The Last Rights

By Geoff Cook

April 1945 - As the war in Europe draws to a chaotic and bloody finale and the days of the Third Reich are numbered, a train filled with a cargo of Nazi gold sets off from Berlin destined

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rotercracker Copyright
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9789899730076

Geoff Cook

“Geoff was born in East London as the Second World War came to an end.Following a traditional grammar school upbringing, he was convinced by his stepfather to give up the notion of becoming a journalist and get a proper job as an articled clerk to an old-established firm of City chartered accountants at the princely sum of 20 guineas per month.Geoff’s professional career took him to Brazil for five years and then back to London where he joined an investment bank with interests in the world of film making and pop music, after which he branched out by establishing a chain of retail stores. An ambitious move into the leisure industry in Portugal eventually saw him back into the world of financial alchemy in the City of London where he participated in the spectacular rise of a fledgling public company, and sadly, as the recession of the early 80s took hold, its demise.More recently, true to the adage, “cook by name and cook by nature,” Geoff’s holdings have included interests, not only in a hotel chain, a leisure complex, and a water park, but also a restaurant ship on Canary Wharf. Prior to his retirement, Geoff ran two restaurants on the Algarve.Since he started his first street newspaper and lending library as a child, Geoff’s passion has been writing and will continue to be so until the ink dries up.Geoff’s first full length novel, Pieces for the Wicked, was published in 2010 and deals with the financial intrigue and white collar terrorist activity at a time when the aftermath of the Iraq war show that the ticking time bomb of civil and religious unrest could easily be manipulated to provide a vacuum for the rise of another dictator once the occupying forces have retreated.Since then, he has to his credit The Sator Square, a suspense thriller, taking a number of contemporary themes and weaving them in into a storyline involving savage revenge, family and ruthless commercial objectives. At its heart, is a terrorist plot and the desire to manipulate religious extremism as a tool to achieve far darker and sinister objectives.In 2019, Rotercracker Copyrights released Deaf WIsh, a dark, contemporary family drama set in Wales, Northern Portugal and Spain’s Costa de La Luz. Gil Hart is a man seeking reconciliation with the wife and two sons he abandoned sixteen years earlier for a younger woman and a new life in Spain.As he faces the prospect of a reunion with his bitter ex-wife at their younger son’s wedding little does he realise the need for revenge of those he cast aside and the lengths to which they are prepared to go to exact retribution.Geoff's latest novel, The Last Rights, was originally scheduled for release last October, but delayed because of the pandemic until February, 2021. It tells the story of Rita Krakowski, a Polish Jew who, seventy years after witnessing the greatest robbery and criminal conspiracy of all time, finds her life in danger as the secrets locked in a vault at a Lisbon bank are set to expose a cover-up with far-reaching financial and political implicationsGeoff has also written two three-act stage plays in the “Bloodlines” Trilogy. The controversial “Painful Truth” and “The Last Chapter” have been published on Stageplays and will shortly be available on Smashwords.He derives his inspiration from old timers like Frederick Forsyth, John Le Carré, Len Deighton and, more recently from a wide variety of contemporary crime writers including the very talented Sabine Durrant and Alex Marwood with their psychological thrillers.

Book preview

PART ONE - THE GIRL

BULLETS AND BREAD DOUGH

ONE

VEVEY, SWITZERLAND

December 2018

He walked on tiptoe across the darkened room, picking his way carefully between the sofas and armchairs. The solitary figure was sitting with her back to him, facing the bay window. The source of light was a solitary standard lamp set next to the wheelchair. Strands of frayed golden braid, partially detached from the fabric of the lampshade, caused the insipid yellow glow to cast uneven fingers of light and dark across the floor until they were absorbed into the surrounding blackness.

Closer now, he could make out the distorted reflection of her face in the window, eyes transfixed on a point in time that was not the present as she stared straight ahead at the swirling cloud of snowflakes that filled the night sky beyond the glass.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said, finally. Her frail voice was laboured, the words expelled from her mouth on a current of exhaled breath.

‘You have?’

‘For the last seventy-five years.’ A staccato cough growled in her throat. She was laughing. ‘But we were too careful to let you catch us.’

He went to move forward, to face her, but a thin bare arm, wrinkled skin hanging limp with scarcely any bone to cover, lifted to tell him to stop. And he did.

‘I have no wish to see your face,’ she said, amidst a stuttered intake of breath. ‘Do what you have to do, but I choose not to witness my executioner.’

‘You mistake my intentions. My mission was simply to find you, to seek your cooperation.’

‘Seek my cooperation—’ Another cough, a dry, jagged bark that propelled her head forward and scattered spots of blood on the handkerchief she had drawn to her mouth. ‘You are suggesting the assassin needs the victim’s help?’

‘I mean you no harm.’

She raised her hand again, this time to entice him nearer. Her eyes followed his to rest on the fungus that had blackened the nails on her skeletal fingers. ‘Not a pretty sight, am I?’

He treated the question as rhetorical. There were no words of comfort. Perchance, he glanced at the reflection of his expression in the window and hoped she had not seen it.

Silence prevailed. Slowly, she raised her head to study him. ‘Do you believe in natural justice?’ she asked.

Her eyes were blue, untinged by age and still vital, as if the final blooms on a withering plant. They were interrogating him.

‘I don’t know.’

The dismissive shrug told him the answer was inadequate, not what she expected to hear. ‘It’s natural justice that keeps me alive.’ She stopped to recharge her breath. ‘It has condemned me not only for all the wrongs I have done, but for all the wrongs done to me that I have condoned. And its sentence’ – she fought for air and inhaled afresh – ‘its sentence is to keep me breathing so that I am obliged to witness this physical decay. It knows I will not seek my own end. My punishment is to survive in pain.’ There was another pause. ‘Yet, with every passing day as the body succumbs, my mind grows stronger, the memories more vivid. Do you know what hell is? You shake your head. Then I will tell you. Hell is not being able to forget the past.’ A grimace, and then, ‘And now you come.’

‘Me?’

‘You say you were sent to find me. Do you come to demand satisfaction or bring absolution?’

‘Absolution? Isn’t that in God’s gift?’

Her hand beckoned him nearer still, her stale breath warming his cheek. ‘Ah, God. I wondered when he would make an appearance.’ She pointed to his cheek. ‘You have a cut. It will leave a scar.’

‘I was playing with my grandchildren and got a little too overenthusiastic. Hide-and-seek. Do you know the game?’

Her mouth creased into a weak smile. The giggle was no more than a rattle in her throat. ‘I have been playing it all my life, but I cheated. You are supposed to play by the rules and, eventually, allow yourself to get caught. I never did. One step in front of the hunter is never enough. It can be a vicious game if one side or the other abandons the rules.’

‘In that case, maybe God will be the arbiter.’

‘There you go again, about God.’ Her body stiffened. He could tell she was angry, losing patience. ‘Don’t you think I know? There is no God. God is an illusion, created by those who fear death; a panacea to provide a safety net for the lost souls who tip over the abyss of life into the unknown. Only the net is not really there, so you keep falling into the darkness for eternity.’

‘You seem so certain. How can you know?’

‘I just do. Your God is benign, all powerful. Correct? Don’t nod your head. Say yes or no with conviction.’

‘Yes.’

Her eyes closed. ‘A lie. If your God existed, he would not let the innocent suffer at the hands of evil.’

‘Can the denial of innocence be reason enough to reject your faith?’

‘You ask too many naïve questions. What is it you want of me?’

‘You avoid an answer.’

There was a long pause as she appeared to be stilling herself, organising her thoughts. ‘We must acknowledge that the innocents have no choice but to abandon their faith when they realise their cry for hope has been ignored. Most succumb to evil, and perish in body or spirit at its hand. Those who manage to survive do so by discovering their innocence is replaced with malevolence as great as, or even greater than, the evil inflicting their suffering.’

‘And you survived. I need you to tell me everything that happened.’

Was that another attempt at a laugh? He wasn’t sure.

‘There is not enough breath left in my body to speak of my life … much beyond the time spent in my mother’s womb.’

He placed his hand on hers. ‘I cannot conceive you did not make provision for this day.’

‘I must sleep now. Tomorrow, it will end.’

Before he had time to reply, her eyes closed. In sleep, her breathing was laboured and uneven. Yet, as the minutes passed, she did not breathe her last. As her eyelids flickered, her pulse was regular and colour had returned to her cheeks. Her eyes opened wide and alert, as if reacting to the sound of a trap closing on the ensnared creature.

In her world, there had been no break in their conversation. She held his gaze once more, as if giving weight to his last remark. ‘Are you certain you really wish to know? You will be signing your own death warrant.’

‘I have no choice.’

She withdrew her hand from his and pointed a wavering finger. ‘The cupboard. There is a file. It’s all in there.’ Another bout of coughing overcame her. Heavier spots of blood peppered the cloth.

He returned with a small leather-bound document case. She had used sheets from a writing pad, hundred upon hundred filled in small, neat handwriting; a fine nib in black ink. There was a musty scent about the case which suggested the narrative had lain unread for many years.

She shook her head. ‘You have now been cursed with the burden, and I, by the same token, relieved.’

‘How come?’

‘If it is not your intent to silence me, they will surely know of your coming. Death, I will welcome, but no more torture. I will tell them that someone came for the file, and they will seek you out. They will not stop until the truth is extinguished.’

He took out the black leather gloves from his overcoat pocket and put them on, interlocking the fingers tightly. Two steps and he stood behind the wheelchair, his hand releasing the brake.

‘I am beholden to you,’ he said with a smile.

TWO

FORT VII, POZNAN, POLAND

January 1944

She dreamed about Josef last night. At least, she thinks it was last night. Her brother was whispering, but she could not make out what he was saying or from where the sound of his voice came. She needed to know he was safe. She pleaded then demanded he come out from wherever he was hiding. Didn’t he realise nobody can play those games any more? If she could just touch his face, say how much she loved him. No! No! She would never tell another living soul she had seen him. If she could just touch his baby skin. His secret would always be safe with her. Even if they tortured her, she would never betray him by telling how she had forced him into the space between the floorboards. No, she hadn’t said that out loud, had she? Heil Hitler. She was telling the truth, Herr Hitler. She did not know where Josef was. How could she?

Her heart is beating faster than she can count, One, two, three – six – nine. Don’t stop. Keep counting. Twelve – fourteen. The candle is flickering. She recognises the voice of the ragman’s wife. Why does this kind lady look so troubled? Why are there such creases on her forehead? What makes her stare at me that way? Does she understand everything there is to know about life and death?

‘She’s waking up. Do you think she’ll remember what happened?’ The ragman’s wife watches as her husband shuffles to stand alongside her in the cramped storeroom.

The girl tries to shake her head, to shout out it was all a dream. There is no need to remember anything. No sound leaves her lips; not a muscle of her body moves.

‘She’s so hot,’ the woman says. ‘I’ll wipe her face.’ She shakes out the damp piece of cloth and wrings it into a tight knot.

A petrified stare follows the woman’s every move. She holds the cloth out towards the girl. The scream shatters the silence.

It is so cold. Her eyes open. Every limb in her body is shaking, yet inside she is calm, strangely entranced by the wondrous symmetrical pattern frozen on the inside of the single windowpane beyond the iron bars. It glistens like fairy dust as watery sunlight traces a passage across the piles of garments covering the stone floor. She blinks. Her tongue traces a line around cracked lips. She is parched.

‘How do you feel, girl?’ She recognises the strange southern lilt of Yodel, the ragman who runs the tailor’s attic. He is her friend. ‘Here, drink some water.’

She claws at the tin bowl he holds out to her, fighting for breath in between the savage gulps of water.

‘Steady. No need to rush. Water is the only thing we do have in plenty.’

His wife is fussing around nervously. The girl doesn’t know the woman’s name. Nobody does. Yodel always called her Mother, so they all just accept it. ‘Can’t she stand up yet?’ She tut-tuts. ‘They will be making their rounds in a little while. God help her if she’s not back at her table when they arrive. She will be transported.’

‘Be quiet, Mother. Can’t you see she’s in agony?’ He smiles softly as he moves towards her. ‘You need to get up, Rita, just for a short while.’

The girl puts a frail, childlike hand between her legs. ‘It hurts so much. Like there’s a fire burning inside me.’ Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

As she struggles to her feet, Yodel removes the coat he had spread on the cutting table for her to lie on. He had chosen a red one on purpose, but the blood was darker, clotted. It had left a deep stain. She must have lost a great deal, he thinks, but if she could avoid infection, age was on her side. What would she be? Thirteen, fourteen? Her breasts and hips are already well developed. Too well developed for such a sensitive, innocent soul.

Yodel busies himself, allocating tasks amongst the inmates. Three suits have to be ready today; a hundred blankets for consignment to the Eastern Front. He looks at his workforce. Gaunt, blank faces stare back. Starving and inexperienced, few have kept the spark, the vision to survive beyond the sixteen hours at their stations and the paltry rations that follow.

The girl is different, an enigma. Beyond her worldly naivety is a calculating, fiery character with a sense of self-preservation. In this place, choices are few, the mood can change rapidly, but she is sensitive to the warped personality changes that incarceration produces in those around her. Wasn’t it she who prewarned Yodel about the woman who would try to kill him with the tailor’s shears on the day he had criticised her work?

He steadies the girl as she grips firmly on the edge of the table, her body swaying, her eyes tight shut. The quicker the commandant appears, the sooner he can find a place for her to lie down again. She cannot go back to the women’s quarters in her parlous state. The cavernous, brick-clad, arched chamber is below ground with no natural light. The driving rain of recent weeks has swept through the metal gratings. Human excrement washed from the inner recesses floats upon the puddles that have formed on the uneven floor. The straw on which the women sleep is damp and, although nobody speaks of it beyond a hurried whisper, rumour has it that Icchak, formerly a vet, now the self-appointed physician, is treating an outbreak of typhus.

There is an eerie silence. Just for a second, as if in an intake of breath, the nervous tension grows until it overpowers the rag room. Yodel and Mother scurry to their positions.

The commandant comes to a halt by one of the sewing machines, cursorily examines a stitched blanket before discarding it onto the floor. ‘Which of these are the two girls?’ he barks at the SS-Helferin who stands stiffly to attention behind him. The female guard moves to the area where the bobbins are wound with yarn and roughly ushers a young girl to stand, head bowed, before the commandant.

‘Let me see your face, girl.’ His gloved fist under her chin pushes up her head. ‘Your name?’

‘Samir,’ she stutters. ‘Rachel Samir.’

‘Herr Commandant!’ the guard barks.

‘Rachel Samir, Herr Commandant,’ the girl repeats.

‘Turn around. Hold your hands out. Not that way! Palms up! Now your teeth.’ He pokes a nicotine-stained index finger around inside her mouth. ‘She will leave tomorrow.’ The SS-Helferin bows her head in acknowledgement. ‘Send her to my quarters this evening. Where is the other one?’

Mother gives Rita a smile of encouragement and silently mouths the words ‘Be brave’, but the girl still recoils as the guard approaches, a look of horror on her face. This is one of the two Helferin who held her down last night. The nightmare has come alive in her head. This woman forced the dirty rag into her mouth and told her to bite hard. The serious-looking man in the white coat forced her legs apart, sweating as he guided the burning iron into her. His gaze, unfeeling and distant, met hers as he finished the task. She will never forget his face. The flicker of his satisfied smile is transformed into a moment of startled surprise as she screams, expelling the rag from her mouth. He curses as the iron tumbles onto the floor, close to his feet. The Helferin strikes her hard around the face. All about her is the smell of scorched flesh. The girl slips into the darkness.

‘She is unwell,’ the commandant pronounces.

The guard crosses her arms, moving her legs apart in a defiant stance. ‘She was uncooperative. She tried to move during the procedure and suffered internal burns.’‘Is she disfigured?’ He studies the girl’s face. ‘If there is any doubt, pick another and put this one on the purification list.’

‘Apparently, not. In fact, Herr Doktor Sommer pronounced that when the wound cauterises, it will provide a rather pleasant intercourse experience.’

The commandant laughs as he pulls her arm towards him, twisting it to read the digits branded on her forearm. ‘There you are, KZ409875.’ He leans forward, breathing stale cigar breath onto her. ‘Not only have we ensured no Jewish bastards come into the world through your legs, we have also endowed you with the means to give added pleasure to all those heroes of the Reich who will fuck and come inside you. Aren’t you just the lucky girl?’

* * *

The girl is well again. Outside, the snows have gone with the transition of the seasons, but in the rag room the routine is constant. The pile of clothes never grows smaller; the sound of the sewing machines, busy sixteen hours every day; the faces of the inmates ever-changing, but all with one thing in common – a sense of foreboding and hopelessness.

Yodel is officially appointed a kapo, a trusted inmate. This is his story as told to the girl.

From now on, he is in charge of all clothing and shoe manufacture. The position allows him to enjoy the meagre privileges awarded to the Judenrat, the members of the Jewish council who work for the Nazis, more rations and the chance to leave the camp for escorted visits to the ghettos in which the remaining Jewish population is confined. Once there, he recommends to the commandant’s second in command, Obersturmführer Kirchner, suitable candidates to replace workers whose fate has seen them removed from the rag room. He tells Mother he would take them all if he could. Every week, there are at least a dozen confused souls, dazed and beaten, punished for failing to meet the curfew, many by just a few minutes. Yodel is a kind man and makes a case to take them all, complaining that the demands on him are such that he must have a bigger workforce. Kirchner laughs. He treats Yodel’s solemn and respectful pleadings as a game, a ploy intended to save those rejected from the firing squad. He plays his part in a charade, pretending to give these pleadings serious consideration, but, finally, after seeming to acquiesce, he denies the request and ensures Yodel is in the yard when the rifles are aimed and the bullets find their mark.

But today is different. Kirchner pulls the ragman to one side. ‘Do you have one of your girls who you can trust to do exactly as I tell her?’

It is Yodel’s turn to play his game. ‘I will give your command serious consideration, Obersturmführer.’

Kirchner pins the ragman to the wall, his gloved hands pressing on Yodel’s shoulders. Their noses are almost touching. ‘Don’t take too long, kapo. I am not a patient man. I am relying on you to find me someone who can keep to the instructions I give her and repeat them, if necessary under duress, to whoever may subsequently interrogate her. It is a simple question. Do you have such a female in your section?’

Yodel adopts his thoughtful posture, smiling to himself, head leaning to one side, avoiding the officer’s threatening stare. Kirchner is going out on a limb, talking to him like this. Starting to put his trust in a Jew worker is a risk no SS officer would take lest he were desperate. It was important for Yodel to secure an advantage. He must not commit himself. ‘As I said, Obersturmführer, I must make an assessment. You require somebody of outstanding fortitude.’ And then, conspiratorially, ‘We both need to be sure.’ And, to leave the door open, ‘There may be a suitable candidate ...’

A week passes and they are together again in the ghetto. Yodel has a plan. Firstly, he must ensure this is not some plot to compromise his allegiance as a newly promoted kapo. Today, he insists on recruiting the entire bedraggled bunch of would-be victims of the firing squad. The claim is that the outbreak of typhus has ravaged his group. The official position is to insist no such outbreak has occurred, but Kirchner does not react. Ten confused souls unsure of their fate stand before them. Only four, perhaps five, will be any use to Yodel, but it is his one act of defiance, a gesture to any god who cares to witness a single good deed in the face of such adversity. True to form, Kirchner objects, but on this one, solitary occasion, it is a foregone conclusion. Yodel prevails.

As the new intake is loaded onto the lorry, Kirchner pulls him to one side. ‘So, you have found me someone?’ He points to the group of men and women. ‘There is still time for me to change my mind.’

Yodel ignores the threat. ‘I have been thinking.’ He gestures for the officer to come closer. It is his turn to play games. Yodel once had six tailor shops in Warsaw and Krakow and knows all about business deals. Kirchner is a young man, early twenties, who knows nothing but the thuggery of the Brownshirts before he joined the regular army. He is so obviously desperate.

‘You say the chosen one will be subject to some difficult interrogation. Having the willpower to resist such harsh treatment is beyond many. Could I respectfully suggest you promise such a reward as to make it impossible for her to fail?’

‘A reward? You are talking about money?’

Yodel holds out his arms, as if in frustrated despair. ‘What good is money to us? No, I mean two promises: one for her and one for me.’

‘Go on. More provisions?’

He shakes his head. ‘If it is the girl I have in mind, I will tell her you agree to give her news about the whereabouts and condition of her father. He was taken to one of the camps. Perhaps a letter from him? Her desire to know he is alive will guarantee her compliance.’ Yodel raises his head to look the taller man in the eye. ‘I have no way of verifying what you tell her, but I would humbly beg you to find out the truth and not lie to her.’

‘And, if he is dead?’

‘You agree to take her to the place where he is buried.’

‘But—’

‘I know what you are going to say. A suitable site, a simple cross. I know it is within your power. She will need closure and the dead will not betray your deception.’

‘And your reward. What is that to be?’

‘Within the next few months, we know she will be taken to the place you call the Dolls’ House, to serve the needs of your men. I would like your word you will keep an eye on her, see she comes to no harm until she develops the mental strength to survive on her own.’

‘She is a relative?’

‘No, but we have a special place in our hearts for her. She is a good worker, but young and very innocent. We will prepare her as best we can. We fear for her life when confronted with the experiences she will be expected to endure.’

‘We are not savages. Are you suggesting we are?’

Yodel retreats at the threatening gesture. ‘Whatever side they are on, men who have fought on the front line display many pent-up emotions, some seeking love and compassion, others bent on releasing the fury of war that lives inside them. I listened when my father talked of the last conflict.’

Kirchner appears to accept the explanation. ‘I still do not understand why she is so important to you.’

‘My wife and I have no children. This girl has filled a gap. She eats at our table, so to speak.’

There is a shake of the head. ‘If she is as tender as you suggest, how could she stand interrogation?’

Yodel nods at the logic. ‘She may have no idea of the ways of the world, but she reminds me of my wife when she was a girl. There is a will of iron that cannot be broken.’

‘Yet you fear for her safety when away from here?’

‘I do. I think she has the strength of character to take her own life if she feels no reason to carry on. No father, not even an adopted one, wants to see his child suffer.’

* * *

The girl appears to understand everything required of her. She listens carefully and asks few questions, for her task is simple. Mother is troubled and the girl understands why. The gravity of what she is being asked to do, if it were to go wrong, does not bear contemplating. On this aspect, the girl appears unmoved. It is either dangerous naivety or resolute self-belief. Mother knows both she and her husband have put their lives at risk, their fate very much intertwined with hers; dare she say, totally dependent upon the conviction of this child’s performance. Yet this tender young girl is not without emotion. There is a driving force that heightens the sense of anticipation in her voice. Once she has answered all of the questions, satisfied the testing examination of the interrogators, there will be news of her father, maybe even a letter. Yodel has promised. There is no way she will fail. Mother has to believe this to be true. God will help them.

The days pass. They pass without changing.

It is to be today, whatever day this day is. Today is different.

Yodel watches the girl as she takes another overcoat from the floor and deftly begins to unpick the hems and seams with the curved knife he sharpened for her just hours before. In the space of two minutes she has reduced the garment to strips of cloth ready for the kapo to inspect. Slicing beyond the stitching into the material would earn a reprimand and, if repeated, a transfer to work on the stinking dye vat. Yodel has no concerns on this score. She is proficient and never makes a mistake.

Yodel cannot pretend to know much about jewellery, but the bracelet he has just passed to her must be worth a king’s ransom. The rubies and diamonds are set alternately in a solid gold setting with a safety clasp embossed with the hallmark of one of the most prestigious goldsmiths in pre-war Paris. Now, it sits on the bench in front of her.

The commandant is looking unwell. His hair, long and untidy, is smarmed back with either brilliantine or perspiration. His face is sallower, his features more strained and pallid than usual. Yodel told Mother there was talk amongst the Judenrat that he is suffering from gonorrhoea. No surprise, Mother said, considering all the whores he beds. She looked around at the girl, but there was no sign she had been following the conversation.

Now is the time. He nears her bench. The female guards are hanging back, a sure sign he is in a bad mood. His eyes are drawn to the bracelet. This trinket, he says dismissively, his hand covering the bracelet. Where did she find it? The girl looks confused. In the lining of the coat she was stripping, of course, as with anything she finds. She places it in the well at the front of the bench. These are her orders. The kapo will write on her day sheet and take whatever she has found when he comes to collect the garments.

The commandant grabs and twists her arm to read her KZ number. She lowers her gaze. The bracelet is no longer on the bench. If she values her life, she is to forget the trinket and not to mention it to anyone. It is a cheap imitation with no value and the commandant will ensure it is dealt with appropriately. He swings around to face the nearest female guard. ‘This one is working well,’ he says. ‘Extra bread ration.’

Yodel smiles at her as he gives a slight nod of his head. Mother looks anxious. She knows the worst is yet to come.

***

The girl sits upright in a high-backed chair in front of the three men in their black uniforms and polished faces. They are very serious, with the same stern expressions she recalls Rabbi Zanvil adopted when she forgot the words to the fifteen steps of the Passover Seder; only the rabbi was scarier than these men.

This is the first time she has seen Commandant Dressler with his shirt collar done up and the iron cross at his throat. He lounges in a chair behind a table with several sheets of paper spread before him. He looks unconcerned but he is perspiring heavily, and even from where she is sitting she can detect the stench of fear she knows so well. Next to him sits the Helferin, who bows her head to the floor as one of the three men state she is charged with aiding and abetting the commandant, whatever that means. That must be why the woman forced her, arm behind her back, into the cellar last night, threatening another session with the hot iron if she did not cooperate. All the girl has to remember is that she has never seen the bracelet, never spoken of it to anyone nor has any idea what they are talking about. Say anything else and her life will not be worth living.

The man in the centre asks for her KZ number. Another female guard reads it out. The man is speaking again as he twirls the bracelet around between his fingers. Has she ever seen it before? She says she finds things from time to time in the lining of the garments she strips, things people have been hiding and which the reception guards have failed to locate. Can she see it, please, to be sure? She pretends to study it, but she is looking straight past it at the commandant. The sinews in his neck are taut. His shirt is drenched. This is her moment. He is suffering and she longs to let the suffering last forever.

‘Well?’ The man recognises she is anxious.

She puts the bracelet on her lap and shakes her head violently. She knows her voice will sound full of fear, but only she will realise how much control she will feel over her every word. She shakes her head again. The commandant is starting to look relieved.

‘Speak up. You understand the question. Answer it.’

She shakes her head for the third time. ‘The Helferin told me I would be tortured if I said I had seen the bracelet, but, forgive me’ – she begins to sob – ‘I cannot lie before God, for his punishment will be even greater.’ Her look is one of panic.

‘Go on,’ the man encourages. ‘Tell us what happened.’

‘I found it in a greatcoat and left it for the kapo to collect from the table, just like I was told, but the commandant took it instead.’

‘Did he say anything?’

She hunches her shoulders. ‘He told me to say nothing. It was a trinket and worthless.’

‘He said that? Anything else?’

She takes a deep breath. ‘He said I could have extra bread.’

Everyone in the room begins to talk at once. The man with the moustache is angry, his face twisted into that look Yodel calls contempt. He accuses her of lying to make problems for the commandant. If there had been a bracelet on her bench, she would want to hide it and keep it for herself.

The girl knows how to look confused. She used to put on the expression when her mother chastised her for a chore she had not done in the house. They asked for the truth, she told the man. She had spoken the truth, before God.

The man’s expression softens. Is she not misunderstanding what happened? Perhaps she did not find it in the lining of the coat. Is it not the case that someone gave her the bracelet to place on the bench for the commandant to find? He waits for an answer. The look of innocence; a simple no, it was exactly as she had explained. She holds the man’s gaze briefly before lowering her eyes.

His mood changes again as he turns to face his fellow officers. This Jew bitch is full of deceit, deliberately lying to discredit an outstanding officer of the Wehrmacht. How could anyone believe a word she says? He wheels around to address her.

She feels a strength she has never known before. This is the first man who has ever been afraid of her. Could he repeat the question? She does not understand. No, she has never found anything that substantial before in the lining of an overcoat. Many things are found, normally small items and folded money.

How is it possible the reception officers could have missed such a thing?

How can she say? They are human, too, are they not? But his question was not intended for her. She understands that.

The girl is bundled to the back of the room whilst Yodel is roughly pushed into her place before the three men. His appearance is brief. Yes, the girl did tell him of the find and who had taken it. As it was the commandant, he did not see the need to make a note in his daily report. After all, he had seen nothing.

***

Three weeks pass and everything appears normal; as normal as life can ever be amongst this tide of human flotsam where there is no sense of the passage of time, a sea of expressionless faces with no belief in a future beyond these walls. Yet, it seems to her that every day there are fewer people around the camp. Lorries line up to take inmates away but bring no new faces to replace them. Mother says they are evacuating the place, yet the rag room is as busy as ever. Requisitions arrive daily for warm clothing, mainly from the east. Yodel looks troubled. Their working day has been extended to eighteen hours. Some fall asleep standing up and are harshly treated by the Helferin.

Yodel has kept a close eye on the girl since the interrogation. Events taking place amongst the camp hierarchy are the fuel of rumours now the commandant no longer makes his daily rounds. In fact, few can remember seeing him recently. Directly following the aftermath of the investigation over the bracelet, there were threats of retaliation against the girl, but none were carried through. During the last week, there has been a calm, almost cautious reaction amongst the guards, who no longer spend idle time wandering through the rag room, harassing the workers, feeding their sadistic interplay with threats of intimidation. Their inspections are cursory, their visits brief. Mother says God be praised. She never thought to be grateful for the sensation they were in quarantine with some deadly contagious disease.

On a Thursday – Yodel says he knows it was a Thursday because that is the day they all stand naked in the ablution chamber and are hosed down with ice-cold water – he and the girl are escorted to the top floor of the tower where the commandant has his quarters. Fear grips their hearts. They cannot bear to look at one another.

The guard gives a respectful, single tap and opens the door. It creaks on its hinges.

Kirchner looks up from the desk, a blank expression on his face, as if seeing them for the first time. The guard recites her PZ number and is dismissed.

The room is silent. The girl shuffles nervously. Kirchner is reading from a single sheet of paper. ‘You are Rita Krakowski, daughter of Malka and Solomon Krakowski?’

She cannot contain herself. ‘You have news of my mother and father?’

Yodel presses his foot hard on hers. It hurts and she understands what it means. Control yourself. This man is not our friend. He is our enemy, and a more powerful enemy than he was three weeks ago.

But the innocent bonds of a child are too powerful to hold in check. She starts to weep, sobbing beyond Yodel’s pleas to cease, all the pent-up emotions released in a torrent of tears that run down her flushed cheeks. Kirchner draws a freshly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket which he passes to her. Through the tears, she notices the strange expression on his face, not sympathetic, more quizzical, as if he is making a judgement. Yodel fusses around, drying her face, chiding her to stop and not to waste the commandant’s precious time. The man is staring at her. His eyes are a piercing blue. She blows her nose hard. A glimmer of a smile crosses Kirchner’s mouth. He has very few eyelashes, she notices. They are blonde, almost turning to white, like his pencil-thin eyebrows.

‘Your father is detained in the centre at Potulice. He was a cobbler by trade, I understand?’

She hands the handkerchief back to him. She appears calmer now, though her heart is pounding inside her chest. ‘He prefers to be known as a shoemaker,’ she states defiantly.

Kirchner laughs out loud and Yodel follows suit with an understanding smile. ‘Of course he does. He works in the shoe shop and has written you this letter.’ He passes a heavily folded sheet of brown paper with grease marks along the crease lines. The large, uneven black lettering looks as if it were written with the tip of a piece of coal. She tucks the paper unread between the folds of a skirt she fashioned from scraps of material. It is far too precious to squander with a casual glance in front of anybody else. She will read every word in private a thousand times until they are scorched into her very being.

‘Do you have news of my mother?’

Kirchner gives a stern look to the kapo. She knows the subject is closed. ‘Please be still,’ Yodel says. He stands in front of her.

‘I wish to thank you for your concern, sir. May I take it that Herr Obersturmführer is now our commandant?’

‘You were present at the inquiry. Did you not draw your own conclusions?’

‘We were removed before the questioning was concluded.’

‘Commandant Dressler was convicted of theft; the appropriation of treasures belonging to the Reich for personal gain. It is a very serious offence. He was stripped of his post and his rank. As to the rest, I have no knowledge.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘It is a very valuable piece your girl here discovered. Over three hundred thousand Reichsmarks, I am told. You are dismissed.’ He shouts for the guard to return.

Yodel holds his ground. ‘You will recall the second matter we discussed?’

‘Do not tax my patience, kapo. Neither my memory nor my obligations require your prompting. As it happens, this KZ is on the list for transportation to Berlin next week. You had best prepare her.’

***

‘Come in.’

There is a small room next to the blanket store which Yodel and Mother have made their own. The stone wall is always cold and damp to the touch, but at least the material offcuts stitched together into a carpet take the chill off the floor. Wooden boxes serve as a table and chairs and also as a support to raise the paltry straw mattress from the ground.

Yodel sits forward on one of the boxes with another either side of him. He beckons the girl to sit and calls for his wife to join them. Mother has rolled up her sleeves, tying the material around her forearm as if about to make pastry, just like the girl’s own mother used to. For a moment, she can imagine the smell of fresh baked bread.

Yodel smiles with his mouth, but his eyes are sad. ‘Did your parents ever talk to you about the way a man and a woman have physical contact?’

The girl doesn’t answer.

He tries again. ‘Did your mother explain why you bleed every month?’

She looks up. ‘I used to bleed. I don’t any more, not in the same way.’

‘I know, but did she?’

‘No. She said my time would come.’

‘And your father?’

‘He is a very private man. He never talks of intimate things.’

‘And in the ghetto or in here? What have you learnt?’

There is an anxious look on her face. She shrugs her shoulders. ‘The women talk. Some have had experiences and tell of things before the tears come. Some things I understand; some things I pretend to understand and laugh if they laugh, look sad if they look sad.’

‘After tomorrow, who knows what will happen to us all? Soon, they will come to take you from here to another place. It is what I want to talk to you about.’

She nods. ‘I have heard the guards talk. They call it the Dolls’ House. I will be expected to go with men.’ It was spoken as a matter of fact.

‘I want to make sure you understand from Mother and I, the people who care about you, the difference between having sex and making love. You must never confuse the two.’ Yodel stands, releasing the rope tied around his trousers and lowering the long johns to his knees. He manoeuvres his testicles and penis as far forward as he can between his open legs.

The girl looks fleetingly at Mother’s expression which displays no reaction. Her cheeks are burning as she turns her face to the wall.

‘Have you seen this before, Rita?’

She shakes her head, keeping her gaze fixed on the wall.

‘Never?’ He waits. ‘Answer me. I asked you a question.’

‘I opened the door once when my father was dressing. He was very angry.’

‘Is that all? Turn around and look at me, please.’

‘I used to change Josef’s napkin, if that counts.’ Her eyes meet his.

‘Look at where my finger is pointing. Look, I said. That’s better.’

Her face is crimson, but he can tell she is starting to become intrigued.

‘Do not be embarrassed and do not resist. Do you know God played a joke on us humans? He put the sexual and reproductive tools we humans use in the same place as the parts of our body we use to rid ourselves of waste material. Mischievous, wasn’t it? Tell me, what is this part called?’

She glances at Mother for reassurance but gets none. ‘A penis.’

‘Good. Now touch it.’

She hesitates.

‘I told you to touch it!’

Gingerly, her hand moves forward and her index finger brushes the flaccid flesh.

‘Leave it there. What does it feel like? Speak. The first thing that comes into your head.’

She looks at Mother’s bare arms and remembers. ‘Like the bread dough that Malka used to make.’

‘Bread dough, that’s good. Now, all men have one of these. Circumcision is demanded by our faith, so we have this hat arrangement at the top, but most of the men you will meet do not. Their bread dough goes from top to bottom. When a man is not aroused, the bread dough sits happily on top of the two little cakes, shall we call them?’

He adjusts his sitting position on the box. ‘Now, Mother, if you please.’

Mother smiles at him and plants the softest of kisses on his lips. Her hand fixes around his penis which distends almost immediately and remains rigid as she gently holds it between her fingers.

‘Rita! Watch, please. Two things have now happened. The first is my body feeling a physical urge, the basic animal need in us all to reproduce. So, my penis becomes firm. The second is that because I am in love with the person who has sexually aroused me, the urge I feel is positive and healthy, full of my love in return. Feel it, please.’

Mother guides the girl’s hand to grip tight.

‘Now, what does it feel like? Don’t look away. Your face is the colour of red cabbage.’ He laughs to relieve the tension. ‘Come on. Don’t think about it. Tell me what it feels like.’

She looks steadfastly into his eyes. ‘A piece of hot iron like father used to use on the fire.’

‘Good. Let’s call