did not say so.

The seasons wheeled round once more – and then twice more. The war was still going on somewhere beyond the bleak confines of Auschwitz – occasionally there was news of it, although it was impossible to know how accurate that news was. But certainly battles were fought in the skies over Germany and over England, and certainly ships were destroyed in the oceans, and houses and cities were blown up and men and women made homeless. In Auschwitz the inmates watched the greasy pall of smoke issuing from the tall brick chimneys of the crematoria block, and prayed to their various gods not to be selected for the gas chambers.

But even in such a dark hopeless place there were occasional patches of light. Music was one of these patches. Incredibly, there was music in the camp – small, infrequent concerts given by a group of musicians, most of them members of a Polish radio orchestra, arrested while actually performing and pressed into bizarre service by the camp commandants.

Alice was usually among the prisoners allowed to attend the ramshackle concerts, and it brought a deep twisting agony to hear music that Conrad had once played. But after the third or fourth time, she managed to speak to one of the musicians – a violinist. The music community had always been a tightly-knit one, and it was just possible that she might pick up news of Conrad. She complimented the violinist on his performance, and asked if orchestras such as this one were being formed in the other camps. In Dachau for instance?

The violinist was sympathetic but not very knowledgeable. Certainly there were other small orchestras, he said; this was generally known, and there might well be just such a one in Dachau – who knew? The Nazis liked to be thought of as people of culture, people who enjoyed such things as good music. This was said as if the words were poison which must be spat out as quickly as possible.

Alice asked the man if he had ever known the composer Conrad Kline. The Gestapo had taken him to Dachau.

The violinist had not known Herr Kline, but had heard him play once in Vienna – ah, a privilege that had been! A maestro indeed! He had not heard what might have happened to Herr Kline, but the baroness should keep in mind that the musicians in the camps were not being so harshly treated as some other inmates. ‘So that they can play as we do here,’ he said. ‘He has a good chance of surviving.’

Alice was heartened by the thought that Conrad might have his beloved music around him. (And one day, my dear love, we will dance together in that Viennese ballroom again, and I will be wearing a Parisian gown and perfume from Mme Chanel, and you will have evening clothes from Savile Row…) She had been soothed, as well, by the lyrical Mozart concerto that had formed the afternoon’s programme, but when she thanked the man for playing so beautifully, he only said, ‘If we don’t play well, we go to the gas.’

And then in the spring of 1943 a new chief physician came to Auschwitz.

The man whom some called the Angel of Death, and whom others called the Nazi Mystic. Dr Josef Mengele.

A web of sinister speculation seemed to surround Mengele almost within hours of his arrival. There were whispers about the work he was here to perform – rumours of experiments with twins or dwarfs; whispers of tests to establish the boundaries of human endurance, and grisly procedures aimed at observing the results of bone transplant and nerve regeneration.

Ilena, with her medical background, was assigned to work in one of Mengele’s clinics. ‘I had been naïve enough to think I might spike his guns,’ she said to Alice and the others after the first few days. ‘I had visions of stealing morphine and secretly administering it to the victims. After all these months in this place, I really thought that might be possible, can you believe that!’

‘Isn’t it possible?’

‘Everything is locked and guarded,’ said Ilena bitterly. ‘You couldn’t smuggle so much as a needle out of the place.’

‘For God’s sake don’t put yourself at risk,’ said Alice, frightened.

‘I won’t,’ said Ilena with her slanting smile. ‘One day, Lu, we’re going to walk out of here – perhaps when the Russians liberate us, or the British or the Americans. Perhaps we shall even find a way of escape for ourselves before that. But walk out we will, Lu. All of us. And you and I will go out together, arm in arm.’

Somehow, some day, they would walk out, because somehow they would survive.

Ilena had been working in the medical block for several weeks when she sought out Alice one night after the meagre bread-and-margarine supper. Her face was white and pinched, and she said, without preamble, ‘If they suspect I’m telling you this, Lu, they’ll probably hang me but I can’t help that.’

‘Telling me what?’

‘Mengele has noticed Alraune. You know how Alraune likes to sit in the recreation yard in the afternoons. Well, Mengele has noticed him.’ She paused and then said very gently, ‘I think they have earmarked him for one of their experiments.’

The iron stove was burning in its corner – there was the usual tin cup of water heating on it, and there was the warm scent of hot metal from the stove’s interior. But Alice felt as if an icy hand was closing around her heart. One of their experiments. One of their grim inhuman explorations into the human body or the human mind…

‘How do you know?’

‘They have a schedule of their week’s work pinned on a board inside the main administration room in the medical block,’ said Ilena. ‘Names and numbers of prisoners to be brought in, and who is to be seen by whom. I keep a close eye on that, of course, in case any of our own people are on it. And then this morning—’

‘Alraune’s name was there,’ said Alice in a whisper. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Oh God.’

‘Yes. One of the annexes – Annexe VI. Dr Josef Mengele’s patient.’

‘When?’ said Alice after a moment. ‘I mean – was there a date?’

‘Wednesday. The day after tomorrow.’

The day after tomorrow. So soon, thought Alice in panic. Less than two days. That’s all the time I’ve got to find a way to save him. ‘What kind of experiments are they doing in that annexe?’ she said. ‘Ilena, please tell me.’

‘Several different ones. But Mengele’s main interest at the moment,’ said Ilena unhappily, ‘is to pinpoint the breaking point in the human mind – to understand precisely how much pain and how much fear a man can endure before his mind splinters. They are trying to establish if pain or fear is the dominant factor – and that means applying both to their victims, and then observing the results.’

‘We could hide him,’ said the Russian girl some time during the night. ‘Some of the others have done that with children. Hidden them under clothing.’

‘But they’re always caught,’ said Alice.

‘And where could we hide him?’ said Ilena, with a swift angry gesture around the bare wooden floors of the hut and the narrow bunk beds.

Alice was dizzy with exhaustion and fear, but she was managing to force her mind to concentrate because there must be a way out of this. The women had not even tried to sleep; they had talked for hours, sitting up in their narrow beds, several of them grouped around the iron stove for warmth and comfort, all of them trying to think of a way to save Alraune from Mengele.

‘What about the SS jeeps?’ asked one of the older women hesitantly. ‘Could the two of you get into the boot
of one? You might even be taken out through the gates without them realizing. I know it’s been tried, but—’

‘The guards are very aware of that trick,’ said the Russian girl. ‘They search every inch of every vehicle that goes in and out of here. Lu and Alraune would be found and shot.’

‘Then,’ said Alice, ‘it looks as if all I can do is take him out of here now – tonight – and go on the wire.’ She felt the shiver go through them at this. ‘On the wire’ meant, quite simply, walking up to the electric fence surrounding the camp and trusting to God or the devil that you could get through it before the guards saw and fired. Even if the guards, by some fluke, did not see you, you ran the risk of being electrocuted by the wire itself. But there was still that tiny chance of success that had driven a few prisoners to try it.

‘Impossible,’ said Ilena. ‘I’d tie you up before I let that happen.’

‘I know we can’t actually hide Alraune,’ said one of the women, speaking slowly as if she was examining each word before letting it go. ‘But is there any way we could confuse the guards – and Mengele’s people – by moving him around?’

‘From hut to hut?’ asked Alice.

‘From hut to kitchens, from kitchens to laundry, wherever we can find a corner that might go unchecked for an hour or two,’ said the woman. She was one of the quieter occupants of the hut, but when she did speak she was always listened to with respect. She was a little older than most of them; she seldom talked about herself, other than to say rather offhandedly that she had been a
teacher. She said, ‘Auschwitz is so huge it might be days – weeks, even – before he was found.’

‘But they would find him in the end. And then they would certainly hang Lu,’ said one of the other women. ‘I don’t think it would work for more than a few days.’

‘But a few days might be all that’s needed. And if we could keep one step ahead of the Gestapo—’

‘To what purpose?’

‘I don’t know exactly. But it would gain us time, and in that time there might come some opportunity to get him safely out.’

‘The Polish lot would help us to hide him for some of the time,’ said someone from the stove.

‘Yes, they would,
and
their hut has that bit of a space where the roof slopes upwards,’ said the Russian girl eagerly.

‘And some of the Poles work in the laundry – they might be able to smuggle him in for a while, inside a linen basket or something—’

‘Can we trust the Poles? There aren’t any spies in their hut, are there?’

‘I don’t think so. Yes, I believe we could trust them.’

I don’t think I can bear this, thought Alice, listening to them. I don’t think I can bear the thought of a child – my own child, never mind how he was conceived – being shunted around this appalling place to avoid being the subject of some grotesque experiment that might maim him physically or mentally…

‘We’d be questioned,’ said Ilena. ‘About where he was.’

‘Interrogation,’ said a very young girl, shuddering and
glancing uneasily towards the door. ‘It’d be awfully dangerous.’

But several of the women had turned to look at the corner of Alice’s bed, where Alraune was asleep. The dark hair fell forward over his forehead, and there was a sheen of moisture on his eyelids. Alice felt again that stir of deep protectiveness.

‘We’d just say he had disappeared – that he had wandered off. As somebody said – oh, it was you, wasn’t it, Bozena? – Auschwitz is so big he could be lost for days.’

‘Yes, we could say that.’ They seized on this suggestion gratefully. ‘We could be very convincing and we might get away with it.’

‘Lu, you’d have to be the most convincing of us all – you’d have to be distraught. But you could do that, couldn’t you? You acted in films and you could do it?’

‘Yes, I could,’ said Alice.

‘The rest of us will pretend we’re rather glad Alraune’s gone – we’ll let them believe he’s been a nuisance, getting in our way, having to be looked after and fed, keeping us awake by crying—’

The Russian girl said, ‘It would be the most terrific gamble, but if we kept our heads and our nerve we might get away with it,’ and at once Alice’s mind snapped to attention, and she thought: a gamble! All a question of keeping your head! I know better than anyone about taking gambles, about keeping your head!

The tiredness sloughed away from her, and she sat up straighter. ‘I think it might work,’ she said. ‘But only if you are all prepared to risk the danger – the
questioning. If even one of you is unhappy or fearful, I won’t attempt it.’