Martin Amis - The Zone of Interest

‘18,’ she said.

It’s a bit early to say, I admit, but 1943 has thus far held more than its fair share of disappointments.

I’ll unburden myself of this without further ado. Alisz Seisser, as we delicately say, is ‘in different circumstances’. And so am I.

She’s pregnant.

Having slept on this news, I arose at 06.30, and went downstairs for a solitary breakfast. I heard the matter-of-fact rapping on the front door, then the maid’s swishy shuffle.

‘Courier from Berlin, sir.’

‘Put it there, Humilia. Lean it on the toast rack. And more Darjeeling.’

Coolly I progressed with my yogurt, my cheese, my salami…

A void surrounded the incarcerationary career of Dieter Kruger. You look at the sun for an instant too long — and your point of focus, for a while, is a pulsing blur. Hannah’s lover had been hiding behind that glutinous throb. Until now.

I reached for the sharp white envelope: my name in Indian ink; the gilt crest of the Chancellery. With steady hands I lit a cheroot and reached for a knife; I cut the letter’s throat and readied myself to contemplate the status and whereabouts of friend Kruger. This is what it said:

Lieber SS-Sturmbannfuhrer Doll:

Dieter Kruger. Leipzig, 12 Januar 1934. Auf der Flucht erschossen.

Mit freundlichen Empfehlungen,

M.B.

… Shot whilst trying to escape!

Shot whilst trying to escape: a form of words, covering a large variety of destinies. Shot whilst trying to escape. Alternatively, to put it another way, shot. Alternatively, to put it yet another way, kicked or lashed or clubbed or strangled or starved or frozen or tortured to death. But dead.

There are only 2 possible explanations. Either Angelus Thomsen was himself misinformed, or else, for reasons of his own, he misinformed Hannah. And yet — why ever would he do that?

The last heroic fighters in Stalingrad , intoned my faithful Volksempfanger, raised their hands for perhaps the last time in their lives to sing the national anthems. What an example German warriors have set in this great age! The heroic sacrifice of our men in Stalingrad was not in vain. And the future will show us why…

Time: 07.43. Place: my somewhat cluttered study. I was listening to a recording of the Minister of Enlightenment’s seminal address, delivered at the Sportpalast on February 18. It was a long speech anyway, and considerably protracted by bursts of the stormiest applause. During one of the more extended ovations I had time to read and reread a fine editorial in a recent copy of the Volkischer Beobachter . Its conclusion? They died so that Germany might live . As for the minister, he ended his peroration with a call for total war: People, rise up! And storm, break loose!

When the whistling and stomping eventually died down I hurried to the Officers’ Clubroom, feeling the need for solidarity and comradeship in this testing hour. There I found a like-minded Mobius, who was enjoying a morning drink.

I filled my glass and searched for something to say — something that would answer to the seemly gravity of our mood.

‘Ah, Untersturmfuhrer,’ I said gently. ‘Greater love hath no man than him who…’

‘Than him who what?’

‘Who lays down his life for—’

‘Blutige Holle , Paul, where do you get your information? From the Volksempfanger? They didn’t lay down their lives . They surrendered .’

‘Kapitulation? Unmoglich!’

‘That’s 150,000 dead and 100,000 captive. Have you any idea what the enemy’s going to do with this?’

‘… Propaganda?’

‘Yes. Propaganda . For God’s sake, Paul, get a grip.’ He weightily exhaled. ‘In London they’re already smelting the so-called Sword of Stalingrad — “by order of the king”. Churchill will personally present it to “Stalin the Mighty” at their next summit. And that’s just for openers.’

‘Mm, might look a bit… Ah, but the Generalfeldmarschall, Untersturmfuhrer. Friedrich Paulus. Like the true warrior he was, like the Roman, he took the—’

‘Oh verpiss dich, like hell he did. He’s hobnobbing in Moscow.’

That night I returned to the villa with a heavy heart. It was becoming clearer and clearer to me that I had been deceived — betrayed, at least in thought, by she whom I believed would always remain at my side… It was Thomsen. It was Thomsen who made her Busen swell. It was Thomsen who made her Saften stir. But I’m not supposed to know about that, am I.

I gave the door a push. Hannah was lying athwart the bed, and on the enemy radio, in impeccable high German, a voice was saying, Now the civilised nations of the world are fully arrayed against the fascist beast. Its maniacal infamies can no longer skulk behind the fog and mist, the foul breath, of a murderous war. Soon the—

‘Who is this speaking?’

‘Paulus,’ said Hannah gaily.

I felt fiery whispers in my armpits. I said, ‘Kruger. He’s dead.’

‘Mm. So I was told.’

‘Then why, may I ask, are you so radiant?’

‘Because the war is lost.’

‘… Hannah, you have just committed a crime . A crime for which’, I said, examining my fingernails (and noticing they were in need of a scrub), ‘a crime for which we are entitled to exact the supreme penalty.’

‘Doubting victory. Tell me, Pilli. Do you doubt victory?’

I drew myself up to my full height, saying, ‘Whilst clear hegemony may elude us, there’s no possibility of defeat. It’s called an armistice, Hannah. A truce. We shall simply apply for terms.’

‘Oh no we won’t. You should listen to the enemy radio, Pilli. The Alliance will only accept unconditional surrender.’

‘Unerhort!’

She lay back, on her side, in the significant Unterrock. Her brown and glowing Uberschenkeln — like those of a giantess. ‘What’ll they do with you,’ she asked, turning over and presenting me with the cleft hillock of her Hinterteil, ‘when they see what you’ve done?’

‘Hah. War crimes?’

‘No. Crimes. Just crimes. I haven’t noticed any war.’ She turned and smiled over her shoulder. ‘I suppose they’ll just string you up. Nicht? Nicht? Nicht?’

I said, ‘And you’ll be free.’

‘Yes. You’ll be dead and I’ll be free.’

Of course, I didn’t deign to tender a riposte. My thoughts had turned to something more interesting — the kreative Vernichtung of Sonderkommandofuhrer Szmul.

I’ll be thirty-five in September. That declarative sentence attempts very little, I know — but it contains two errors of fact. In September I’ll still be thirty-four. And I’ll be dead.

At every sunrise I tell myself, ‘Well. Not tonight.’ At every sunset I tell myself, ‘Well. Not today.’

It transpires that there’s something childish about the contingent life. To exist hour by hour is childish, somehow.

How amazing it is to say it: I cannot defend myself against the charge of frivolity . It is frivolous, it is silly, to persist in a fool’s paradise, let alone a fool’s inferno.

A bewildered lull settles on the Lager after the German defeat in the east. It is like an attack — and again I admit to bathos — of mortal embarrassment. They see the size of their gamble on victory: the fantastic crimes legalised by the state, they finally understand, are still illegal elsewhere. This mood lasts for five or six days, and is now no more than a relatively pleasant memory.

There are selections everywhere — on the ramp, of course, and in the Ka Be, of course, but also in the blocks, also at roll call, and also at the gate. At the gate: the work Kommandos face selections sometimes twice a day, on the way out and on the way back in. Men the shape of gnawed wishbones — the shape of wishbones gnawed and sucked — swell out their chests and move at a jog.