Martin Amis - The Zone of Interest

And by the way, if there are still a few fantasists who somehow retain sympathy for our Hebrew brethren, well, they ought to take a thorough look — as I was obliged to do (in Warsaw, last May) — at the Jewish Quarters in the cities of Poland. Seeing this race en masse, and left to itself, will shoo away any humanitarian sentimentality, and pretty sharpish, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Nightmare apparitions, miserable destitutes, sexually indistinguishable men and women throng the corpse-strewn thoroughfares. (As a loving father, I found it particularly hard to stomach their vicious neglect of the semi-naked children who howl, beg, sing, moan, and tremble, yellow-faced, like tiny lepers.) In Warsaw there are a dozen new cases of typhus every week, and of the ½ a million Jews 5–6,000 die every month, such is the apathy, the degeneracy, and, to be quite frank about it, the want of even the rudiments of self-respect.

On a lighter note, let me describe a little incident where myself and my travelling companion (Heinz Uebelhoer, a charming ‘young turk’ in the offices of the Reichsfuhrer-SS) managed to alleviate the gloom. We were at the Jewish cemetery, chatting to the noted film director Gottlob Hamm (he was making a documentary for the Ministry of Enlightenment), when a Kraft durch Freude motor coach pulled up and all the Jugend disembarked. Well, Gottlob, Heinz, and myself interrupted the funeral service then under way to take a few photographs. We set up some ‘genre’ pictures: you know, Old Jew Stands Over Cadaver of Young Girl. The Strength through Joy schoolboys were in stitches (but these ‘snaps’ unfortunately came to light whilst I was visiting Hannah at Abbey Timbers and there was hell to pay. Moral: not everyone is blessed with ‘a sense of humour’).

And yet, and yet… Szmul’s wife gallivants round the streets of Litzmannstadt — or ‘Łódź’, as the Poles call it (pronouncing it Whoodge or some such).

Shulamith may be needed.

I think I shall send a communication to the head of the Jewish Council there, whose name — where did I put that report? — is ‘Chaim Rumkowski’.

Of course, muggins here did have to go down to Katowitz for more petrol refuse. I motored there (with 2 guards) in my 8-cylinder diesel Steyr 600, heading a convoy of trucks.

At the conclusion of business I took afternoon tea in the office of our civilian contractor, 1 Helmut Adolzfurt, a middle-aged Volksdeutscher (with his pince-nez and his widow’s peak). Then, as usual, Adolzfurt produced a bottle and we were putting away a few drams. Suddenly he said,

‘Sturmbannfuhrer. Do you know that from about 6 in the evening to about 10 at night, here in town, no one can swallow a mouthful?’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because the wind turns and gusts up from the south. Because of the smell, Sturmbannfuhrer. The smell comes up from the south.’

‘To here? Oh, nonsense,’ I said with a carefree laugh. ‘That’s 50 kilometres.’

‘These windows are double-glazed. It’s 20 to 7. Let’s go outside. If you would, sir.’

We duly traipsed downstairs and into the yard (where my men had almost finished their work). I wondered out loud,

‘Is it always this strong?’

‘It was much harsher a month ago. It’s slightly better now it’s colder. What causes it, Sturmbannfuhrer?’

‘Ah, well the truth is, Adolzfurt,’ I said (for I’m not unaccustomed to quick thinking), ‘the truth is, we have a very sizable piggery in the agricultural station, and there’s been an epidemic. Of porcine sepsis. Caused by worms. So we’ve had no choice, do you see, but to destroy and incinerate. Nicht?’

‘Everyone talks, Sturmbannfuhrer.’

‘Well tell everyone that then. About the piggery.’

The last of the tanks of benzene were now aboard. I waved the drivers on. Shortly thereafter, I forked out the 1,800 zlotys, subsequently obtaining the requisite receipt.

During the drive back, whilst the guards dozed (I myself was of course at the controls of the prestigious machine), I kept pulling over and sticking my head out of the window and taking a sniff. It was as bad as I’ve ever known it, and it just got worse and worse and worse…

I felt as if I were in one of those cloacal dreams that all of us have from time to time — you know, where you seem to turn into a frothing geyser of hot filth, like a stupendous oil strike, and it just keeps on coming and coming and piling up everywhere no matter what you try and do.

*

‘They spent about 2 or 3 minutes talking, Herr Kommandant. In the enclosure behind the ranch.’

He meant the riding school. My Kapo, Steinke (a Trotskyite cut-throat in civilian life), meant the riding school — the Equestrian Academy… So, 2 meetings: the Summer Huts and the Equestrian Academy. And now 2 letters.

‘You mean the riding school. The Equestrian Academy, Steinke. Christ, it’s boiling in here… They talked in plain sight?’

‘Yes, Herr Kommandant. There were a lot of people about.’

‘And they just talked, you say. Did any documents change hands?’

‘Documents? No, Herr Kommandant.’

‘Written material?… Yes, well you see, you’re not looking hard enough, Steinke. There was a transfer of written material. You just failed to spot it.’

‘I lost sight of them for a few seconds when all these horses went past, Herr Kommandant.’

‘Yes. Well you get horses at riding schools,’ I said. ‘Steinke, have you seen the signs mad people wear here? Saying dumm ? Saying Ich bin ein Kretin ? I think we’ll order 1 of those for you.’ Yes, and 1 for Prufer while we’re at it. ‘Steinke, you get horses at riding schools… And listen. From now on don’t bother with him. Just monitor her. Klar?’

‘Yes, Herr Kommandant.’

‘How did they greet each other?’

‘With a handshake.’

‘With a handshake, Herr Kommandant. How did they say goodbye?’

‘With a handshake, Herr Kommandant.’

We stepped aside as a group of Poles (implausibly overburdened) edged by. Steinke and myself were in 1 of the storehouses affixed to the tannery. It is here that the cheapest odds and ends of the evacuees are stacked prior to their elimination, as fuel, in the tannery furnace — cardboard shoes and plastic handbags and slabby wooden prams and so on and so forth.

‘What were the respective durations of the 2 handshakes?’

‘The 2nd 1 was longer than the 1st, Herr Kommandant.’

‘How long was the 1st 1?’

Although I am indifferent to every aspect of ‘interior decoration’, I’ve always been pretty handy with a toolbox. Working alone, in the spring of this year, whilst Hannah tarried in Rosenheim, I successfully completed my ‘pet’ project: the installation of a fitted safe in the wall of the 1st-floor dressing room. Of course, I have the use of the locker in my study (and there’s always the massive strongbox in the MAB). But the function of the fixture upstairs is quite otherwise. Its visible face, with the dials and tumblers, is hardly more than a facade. Open it up and what do you find? A 2-way mirror commanding a partial view of the bathroom. Alas, over the years, do you see, my wife has become rather shy, physically, and I happen to like appraising her when she’s clothed in nature’s garb — as is surely my conjugal right. The special ‘looking glass’ (and that’s the mot juste , nicht?) I picked up on Block 10, where they were employing it to improve the monitoring of certain medical experiments. A sheet was going spare, and I thought, Hello, I’ll be having that!

Well, yesterday, Hannah was just back from the Equestrian Academy (the pony) and there I was, standing to attention for the evening ‘show’. Now normally Hannah turns on the taps and then rather listlessly disrobes. Whilst she’s waiting for the tub to fill, repeatedly bending over to test the water’s temperature — that’s the best bit (her emergence is worth watching too, though she has an irritating habit of drying herself by the heated towel rack, which happens to be out of sight). It wasn’t like that yesterday… She entered, locked the door and leaned back on it, yanked up her dress, and produced from within her panties 3 slips of light-blue paper. She studied their contents; she absorbed them a 2nd time; not satisfied with that, she perused them yet again. For a moment she seemed lost in reverie. Then she moved to her left, ripping the missive to pieces; the toilet flushed, and, after the necessary interval, flushed once more.