Martin Amis - The Zone of Interest

‘But it’s mostly propaganda. That’s where its value lies, Onkel. Stoking up nationalism. And justifying conquests. Poland’s just part of aboriginal Germania — that kind of thing. But the other stuff? All right, tell me this. The cosmic-ice theory — what does Speer think of it?’

‘Speer? He doesn’t even stoop to give an opinion. He’s a technician. He thinks it’s all shit.’

‘And he’s right . Distance yourself, Onkel. The Reichsfuhrer and the Reichsmarschall can gain nothing but ridicule by supporting it. Forget the cosmic-ice theory. And move against Speer. What’s he got?’

Uncle Martin refilled the glasses. ‘Well, Neffe, in February he claimed that he’d doubled war production in just under a year. And it’s true. That’s what he’s got.’

‘Which is precisely the danger. You see what he’s building, him and Saukel, Onkel? Speer wants what is obviously yours. The succession.’

‘… The succession.’

‘If, God forbid…’

‘Mm. God forbid… It’s all in hand, Neffe. The Gauleiter are with me. Of course they are. They’re Party. So, you know — Speer orders a trainload of machine parts and my boys take half of it along the way. And I’ve planted Otto Saur and Ferdi Dorsch in his ministry. He’ll be stymied at every turn, and all he can do is try and get close enough to the Chief to bore him about it. Speer’s just another functionary now. He’s not an artist. Not any more.’

‘Good, Onkel. Good. I knew you wouldn’t just sit there, sir, and be cheated out of what is rightfully yours.’

A little later, when I mentioned the time of my train, the Sekretar buzzed the car pool and announced that he would accompany me to the Ostbahnhof. In the courtyard I said,

‘This door. Incredibly heavy.’

‘Armour-plated, Golo. Chief’s orders.’

‘Better safe than sorry, eh Onkel?’

‘Get in… See? A limousine that feels almost cramped. That’s the price of power. So how was your New Year’s Eve?’

‘It was very nice. Tantchen and I sat in front of the fire till ten past twelve. Then we drank a toast to your health and sought our beds. How was yours?’

The crouched outriders sped forward to liberate the road ahead; we sailed through the crossings against the light; and then the bikes surged past us once again. Uncle Martin shook his head, as if in disbelief, saying,

‘Ten past twelve? Can you believe, Golo, I sat up till five in the morning. With the Chief. Three and three-quarter hours we had together. Have you ever seen him up close?’

‘Of course, Onkel, but just the once. At your wedding.’ That was in 1929 — when Gerda and I were both on the brink of our third decade. And the leader of the NSDAP looked so much like a pale, pouchy, and cruelly overworked head waiter that every civilian there, I felt, was trying very hard not to hand him a tip. ‘Such charisma. I would never dare imagine any kind of uh, tête-à-tête.’

‘You know, don’t you, for years people were willing to give their eyesight for five minutes alone with the Chief? And I get nearly four hours. Just him and me. In the Wolf’s Lair.’

‘So romantic, Onkel.’

He laughed and said, ‘It’s a funny thing. When I uh, renewed my acquaintance with Krista Groos, for whom many thanks, I felt the same excitement. Not that I… Nothing of that kind. Just the same level of elation. Have you noticed, Golo, that redheads smell stronger?’

For a quarter of an hour Uncle Martin talked of his doings with Krista Groos. Whenever I looked out through the tinted windows I instinctively expected to see a stream of raised fists and rancorous faces. But no. Women, women, women, of every age, and busy, busy, busy, not with the old Berlin busyness (getting and spending), just busy living, trying to buy an envelope, a pair of shoelaces, a toothbrush, a tube of glue, a button. All their husbands, brothers, sons, and fathers were hundreds or perhaps thousands of miles away; and at least a million of them were already dead.

‘I told you she was famous,’ I said as the car pulled up behind the Poland Station.

‘Justly celebrated, Golo. Justly celebrated. Mm, I’ve got you here early for a reason. Before you go I’m going to give you a little treat. The strange tale of Dieter Kruger. I shouldn’t, of course. But it can’t matter now.’

‘Oh you are a sport, Onkel.’

‘… On the night before his execution, we went on a little pilgrimage to Kruger’s cell. Me and a few mates. And you’ll never guess what we did.’

As the Sekretar was telling his story I wound down the window to taste the air. Yes, it was true. Like the Reichskanzler (much feared in this respect by all interlocutors, even Onkel), the city suffered from halitosis. Berlin had bad breath. This was because the food and the drink were being prepared, processed, and quite possibly invented by IG Farben (and Krupp, Siemens, Henkel, Flick, and the rest). Chemical bread, chemical sugar, chemical sausage, chemical beer, chemical wine. And what were the sequelae? Gases, botulism, scrofula, and boils. Where could you turn when even the soap and the toothpaste reeked? Yellow-eyed women were breaking wind openly now, but that was only half of it. They were farting through their mouths.

‘On his bare chest!’ concluded Uncle Martin with his juiciest smile. ‘On his bare chest. Don’t you think it’s a scream?’

‘That is hilarious, Onkel,’ I said, feeling faint. ‘As you promised — National Socialism at its most mordant.’

‘Priceless. Priceless. God how we laughed.’ He looked at his watch and went quiet for a moment. ‘Bloody awful place, the Wolfsschanze. It’s almost like a pocket KZ, except the walls are five metres thick. But the Chief — ach, the Chief’s cooking up a nasty surprise for our friends in the east. Keep an eye on the Kursk salient. When the ground hardens. Operation Citadel, Neffe. You just keep your eye on the salient at Kursk.’

‘I shall. Well, Onkel. It goes without saying that I’m eternally in your debt. Give my warmest love to Tantchen.’

He frowned and said, ‘Your Hannah. I have no objection to the scale of her. On the contrary. Why d’you think I married Fraulein Gerda Buch? But her lips, Golo — Hannah’s lips. They’re too wide. They go all the way round to her ears.’

My shoulders hunched. ‘It’s a very pretty mouth.’

‘Mm. Well I suppose it looks all right’, he said, ‘if you’ve got your cock in it. A joy as always, dear Golo. Take excellent care.’

Boris had gone to war with a full heart, and I too was gravid with emotion as I prepared to set out for my own front line in the east.

Express trains to and from Poland were never crowded — because Poles weren’t allowed on express trains. Or on any other trains, without special warrants, or on any trams, or on any buses. They were also banned from theatres, concerts, exhibitions, cinemas, museums, and libraries, and forbidden to own or use cameras, radios, musical instruments, gramophones, bicycles, boots, leather briefcases, and school textbooks. On top of that, any ethnic German could kill a Pole whenever he liked. As National Socialism saw it, Poles were of animal status, but they weren’t insects or bacteria, like the Russian POWs, the Jews, and now also the Roma and Sinti — the Alisz Seissers of this world.

So I had a compartment to myself and two berths to choose from. All such luxuries had long been seasoned with nausea (how humiliating, how curlike it was, active membership of the master race), and I took some comfort from the fact that every visible surface of the train’s interior bore a thick coating of grime. A half-centimetre of grime, in Germany: the war was lost, Germany was lost. I settled down to the eight-hour haul (and then there’d be the three hours to Cracow). But I would be back at the Kat Zet for Walpurgis Night.