The Commandant of Lubizec: A Novel of the Holocaust and Operation Reinhard by Patrick Hicks Read Free Book Online Page B

choking on what had been given to it, as if the ground were spitting up evidence of crime. Guth worried about the water table being contaminated and he ordered crates of seltzer water trucked into Lubizec because he didn’t want his guards getting sick from bacteria in the ground. The huge number of decaying bodies stacked in the earth did much to explain the invisible stink that floated out from the camp but, as Guth stood near the mass grave with his eyes stinging from the rot of human flesh, he knew something had to be done. But what? Other camps like Auschwitz and Chelmno were experimenting with cremation. Treblinka was having a similar problem. So too were Sobibór and Belzec.
    “So these rumors about the camp are …?”
    “Just rumors,” Guth said again, shaking his head. “That’s all they are. Which reminds me, the groundwater has been fouled by something, so only drink seltzer water from now on. I’ll have more cases delivered tomorrow.”
    Jasmine squinted. “Fouled?”
    “My men are looking into it.”
    “Is it from that camp?”
    Guth drank until an ice cube rested on his upper lip. He slouched back and pulled out his silver cigarette case. “Reich’s business. I can’t discuss the camp with you. You know this. Just let me come home and relax, darling. That’s all I ask.”
    He lit a match, but instead of bringing it to the tip of his cigarette he studied the wavering flame for a moment. He glanced at theashtray and spoke quietly, almost to himself. “Yes, that might be a solution.”
    “Solution to what?”
    “Nothing.” Guth smiled.
    He blew out the match and looked at the burning orange tip of his cigarette. He puffed a few times and then, very carefully, tapped a small body of ash into the tray.
    He looked up and seemed pleased. “What’s for dessert?”

4
THE GOOD MEN OF BARRACK 14
    W hile Guth spent his days making sure the machinery of his camp was well oiled and that it hummed along with merciless efficiency, the prisoners of Lubizec were worked to the bone. They sorted luggage that had been piled as high as a house, they dragged bodies, they stacked clothes, and they did all of this on the run. At night they were locked into their barracks—the padlock clicked shut; bolts were driven home—and while they settled into the exhausted dark, they often felt as if they were floating above the camp itself. This cramped world of bunk beds was both part of Lubizec and separate from it. The SS could certainly enter these sleeping areas whenever they wanted to but they rarely did, and this made the barracks the only place in the camp where the prisoners felt a little safer, a little more at ease. The prisoners loved the night because it freed them from the nightmare of the day. To crawl into bed was to realize they had survived yet another twenty-four hours. To live was to fight. It was an act of defiance.
    They lit candles without saying a word. Little flames twitched and jerked against the darkness as first one man coughed, then another. They pulled out crusts of crumbly rye bread from their jackets and stuffed them into their mouths. They chewed. They swallowed. Crumbs were picked off clothes and eaten. Flickering shadows danced on the wooden walls until they were chased away by a searchlight—it slashed through one of the windows, blinding everyone for a moment, before it went away to another barrack. The faint sound of polka music could be heard from the rear of the camp. The SS laughed. They drank beer. Sometimes radio broadcasts of Hitler’s voice could be heard.
    The men ate their crusts of bread and shared with each other. Although it was not wise to talk about their lives before Lubizec, they sometimes mentioned the streets of Warsaw or Lublin or Radom, and they talked about buying a bag of plums and going home to their families. They talked about walking up the creaky stairs and seeing their wives and children in the kitchen. They resurrected these loved ones, these faces that