Martin Amis - The Zone of Interest

‘Who Will Weep, As We Two Sunder?’. ‘Say So Long Softly When We Part’.

Ten days went by before Konrad Peters called again from Berlin.

‘Sorry, Thomsen, it’s going to take longer than I thought. The atmosphere around this case — it’s unusual. There’s a certain uh, opacity. And a settled silence.’

‘I was thinking,’ I said. ‘He couldn’t have been drafted, could he, sir? Have they begun emptying the prisons?’

‘Yes, but they’re not conscripting politicals. Only criminals. Your man would still be considered uh, unwurdig… I’ll keep at it. My guess is he’s a red triangle somewhere. Somewhere queer — you know, like Croatia.’

For reasons that might seem more transparent than they actually were, I was ill-disposed towards Dieter Kruger. I felt scorn for what he represented — and it was a scorn long shared by all Germans of non-dependent mind. He personified the national surrender of March 1933. Obedient Kremlinites like Kruger (who always insisted , said Hannah, that the Social Democrats were as bad as the fascists ) saw to it that there would be no unity, and no potency, on the Left. The whole thing seemed to have been calibrated by malign yet artistic fingers. For years the Communists had done enough, and blustered enough (about their ‘readiness’), to lend a kind of legitimacy to their own immediate suppression; and after the Reichstag Fire and the passage, the next morning, of the Decree for the Protection of People and State, civil rights and the rule of law became things of the past. And what did the Communists do? They unclenched their raised fists, and limply waved goodbye.

But then, too, these thoughts led to other thoughts. For instance — why did I feel like the sick bird that couldn’t fly, that couldn’t rise?

Uncle Martin recently told me a story about Reinhard Heydrich — the blond paladin whose fate it was to be slowly killed by a car seat (the assassins’ grenade had forced leatherwork and horsehair into his diaphragm and spleen). One night, after a long session of solitary drinking, the Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia — ‘the Butcher of Prague’ — went upstairs and confronted his own reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror. He unholstered his revolver and fired two shots into the glass, saying, At last I’ve got you, scum …

The truth was that I had another reason to resent Dieter Kruger. Whatever else he might or might not have been (conceited, predatory, trust-abusing, heartless, wrong), he was capable of courage.

Hannah had loved him. And he was brave.

It could no longer be deferred. On the last day of November I stamped around the Yard at the Buna-Werke till I saw the thick shape of Captain Roland Bullard. I hung back and then lingeringly and watchfully followed him into one of the tool cabins between the Stalags. He had the components of a dismantled welding gun laid out on a pillowslip.

‘ Players ,’ I said. ‘ Senior Services. And — Woodbines. ’

‘ Woodbine!… They’re not the dearest, but they are the best. I take that very kindly, Mr Thomsen. Thank you. ’

‘ Rule Britannia. I made some research. Hark. “The nations not so blest as thee Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall, While thou shalt flourish great and free: The dread and envy of them all .”’ I said, ‘ Do we understand? ’

He assessed me, he took me in for the second time, and his cuboid head inclined forward.

‘ Captain Bullard, I have been prying on you. Tomorrow I… Yesterday I saw your bending the blades of the cooling fan in the Polimerisations-Buro. And I liked it. ’

‘ You liked it? ’

‘ Yes. There are others as you? ’

‘ … There are. Twelve hundred others. ’

‘Now. For reasons that do not bother us, I am fed up completely of the Third Realm. They say they will last one thousand years. And we do not wish the buggers here till…’

‘ Till 2933. No. We don’t. ’

‘ You need information? I can be help? ’

‘ Certainly .’

‘ Then do we understand? ’

He lit up a Woodbine and said, ‘ Hark. “Thee, haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, But work their woe and thy renown.” Yes, Mr Thomsen. We understand. ’

It turned out that I was going to see Hannah, up close, one more time before I left for Berlin — at the Dezember Konzert (scheduled for the nineteenth). I only became aware of it when Boris seized my arm as we were crossing the parade ground of the Stammlager and said proudly (and smugly),

‘Quick. This way.’

He led me to a vast and unexpected expanse of land between the Women’s Camp and the outer perimeter. As we started off across it he said with a groan,

‘This was quite a while ago. I had a sordid row with Ilse. In bed.’

‘How very unfortunate.’

‘Mm. And the consequence is that Esther’s being persecuted not just by Ilse but by her little bumgirl, Hedwig.’

‘What was the sordid row?’

‘Not entirely creditable.’ Boris’s head yawed. ‘I’d seen her use the lash that day. And I think it affected my mood… I had a fiasco.’

‘Mm,’ I said. ‘Which gets noticed.’

‘Not only that. I said to her, Yes, Ilse, that’s the best way to torture a man in bed. You don’t need your knout. Just give him a fiasco .’

‘… Do you think there’s any real harm in Hedwig?’

‘Not really. It’s all Ilse. They make a pet of Esther too and she says that’s the worst bit. It’s all Ilse. Now shsh. Behold.’

We approached a free-standing structure the size of a warehouse, with fresh wood on four sides (over which a soggy pitch roof seemed to slobber). There was frozen mud underfoot but the sky was blue and filled with huge ivory clouds rippling with hard muscles.

‘Oh,’ gasped Boris as he peered through the head-high window. ‘A sonnet. A rose.’

It took my eyes several seconds to penetrate the stipples of grit on the glass and then adjust to the streaky light… The considerable space was lined with bunk beds and masses of humped equipment loosely covered in tarps. Then I saw Esther.

‘She’s on the triple ration. They’ve got to take care of her — she’s their big star.’

Herself overseen by Ilse Grese in full Aufseherin gear (with cape, white shirt and black tie, long skirt, boots, the crested belt cinched tight with the whip coiled in it), Esther, in the company of five, no six, no seven other girl Haftlinge, plus Hedwig, was organising what seemed to be a slow waltz.

‘Ilse cares deeply about this, Golo. Our Friday-night fuck in Berlin thinks she’s been catapulted into high culture.’ He said, ‘It’ll all hinge on the principal. And if she lets Ilse down…’

I watched. Esther’s movements were reluctant, but helplessly fluid; and during a lull she went up on her toes (barefoot) and formed a perfect circle with her arms as her hands met above her head.

‘Is she trained?’ I whispered.

‘Her mother was corps de ballet. Prague.’

‘What happened to her mother?’

‘We killed her. Not here. There. In the Heydrich reprisals… Do you think she’ll behave, on the night? It’ll be tempting for her not to. In front of that mass of SS. Look.’

The slow waltz resumed, with Esther leading.

‘She was born…’ He raised a hand and pointed to the glacial caps of the High Tatras to the south-west. ‘She was born there and was a child there for ten years… Look at her. Look at them. Golo, look at them all dancing in their stripes.’