Robert Wilson: A Small Death in Lisbon

'Where's this going?' he asked the darkness.

'Sachsenhausen,' said the guard outside.

'What about the law?' said Felsen. 'What about the process of law?' The guard hammered on the side of the van. The driver slammed it into gear and sent Felsen cannoning against the doors.

Eva Brücke sat in her office in Die Rote Katze smoking cigarette after cigarette and trickling more brandy into her coffee cup until it was all brandy, no coffee. The swelling on her face had gone down with the daily application of a little snow and she was left with a blue and yellow mark which disappeared under foundation and the white powder she used.

The door to her office was open and she had a clear view of the empty kitchens. She heard a light tapping on the back door and stood to answer it. At that moment the telephone went off louder than a stack of china hitting the floor. She jumped and steadied herself. She didn't want to pick it up, but the noise was shattering and she snatched it to her ear.

'Eva?' asked the voice.

'Yes,' she said, recognizing it. 'This is Die Rote Katze.'

'You sound tired.'

'It's a job with long hours and not much opportunity for rest.'

'You should take some time off.'

'Some "Strength through Joy" perhaps,' she said, and the caller laughed.

'Do you have anybody else with a sense of humour?'

'It does depend on who's telling the jokes.'

'No, well, I mean… someone who appreciates fun. Unusual fun.'

'I know people who can still laugh out loud.'

'Like me,' he said, laughing out loud to prove it.

'Perhaps,' she said, not laughing with him.

'Could they come and see me for an evening of amusement and wonder?'

'How many?'

'Oh, I think three is a merry number. Would three be all right?'

'Could you drop by and give me a better idea of what…?'

'It's rather inconvenient at the moment.'

'You know, I worry after…'

'Oh, no, no, no, don't be concerned. The theme is food. What could be more joyous than food in this day and age.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

'Thank you, Eva. Your service is appreciated.'

She hung up and went to the back door. The small, enclosed man she'd been expecting was there in the snow-packed alley. She let him in. He shook the snow off his hat and stamped his boots clean. They went to the office. She pulled the telephone plug out of the wall.

'Do you drink, Herr Kaufman?'

'Only tea.'

'I have some coffee.'

'Nothing, thank you.'

'What can I do for you?'

'I was wondering if you'd have room for two visitors?'

'I told you…'

'I know, but it's an emergency.'

'Not here.'

'No.'

'How long?'

'Three days.'

'I might be going away,' she said, off the top of her head, inspired by the telephone call.

They can manage on their own.'

'I told you before that this would be… it would have to be…'

'I know,' he said, folding his hands into his lap, 'but the circumstances are unusual.'

'Won't they always be unusual?'

'Perhaps you're right.'

She lit a cigarette and sighed the smoke out.

'When are they coming?'

Sachsenhausen was an old barracks turned concentration camp thirty kilometres north-west of Berlin in Oranienberg. Felsen knew of the place only because he'd taken on a political and two Jews to sweep the factory floors. They'd been released from there in 1936 just before the Olympics. They didn't have to say anything about the conditions in the KZ, the two tendons at the backs of their necks stood out sharply from under their shaved heads-they were fifteen kilos underweight minimum.

It was an unnerving drive on snow-covered roads from Berlin. The van skidded and slewed across the road. At Sachsenhausen he heard the gates opening and a thunderous pummelling on the panels of the van. The van seemed to run a gauntlet for a hundred metres until Felsen's nerve was completely shattered. Then silence and only the creak of tyres on snow. The van stopped. The wind moaned. The driver coughed in his cab. The doors opened.

Felsen got to his feet, felt the stickiness on the edges of his hands which were stained russet from the drying blood on the floor. He stumbled to the back of the van. Outside was a vast white expanse with just two lines across it from the wheels of the van. Far off, perhaps two hundred metres away, it was difficult to judge over the snow's squinting glare, were trees and buildings.

The van took off, throwing him out on to the ankle-deep snow. The doors flapped and banged shut and he put his hands up over his head, confused by the sudden noise. At the edge of the enormous flat expanse of snow-covered ground a figure stood at ease. Felsen nosed forward, eyes creased shut. The figure, grey and indiscernible, didn't move. Felsen flinched at a noise behind him, the sound of sharp metal slicing through snow. He whipped round. There were three men in black SS greatcoats and helmets. The hems of their coats rested on the surface of the snow. One carried a wooden club, the next a spade which he swung in an arc, the blade singing against the crystalline snow. The third held a metre length of steel cable, frayed at the end. Felsen looked back to the figure, as if he might help. The figure had gone. He got to his feet. The men were eyeless beneath their helmets. Felsen's legs were shaking.

'Sachsengruss ,' said the guard with the club.

Felsen put his hands on his head and began doing knee-bends. The Saxon Greeting. They kept him at it for an hour. Then they told him to stand to attention for an hour, until his body was shaking with cold and his ears full of the swish from the cable, the slicing of the spade, the tamping of the wooden club. The guards trod a circle around him.

They removed his handcuffs. The spade flew through the air at him. He caught it in fingers which he expected to shatter like porcelain.

'Dig a path to the building.'

They walked behind him over the vast area as he dug hundreds of metres of paths. Tears streamed down his face, the snot ran in freezing rivulets from his nose, the steam poured off him thick as bull's breath. It began to snow. They told him to reclear the paths he'd already made.

They worked him for six hours until it was completely dark, no light coming from the blacked-out buildings. They faced him out into the darkness and gave him another hour's Sachsengruss while they told him how he was going to have to clear it all again tomorrow. In the last ten minutes he dropped to the floor twice and they kicked him back up on to his feet. He was glad to be kicked. He knew something from the kicking. He knew they weren't going to beat him to death with the club, cable and spade.

They stood him to attention after that until a thin reed of music came floating through the pitch black. They told him to march into the building. He fell over. They dragged him backwards inside. His feet trailed damp lines over the polished floors.

The warmth of the building seemed to unfreeze his mind and tears poured out of his head, water leaked out of his nose and ears. The music grew louder. He knew it. Mozart. It had to be. All those notes. Voices and laughter came over the music. A familiar smell. The guards' boots rolled over the polished floors. Felsen's feet came back to a life of pain but he was grinning. He was grinning because he knew now what he'd suspected before out in the snow-he wasn't in Sachsenhausen.

They arrived in a room with chairs and carpets, newspapers and ashtrays-unimaginable civilization after Prinz Albrechtstrasse. They stopped. The guards got him standing. One of them knocked and they took him backwards into the room. A girl giggled. The talking subsided, only the music remained.

'Does the prisoner like this music?' asked a voice.