“What are you saying, Greta?”
The nurse shrugged and pulled the blanket back over the corpse’s face. “Sometimes in life it is necessary to do difficult things. But it is not necessary to like it.”
Rachel sat rigidly in a back corner of the Jewish Women’s Block, hugging Jan and Hannah to her chest. Frau Hagan stood across the block, watching the Appellplatz through the crack in the door. Every block veteran believed a reprisal was imminent.
Rachel knew nothing about reprisals. She had not been in camp long enough to experience one. Some women had been hissing that the SS should kill every gypsy in the camp, since it was a gypsy who had gone after Brandt. What madness. Madness when fear could pit good people against a woman whose only crime was trying to exact justice from her son’s murderer. If Brandt had violated Jan, Rachel knew, she would have done the same, and probably suffered the same fate.
She prayed that the gypsy woman was dead. To be torn to pieces by dogs! She shuddered. She could not keep waiting for Schorner to ask why she was not eating the food he was sending her. She had hoped by her fasting to convince him that fear for her children’s safety was driving her toward starvation, and that by offering protection he could bring her willingly and in good health to his bed.
But she could wait no longer. Brandt might decide in the next five minutes that he wanted Jan to replace the gypsy boy in his quarters. He could order a selection and take
Alive.
23
As it happened, Rachel did not have to steel herself to walk into Major Schorner’s office and ask to speak to him. Fifteen minutes after the gypsy woman died, Schorner sent Weitz to the block with orders to bring Rachel to him.
Her first response was panic. Had Schorner grown tired of waiting and decided to punish her?
“The Pole will take care of your brats,” Weitz muttered as he pulled Rachel across the Appellplatz. “I think that bitch is in love with you.”
At Schorner’s office, they walked right past the clerk and into the major’s presence. Schorner sat behind his desk, his face clean-shaven today, his tunic buttoned to the throat. He dismissed Weitz and opened his mouth to speak, but Rachel started first.
“A moment please, Sturmbannfuhrer! May I ask you a question?”
Schorner looked discomfited by her directness. “Go ahead, then.”
“It is a difficult question, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.”
“I’m not squeamish.”
Rachel concentrated on speaking perfect German. “Are you a man of your word, Sturmbannfuhrer? A man of honor?”
Rather than explode with indignation as Rachel had feared, Schorner leaned back in his chair and regarded her with interest. He chose to answer her question with a question of his own.
“Do you know what honor is, Frau Jansen? I will tell you. When our armies marched into Athens, a German officer ordered a Greek soldier to strike the Greek flag from the Acropolis. The Greek took down the flag, wrapped himself in it and stepped off the parapet. He plunged to his death. That is honor.”
Schorner sniffed and looked toward his office window. “Do you think Sturm and his men know anything of honor?”
“If the Russians overran this camp tomorrow,” Schorner said, “Sturm would kiss the ass of the first private through the gate and offer to sell him a watch.”
“And you, Sturmbannfuhrer?”
Schorner steepled his fingers and gazed into Rachel’s eyes. “Only the day of action can answer that question. But I can tell you this. My word is my life.”
“I am glad to know that, Sturmbannfuhrer. Because I have a favor to ask of you.”
Schorner’s eyelids lowered a little. “A favor?”
“You have asked something of me. I wonder if I might ask something from you?”
“I see. What is it?”
Rachel felt her words slipping away. She had rehearsed them all the way across the Appellplatz, but to stand here like a beggar and offer to trade herself . . . it was too difficult.
“Speak!” Schorner demanded, coming to his feet. “What is the matter with you? Weitz tells me you refuse to eat any of your food. I go to great trouble to send that to you! The other prisoners endure the same hardships as you, yet they have no trouble eating. In fact they gobble their food like swine.”
Rachel felt the floodgates burst. “It is my children, Sturmbannfuhrer! My son! I’m worried that—” Her throat closed involuntarily. If Schorner perceived Jan as an obstacle to sexual congress with her, might not he simply order the boy taken to the E-Block and—
“Out with it, woman!” Schorner shouted.
Rachel could think of nothing but the truth. “Sometimes . . . sometimes children disappear here, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
This statement took Schorner completely aback. He stood motionless for a few seconds. Then he walked to the door and made sure it was completely closed. “You’re speaking of Herr Doktor Brandt, of course,” he said in a low voice.
Rachel nodded quickly.
Schorner sighed. “The commandant has . . . a problem, it is true,” he said softly. “A weakness. As a man and a German officer, I despise him. However, I tolerate him. Not because he is my superior, but for one very simple reason. He is competent. In fact, he is probably a genius. Can you understand? Brandt is not like Mengele and the other quacks they call doctors at Auschwitz. Brandt was educated at Heidelberg, and then at Kiel as a medical doctor. He was a senior chemist with Farben for a while, after which he moved into pure research. He worked with Gebhardt Schrader himself.” Schorner rubbed his chin, as if mulling over how much to reveal. “Research is what he is doing here. Farben provides him with equipment and materials. And what he is working on, Frau Jansen, well . . . never mind. I have forgotten myself in the presence of a beautiful woman.” He looked Rachel from head to toe. “You have some sort of accommodation in mind, I take it.”
“Yes, Sturmbannfuhrer.”
“That would be fair, of course. But I must be honest. The simple fact is that I cannot protect your son. As commandant, Brandt has absolute authority over everyone here, including me.”
“But you are second only to him! And I have heard some people say that — well, that Brandt is afraid of you.”
Schorner laughed. “I can assure you that rumor is false.”
“Sturmbannfuhrer, I think that a small gesture from you at the right moment might save my son, even my daughter.”
Schorner made a sound indicating great weariness. “Frau Jansen, I can only give you advice. Keep the boy out of the Appellplatz except during roll call. Make him look sick. Rub his skin with something to give him a rash. Give him lice. It won’t kill him, and it might save him. Make his skin look yellow, jaundiced.”
“But what about medical inspections? I’ve heard that they periodically remove the sick and . . .” She faltered.
“Eliminate them,” Schorner finished. “Sometimes they do, yes. SS doctors are bloodthirsty, even when
