Martin Amis - The Zone of Interest

‘Well now,’ I said. ‘A world-renowned concern with its own Konzentrationslager. Unerhort!’

Burckl said, ‘We’ll also provide the food — independently. There’ll be no back-and-forth with KL1. And therefore no typhus. So we hope.’

‘Ah. Typhus. That’s the crux, nicht? Though the situation was eased, I rather fancy, by the substantial selection of August 29th.’

‘They’re still dying’, said Seedig, ‘at a rate of 1,000 a week.’

‘Mm. Look here. Are you planning to increase the rations?’

Seedig and Burckl glanced sharply at one another. It was clear to me that they were in disagreement on this question. Burckl twisted in his chair and said,

‘Yes I would argue for a modest increase. Of, say, 20 per cent.’

‘20 per cent!’

‘Yes, sir, 20 per cent. They’ll have that much more strength and they’ll last a bit longer. Obviously.’

Now Thomsen spoke. ‘With respect, Mr Burckl — your sphere is that of commerce, and Dr Seedig is an industrial chemist. The Kommandant and I can’t afford to be so purely practical. We dare not lose sight of our complementary objective. Our political objective.’

‘My thought exactly,’ I said. ‘And by the way. On this matter the Reichsfuhrer-SS and myself are of 1 accord.’ I smacked my palm down on the desktop. ‘We’ll not stand for any pampering!’

‘Amen, my Kommandant,’ said Thomsen. ‘This is not a sanatorium.’

‘No mollycoddling! What do they think this is? Some sort of rest home?’

In the washroom of the Officers’ Club what do I find but a copy of Der Sturmer . Now this publication has for some time been banned in the KL, and on my orders. With its disgusting and hysterical emphasis on the carnal predations of the Jewish male, Der Sturmer , I believe, has done serious anti-Semitism a great deal of harm. The people need to see charts, diagrams, statistics, the scientific evidence — and not a full-page cartoon of Shylock (as it might be) slavering over Rapunzel. I am far from alone in this view. It is the policy championed by the Reichssicherheitshauptamt itself.

In Dachau, where I launched my meteoric rise through the custodial hierarchy, a display case of Der Sturmer s was erected in the prisoners’ canteen. It had a galvanising effect on the criminal element, and violence frequently ensued. Our Jewish brethren wormed their way out of it in typical fashion, with bribes — as they all had plenty of money. Besides, they were mainly persecuted by their co-religionists, notably Eschen, their Block Senior.

The Jews were of course aware that over the long term this foul rag actually helped their cause rather than hindered it. I offer the following as a footnote: it is well known that the editor of Der Sturmer is himself a Jew; and he also writes the worst of the incendiary articles it features. I rest my case.

Hannah smokes, you know. Oh, ja. Ah, yech. I found an empty packet of Davidoffs in the drawer where she keeps her underwear. If the servants talk it will soon get about that I can’t discipline my wife. Angelus Thomsen is an odd bird. He’s sound enough, I dare say, but there’s something impudent and embarrassing about his manner. I wonder if he is perhaps a homosexualist (albeit deeply repressed). Does he have even an honorary rank, or is everything reliant on his ‘connection’? Curious, because no one is more widely and thoroughly loathed than the Brown Eminence. (Reminder: the lorry, from now on, to follow the more roundabout route north of the Summer Huts.) It calms you down and it numbs the gums, but brandy also boasts a third property: that of an aphrodisiac.

Ach, there’s nothing wrong with Hannah that the good old 15 centimetres won’t cure. When, after a final glass or 2 of Martell, I wend my way to the bedroom, she should be suitably prompt in the performance of her spousal duty. If I do encounter any nonsense, I will simply invoke that magic name: Dieter Kruger !

For I am a normal man with normal needs.

… I was halfway to the door when I was struck by an unpleasant thought. It so happens that I’ve not yet seen the balance sheet for Special Train 105. And I left the Little Brown Bower, that evening, without specifically telling Wolfram Prufer to bury the pieces in the Spring Meadow. Was he stupid enough to fire up a Topf & Sons 3-retorter to deal with a smattering of brats and dodderers? Surely not. No. No. Wiser heads would have prevailed. Prufer would have listened to 1 of the old hands. For example, Szmul.

Oh, Christ, what am I going on about? If Horst Blobel meant what he said, then the whole bloody lot of them’ll all have to come up anyway.

I see I’d better have a brood about this. I’ll sleep in the dressing room, as usual , and tackle Hannah in the morning. 1 of those 1s where you slip in beside them whilst they’re all warm and somnolent, and ease up against them and into them. I won’t stand for any hogwash. And then we’ll both be in excellent spirits for our little gathering here at the villa!

For I am a normal man with normal needs. I am completely normal . This is what nobody seems to understand.

Paul Doll is completely normal.

Ihr seit achzen johr , we whisper, und ihr hott a fach .

Once upon a time there was a king, and the king commissioned his favourite wizard to create a magic mirror. This mirror didn’t show you your reflection. It showed you your soul — it showed you who you really were.

The wizard couldn’t look at it without turning away. The king couldn’t look at it. The courtiers couldn’t look at it. A chestful of treasure was offered to any citizen in this peaceful land who could look at it for sixty seconds without turning away. And no one could.

I find that the KZ is that mirror. The KZ is that mirror, but with one difference. You can’t turn away.

We are of the Sonderkommando, the SK, the Special Squad, and we are the saddest men in the Lager. We are in fact the saddest men in the history of the world. And of all these very sad men I am the saddest. Which is demonstrably, even measurably true. I am by some distance the earliest number, the lowest number — the oldest number.

As well as being the saddest men who ever lived, we are also the most disgusting. And yet our situation is paradoxical.

It is difficult to see how we can be as disgusting as we unquestionably are when we do no harm.

The case could be made that on balance we do a little good. Still, we are infinitely disgusting, and also infinitely sad.

Nearly all our work is done among the dead, with the heavy scissors, the pliers and mallets, the buckets of petrol refuse, the ladles, the grinders.

Yet we also move among the living. So we say, ‘ Viens donc, petit marin. Accroches ton costume. Rappelles-toi le numéro. Tu as quatre-vingt-trois! ’ And we say, ‘ Faites un nœud avec les lacets, Monsieur. Je vais essayer de trouver un cintre pour votre manteau. Astrakhan! C’est toison d’agneau, n’est-ce pas? ’

After a major Aktion we typically receive a fifth of vodka or schnapps, five cigarettes, and a hundred grams of sausage made from bacon, veal, and pork suet. While we are not always sober, we are never hungry and we are never cold, at least not at night. We sleep in the room above the disused crematory (hard by the Monopoly Building), where the sacks of hair are cured.

When he was still with us, my philosophical friend Adam used to say, We don’t even have the comfort of innocence . I didn’t and I don’t agree. I would still plead not guilty.

A hero , of course, would escape and tell the world . But it is my feeling that the world has known for quite some time. How could it not, given the scale?