“I don’t know what will make me better.”
“If the triumph of justice didn’t, nothing will,” the commissar declared confidently.
Tadek only cringed inwardly at the words. This was not a triumph of justice. They won the war but that was only physical liberation; the moral one was an entirely different matter altogether. The Nazis were still Nazis, only without uniforms and therefore, more difficult to weed out among the general population. The world was still a rotten place to live in, rotten inside and out.
If he could erase that disease of National Socialism, at least from one person, that would make him better. If he’d make at least one former Nazi see the light, then he’d have at least a semblance of hope for the future. Only, he was exciting himself over empty illusions and nothing else and he knew it.
“Am I allowed to go?”
The commissar only gestured toward the door, the same artificially kind smile on his face. “Go. We don’t hold anyone by force. The awards are yours by right, so keep them and wear them proudly, by all means. Only, exchange your uniform for civilian clothes before you leave. And the weapon, of course. My secretary will write you a pass to the American sector if you like. All of your people are there.”
And so, Tadek went.
1
Berlin. American sector, May 1945
Tadek awoke with a start, alert at once and ready to spring to attention – a habit formed by a few ruthless years, first by the camp and later, by the army. Slowly, he roved his gaze around the unfamiliar surroundings. The spacious room was still enveloped in darkness, with a few streaks of silvery light creeping through the boarded windows. Hardly any of the buildings in the area had any glass left – the bombs had long seen to that.
Tadek cocked his head to one side and listened. All was quiet, yet he could swear that he heard the familiar voice of his former Kapo, Marek. To clear his head from the frightening illusion, Tadek shook it slightly. To his right and left, rows of bunks stood but this time his fellow former inmates slept in them as free men, each under his own blanket – an unimaginable luxury. He passed his hand across his forehead slowly, wiping the beads of perspiration. Just a dream then. No more Kapos for you, Tadek. No more camp.
Perhaps, the commissar was right and it was indeed a mistake to place himself among the people he’d spent so many hellish years with. In the Soviet trench, he at least slept well, exhausted by the fighting but now, the nightmares returned with a vengeance and they were not about the frontline.
In the morning, more American trucks in front of the former school turned into a shelter. A new batch of wretched creatures – displaced persons, Tadek mentally corrected himself – spilled out of them. Tadek observed them shuffling slowly inside their new quarters, the same bewildered look etched into their sharp-boned features as though they still couldn’t quite take it in, the very fact that their sufferings had come to an end. Wrapped in gray blankets provided by the Red Cross, they were a march of apparitions, not much different from the Auschwitz Muselmänner that Tadek had seen every day. Not just saw but escorted to the gas chambers daily and dragged their gray bodies out of it later so that another part of his Sonderkommando would burn them in the industrial ovens. Raised in a religious household and taught to forget and forgive, he could still have forgiven the Nazis for hurling him inside the camp, however, making him their unwilling accomplice – for that, he would never forgive them.
In the makeshift canteen, an American officer was making his regular rounds, with a clipboard and a pencil in hand, repeating in several languages his usual request:
“If any of you worked in the camp headquarters or with individual SS officers and would be able to identify them, please sign your name and your place of incarceration here.”
Tadek ignored the American and his clipboard, stuffing the bread in his mouth instead, as though to silence himself. To be sure, he could identify quite a few of them; the whole trouble was that he wished to leave all that horror behind and not to be reminded of it any longer, for he could swear that if he ever came face to face with just one more SS man, he’d die. His heart would give in, simple as that. Not out of fear but because of all the evil that had been done to his people by those uniformed beasts. They didn’t just take his family from him, they took everything he believed in, the inner goodness of people and crushed it under their black, spit-shined boots. If he saw just one more of them sneering at his face… No, he couldn’t even imagine that.
And so, Tadek kept quiet.
For some time, for a few weeks, at any rate, it was still bearable for him. The rations were generous, considering and the ancient gramophone, brought by the Americans, screeched some cheery jazz. There were even books to read – Nazi-approved school literature but one could still find something decent among it if one searched thoroughly enough. Few men left, whilst hordes of new ones arrived, chased out of the Eastern part of Berlin by the Soviets. The Americans gave them a few rations and chased them further west, away from the overcrowded school. Only later did Tadek learn that they were displaced Germans, not the former camp inmates. To his great astonishment, it occurred to Tadek that they looked just about the same – bony hands begging for food, desperate eyes, and rags hanging off of them in tatters. Some men observed them with sympathy and asked the Americans if they should take them in. Most, though, openly gloated
