Warsaw by Richard Foreman Read Free Book Online

first
however. On their way home Duritz had heard the distant rumble of German
trucks. They may well be just shooting them now and loading them on, Duritz
thought to himself, cleaning the streets of anyone they discovered - locking
them into the trains ready for tomorrow. Or it could've been Kleist. The
policeman struggled up the stairs with a heavier heart than usual after his
duties - he had been thinking of Jessica Rubenstein again - and locked himself
away in his room. Entombed.
     
    Lieutenant Christian Kleist took one last drag on his
cigarette and tossed it out from the open-topped truck. He stood on the
passenger side with his hunting rifle in his hand, the barrel resting upon the
top of the vehicle's windscreen. A large signet ring on his left hand glinted
in the moonlight. Four of his SS acolytes, loyal and zealous Privates grinning
with drink and anticipation in their eyes, sat in the back. One of them held a
rifle to the eight emaciated prisoners they were guarding. An identical truck,
carrying just its driver, was parked ten metres behind. An eeriness and
humidity filled the street.
    The tanned, clean-shaven officer turned his nose up in
disgust at the stench, thinking to himself that he needed to almost shower in
cologne to help fend it off, but nevertheless Christian Kleist was in a capital
mood. He recalled again the telegram that had come from Himmler no less. It had
praised him, saying that his superior officers had said good things about him.
But so too, he needed to not only keep up the good work, but to also re-double
his efforts. His father was also proud of him. Christian's father, Jorge
Kleist, was a wealthy industrialist who had long been in the service of the
Nazi Party and vice versa. Although his father had been fretful of his son
accepting a commission, Christian had believed it his duty to enlist. The cause
was a worthy, noble one. The patriotic Lieutenant afforded himself a portion of
self-congratulations also. The U-Boat battle in the Atlantic and Rommel's war
in Africa were, at best, hanging in the balance and the progress in Russia
didn't bare thinking about - but was not he winning on his Front? If one
measured their success in statistical terms were the numbers of evacuees not
impressively greater - rising in real and percentage terms - each month? The SS
officer took his duties and mission seriously. Every day he oversaw the loading
of the evacuees for resettlement at the station. Once a week he would ride
along with one of the trains himself from the ghetto to Treblinka, inspecting and
improving the operation, even if just by the tiniest detail. He consciously
tried to apply and modify the conveyor belt techniques and economies of scale
that he had learned from running one of his father's armament factories. And
his efforts and dedication were paying off. He was a rising star in the eyes of
the Party, or so Christian convinced himself. He knew that some of his fellow
officers took umbrage at his ambitiousness and self-appointed briefs, which
sometimes even extended into the spheres of his superiors, but Christian knew
that he had the patronage and support of Himmler himself. Indeed there was a
chance that he could even make the rank Major by the end of the year - the
Lieutenant richly told himself.
    And so, partly in celebration of his unofficial commendation
from Himmler, Christian had treated himself to a fine bottle of claret with
dinner and informed his Corporal that he wanted some sport tonight. The
adjutant had taken his meaning to arrange one of his ‘hunting’ trips. Christian
had also asked his Corporal to specifically invite a young Wehrmacht Private,
Dietmar, in order to introduce the new recruit to his inner circle.
    "Check the light again would you Private," the
Lieutenant instructed in an effortlessly well-bred, succinct accent. The Party
Member smoothed his eyebrow, both to preen himself and wipe away any
perspiration that might thread its way down from his brow into his