Read Online The Thief of Auschwitz by Jon Clinch - Free Book Online
Authors: Jon Clinch
Tags: Fiction & Literature
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some scheme for removing himself from the equation if he should fall short. In such an event Schuler will get to keep his job after all. Life will go on.
Schuler , though. If Jacob proves himself in the morning, and he surely will, what will become of Schuler?
It’s almost dawn before he decides that he’ll never figure it all out. It’s almost dawn and he realizes that he doesn’t have any choice in the matter anyhow. Any minute now the three bells will clang, and the work day will commence, and at eight o’clock he’ll be due at the administration building.
*
It’s not fair, but Eidel is long past expecting fairness. I’ve been making some inquiries as to your husband, the junkman had said, and her heart had leapt, so in the morning she asks. “What exactly have you heard of Jacob?”
“Not so much, just yet.”
“Tell me.”
“There are…reports.” His voice trails off.
“Reports of what?”
“Reports.”
“All right,” she says. “You’ll have the radishes.”
“And you’ll have the reports.”
“Not will have. I want them now.”
“First, the radishes.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She turns her back on him and reaches up to an overhead shelf to pull down a stack of bread pans. She knocks a few of them free with the heel of her hand and greases them with just the tiniest thimbleful of lard and turns back toward him. “You’ll tell me what you know right now, and I’ll give you one kilo of radishes.”
“Two kilos.”
“One kilo to get started. One kilo, and then you’ll take a message to my husband. If he’s still alive.”
“Oh, he’s alive all right,” says the deliveryman.
“Thank you for the report,” she says.
He’s unruffled. “Messages cost extra,” he says.
“One kilo for taking a message to my husband,” she says again, “and the other kilo when you bring a message from him back to me.”
“That’s two messages.” He’s holding up his fingers. “The going rate for two messages—”
Eidel takes a step toward him and bends to open the oven. The hinges scream and a cloud of heat crowds all the air from the room and the deliveryman winces. Eidel works on. “The going rate for me to betray the women in my commando by giving away their food,” she says without even looking at him, “is two messages. Take it or leave it. Take it or go find your radishes somewhere else.”
She slams the oven shut and the heat still chokes the room and the little junkman from Witnica says, “Fine. Two kilos, two messages.” He pulls a ragged little sack from his pocket and tilts his head toward the storage room. “Now…while your capo’s still nowhere to be seen?”
*
The administration building is out by the gates, near the train station. It’s enormous and complex, containing on one hand the echoing halls and damp, foul-smelling chambers where prisoners are stripped and deloused, and on the other the offices and conference rooms where the men who manage such things spend their days—and although Jacob has seen it before he’s never seen it from this angle. He reports to a low door just around the corner from the main entrance. It’s the kind of door a mouse would use. SS vehicles are parked in a lot close by—trucks and vans, black cars and powerful motorcycles. The high fence of electrified barbed wire is only a few yards distant. He could walk over and touch it if he wanted to. Touch it and die. Or die from mere proximity, since on either side are guard towers bristling with machine guns.
He knocks at the door but no one answers. He steps close and looks through the window into a dim and unwelcoming space with hallways leading off in three directions. A radiator stands in one corner and he realizes that he hasn’t seen such a thing in a long while. The weather is warm now, summer having begun, but how luxurious it will be for these Nazi murderers come winter, settled here in their comfortable offices, enjoying the benefits of steam heat!
Schuler , though. If Jacob proves himself in the morning, and he surely will, what will become of Schuler?
It’s almost dawn before he decides that he’ll never figure it all out. It’s almost dawn and he realizes that he doesn’t have any choice in the matter anyhow. Any minute now the three bells will clang, and the work day will commence, and at eight o’clock he’ll be due at the administration building.
*
It’s not fair, but Eidel is long past expecting fairness. I’ve been making some inquiries as to your husband, the junkman had said, and her heart had leapt, so in the morning she asks. “What exactly have you heard of Jacob?”
“Not so much, just yet.”
“Tell me.”
“There are…reports.” His voice trails off.
“Reports of what?”
“Reports.”
“All right,” she says. “You’ll have the radishes.”
“And you’ll have the reports.”
“Not will have. I want them now.”
“First, the radishes.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She turns her back on him and reaches up to an overhead shelf to pull down a stack of bread pans. She knocks a few of them free with the heel of her hand and greases them with just the tiniest thimbleful of lard and turns back toward him. “You’ll tell me what you know right now, and I’ll give you one kilo of radishes.”
“Two kilos.”
“One kilo to get started. One kilo, and then you’ll take a message to my husband. If he’s still alive.”
“Oh, he’s alive all right,” says the deliveryman.
“Thank you for the report,” she says.
He’s unruffled. “Messages cost extra,” he says.
“One kilo for taking a message to my husband,” she says again, “and the other kilo when you bring a message from him back to me.”
“That’s two messages.” He’s holding up his fingers. “The going rate for two messages—”
Eidel takes a step toward him and bends to open the oven. The hinges scream and a cloud of heat crowds all the air from the room and the deliveryman winces. Eidel works on. “The going rate for me to betray the women in my commando by giving away their food,” she says without even looking at him, “is two messages. Take it or leave it. Take it or go find your radishes somewhere else.”
She slams the oven shut and the heat still chokes the room and the little junkman from Witnica says, “Fine. Two kilos, two messages.” He pulls a ragged little sack from his pocket and tilts his head toward the storage room. “Now…while your capo’s still nowhere to be seen?”
*
The administration building is out by the gates, near the train station. It’s enormous and complex, containing on one hand the echoing halls and damp, foul-smelling chambers where prisoners are stripped and deloused, and on the other the offices and conference rooms where the men who manage such things spend their days—and although Jacob has seen it before he’s never seen it from this angle. He reports to a low door just around the corner from the main entrance. It’s the kind of door a mouse would use. SS vehicles are parked in a lot close by—trucks and vans, black cars and powerful motorcycles. The high fence of electrified barbed wire is only a few yards distant. He could walk over and touch it if he wanted to. Touch it and die. Or die from mere proximity, since on either side are guard towers bristling with machine guns.
He knocks at the door but no one answers. He steps close and looks through the window into a dim and unwelcoming space with hallways leading off in three directions. A radiator stands in one corner and he realizes that he hasn’t seen such a thing in a long while. The weather is warm now, summer having begun, but how luxurious it will be for these Nazi murderers come winter, settled here in their comfortable offices, enjoying the benefits of steam heat!
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