Read Online The Thief of Auschwitz by Jon Clinch - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jon Clinch
Tags: Fiction & Literature
Ads: Link
He imagines the clanking noises when the steam begins to flow, the dry smell of dust burning off hot iron, the rising warmth. He imagines himself coming in through this door every Friday morning all winter long, stamping snow from his shoes and closing the door behind him and going on to penetrate the warm depths of this place for an hour, two hours, an entire working day.
The idea overcomes him and draws him in, and once his eyes have adjusted he can see that there’s a woman at a desk at the end of the hallway straight ahead. She sits in a pool of light provided by a gooseneck lamp, and she talks on a telephone, and she doesn’t raise her eyes as other women and men in SS uniforms hurry past her. She must be the one expecting him. He scrapes his feet on a rough mat and moves down the hall. Daniel in the lion’s den, treading toward apocalypse.
She keeps her eyes down and looks only from a calendar on the desk to a pad of paper on which she makes a mark now and then, but she looks up as Jacob approaches—as if among all of these individuals this Jew is the only one with the ability to attract her attention. She looks up smoothly and without emotion, the way one of the men in the guard towers would raise his gun.
If she knows his name, she doesn’t use it. If she knows that he even has a name. She looks down to read his serial number aloud from her pad and she looks up again and Jacob nods. He shows the tattoo on his left arm in confirmation. This is the way it always goes. Your capo might use your name, but no one higher.
She stands. “The scharführer is waiting.”
But the sergeant isn’t waiting. Not really. He’s on a telephone call, apparently with someone higher up, and Jacob has to wait outside the office where the receptionist leaves him. Standing at attention, not touching the wall, not touching anything. Just listening. Standing there as if he has no more sentience than a potted plant.
The sergeant’s name is Drexler, and he’s the commandant’s senior clerk. Jacob watches him as he listens and consults a piece of paper and idly runs his finger down the pages of an enormous ledger. The ledger sits on top of another one just like it, and there are many more on a tall set of bookshelves just behind him, rank on rank of them like volumes of an encyclopedia. Jacob has seen ledgers like these before, elsewhere in this very building. His own name and serial number were recorded in one on the day he arrived.
“Already this week,” says Drexler, into the telephone, “we have had twelve die of heart attacks, nine more of inflammation of the kidneys, and fifteen of bronchitis.”
Murmurs from the other end.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Pneumonia is always good, but in my opinion it’s more credible in the cold weather.”
Murmurs.
“Yes, sir. I have indeed requested a greater variety of diagnoses, but as you know, the doctor has many other things on his mind. Yes, sir. I have done so under your authority. But you know the doctor, sir.” Drexler glances up. He flashes a reflexive smile at the figure in the doorway, a smile either submissive or predatory depending, and when the figure in the doorway proves to be only the Jewish barber he withdraws it.
“Very well, sir,” he says, smiling at the telephone instead. “My thoughts exactly, sir. There is no need to carry on this charade any longer. We shall close the book on it, so to speak. Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Heil Hitler.” He hangs up and touches the tip of the pencil to his tongue and draws a line across the open page before him, and then he shuts the book and waves the barber in. There is a wooden chair in the corner, alongside a round table arrayed with towels and soap and the rest. An empty basin and a jug of steaming water. A hand mirror and a white linen sheet and a barbering kit which although not half so fine as the one that Jacob lost along the way is nonetheless immaculately maintained and sharp as weaponry.
“Hurry up,” says
The idea overcomes him and draws him in, and once his eyes have adjusted he can see that there’s a woman at a desk at the end of the hallway straight ahead. She sits in a pool of light provided by a gooseneck lamp, and she talks on a telephone, and she doesn’t raise her eyes as other women and men in SS uniforms hurry past her. She must be the one expecting him. He scrapes his feet on a rough mat and moves down the hall. Daniel in the lion’s den, treading toward apocalypse.
She keeps her eyes down and looks only from a calendar on the desk to a pad of paper on which she makes a mark now and then, but she looks up as Jacob approaches—as if among all of these individuals this Jew is the only one with the ability to attract her attention. She looks up smoothly and without emotion, the way one of the men in the guard towers would raise his gun.
If she knows his name, she doesn’t use it. If she knows that he even has a name. She looks down to read his serial number aloud from her pad and she looks up again and Jacob nods. He shows the tattoo on his left arm in confirmation. This is the way it always goes. Your capo might use your name, but no one higher.
She stands. “The scharführer is waiting.”
But the sergeant isn’t waiting. Not really. He’s on a telephone call, apparently with someone higher up, and Jacob has to wait outside the office where the receptionist leaves him. Standing at attention, not touching the wall, not touching anything. Just listening. Standing there as if he has no more sentience than a potted plant.
The sergeant’s name is Drexler, and he’s the commandant’s senior clerk. Jacob watches him as he listens and consults a piece of paper and idly runs his finger down the pages of an enormous ledger. The ledger sits on top of another one just like it, and there are many more on a tall set of bookshelves just behind him, rank on rank of them like volumes of an encyclopedia. Jacob has seen ledgers like these before, elsewhere in this very building. His own name and serial number were recorded in one on the day he arrived.
“Already this week,” says Drexler, into the telephone, “we have had twelve die of heart attacks, nine more of inflammation of the kidneys, and fifteen of bronchitis.”
Murmurs from the other end.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Pneumonia is always good, but in my opinion it’s more credible in the cold weather.”
Murmurs.
“Yes, sir. I have indeed requested a greater variety of diagnoses, but as you know, the doctor has many other things on his mind. Yes, sir. I have done so under your authority. But you know the doctor, sir.” Drexler glances up. He flashes a reflexive smile at the figure in the doorway, a smile either submissive or predatory depending, and when the figure in the doorway proves to be only the Jewish barber he withdraws it.
“Very well, sir,” he says, smiling at the telephone instead. “My thoughts exactly, sir. There is no need to carry on this charade any longer. We shall close the book on it, so to speak. Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Heil Hitler.” He hangs up and touches the tip of the pencil to his tongue and draws a line across the open page before him, and then he shuts the book and waves the barber in. There is a wooden chair in the corner, alongside a round table arrayed with towels and soap and the rest. An empty basin and a jug of steaming water. A hand mirror and a white linen sheet and a barbering kit which although not half so fine as the one that Jacob lost along the way is nonetheless immaculately maintained and sharp as weaponry.
“Hurry up,” says
Similar Books
