Martin Amis - The Zone of Interest

‘Yes, he’s here,’ I say. ‘Witold, come with me. Come on. Come.’

It is spring in the birch wood. The silver bark is peeling; the brisk wind frees droplets of moisture from the papery leaves.

I give the Kapo, Krebbs, a meaning look and say with the authority the German power has invested in me , ‘Kannst du mich mal zwei Minuten entbehren?’

With my hand on his arm I lead Witold down the path lined with flowerpots to the white wicket gate. I stand in front of him and hold his shoulders and say,

‘Yes, Chaim’s here. With his brother. They’re working in the home farm. In the fields. With any luck you’ll get the same job. They’re big boys now. They’ve grown.’

‘What about my boot? I’ll be needing my boot for the fields.’

‘All the luggage will be waiting at the guest house.’

A sound makes me look up: Doll’s staff car, its flabby bald tyres slithering furiously in the mud. I gesture to Krebbs.

‘You’ll get cheese sandwiches straight away, and then there’ll be a hot meal later on. I’ll have Chaim come and find you.’

‘Oh, that’d be good.’

And those are his last words.

‘What was going on there?’ asks Doll as he watches the body being dragged behind the ambulance.

‘A troublemaker, sir. He kept asking for his surgical boot.’

‘His surgical boot. Yes, I could tell there was something wrong with him. Friday at six, Sonder. In the garden. As night falls.’

I flinch as a bird flies so low that I see its huge shadow sweep across my chest. ‘As night falls, sir.’

From 1934 to 1937 Witold Trzeciak and my Chaim were as close as twins. They spent every weekend together, either in his house or our house (and sleeping, at the slightest excuse — a frightening story, a black cat glimpsed under a ladder, Halloween, or indeed Walpurgis Night — in the same single bed).

In 1938 his parents divorced, and Witold became a grimly intrepid little commuter between Łódź (father) and Warsaw (mother). He went on doing this until well after the invasion. In 1939 Witold was twelve.

Now he falls as if in a swoon. Krebbs steps back. It takes Witold less than a minute to die. About twenty seconds pass, and he is gone. There are fewer things to say goodbye to, there is less life, less love (perhaps), and less memory needing to be scattered.

It is not tomorrow, it is not even the day after. It is the day after that.

ANY INTEREST I might have had in the cosmic-ice theory came to an end after four or five pages of ‘The Theory of the Cosmic Ice’; similarly, I satisfied myself about the thrust of volkisch Cultural Research after four or five minutes in the Ahnenerbe. So even if you included the massive handwritten exercise in hypocritical impartiality and rigour, my business in the capital was well and truly over by the last week of February.

All through the rain and wind of March I grew increasingly desperate to return to the Kat Zet. This tearing impatience did not centre on Hannah Doll (that situation, I hoped, was more or less static). No, I was in another kind of quandary: it had to do with the tempo of the Buna-Werke and the tempo of the war.

And what was keeping me? The indefinite but non-optional appointment with the Reichsleiter. Uncle Martin, at that time, seemed to be spending his entire life in the troposphere, as he shuttled between Alpine Bavaria and East Prussia, between the Eagle’s Nest and the Wolf’s Lair… Seven, eight, nine meetings were arranged, and then cancelled, by the trusted spinster Wibke Mundt — secretary to the Sekretar.

‘It’s this new interest of his, dear,’ she said on the phone. ‘He’s deeply engrossed.’

‘What in, Wibke?’

‘It’s the new craze. Diplomacy. He’s been going round with all these Magyars.’

She talked on. Uncle Martin’s remit was Hungary — the question of Hungary and her Jews.

‘I’m sorry, dear. I know you’re chafing. You’ll just have to sit back and enjoy Berlin.’

Unlike Cologne, Hamburg, Bremen, Munich, and Mainz (together with the whole of the Ruhrgebiet), Berlin was still in one piece. There had been dozens of nuisance raids in late ’40 and early ’41; then these tapered off, and there was nothing at all in ’42. But everyone knew for a certainty that pretty soon the sky would be black with planes.

And it happened, after the Day of the Luftwaffe (parades, march pasts, grand ceremonies): on the night of March 1/2 came the first multi-squadron bombardment. Sirens woke me (three solid chords followed by a skirling howl); I lackadaisically donned my dressing gown and went and joined the drinks party in the Eden wine cellars. Ninety minutes later the decadent levity suddenly evaporated, and it seemed that a blind, stumbling, block-straddling giant was trudging its way towards us, with a prehistoric thunderclap at every footstep; just as we were wondering how we were going to die (atomised, scorched, crushed, smothered, drowned), Brobdingnag or Blunderbore just as suddenly lurched and veered and went crashing off to the east.

Hundreds dead, thousands injured, perhaps a hundred thousand homeless, and a million gaunt and horrified faces. Underfoot, an endless carpet of crackling glass, and overhead a fume-laden, sulphur-yellow sky. The war was finally coming home to the place where it started — coming home to the Wilhelmstrasse.

Something was already very wrong with the city, something was already very wrong with the movements and dispositions on the streets. After half an hour you realised what it was: there were no young men. You saw lightly guarded knots of bowed work crews (labourers from subjugated lands), and municipal police, and SS; but otherwise there were no young men.

No young men, except for those on crutches or in handcarts or rickshaws. And when you ventured down the steps to the pubs of the Potsdamer Platz, you noticed all the empty sleeves and empty trouserlegs (and, of course, all the smashed faces).

At night in the corridors of the hotel you saw lines of what seemed at first sight to be amputated limbs — jackboots, left out for shoeshine.

‘May I start with an attempt at perspective? It’s been much on my mind.’

‘Yes, sir, please do.’

‘… The crime without a name began, let’s say, on the thirty-first of July, ’41, at the zenith of Nazi power. The letter drafted by Eichmann and Heydrich and sent to Goring, who returned it with his signature. The Fuhrer’s “wish” — for a total solution. The letter said in effect, All month we have been assembling the manpower in the east. You have the authority. Begin.’

‘For full-scale…?’

‘Well, they were perhaps still thinking they’d just dump them somewhere cold and barren — after the quick win over Russia. Somewhere beyond the Urals and up in the Arctic Circle. Extermination the long way round. But there was pressure from below — a kind of extremism contest among the plenipotentiaries in Poland. You’ve gone and annexed an extra three million Jews, mein Fuhrer. We can’t cope with the numbers. Well? By August/September, as the territorial answer receded — another push on the levers. The moral breakthrough had been made. And what was it, Thomsen? Killing not just the men, which they’d been doing for months, but the women and the children.’

March 29. Konrad Peters in the Tiergarten — the garden of beasts — with its black boles and the icing of smoky dew on the grass… Professor Peters was even more senior, in both senses, and even more formidable than I remembered. Short, vast, and the shape of a rugby ball, with bow tie and richly colourful waistcoat, thick spectacles, and a huge frown-riven pate that was by now almost flawlessly bald. He looked like a dandified giant cut off at the legs. I said,