Death Zones Page 3

  ‘Get out of here,’ I yell at him.

  _ _ _

  My house in Suwalska Street.

  It’s boiling hot. The girl is seated on my sofa in the spacious drawing room facing the street. She swings her legs. Masja, my housekeeper, has washed her, she is clean and sweet-smelling. She must know something, but is she aware of it?

  I am sitting by the window, my Efkas on the windowsill.

  My Masja comes in, curtsies, though I have expressly forbidden her to curtsy, and sits down next to the girl. She smoothes the child’s dress, and pecks her on the cheek.

  The girl begins to sing a song, her voice wavering and frail.

  What the hell am I supposed to do?

  I go over to the bureau, open a drawer and find a notepad and pen.

  ‘Translate for me, Masja,’ I say, and sit down in a chair in front of them.

  The girl fidgets with a little ribbon of her dress, then looks up at me and says something.

  ‘She says …’ Masja has difficulty finding the words. ‘She asks, where is my father? Do you know?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, standing up again. I go over to the window, pull a cigarette out of the packet, light up and survey the dusty street. ‘Yes, I do.’

  _ _ _

  Later that afternoon, the mortuary in the basement of Manfred’s hospital.

  Further down the corridor is Manfred’s secret room with the iron bed.

  Weber has a camera with him.

  Manfred and I are standing slightly back from the autopsy slab, he with his arms folded, while I lean against the tiled wall. A young SS-Schütze stands self-consciously over by the door. The pathologist, Dr Weiss, an SS physician Manfred has had flown in from the infirmary at Vibetsk, nods to the two Hiwis, who lift Steiner onto the terrazzo slab. They salute awkwardly and leave.

  Weber takes a photograph.

  Manfred has seeds in his hands, and asks if I want some.

  I don’t.

  ‘Have you got a statement for me from the girl?’ he asks.

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  The limbs of the Obergruppenführer are stiff, his jaw is dislocated, dentures gone, only blackened stumps remain in the lower jaw. His upper body is bare, his shoes and socks have been removed.

  There are three entrance wounds in the chest, ringed with black residue.

  The arms are locked at the elbow joints, right hand clasped. Incipient rigor mortis.

  There is a brown discoloration at the crotch of his unbuttoned uniform trousers.

  Manfred spits out the streaked hull of a sunflower seed.

  ‘When, then?’ he says.

  ‘Give me a couple of days.’

  ‘A couple of days?’

  The Obergruppenführer’s feet are old and gnarled, but the toenails neatly clipped and filed.

  On the toe tag someone has written 1–233 in ink. The name will not be released until the propaganda department has concocted a death more heroic.

  ‘If you want reliable information,’ I whisper, ‘then, yes.’

  ‘Let’s see what he’s got in his hand first, shall we?’ Weiss cuts in.

  We nod. Weiss braces his legs, then grips the clasped hand, bending at the waist as he puts his strength into it, prising the fingers open.

  ‘Empty,’ he says. ‘Nothing at all.’

  The flash illuminates the room as Weber takes another photograph. Weiss glares at him.

  His brow is moist with perspiration.

  ‘Let us begin,’ he says with a nod to the young Schütze, and the boy, his face a smatter of freckles and fiery red lips, notes down in shorthand: ‘Deceased has three entrance wounds at the thorax, all sufficient to cause death …’

  Weiss leans forward and smells the wounds.

  ‘Shot at close range, gunpowder smell, abrasion rings. No further injuries to torso.’

  He picks up a pair of scissors, proceeds to Steiner’s feet and cuts open the trousers, removes them, stiffens.

  ‘Come here, Hauptsturmführer,’ he says softly. Then, when Manfred hesitates: ‘Come here, please.’

  Manfred steps over to the slab, his head recoils as he sees what Weiss is pointing at. They exchange brisk whispers, agitated. Weiss turns towards me.

  ‘They’ve mutilated him,’ he says. ‘Cut off his—’

  ‘This goes no further,’ Manfred interrupts.

  He darts towards the Schütze and tears the notepad from his hand.

  ‘Out!’ he commands.

  The boy is at once seized with terror, his eyes wide, a bloom of red flushes his cheeks, a haemorrhage of embarrassment.

  ‘You have seen nothing, you were never here,’ says Manfred, spelling it out. ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, now get out.’

  The Schütze gathers his things, knocking over the carbine he has propped up in the corner by the window. The gun clatters against the tiled floor; he picks it up and scuttles away.

  ‘You, too,’ Manfred says to Weber. ‘Leave the camera here.’

  Manfred follows him out and locks the door behind him. Weiss has covered up the groin area with a piece of cloth.

  ‘What?’ I ask, but receive no answer. ‘If I’m supposed to find out who did this, you’ll have to tell me what happened.’

  Neither of them speaks. Weiss has gone over to a table and starts arranging his instruments. Manfred pulls a cigarette from his breast pocket and lights up.

  ‘Please refrain from smoking in here,’ says Weiss.

  ‘I smoke wherever I want,’ Manfred replies. ‘Now tell us what the hell they did to Hubert.’

  Weiss picks out a pair of long, steel pincers. From a leather case he takes a head lamp and straps it on. He returns to the slab, switches on the lamp, adjusts the angle, and with the pincers proceeds to investigate Steiner’s groin, its flaps of skin and lumps of coagulated blood.

  ‘I insist you put out your cigarette,’ he says. ‘Smell is an important part of the procedure.’

  Manfred hesitates for a second before furiously grinding the cigarette underfoot.

  ‘And you’re taking notes?’ he says with a nod in my direction.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘So what’s the verdict?’ Manfred says after I pick up the notepad from the windowsill.

  ‘Well, it’s certainly not lege artis,’ Weiss says. ‘There’s been massive bleeding. Gaping wound at the scrotum. That’s with a c—’

  ‘I know how to spell it,’ I tell him.

  ‘Good … then let’s proceed. Both testes absent. Were his testicles found at the scene?’ Weiss inquires.

  ‘No,’ says Manfred. ‘No, they were not.’

  ‘This was done with a very sharp instrument indeed, probably a scalpel or a sharpened knife of some sort,’ Weiss goes on. ‘The wound edges are clean and precise, though as I said the incisions are not lege artis.’

  ‘So will someone tell me what lege artis means,’ Manfred says.

  ‘We’re dealing with an absence of surgical method,’ Weiss replies without looking up, without irony, persisting with his pincers.

  ‘No injuries to the remaining groin or thighs. And no injuries to the hands or arms that would accord with any struggle …’

  Manfred steps closer, purses his lips.

  ‘So what are you saying? That Steiner cut off his own balls?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure. But no, I shouldn’t think so.’

  Manfred tightens his jaw. Weiss continues the examination. He lifts the Obergruppenführer’s penis with the pincers, his long face peering from all angles, a finger nudging his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Severe injury to glans penis,’ he says. ‘Skin lacerated from glans, along corpus, almost as far as radix penis …’

  ‘Weiss,’ says Manfred, suddenly raising his hand. ‘I want to know one thing.’

  Weiss looks up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What was the sequence?’

  ‘Sequence?’

  ‘Yes. Did they … mutilate him first and shoot him afterwards, or …’

  ‘The massive bleeding would indicate …’

  ‘Indicate … indicate!’

  ‘They tortured him while he was still alive,’ Weiss says. ‘Any of the three shots to his chest would have killed him instantly and prevented such massive bleeding.’

  We leave together. Manfred has already lit up.

  He jabs a finger at me.

  ‘I want that girl’s statement today, Heinrich.’

  _ _ _

  Home, in front of the drawing-room door, half an hour later.

  They had run out of ribbons at the Nur für Deutsche shop, so I twist the brown paper bag into a little parcel before going in: candy sticks, lollipops, sugar pearls. I clear my throat and open the door.

  Etke is standing with her back to me, looking up at Masja, who shakes a record from its hard cardboard sleeve and puts it on the gramophone. She issues a brief instruction to the child, who then lifts the needle and places it on the revolving disc, to scratchy silence before the music comes on.

  She turns and is startled to see me.

  I am standing with the paper bag as a storm of violins starts up.

  Strauss. Die Frau ohne Schatten, the woman without a shadow.

  Emperors and the empresses.

  I hold the paper bag out towards her.

  ‘Tell her it’s from her father,’ I say to Masja. ‘Tell her that she’ll see him soon.’

  _ _ _

  INTERROGATION NOTES 1

  We were at the market at Koreletjy … when we got back everything was quiet. Normally you can hear the dogs, but it was quiet. Then we heard shots and my daddy carried me up to the hayloft. We di
dn’t have time to hide where we usually do.

  Where do you usually hide?

  In the tar kiln down by the stream, or we’ve got this sort of room … only my daddy says I’m not allowed to tell … Where is he?’

  He’s in the hospital …

  When is he coming back?

  Soon, if you help us. We need you to help us, so we can help him.

  (Note location. “Tar kiln”. Interrogation suspended 17.45. Hstf. M. Schlosser contacted. Interrogation resumed 17.55)

  _ _ _

  INTERROGATION NOTES 2

  Etke, tell me what happened when you came home from the market at Koreletjy.

  The men came and we hid in the hayloft. They didn’t speak Belorussian. One of them spoke Polish, like my uncle.

  Did any of them speak Russian?

  No. I could tell it wasn’t Russian.

  Could you see them?

  Not at first. We could only hear them. There were a lot of voices. They were very angry. I was frightened. But then I heard Uncle Vitek. So then I crawled over.

  Who’s Uncle Vitek?

  He lives out in the woods … with my cousins Pawel and Ryszard. They’re fighting for the Jews. My daddy says it’s because they like their women, and their gold jewellery.

  Where does Uncle Vitek live?

  In Koreletjy. Out in the woods. My aunt Anna lives in Koreletjy with Karol and Agnezka.

  What are they called besides Vitek and Anna?

  Czapski.

  (Note: Anna and Vitek Czapski, Koreletjy. Children Pawel and Ryszard)

  That’s very good, Etke. We’ll soon have your father out of hospital, you’ll see. Should we go back to what happened in the barn? You said you crawled over. Over where, exactly?

  We were in the hayloft. My daddy tried to drag me back, but I wanted to say hello to Vitek, so I crawled over. I was ever so quiet, because I wanted to surprise him, but when I got there and could see them down below they were hitting the man. He was bleeding, and I was too frightened to say anything.

  Who was the man?

  He was tall, with grey hair. They’d taken his shirt off. His face was all dirty (Note: victim Hubert Steiner). They were hitting him and I couldn’t see Vitek.

  Wasn’t he there?

  They had scarves over their faces.

  Scarves over their faces … all of them?

  No, not the one with the knife. He had a sack on his head with holes in for his eyes. He was at the back. He had this big knife, like at the butcher’s. He kept sharpening it. The others were hitting the man, and shouting at him.

  Could you hear what they were shouting?

  No, I couldn’t understand.

  Did Uncle Vitek say anything?

  No, only the one who was in charge. He kept saying the same thing. There were two of them holding the tall German and then he said a word and the German had to say it too, only he couldn’t. And every time he said it wrong he went up and hit him very hard in the tummy.

  Did you hear the word?

  It was something with an S.

  Something with an S?

  Sjip or Sjibko. It sounded like fast … something with spikes …

  Spikes? Fast? How do you mean?

  He spoke funny. Maybe it was Jew language.

  Jew language?

  I don’t know, it sounded like the Jews at the market. My daddy says they killed Jesus. It wasn’t Belorussian they spoke. It sounded so horrid …

  (Note after conferring with interpreter: Sjibkij or Sjibko = fast, violent Sjip = thorn or spike. As in roses, spiked shoes.)

  It’s important you think hard, Etke. What happened then?

  They kept hitting the man. No one said anything. I was too frightened to move, I was scared to breathe. All I could hear was them hitting him, until the air went out of him. Like when Hanna snorts.

  Hanna?

  My horse.

  And then what happened?

  Then he took his shirt off.

  Who?

  The man. The one who was in charge. The man with the sack over his head. He was sweating. He had a drawing on his shoulder like I’ve seen in Koreletjy, the beggar Mirko has them as well.

  What do you mean? Tattoos, is that it?

  Yes, tattoos. He had them on his shoulder, and up above his bottom.

  What did they look like?

  Above his bottom he had two big scary eyes. I felt like they were looking at me. I thought they were going to find me. They were looking up at me when he leaned forward and used the knife …

  He used the knife?

  When he used the knife and did that to the man. He screamed. I’ve never heard anyone scream as loud as that. And then it was all quiet. I was afraid the bird had told them where I was.

  The bird?

  The one he had on his shoulder.

  Did he have a tattoo of a bird on his shoulder?

  Yes. And when he was finished he put his shirt on again, and then they all went away.

  Do you remember what the bird looked like?

  Do you want me to draw it?

  Can you do that?

  Yes.

  And what did you do then?

  Then we waited until we couldn’t hear anything any more. My daddy wanted to hide him, but then we heard you coming. And then we ran.

  (Note: We arrived no more than minutes after the perpetrators left the barn. Note: drawing attached.)

  _ _ _

  Notes, attached LZ–132–567–A–I (Steiner), cc Hstf. M. Schlosser

  Prob. looking for a gang of mixed race, likely Jews, certainly three Poles, Vitek (father), Ryszard and Pawel (sons) Czapski, address Rosenberg Allée (formerly Boulevard Kalininogo) 12, Koreletjy (residents Anna (mother), Agnezka (daughter), Karol (son) Czapski). Not known if household in Belize is involved. Since witness heard no Russian, perps most likely not Soviet partisans, though poss. Polish Armia Krajova.

  Re. group leader [henceforth perp.] 2 tattoos observed, viz. one pair of eyes above loin, one cockerel/hen on shoulder (drawing attached). Witness states “like Mirko in Koreletjy”. Perp. moreover observed speaking “Jew language” i.e. Yiddish.

  Victim Hubert Steiner tortured. Witness believed him subjected to a test, or else interrogated as to some matter to which vict. unable or unwilling to provide satisfactory answer.

  Question: Why were perps masked? Afraid of witnesses? Or WERE THEY UNKNOWN TO EACH OTHER?

  _ _ _

  Masja and Etke are by the brambles at the hedge. Etke picks the berries quickly, in a skilled manner, and collects them in the apron Masja has wound around her waist. I sit in the conservatory and read the bible, searching for a specific passage. Every now and then I look up and watch them.

  It is a fine picture.

  Etke has been sitting in here drawing for hours, the eyes and the bird, over and over.

  Now she is outside in the sun.

  I see myself sitting, considering the picture.

  Suddenly someone calls out to her from the left, from the road. Masja points, getting to her feet.

  I walk to the open door and see it is Manfred.

  He rests his hand on Etke’s head, strokes her hair, and gives her something, a bag. Sweets, perhaps.

  Majsa and Etke come inside, while Manfred takes the long way, round the outside of the house, to the front.

  Masja is rosy-cheeked, flustered with excitement. The little girl holds her hand, and it is she who gives me the bag from Manfred.

  ‘Herr Hauptsturmführer gave us this. He says he is to say hello from Aunt Anna.’

  I hear her say the same to Etke. I cannot make out the words, only the name, Dadja Anna. I untie the ribbon around the bag and spread out the contents on the glass-topped table.