A TALE OF BLOOD AND INK

Chapter 4 | October Snow

There was only the sound of boots on the floor. It must have belonged to the man to whom they dedicated this respectful silence. Keeping my gaze fixed on the ground, I forbade myself to look too noticeably in his direction or to move even a millimeter. No, I would wait without attracting attention. For that had been the worst thing to do as a Jew for years - to attract attention.

Next, the voice of the faceless man rang out. I didn't know what I had expected: perhaps actually the pathos of a play, or at least for his words to be portentous. But neither one nor the other was true. He did not speak loudly, only audible at all because of the silence and the short distance, and at the same time, said nothing remarkable.

"The transport arrived rather late."

They seemed mundane words for that moment; an impression reinforced by the petulance in the dark voice. Everything about it was too ordinary in the face of this hell, and yet again frighteningly appropriate for these people — for them, almost ridiculous self-promotion and banality went hand in hand. 

For them, lies had become truth and inhumanity had become commonplace, combining to form the grotesque essence that was their ideology. I tried to catch sight of this man but only recognized boots and a coat next to the stoic SS man who had welcomed us when we arrived.

"There seem to have been complications in Litzmannstadt, Herr Standartenführer," the latter replied, completely changed. The calm, commanding tone had slipped from him, as had his indifference. A noticeable subservience replaced both, like that of a servant who sensed the wrath of his master.

Standartenführer, I repeated in my mind. Was this something important?

"Balance?" asked that Standartenführer.

"Total strength 354 from original 360. Four unserviceable on arrival. Another's on the way there. In any case, he's probably not fit for work, Herr Kommandant," now reported an SS man reminiscent of Heinrich Himmler, with the undertone of undisguised arrogance of someone important, or at least thought he was. 

He had to be high up. If he weren't here, he would have seemed comical with his squeaky voice, which now rose to a rambling explanation. This way, I just wondered how much he had to be feared.

"And the sixth?" the commander interrupted. He adjusted his round glasses.

"Escape attempt, just now."

The images wanted to force themselves on me again. Coat, man, striped clothes, lifeless body, hat, crying woman - woman ... what became of the woman?

Look ahead!

I did and now finally recognized who was standing there next to the other SS man, and summarized these memories of something horrible, which I did not dare to name, still burning like a fresh wound, with a simple "Oh, that's where the shot came from".

Between the women in front of me, a tall, slender figure in a feldgrau coat emerged, and then, behind a handkerchief, a gloved hand kept there for a strangely long time, his face. Above a pair of somber blue eyes, dark brows arched slightly together as if in an expression of steady displeasure, thus laying the forehead in delicate wrinkles that would remain and deepen with age. It added something sinister to his emotionless gaze. 

The harshness of the features, however, lessened downward — a straight, fine-formed nose divided the face between the sharp-edged cheeks; the lips below were softly curved and the chin narrow.

Except for the apparent emotions which the natural forms alone inscribed upon it, it betrayed no feelings. His face was an expressionless mask. Those of the surrounding others showed every shade of submissiveness from dog-like, dutiful to proud obedience.