Martin Amis - The Zone of Interest

‘Hannah’s got some women’s things she wants to give you.’ I adjusted my greatcoat against the wind. ‘I’ll pick you up by car. And it’ll be steak, spuds, and greens.’

‘Oh, that would be handsome!’

‘A square meal. Oh yes. And a long hot bath.’

‘Ooh, Paul, I can hardly wait.’

‘Till noon on Sunday. Run along now, my girl. Run along.’

I don’t go out to the Meadow that often any more. Neither does Szmul. Well, he sometimes looks in around midnight, to make sure everything is processing as it should, and then goes back to his duties as a greeter. To have an exchange with Szmul, nowadays, you have to catch him on the ramp.

The first train had been dealt with, and the Sonder was seated on a suitcase, in the immediate glare of an untended arc light, eating a wedge of cheese. I came up on him from behind, aslant, and said,

‘Why were you on the very 1st transport out of Litzmannstadt?’

His jaw muscles stopped working. ‘The 1st transport was for undesirables, sir. I was an undesirable, sir.’

‘Undesirable? A little schnook of a schoolmaster like you? Or perhaps you teach a bit of PT.’

‘I stole some firewood, sir. To buy turnips.’

‘… To buy turnips, sir .’ I stood over him now, my jodhpurs planted well apart. ‘Where did you think you were being sent? Germany? To work in Germany? Why’d you believe that?’

‘They changed my ghetto scrip into Reichsmarks, sir.’

‘… Ooh. Clever them. Your wife wasn’t with you, was she, Sonder.’

‘No, sir. Exempted because of pregnancy, sir.’

‘Not many live births in the ghetto, I hear. Any other children?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So she missed that rather inelegant Aktion at Kulmhof. On your feet .’

He stood, wiping his greasy hands on his greasy trousers.

‘You were at Kulmhof. “Chełmno”, as you lot call it. You were there… Remarkable. No Jew gets out of Kulmhof. And I suppose they kept you on board because of your German. Tell me. Were you there at the time of the silent boys?’

‘No, sir,’ I lied.

‘Pity… Now, Sonder. You know who I mean by Chaim Rumkowski.’

‘Yes, sir. The Director, sir.’

‘The Director. The ghetto king. I gather he’s quite a “character”. Here.’

And I produced from my pocket the letter I’d received that morning from ‘Łódź’.

‘The stamp. That’s his portrait. He goes around in a wheeled carriage. Drawn by a spindly dray.’

Szmul nodded.

‘I wonder if you’ll live long enough, Sonderkommandofuhrer, to receive him here.’

He turned away.

‘Your lips. They’re always tensed and notched. Always. Even when you eat… You intend to kill someone, don’t you, Sonder. You intend to kill someone “e’er you go”. D’you want to kill me?’ I unholstered my Luger and pressed its barrel up against his resistant brow. ‘Oh, don’t kill me, Sonder. Please don’t kill me.’ The searchlight died with a crackle. ‘When your time comes, I’ll be telling you exactly what to do.’

Out in the night we saw the yellow eye of the 2nd train.

‘You know,’ I mused, ‘you know, I think we ought to make a special effort for November the 9th.’

Wolfram Prufer’s round face attentively blinked and pouted.

‘A proper ceremony,’ I mulled on, ‘and a rousing speech.’

‘Good idea, Sturmbannfuhrer. Where? The church?’

‘No.’ I folded my arms. He meant St Andrew’s in the Old Town. ‘No. In the open air,’ I conjured. ‘After all, they did what they did in the open air, the Old Fighters…’

‘But that was in Munich, and Munich’s practically in Italy. This is East Poland, Sturmbannfuhrer. St Andrew’s is like a fridge as it is.’

‘Come on, there’s actually not much in it, in terms of latitude. Anyway, let it snow. We’ll sling up some tarps. By the orchestra stand. More bracing. It’ll stiffen morale.’ I smiled. ‘Your brother on the Volga, Hauptsturmfuhrer. Irmfried. I trust he foresees no undue difficulties?’

‘None, mein Kommandant. Losing in Russia is a biological impossibility.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘You know, Prufer, that’s rather well put… Now what’ll we do for urns?’

On Sunday evening I attended a function in the Old Town at the Rathof Bierkeller (considerably refurbished, in recent months, thanks to heavy IG custom). Yech, it was another Farben ‘do’, basically — we were bidding farewell to Wolfgang Bolz, who was about to return to Frankfurt after his tour. The atmosphere was pretty grim, quite frankly, and I had some trouble containing my good cheer (Alisz Seisser’s visit having been an unqualified success).

Anyway, I was talking, or listening, to 3 mid-stratum engineers, Richter, Rudiger, and Wolz. The conversation centred as usual on the low levels of endeavour (and the sorry underachievement) of the Buna workforce, and how quickly they became part of the curse of my entire existence — pieces, Stucke: spitefully massive, uncompromisingly ponderous and unwieldy, mephitic sacs or stinkbombs just raring to explode.

‘The Haftlinge are done in as it is, sir. Why’d they have to lug the bloody things all the way back to the Stammlager?’ said Wolz.

‘Why can’t the Leichekommando come and pick them up, sir? Either at night or 1st thing in the morning?’ said Rudiger.

‘They say it’s for the roll call, sir. But can’t they get the numbers from the Leichekommando and just do their damned sums?’ said Richter.

‘Regrettable,’ I absent-mindedly allowed.

‘They’re having to give them piggybacks, for pity’s sake.’

‘Because they keep running out of stretchers.’

‘And there are never enough bloody wheelbarrows.’

‘Additional wheelbarrows,’ I put in (it was time to leave). ‘Good point.’

Thomsen was present, in front of the exit — he was superciliously holding forth to Mobius and Seedig. Our eyes met, and he showed me his feminine teeth in a smile or a sneer. He drew back in dismay, and I saw the glint of fear in his white eyes, as I roughly shouldered my way out into the air.

19.51. Prufer, doubtlessly, would have been happy to run me back on his motorbike; as the frost was holding off and it was still quite light, however, I elected to walk.

During the period 1936–9, in Munich, there was an annual procession, sponsored and smiled on by the State — ‘Night of the Amazons’ they called it (this memory came to me as I strode through the site of the synagogue we blew up 2 years ago): columns of German damsels paraded on horseback, stripped to the waist. Tastefully choreographed, these virgins re-enacted historical scenes — celebrations of the Teuton heritage. It’s said, too, that the Deliverer himself once tolerantly attended a famous nude ballet in that same city. This is the German way, do you see. The German male is in complete control of his desires. He can go at a woman like a purple genius; when the occasion demands it, on the other hand, he is happy to cast a cultured glance — yet feels no impulsion to touch…

I paused as I entered the Zone, steadying myself with a few stiffeners from my flask. Whatever the temperature I do like a good tramp. That’s my upbringing, I suppose. I’m like Alisz. A country boy at heart.

Biggish Titten, such as those belonging to my wife, can be described as ‘beautiful’, smallish Titten, like Waltraut’s and Xondra’s, can be characterised as ‘pretty’, and Titten of the middlish persuasion can be designated as — what? ‘Prettiful’ Titten? Such are Alisz’s Titten. ‘Prettiful’. And her Brustwarten are excitingly dark. And see what a playful mood she’s put me in!

I shall look. I shall not touch. The penalties for Rassenschande, albeit erratically imposed, can be fairly severe (up to and including decapitation) — but in any case Alisz has never stirred in me anything but the tenderest and most exalted emotions. I think of her as I would a ‘grown-up’ daughter — to be protected, cherished, and humbly revered.