Ultraviolence | Amon Goeth

Siedem

7/6-1944, Plaszów arbeitslager - to a varying degree

Goeth looked up from the newspaper in the salon of his villa. The first thing he noticed was that the smudged half empty glasses he had left the night before still littered the table, no one had been there to take them away. The second thing he noticed was that something was missing, what exactly it was that was missing was light steps over the floor boards that would be dulled when the feet reached the carpet, it was the clink of porcelain when the maid put down the coffee in front of him on the table. None of these sounds came, all that was heard were the customary camp noises, distant in his villa, but if it was quiet enough, which it was now, he could just hear it. It was always a low rumble in the background, a constant movement of people, of SS men, of prisoners, of shots firing and trains coming. 

This morning in early June no maid came to deliver his coffee, there was no sight of the small form of the woman in the black dress with the white collar and the apron. He did not see her cross the threshold to the dining room. It was an event that broke the routine everyone at Plaszów had found themselves in, involuntarily or not, it was a distraction from the everyday work at camp, when the Kommandant found himself glancing at his watch. He trusted that his maid knew that schedule, knew that he should have headed down to camp some time ago now, still no one came. It wasn't solely with irritation Goeth drew back his chair, it had also awoken a streak of curiosity in the man, and he couldn't deny the small tinge of excitement when he went to find her, because now he actually had a justifiable reason to approach her, to punish her, as things were, she was not doing her job so then he would have to do his. Before he left the room he flicked his cigarette in one of the dirty glasses, reminding himself that he would tell the maid to clean the mess up. He also placed his gun neatly on the table and then headed for the kitchen where she should be.

He did not call out her name, he knew she would hear the sound of his boots and knew who was coming. By the door he stopped to sweep his eyes across the kitchen. There, at the other side of the room, his eyes landed on the heap of dark curly hair spilled out over the floor. He finished the four steps there in big strides, and as he came closer the rest of her came into view. It was Helen, there was no doubt about that, she lay in the small area in between the table and counter, curled up on her side. The position looked haphazard, uncomfortable, as if she had fallen over and then hadn't had the strength to get up, had just remained there on the cold floor. It was only when Goeth took one step closer that he looked down and realised that something pooled by his boots, coffee, spilled out over the floor. Not so far away lay a cup on the side, seemingly whole, and the silver tray, disarranged.

He kneeled down by her side, was unprepared for the reluctance he felt when he gripped her shoulders, the bone too sharp beneath, and turned her upwards. She didn't react, she was entirely limp, however when he placed his hand just above her lips he could sense warm breaths against his palm. "Helen" he let out, let the hands on her shoulders rattle her faintly, but it made no difference, she was unreachable, "Wake up," it was the first command in a long time spoken from his lips that was not obeyed. He looked around, there was no one else in the villa, no one he could tell to run down to camp and bring a doctor. So he did the only thing he could think of in the situation, he swept his arm under her and lifted her up. It did not take a lot of effort, she nearly didn't weigh a thing. That was perhaps another thing he should be concerned about.

It wasn't a particularly long walk from the villa to the camp's administration, where the Kommandant's own office was, from there he could order someone to go to the hospital section. The few people that he crossed paths with knew better than to look, however for some the sight was unusual enough that they couldn't help themselves but to stare, even if it was for a second. Prisoners slowed down in their tracks, carrying whatever tool, and it was enough for them to forget themselves for a second. One man even dropped the handles of a wheelbarrow just to quickly pick it up again. The Kommandant did not look at them, and things that yesterday could have ended up with someone getting killed were looked past, or not even noticed from his side. Above them the sky had turned a milky grey as the day prolonged, and there was a sense in the air that rain soon would follow.