Spark of Life (48 page)

He breathed soft and cautiously, each time just to the limit of the pain. He watched the blood dribbling from Weber’s mouth, and he groped to see whether he, too, was bleeding from the mouth. He felt something, but when he looked at his hand there was only a little blood on it and he realized it came from his bitten lip.

Weber’s eyes followed 509’s hand. Then both looked at one another again.

509 tried to think; he wanted to find out once more what mattered most, and what it was. He wanted it to give him more strength. But his thoughts swam. It had to do with the simplest thing in man and without it the world would be destroyed, this his weary brain still knew. It had to be annihilated, it was evil incarnate;
the antiChrist; the mortal sin against the spirit. Words, he thought. They said too little. Why words, still? He had to persevere. It had to die before him. That was all.

Strange that no one saw them. That he himself was not seen he could understand. There were so many dead lying around. But the other! He lay concealed in the shadow of the pile of corpses, that must be it. His uniform was black and the light was not reflected in his boots. Nor were there any longer so many people about. They stood further away and stared at the barrack. In several places the walls had been knocked in. Many years of misery and despair were burning to death there. Many names and inscriptions.

There was a crash. Flames shot up. The roof of the barrack gave way in a rain of sparks. 509 watched the burning boards fly through the air. They seemed to fly very slow. One of them sailed low over the pile of corpses, struck a foot, turned over, and fell on Weber. It landed on the back of his neck.

Weber’s eyes began to quiver. Smoke rose from the collar of his uniform. 509 could have leaned over and pushed the board aside. At least, he thought he could have done so; but he wasn’t sure whether his lung hadn’t been damaged. Blood might then have gushed from his mouth. But this was not the reason why he did not do it. Nor was it revenge; there was now more at stake than revenge. And it would have been far too insignificant a revenge.

Weber’s hands moved. His head twitched. The board went on burning his neck. His uniform was singed through. It flickered in small flames. Weber’s head moved again. The burning board slipped forward. Instantly his hair began to burn. A hissing sound came from the board; the fire licked round his ears and across his head. 509 could now see the eyes more distinctly. They protruded further from their sockets. Blood gushed in jerks from the mouth which moved without uttering a sound. In the crash of the crumbling barrack no other sounds could be heard.

The head was now naked and black. 509 stared at it. The board slowly burned itself out. The blood ceased flowing.

Everything submerged. Nothing was there but the eyes. The whole world had shrunk to them. They had to go blind.

509 didn’t know whether it had lasted hours or minutes—but Weber’s arms seemed suddenly to stretch without moving. Then the eyes changed and were no longer eyes. They were only jellylike objects. 509 remained sitting still for a while. Then he carefully supported himself on one arm to push himself forward. He had to be absolutely positive before he yielded. Only in his head did he feel any steadiness left; his body was already weightless and yet at the same time it bore the burden of the whole earth and was almost beyond control. He could not push it forward.

Slowly he leaned over, raised a finger and stuck it into Weber’s eyes. They did not react. Weber was dead. 509 tried to sit upright, but now even this he could no longer manage. The leaning forward had caused what he had expected earlier. Something, so deep from within that it might have come out of the earth, welled up and flowed over. The blood flowed easily and without pains. It flowed over Weber’s head. It seemed to flow not only from the mouth but from his whole body and back into the earth whence it had risen like a gentle fountain. 509 made no attempt to check it. His arms grew numb. In the smoke he saw Ahasver outlined giantlike against the barrack. So he too is not—he still thought, then the earth that supported him turned into a bog and he sank into it.

They found him an hour later. After the first great excitement had subsided, they had started to look for him. Bucher had finally had the idea to return once more to the barrack and search there, and had found him behind the pile of corpses.

He saw Lewinsky and Werner approach. “509 is dead,” he said. “Shot. Weber, too. They’re both lying together over there.”

“Shot? Was he outside?”

“Yes. He was outside at the time.”

“Did he have the revolver on him?”

“Yes.”

“And Weber is dead, too? Then he shot Weber,” said Lewinsky.

They lifted him and straightened him out. Then they turned Weber over.

“Yes,” declared Werner. “It looks like it. He’s been shot twice in the back.”

He gazed round and saw the revolver. “There it is.” He picked it up. “Empty. He has used it.”

“We must take him away,” said Bucher.

“Where to? The place is littered with dead. More than seventy were burned. More than a hundred wounded. Leave him here till there’s more room.” Werner stared absent-mindedly at Bucher. “Do you know anything about automobiles?”

“No.”

“We need—” Werner checked himself. “What am I talking about? You’re from the Small camp, of course. We need men for the trucks. Come, Lewinsky.”

“Yes. Great pity about him there.”

“Yes—”

They walked back. Lewinsky turned round once more. Then he followed Werner. Bucher remained standing. The morning was gray. The remains of the barrack were still on fire. Seventy men burned. But for 509, he thought, there’d have been more.

He stood for a long time. The warmth coming from the barrack felt like an unnatural summer. It blew over him; he was aware of it, then forgot it again. 509 was dead. It was as though not seventy had died—but several hundred.

The monitors quickly took over the camp. At noon the kitchen was already functioning. Armed prisoners occupied the entrances in case the SS should attempt to return. A committee had been chosen from all the barracks and was already at work. A gang had been formed to requisition food as fast as possible from the surrounding villages.

“I’m going to relieve you,” someone said to Berger.

Berger glanced up. He was so tired he could no longer take anything in. “Injection,” he said, and held out his arm. “Or else I’ll cave in. I can’t see straight any more.”

“I’ve had some sleep,” said the other man. “I’m going to relieve you.”

“We’ve hardly any anesthetics left. We need some urgently. Haven’t the men returned from town yet? We sent them to the hospitals to get some.”

Professor Swoboda of Brno, a prisoner from the Czech section, grasped the situation. Here was a dead-tired automaton continuing to work mechanically. “You must go and get some sleep,” he said, louder.

Berger’s inflamed eyes blinked. “Yes, yes,” he declared and bent once more over the charred body.

Swoboda took him by the arm. “Go and sleep! I’ll relieve you. You must get some sleep!”

“Sleep?”

“Yes.”

“All right, all right. The barrack—” Berger came to for a moment, “the barrack has burned down.”

“Go to the clothing depot. There are a few beds prepared for us. Go there and get some sleep. I’ll come and wake you in a few hours.”

“Hours? Once I lie down I’ll never wake up. I’ve still got to—my barrack—I’ve got—”

“Come along,” said Swoboda energetically. “You’ve done enough.”

He beckoned to someone to help him. “Take him to the clothing depot. They have a few beds ready there for doctors.”

He took Berger by the arm and turned him round. “509—” said Berger, half-asleep.

“Yes, yes, all right,” answered Swoboda without understanding. “509, of course. Everything’s fine.”

Berger allowed them to take off his white coat and lead him out. The air outside hit him like a vast wave of water. He staggered and stood still. He felt as though the water went on tumbling over him. “My God, I’ve been operating!” he said.

He stared at the man helping him. “Sure,” answered the man. “Of course you have.”

“I’ve been operating,” repeated Berger.

“You certainly have. First you dressed some wounds and smeared them with oil, and then you suddenly started with the knife. In between you were given two injections and four cups of cocoa. Damn lucky they were to have you! With that rush of wounded!”

“Cocoa?”

“Yes. That’s what those bastards kept for themselves. Cocoa, butter and God knows what else!”

“Operated. I actually operated,” whispered Berger.

“And how! Would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Thin as you are! But now you’ll have to spend a few hours on a mattress. You’re going to get a real bed. A squad leader’s. Come.”

“And I thought—”

“What?”

“I thought I couldn’t do it any more—”

Berger examined his hands. He turned them round, then let them drop. “Yes—” he said. “Sleep—”

The day was gray. The tension increased. The barracks hummed like beehives. It was a strange period of uncertainty, of an unfree freedom with a rapid succession of hope, rumors and dark pressing fear. There was still the danger of SS mobs returning—army troops, or organized Hitler youth. Though the arms from the depot had been distributed, a few well-equipped companies could have engaged the camp in a fatal battle and with some artillery could have wiped them all out in no time.

The dead had been brought to the crematorium. There was no other choice; they had to be piled up like firewood. The lazaret was overcrowded.

In the early afternoon a plane was suddenly sighted. It emerged from low clouds behind the town. A commotion started among the prisoners.

“To the roll-call ground! To the roll-call ground, all those who can move!”

Two more planes dived through from the clouds. They circled and followed the first. Their engines roared. Thousands of faces stared up at the sky. The planes approached fast.

The monitors had brought a number of men from the labor camp to the roll-call ground. There they formed up in two long lines—describing a gigantic cross. Lewinsky had brought sheets from the SS quarters, and at the end of each crossbar four prisoners held a sheet and waved it.

The planes were now immediately above the camp and circling round it. They came lower and lower.

“Look!” shouted someone. “The wings! They’re doing it again!”

The prisoners waved the sheets. They waved their arms. They
yelled into the roaring of the engines. Many tore off their jackets and waved them, too. The planes dipped down low. Once more the wings signaled. Then they vanished.

The crowd surged back. Again and again they glanced up at the sky. “Bacon,” said someone. “After the last war there were parcels of bacon from overseas—”

Then, down the road, nosing its way along low and dangerous, they suddenly saw the first American tank.

THE GARDEN LAY
in a silvery light. The air smelled of violets. The fruit trees on the south wall looked as though they were covered by a cloud of pink-and-white butterflies.

Alfred went ahead. He was followed by three men. They walked in silence. Alfred pointed at the shed. The three Americans spread out soundlessly.

Alfred pushed open the door. “Neubauer,” he said. “Come out!”

A grunt answered out of the warm darkness. “What? Who’s there?”

“Come out.”

“What? Alfred—is that Alfred?”

“Yes.”

Neubauer grunted again. “Damn it! Fast asleep! Been dreaming!” He cleared his throat. “Dreamed a lot of nonsense! Did you say ‘out’ to me?”

One of the Americans had silently crept up beside Alfred. A flashlight was switched on. “Hands up. Step out.”

In the pale circle of light could be seen a camp bed on which Neubauer sat, half-dressed. He goggled from puffy eyes, blinking
into the bright circle. “What?” he said, thickly. “What’s this? Who are you?”

“Hands up!” said the American. “Is your name Neubauer?”

Neubauer half raised his hands and nodded.