Klaus Henkel was born to serve in the Waffen SS, the elite fighting arm of the Schutzstaffel. The Waffen SS comprised the most fanatical adherents to the Führer’s divine purpose – the preservation and protection of the German race – and its members were instructed to flout the rules of war: their motto, ‘Give death and take death’, was a licence to commit atrocities. Young Klaus Henkel couldn’t have been better qualified, both to serve the cause and to employ the methods of the Waffen SS: he fervently believed in Aryan superiority and he enjoyed the licence to kill.

While serving, he found himself happily reunited with his good friend Beppo, and just as they had competed during their early university days, so they competed in the field of battle. In accordance with the motto of the Waffen SS, Klaus and Beppo gave death ruthlessly and risked it with a careless courage. Both were wounded in the course of their respective duties and were unable to return to combat. Klaus was bayoneted in the back and his lung punctured, an injury which he was assured would leave him with no permanent damage, but his recovery would take some time. Deskbound during his recuperation, he was frustrated in his desire to return to the front.

Both Klaus and Beppo were decorated for their conduct in battle. While stationed on the Ukrainian front, Beppo was awarded the Iron Cross Second Class, then, following his second campaign, the Iron Cross First Class. Klaus received the Iron Cross Second Class following his service deep behind Soviet lines, and both men received the Black Badge for the Wounded and the Medal for the Care of the German People.

It pleased Klaus that his life so paralleled that of his good friend Beppo, a man two years his senior, and the common zeal with which they had embraced the party during their student days in Munich remained their bond throughout their service.

Born and raised in the North Rhine near the Dutch border, the only child of middle-class parents – his father German and his mother Italian – Klaus Werner Henkel had been a highly intelligent child. From an early age, he’d spoken fluent German, Italian and Dutch, his precocity encouraged by his socialite mother who’d enjoyed showing off her ‘child prodigy’, as she’d called him. His father, Gustav, a doctor, had been a remote figure in his early life, leaving the rearing of his son to the wife upon whom he doted, and Klaus had rarely mingled with children his own age. His cosseted upbringing, however, had caused problems when he’d first attended school. Accustomed as he was to the company of adults, he had considered himself superior to his peers, and as a result he’d suffered at the hands of bullies. It had been then that Gustav had taken over his son’s education. A hard man and a strict disciplinarian, he had instilled in the boy the desire for perfection in all areas, from the playing fields to the classroom.

‘Be the strongest and the best at whatever you do, Klaus,’ he’d said. ‘When you are the strongest and the best, no-one can bully you.’

In his drive to earn the approval of his previously distant father, Klaus had been a diligent student, outshining his classmates both athletically and academically.

Gustav’s advice had proved correct: Klaus had no longer been bothered by bullies, but his success had not earned him the popularity he expected. The others were in awe of him – they feared him, and Klaus had discovered that he liked it that way. He enjoyed instilling fear, it gave him a sense of power. He was different from the others.

In 1930, shortly before his eighteenth birthday, he had passed his Abitur with outstanding honours and had been awarded a scholarship to study medicine, majoring in psychology, at the University of Munich. It was there that he’d met his good friend and fellow student, Josef ‘Beppo’ Mengele who, at that time, was studying philosophy prior to turning his sights towards medical science. And it was there, in Munich, the capital of Bavaria and the heart of the growing National Socialist Movement, that the two had become inspired by the political revolutionary, Adolf Hitler. Intoxicated by Hitler’s frenzied speeches and his visions of a new German Empire populated by a German super-race, the two young students, Henkel and Mengele, had joined the nationalistic organisation known as Stahlhelm, or Steel Helmets, and had cemented their common devotion to the cause of the future Führer of Nazi Germany.

Following his active service with the Waffen SS, Klaus lost touch with Beppo as he impatiently bided his time until he was deemed fit enough to return to battle. Then he received a proposal that changed his mind altogether. Notification arrived from the Race and Resettlement Office in Berlin that, at the request of his friend and mentor Captain Josef Mengele, a position was on offer. Klaus informed them he was delighted to accept.

It was early 1942 and a new policy, Endlösung, had been introduced. ‘The Final Solution’ had been formalised in Berlin by the upper echelons of the Nazi hierarchy: the plan to construct vast concentration camps across Europe. These camps, Klaus was informed, would hold untold opportunities for dedicated Nazis committed to the cause.

Within a year of his posting to Berlin, Klaus was asked by his friend Beppo to join him as his assistant on a new assignment and, in May of 1943, Doctors Josef Mengele and Klaus Henkel, in their respective ranks of Captain and Lieutenant, departed for the Nazi concentration camp at Oswiecim, recently renamed Auschwitz, in Poland.

The death factory that was Auschwitz-Birkenau offered unlimited medical opportunities to Mengele, whose mission was to perform research on human genetics. His goal was to unlock the secrets of genetic engineering, and to devise methods of eradicating inferior gene strands from the human population as a means of creating a Germanic super-race.

Klaus, as Beppo’s assistant, found the work inspiring, but his own interest lay in the opportunity for psychological study which had never before been available to medical science. Here at Auschwitz, human beings replaced guinea pigs and rats and monkeys, and the frustrating, futile experiments previously performed upon animals now resulted in conclusive evidence. For the first time, Klaus was able to examine the human threshold of pain, marvelling at how it varied so vastly from subject to subject. He could observe the effects of torture and learn to pinpoint the fine line where the majority would succumb to madness. Interestingly, the findings were not finite – there was always the subject whose mind seemed capable of retaining its sanity until death finally claimed it. And, above all, he could observe on a daily basis the varying survival instincts of those existing in conditions of such deprivation it was difficult to comprehend both their ability and their will to live. The human mind was a source of inestimable wonder to Klaus Henkel.

Of equal satisfaction to him was the efficiency of the entire exercise. To be cleansing Germany of its racial impurities while also advancing medical science on all levels was in his opinion an extremely tidy and effective arrangement.

Surrounded by double rows of electrified fences, the vast complex of Auschwitz-Birkenau was the size of a small city. In the concentration and labour camp of Auschwitz were endless rows of wooden barracks, each of which housed up to a thousand inmates, hundreds of thousands in all, and in the adjoining extermination camp of Birkenau were the gas chambers and the huge furnaces whose chimneys relentlessly belched smoke. The railway line divided the camps, and trains arrived daily through the towering entrance arch into the confines of Auschwitz-Birkenau. The selection procedure was simple: the new arrivals were herded from the cattle trucks and up the wooden ramp to where Josef Mengele, who had personally undertaken the task of selection, would indicate Birkenau to the right or Auschwitz to the left. Between seventy to ninety percent of new arrivals were directed to the right, where they would be ordered to strip in preparation for their de-lousing shower – the shower in actuality a gas chamber. It was an uncomplicated and economical process, and one which Mengele enjoyed.

Klaus embraced his new life at Auschwitz, although it was some time before he could acclimatise himself to the rancid stench that suffused the place. He never did quite manage to get it out of his nostrils. It got into his clothes too, and into the very pores of his skin. But it was a small price to pay, when all was said and done. He was serving his Führer and ensuring the future of a superior Germany – he could learn to live with an unpleasant smell. Besides, his officer’s quarters were excellent, and there was the companionship of his good friend Beppo.

He was thankful for the stimulation of Beppo’s company and their mutual interests, for he had little in common with the other Nazi soldiers. Most seemed to be louts with no breeding or, worse still, men with no stomach for the job at hand. Klaus had serious doubts about the commitment of some who made a habit of getting drunk or taking drugs when rostered on train-arrival duties. The selection process and its accompanying culling of babies and infants obviously upset them. Klaus himself did not altogether approve of Mengele’s summary execution of children so immediately upon arrival; it was messy, he thought. If mothers were lulled into a sense of security, it would be far more orderly in the long run. However, orders were orders, and he had his eye on those soldiers who didn’t have the stomach for their duty – some would certainly have to go.

Of course there was the other extreme: the thugs who liked to show off, bashing unnecessarily, shooting indiscriminately. It was not an efficient way to go about things – it caused panic. When applying oneself to a task, Klaus thought, there was no need to show off.

It was an area of criticism which, strangely enough, he applied also to Beppo. In Klaus’s opinion, Beppo had a tendency to strut his self-importance during the selection process. Standing at the head of the ramp in his shiny boots and his immaculate black uniform, buckles and badges gleaming, Beppo was clearly intent upon creating an image. White-gloved and brandishing his riding crop like a conductor’s baton, he would whistle while he directed the traffic. And he would always wear his medals. Klaus, who was invariably present during the selection process, never wore his, and he found it rather ostentatious of Beppo to do so.

But then Beppo had always been vain, he reminded himself. Even in their university days Beppo had been obsessed with clothes and appearances. They’d joked about it.

‘Clothes do not make the man, Beppo,’ he would say.

‘Nor does the body, Klaus.’ Beppo’s response was always lightning fast and his laugh triumphant. ‘You are far more vain than I.’

It had been true, Klaus had to admit. He hadn’t seen it as vanity at the time, but perhaps Beppo had been right. He was proud of his body and he kept it honed to perfection. His body was his temple. Well, if that was vanity, he thought, then so be it – his body served him well.

They’d both been attractive to women. Beppo, the slim, dapper young man, tawny-skinned and with the dark eyes of a Latin film star, and Klaus, the Aryan with his sandy hair, blue eyes and athlete’s body.

Beppo’s charm had usually won out with the women, and Klaus had always given in with good grace; he had no desire to compete with his friend over something so trivial. Women meant nothing more to him than sex, and he’d been willing to relinquish any claim and move on to the next – there was always another waiting.

There had been one time, however, which he remembered clearly. The time when he had felt a particularly strong lust for a girl and had decided that she was not Beppo’s, but his. He had told Beppo so.

‘She is mine tonight,’ he’d said. ‘You can have her tomorrow.’

And Beppo had acquiesced without a word. From that day on, both had recognised a slight shift in the balance of power. Beppo, as Klaus’s senior in years and rank, had always been the leader, but when it came to direct confrontation it was Klaus who was the stronger.

Klaus supposed now that he should forgive Beppo the medals which he wore during the selection process. It was simple vanity. Besides, he no longer had the right to judge a man for his vanity: he himself had been disguising the prematurely grey streaks in his hair with henna for the past two years, although he would never have admitted it to Beppo.

He couldn’t help feeling critical, however, of other traits in his friend which were manifesting themselves at Auschwitz. Beppo’s mood swings and sudden fits of temper were non-productive and unprofessional, in Klaus’s opinion. In fact they bordered on indulgent. Beppo’s power over life and death had gone to his head, he’d become self-indulgent. Particularly in his sexual degradation of the women, which was a pity, Klaus thought, for in degrading the women, Beppo degraded himself.

Mengele had insisted from the outset that the women spared for their good looks and possible use as prostitutes be stripped nude and paraded before him. One or two other doctors would be present to perform physical examinations for any signs of sexual disease, but Mengele would delight in degrading the women far more than was necessary. One by one he would ask them intimate details about their sexual lives, and Klaus found his friend’s lewd enjoyment of their humiliation unsettling. Most of the women were Jewish and, in private, Beppo always referred to them as ‘dirty whores’, yet it was clear that he found them in some way desirable. Such behaviour provided a surprising insight into Beppo’s character, Klaus thought. How could a man like Josef Mengele find the humiliation of such women sexually titillating? The women were Jews.

Klaus did not voice his disapproval, nor did he allow it to affect his friendship with Beppo. He couldn’t afford to. Beppo was too important to him, both as his friend and his senior officer. Nothing must upset the delicate balance which existed between them.

Then the woman arrived.

 

Klaus noticed her the moment she was herded from the cattle truck along with the rest. She stood out among the horde, fair-haired and patrician and, even in her fear, very beautiful. The dogs were snarling, the soldiers were yelling, and many of the new arrivals were screaming in terror. But the woman was silent. She took the child from the man standing beside her and made her way up the ramp with the others, the man supporting her, although she held herself proudly. She was a woman of breeding, Klaus thought – she didn’t look Jewish; she looked Aryan. So did her husband. But then, Jews came in all guises, he told himself as he dragged his eyes from her to survey the rest of the scene from where he stood near Mengele at the top of the ramp. That was the problem: Jews were too smart for their own good.

But his eyes kept returning to the woman as she and her husband reached the point where the crowd was split into two queues, Mengele quietly whistling and directing with his riding crop to the right or the left. The woman’s husband tried to stay with her, but he was cudgelled and dragged to the queue on the left, and Klaus kept watching her as she drew nearer in the line that comprised the old and infirm and women with babies and infants. It was a pity that such beauty had to go to the gas chamber. He saw her place her infant on the ground and edge the child behind her, the little girl clinging to her skirt. Little good it would do either of them, he thought. Closer and closer she came, and he couldn’t drag his eyes away from her.

There were some who were becoming hysterical, realising the significance of the queues. It was always at that point that things became chaotic, Klaus thought. If only people could conform and respond in an orderly fashion, it would be so much more efficient. Hysteria would not alter the outcome of their lives, or their deaths, all of which were predestined. And hysteria always affected the thugs on duty. He glanced either side of him at the Nazi soldiers who stood, rifles poised. Yes, they were longing to kill.

As the hysteria reached fever pitch, one of the soldiers grabbed at the baby in the arms of a young mother standing directly in front of the woman. The mother refused to relinquish the baby, Mengele gave the order, and the soldier shot them both.

Then the same soldier pulled the child from behind the skirt of the woman who was desperately trying to shield it. He threw the infant down on the ramp and shot it, then turned to shoot the woman who, in lunging forward, had fallen beside her child.

‘Nein!’

It was not Josef Mengele’s voice that barked the order, but Klaus Henkel’s, and the soldier, rifle still poised, glanced at his commanding officer.

Mengele nodded abruptly and resumed his direction of the traffic, but he was not pleased. He had been about to halt the execution himself – he, too, had noticed the woman’s beauty – but Klaus had usurped his authority, and he didn’t like it.

Klaus stepped forward and, taking the woman by the shoulders, gently lifted her to her feet. She did not resist, but stood shaking, her breath coming in small strangled gasps as she stared at her child. She was in a state of shock. She didn’t resist as he led her away, her head craning back for a last glimpse of the infant.

At the gates of the Auschwitz compound, he handed her into the care of one of the kapos, those inmates who had been allotted duties, very often of a most unsavoury kind, in exchange for their lives. The kapo would take the woman, along with the other females who were to be spared, into the building known as The Sauna. There, before being showered, the hair would be shaved from their heads, their armpits and their groins. Klaus would have liked to have saved the woman from such indignity, but he had pushed his authority far enough, he decided.

When he returned to the ramp, Mengele refused to look at him, and Klaus noted that he’d stopped whistling. Beppo was displeased, he thought, but he didn’t care. For whatever reason – perhaps simply as a tribute to her beauty, he wasn’t sure – Klaus had wanted the woman spared. He wondered if Beppo would take him to task for his insubordination.

But nothing was said over the ensuing days, although Klaus registered a slight coldness in his friend’s attitude towards him. No matter, he thought, Beppo would recover from the slight. He would not allow it to affect their relationship.

Three days later, however, there was a further confrontation, and again it was over the woman.

A dozen or so of the best-looking females were to be paraded naked before Mengele for the customary examination and interview, and Klaus, who had for the past several weeks absented himself from the proceedings, this time attended, sure that the woman would be present.

She was, standing among the group of frightened women whose nakedness was rendered more stark and vulnerable by their shaved heads and groins. But unlike the others who clung together, eyes downcast in shame and humiliation, avoiding the gaze of the doctors, trying to edge behind each other and cover their nakedness with their hands, the woman stood unashamed. She stared vacantly into space as if she were not there in that bleak room with its bare floorboards and its ominous examination table upon which sat a metal bowl with medical tools of the trade and neatly folded grey army blankets. Klaus wondered whether perhaps she’d lost her mind or whether she might still be in shock.

He’d ordered one of the female kapos to keep a special watch on the woman in case of any suicide attempt, and the kapo had been faithful in her duty, never letting the woman out of her sight, knowing that her own life was at stake if she did. The woman, whose name was Ruth, the kapo had told him, didn’t talk to the others, and she didn’t eat. The others took the food from her but she didn’t appear to care. She obeyed orders, the kapo said, but she seemed in a daze.

Klaus looked at Mengele. Mengele couldn’t take his eyes from the woman, which was hardly surprising – her body was flawless. Even the bare dome of her skull did little to detract from the perfection of her beauty. Klaus did not want to hear the questions Beppo would ask her; it was not right to treat a woman of such breeding in so degrading a manner, he thought.

Mengele signalled the woman to approach him. She appeared not to comprehend the order, then one of the other women, thankful that she herself would not be the first to undergo the ordeal, prodded her and she stepped forward. Still unashamed and seemingly unaware of her nakedness.

Mengele looked her up and down approvingly. He was about to ask her how she did it with her husband. How many times a week, what position did she prefer, was her husband a good lover, was he faithful, had she herself had other lovers? But he didn’t even manage to voice the first question before Klaus interceded.

‘This is an extremely interesting case psychologically, Josef.’ Klaus never used Beppo’s nickname in public, nor in the presence of the other camp doctors, two of whom were present. ‘As you can see by her demeanour, she appears to be in shock. I should like to interview her personally …’ He crossed to the examination table. ‘Alone,’ he added as he picked up one of the folded grey army blankets and shook it out, ‘… with your permission, of course.’

He placed the blanket around the woman’s shoulders, and she looked at it momentarily as if it were something quite foreign, then, comforted by the feel of it, she pulled it closely and protectively about her body. It was a healthy sign, Klaus thought.

‘With my permission, Klaus?’ Mengele’s voice was laden with menace and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. Klaus hoped he wasn’t about to throw one of his tantrums; it would be so undignified, particularly in the presence of the other two doctors.

‘Naturally.’ He met Mengele’s gaze and held it steadily, his eyes signalling Beppo that it would be unwise to make a scene. ‘With your permission, of course,’ he said.

The room was deathly still, the doctors waiting for Mengele’s anger to vent itself, the women sensing the tension.

Mengele’s gloved fingers hovered over the flap of his holster. He wanted to take out his pistol and shoot the woman between the eyes just to teach Klaus a lesson. He would certainly have done so if any other of his subordinates had so flouted his authority.

‘I would be most grateful, Josef.’ Klaus’s tone was both friendly and respectful, the perfect balance between medical comrade and loyal fellow officer, but his eyes told Beppo to leave the pistol where it was.

The moment passed, and Mengele turned away.

‘Permission granted,’ he said curtly, to the surprise of the doctors, and he nodded towards the next of the inmates who, arms cradled about her body in an attempt to hide her nudity, shuffled forward.

‘Thank you.’ Klaus nodded respectfully and ushered the woman towards the door, ignoring Mengele’s contemptuous glance.

They stepped outside where the midsummer sun beat mercilessly down on the barren grounds of the camp.

‘Ruth, isn’t it?’ he asked, softly.

She reacted to the caring voice and the sound of her name, and as she looked at him the cloud of uncertainty cleared from her eyes a little.

‘Your name, it is Ruth, is it not?’ Gently, he repeated the question.

‘Yes, my name is Ruth,’ she said.

 

‘So you decided to keep the Jew whore to yourself, Klaus.’

It was the following morning and Beppo had called him into his office the moment he’d arrived at the Experimentation Block. Klaus had avoided the officers’ mess the preceding night, dining alone in his quarters, giving Beppo time to cool down. But the moment they were alone in the well-ordered room with its polished wooden desk, its filing cabinets and its shelves lined with jars of specimens, Mengele’s anger had been apparent.

Klaus made no reply. Beppo was obviously still upset. It was wisest to let him get it out of his system, he thought.

‘Did you enjoy her last night? What was she like? A tigress? I’ll bet she was wild in bed – that sort of Jew whore would be.’

Klaus wished that Beppo would get to the point and reprimand him for his insubordination, but the man was whipping himself into a rage. It was typical of Beppo’s behaviour these days.

‘I interviewed her, Josef,’ he replied evenly, ‘just as I said I would.’

It was true. He’d taken the woman to his quarters and clothed and fed her, although she’d eaten little. Then he’d talked to her quietly, and she’d responded well – in fact, far more lucidly than he’d expected. The man who had arrived with her, she’d said, was not her husband and he must be saved.

‘He is not my husband and he is not a Jew,’ she’d insisted. ‘He is a Roman Catholic and he is Aryan – he does not belong here. You must save him! Please, I beg you!’

How quickly she’d recovered her senses, he’d thought. She’d recognised him as her saviour, and already she was capable of the lie that might save her husband. He admired her cunning – it made her even more fascinating.

‘You interviewed her.’ Mengele’s tone dripped sarcasm. ‘And in which particular position did you interview her?’

Klaus was becoming annoyed; again he wished that Beppo would get to the point.

‘What exactly is it I’ve done that so angers you, Beppo?’

The enquiry was made in all apparent innocence, but the use of the nickname was deliberately provocative, and Mengele exploded, just as Klaus had intended he should.

‘How dare you take it upon yourself to undermine my authority in such a way, and in the presence of my colleagues. How dare you so flaunt the chain of command!’

At last, Klaus thought, they were dealing with protocol.

‘Forgive me, Josef. It was wrong of me, and I apologise most sincerely. It will not happen again.’

Mengele stopped in his tracks; he’d been about to rant further.

‘I am yours to command, you know that,’ Klaus said. ‘I will obey your every order always, as is my duty.’

He had Mengele’s full attention, he could tell, and he was glad that they’d sorted out his abuse of Beppo’s command, but now they needed to deal with the specific issue which was of interest to him.

‘In the meantime, however, Josef, I have a favour to ask of you,’ he continued. ‘I would like your permission to study this woman …’

‘To study her!’

Mengele gave a short derisive laugh, but Klaus took no notice.

‘I find her an interesting case. I believe she is a perfect subject for psychoanalysis …’

‘Don’t expect me to believe such shit, Klaus. You don’t want to analyse her, you want to fuck her. You want to keep her to yourself and fuck her every night without sharing her around. Be honest, for God’s sake.’

Mengele’s face was twisted with scorn. For a handsome man he looked extremely ugly, Klaus thought.

‘Very well, I’ll be honest,’ he said. ‘You are quite right. I wish to keep the woman to myself.’

Beppo was not right at all, he thought, he did not want to fuck the woman. But more importantly, he did not want the others to fuck her. He would not allow the woman to be abused by the thugs.

‘I have never asked a favour of you, Beppo, but I would like you to grant me this request.’ His tone was mild, but his eyes sent the strongest of signals. The woman belongs to me, his eyes said, no-one else is to touch her. ‘I would like it very much.’

Mengele met the force of his gaze.

‘And what will you do, Klaus, if I refuse?’

‘What could I possibly do? You are my commanding officer.’ Klaus smiled, and the smile was that of a friend to a friend. ‘I would abide by your decision, of course, Beppo. I would always abide by your decision.’

They stood for a moment, then Mengele broke eye contact, turning away to sit at his desk. ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said as he took a file from the tray in front of him, ‘keep your Jew whore, Klaus, what do I care?’

 

The woman called Ruth became an obsession to Klaus Henkel. He told himself at first that she was simply an interesting case study; her beauty was pleasing, of course, but she was a Jew and of no sexual interest to him. He allotted her regular and easy work in the infirmary, and when he realised that she was stealing drugs and extra food rations for her fellow inmates, he ignored it, for her own safety. Some women serving as prostitutes had suffered at the hands of their fellow inmates, and it was highly likely that the other prisoners found her preferential treatment suspect. As a valuable provider, they would not dare vent their wrath upon her, even if they believed her to be a German whore.

But she was not a whore. He had not touched her.

She was summoned to his quarters several nights a week, where he would give her the use of his bathroom. She would scrub herself clean and she would dress in the bathrobe he provided for her, the grey-striped dress of the Auschwitz inmate discarded for the several hours she was there. Then she would drape the silk scarf over her shaved head, and he would forget that she was a Jew.

She’d been puzzled when he’d first handed her the white silk scarf.

‘I am not cold,’ she had said.

She’d understood, however, when he’d gestured at her bare skull. It appeared that he found her unsightly, and she’d obediently draped the scarf over her head like a prayer shawl.

She would sit in the big comfortable armchair, her legs curled under her, while he sat on a hardback chair at the table, and he would play music to her on his gramophone. His favourite recording of all was the Comedian Harmonists’ rendition of ‘Barcarole’ from The Tales of Hoffmann, and he would sing along to the lyrics, softly and melodically. He would offer her good food, and she would eat sparingly. Despite her deprivation, food appeared to be of no major interest. Until the night he told her she could take it with her.

‘Have it later,’ he said.

‘I will,’ she replied, and she shovelled it into the paper bags he provided.

They didn’t speak as the music played. He was content to watch her while she stared into space. She made no pretence of listening, and he doubted whether she was hearing the melodies at all. When he’d turned off the gramophone they would talk a little, or rather he would, about music and literature and the arts in general – always things of beauty, as if they were chatting in a Berlin salon. Occasionally he would talk about himself and his devotion as a doctor to the preservation of life, carefully distancing himself in her eyes from Mengele and the rumoured medical procedures that were conducted at the Experimentation Block. She would answer politely enough but monosyllabically for the most part, and always, when she was once again in her grey-striped dress and about to leave, she would plead for her husband.

‘Is there any further news about Manfred, Klaus? When will he be freed?’

It hadn’t taken her long to call him by his name. The enticement, he’d discovered, had been the promise of her husband’s freedom.

‘He is not my husband and he is not a Jew,’ she’d pleaded over and over, ‘he is a friend who has sacrificed himself for me. He does not belong here, Herr Doktor. Please, you must save him!’

‘Klaus,’ he’d said. ‘You are to call me Klaus, Ruth,’ and his suggestion had carried the promise that it might expedite matters. She’d called him Klaus from that day on.

He’d come to believe, however, that she might not be lying.

‘His name is Manfred Brandauer,’ she’d said, ‘and he is the son of Stefan Brandauer, the prominent politician. You must surely have heard of him.’

Of course he’d heard of Stefan Brandauer. He’d met the man in Berlin on several occasions during his university days, a well-known Jew-lover who’d been rightfully sent packing in 1936.

‘Ah yes,’ he’d replied, ‘Stefan Brandauer, I knew him. A fine man who served the German government well.’

So this was Stefan Brandauer’s son. She was wrong, he decided, the man most certainly belonged here. Another Jew-lover like his father, he deserved no clemency. Let him suffer along with his friends. Klaus gave no further thought to the matter.

But the more she pleaded, the more suspicious he became. Manfred Brandauer was her lover, he decided. Why else was she so desperate to save him? And the stronger his suspicions grew, the more his jealousy consumed him. He’d have Brandauer shot, he decided. But then, if he did so, his negotiating power would diminish; she believed that he intended to save her lover. He was in a dilemma.

Klaus had come to recognise his obsession; he could no longer dismiss it: he wanted Ruth more than he’d ever wanted a woman. But he wanted her to come to him of her own volition; he did not wish to force himself upon her. It would be demeaning to them both, he had decided.

So he wooed her. While the music played and she stared vacantly at the wall, he massaged her shoulders and he sang to her, always ‘Barcarole’.

‘Schöne Nacht, du Liebesnacht, o stille mein Verlangen …’

He had a good ear and a pleasant tenor voice.

‘Süsser als der Tag und lacht die schöne Liebesnacht.’

It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. She reacted to the singing the same way she reacted to the music, as if she didn’t really hear it, and she suffered the massage, neither flinching from his touch, nor relishing it. Then, as always, before she left, she pleaded for Brandauer’s release, and, as always, he placated her with the promise that he was doing what he could and that these things took time.

Klaus’s desire was driving him mad, and one night he decided that he could wait no longer. But he broached his ultimatum with care.

‘Mengele has not shown a great interest in Brandauer’s case, I must admit,’ he said, ‘although, as you know, I’ve spoken to him on a number of occasions. To Eichmann also.’ He had not spoken to Eichmann, and he could just hear Beppo’s hoot of derisive laughter if he ever brought up the subject. ‘So your Jew whore wants you to save her lover, Klaus,’ Beppo would say. ‘Why don’t you just put a bullet through his head and be done with it?’

The prospect had been more than tempting for the past two months.

‘What do we do then?’ Ruth asked. ‘There must be another course of action, Klaus. Where do we go? Who do we see?’

We. He felt a flicker of amusement at her use of the word, and he admired her audacity. We are not going anywhere, he thought, we are not seeing anyone. You are here in Auschwitz, my beauty, and you are alive at my whim.

‘Without direct permission from a senior camp commander, Ruth,’ he said carefully, ‘to free someone from Auschwitz is no easy task. There is the bureaucratic process which needs to be addressed, the proof of mistaken identity …’

‘But I gave you his address: Viktoria-Luise-Platz in Berlin. His papers will be there. I gave you a list of his Aryan friends who will vouch for him. There is solid proof of his identity …’

‘I know, I know,’ he said reassuringly, although irritated; the only time she showed any passion or vitality was when she spoke of Brandauer. ‘I will contact Berlin Headquarters tomorrow and set the wheels in motion.’

‘Thank you, Klaus,’ she whispered, and there was the shadow of a smile in her gratitude. She believed him. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

She was seated in the comfortable armchair, as always, in her robe with her legs curled under her, and, as he crossed to sit on the arm beside her, she looked directly into his eyes. He trailed his fingers through the soft spikes of her hair – she no longer wore the silk scarf, it was not necessary, he had decided – and he thought how incredibly young she looked. Young and gamine, like a girl on the brink of womanhood.

‘We are in this together, Ruth, we are a team,’ he said, caressing her cheek and her throat. Tenderly, like a lover.

‘Yes.’

He could see it in her eyes. She had been expecting this moment.

‘Perhaps, as a team, you and I …’ He lowered his face to her, and she parted her lips in anticipation of his kiss.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will do anything you wish.’

It wasn’t the way he’d wished it at all, he thought, but at least the stalemate had been breached. He was thankful that he hadn’t had Manfred Brandauer shot – the man had proved useful.

But, several weeks later, he was once again cursing Brandauer. His promise of the man’s freedom, and her subsequent gratitude, had not unleashed any passion in her. She responded to his lovemaking in the same mindless way she responded to his massage, and Klaus found it deeply insulting. In his bed, her mind was elsewhere, no doubt with Brandauer, he thought. Well, she’d sealed her lover’s death sentence. His patience had been tried for far too long, he should have had the man shot months ago. And perhaps, he thought hopefully, following the demise of her lover, whose life he had so diligently fought to preserve, perhaps in her grief she might seek his consolation.

Having made his decision, he ordered the execution for three o’clock the following afternoon, a firing squad of four. He himself would not be present to give the command, which was a pity – he would have enjoyed it.

He summoned her to his quarters the day after the execution, prepared to break the news to her gently and to offer his heartfelt sympathy over the death of the man who had been wrongfully imprisoned and whose freedom they had both so keenly sought.

But she made the announcement herself. ‘Manfred Brandauer is dead.’ She said it the moment she stepped in the door. ‘He was executed by firing squad yesterday.’

He was annoyed that she’d already heard of Brandauer’s death; he’d underestimated the grapevine system that existed in Auschwitz. And he was further annoyed by her lack of etiquette. She had not showered and changed into the bathrobe, and he had no wish to communicate with her while she was dressed in her prisoner garb. But he quelled his irritation.

‘I know. I heard this afternoon, I had no idea Mengele had ordered it. I’m sorry, but there was nothing I could do, it was too late.’

She was staring at him strangely. Her grief was evident – he could tell that she’d been weeping – but there was something else in her eyes which he’d not seen before. Was it accusation? Impossible. She couldn’t know that he had ordered the execution.

He turned away, refusing to speak to her any longer while she wore the grey stripes that pronounced her status. The sight of the uniform disgusted him.

‘Go and clean yourself and change into the bathrobe,’ he said.

She did not immediately respond to his order as she normally did, and although his eyes remained averted, he knew she was staring at him with that same look of accusation. Then she walked off abruptly to the bathroom.

She couldn’t possibly know, he thought. Who would have told her? Certainly not the soldiers who had formed the firing squad – they would not confide in a Jewish inmate. And nor would Schoneberger, the attendant doctor. Schoneberger would never threaten the comfortable relationship he shared with the Nazis. He was too much of a survivor; a loyal sycophant to his masters, he was despised by his own kind.

She didn’t know. Her accusation was a manifestation of her grief, he decided. She held all Nazis, himself included, responsible for her lover’s death.

Five minutes later, she returned in the bathrobe. Her short-cropped hair, wet and tousled, framed her face beautifully, he thought. She was once again ‘his Ruth’ and he was prepared to play out the charade.

‘It is a tragic occurrence, Ruth,’ he said. ‘I cannot understand why Mengele would issue such an order, but he’s a strange man. Perhaps we pushed him too far with our demands, who can tell?’ He shrugged, enjoying the use of we. Let her bear a little of the guilt, he thought. She had, after all, in her own way, brought about Brandauer’s death. ‘Mengele does not like to be dictated to. Perhaps …’ He gave another heartfelt shrug. ‘Perhaps if we had not been so aggressive in our attempt to save him, Manfred might still be alive.’

‘Don’t call him by his first name. Please.’

He was nonplussed.

‘You have never called him by his first name before. Please don’t do so now.’

The look in her eyes was far more than accusation, he realised, it was hatred.

‘What is it, Ruth?’ How dare she look at him like that. Didn’t she realise he could send her to the gas chamber? ‘Is there something you wish to say to me?’ She remained silent and he prompted her further. ‘A question you wish to ask, perhaps?’

‘No, there is nothing I wish to ask.’

She was not going to confront him, which was wise, he thought, he’d have sent her to her death if she’d dared. But the hatred was still there, and the rebelliousness in her excited him.

‘Very well.’ He smiled. ‘Shall we forgo the music tonight? I think, under the circumstances, comfort of a more physical nature would be apt, do you not agree?’

He felt her tense as he put his arm around her, but she allowed him to lead her towards the bedroom. He was aroused. Their relationship had undergone a change for the better after all. If he was never to succeed in gaining her love, at least he was no longer merely a means to Brandauer’s freedom. Her hatred, he thought, was vastly preferable to her indifference.

Manfred Brandauer’s name was never again mentioned, and over the ensuing months the charade continued. He still wooed her – it had become a ritual which he enjoyed. He still sang along to ‘Barcarole’ and massaged her shoulders, but these days she no longer stared vacantly at the wall. He was aware all the while of her hatred and he continued to find it a source of arousal. In the past she’d cared nothing for her own life; she had existed purely to save her lover – but now she wanted to live and he was her means of survival. He owned her, body and soul. And after all, he told himself, hatred was a powerful emotion, very akin to love. One day she would come to realise that.

 

Nineteen forty-four was not a good year for Germany. The tide of war had turned and when the Allied Forces landed on the Normandy beaches on June 6, defeat appeared inevitable. Months dragged on and, as Christmas approached, all hope was lost. How could it have happened? Klaus wondered. How could the right and might of Germany possibly have failed? But somehow the days of the Third Reich were over.

‘I am leaving Auschwitz tomorrow,’ he said.

It was Christmas Eve, and she was sitting in the bathrobe which was now hers, in the armchair which he’d come to think of as her domain, and she was looking extraordinarily beautiful. It would be their last night together.

‘Yes, I gathered that.’ She’d noticed the priest’s cassock draped over the chair and had seen the identity papers lying openly on the desk; he hadn’t bothered to hide them. So Klaus Henkel was going into hiding in the guise of a priest, she thought, how ironic.

His departure appeared to be of little concern to her, he realised, but surely he deserved her thanks – he’d preserved her life for a whole eighteen months. Perhaps she would show a little more gratitude when he told her of the plans he’d made for her own safety.

‘There is a transport of workers departing for Bergen-Belsen tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You will be one of them; I have had you listed.’

‘Why are you sending me to Bergen-Belsen? Auschwitz will be liberated any moment now.’

He didn’t know which irritated him most, her arrogance or her prescience. How did she know that the enemy was on their doorstep? Inmates were not privy to news from the outside world. But he refused to demean himself by asking how she’d come by such information.

‘And exactly who do you think will “liberate” Auschwitz, Ruth?’ he sneered. ‘Your friendly allies, the Americans?’ He rose from his hardback chair by the table and crossed to the gramophone. ‘No, no, it will be the Russians who will enter Auschwitz.’

The familiar melody flooded the room, ‘Barcarole’, the harmony group singing softly, unobtrusively, but he didn’t sing along with them this time. He walked silently to stand behind the armchair and ran his fingers through her hair.

‘And you know what the Russians will do to a beautiful woman like you?’ He was no longer annoyed. The feel of her hair soothed him. It was shoulder length now, and like flaxen gold – how he loved her hair. ‘They will defile you, Ruth. I will not let that happen.’ He encircled her skull with his hands. ‘I would kill you myself before I would allow the filthy Bolshevik pigs to defile you.’

His fingers strayed to her neck and her throat, and she remained quite still as he slipped the bathrobe from her shoulders.

‘But you will live, Ruth,’ he said, massaging her gently, tracing the bones of her spine and her shoulder blades. ‘You will go to Bergen-Belsen, which will be liberated by the Americans. And for the rest of your days, you will remember that you owe me your life.’

He waited for her to say something; he deserved some expression of gratitude, surely. But none was forthcoming.

‘Get up.’

She rose.

He circled the chair to stand in front of her. He looked at her breasts, then untied the belt of the robe. It slid to the floor and she stood naked before him.

‘Surely I deserve some thanks, Ruth.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. Thank you.’

‘Thank you who, and thank you for what?’ he asked, irritated by her lack of respect.

‘Thank you, Klaus, for saving my life.’

There was no animation in her: she spoke the words like an automaton, and he felt a sudden flash of rage. Then he saw that there appeared no hatred in her either; her face was a mask. He curbed his anger and reached out a hand to caress her.

‘Ah well,’ he said, his fingers tracing the curve of her breast, ‘actions speak louder than words, do they not?’ He pulled her gently to him, her body compliant. ‘There are other ways you can show your gratitude.’ He kissed her, and her lips obediently parted.

‘Love me,’ he whispered.

Just as obediently, she embraced him.

‘Love me, Ruth, love me.’

Her hands were caressing his back. She wanted him, he could sense it in her touch, she had never caressed him like this before.

‘Love me, love me,’ he repeated over and over, his excitement mounting as he felt her respond.

He fumbled with his trousers, freeing himself, kneading her breasts, his tongue seeking hers, his desire stronger than it had ever been. She was his, she was offering herself to him, he could feel it. Her thighs were parting as he thrust himself at her. He could feel her breath, she was panting; soon she would moan, he wanted to hear her voice.

‘Love me, Ruth, love me.’

There was no time to undress or to take her into the bedroom, his need was too urgent, he would have her here on the floor, and he would hear her, lost in pleasure. He broke away from the embrace, ripping at his trousers, then he made the mistake of looking at her.

Her eyes held nothing but pure contempt.

At the sight of her undisguised loathing, his rage exploded and he struck her across the cheek with all the force he could muster, sending her reeling across the room and smashing into the table.

‘Whore!’

He threw himself upon her.

‘Filthy whore!’ He covered her body with his, pinioning her wrists to the floorboards. ‘You think you’re different from the others?’ he screamed, in insane rage. ‘You think because I grant you favours you can look at me in that way? You belong in the ovens along with the rest of your tribe …’ He spat in her face. ‘You filthy Jew whore!’

She made no attempt to struggle free, but her chest was heaving, she was gasping for air. He could see she was terrified and the insanity of his rage lessened a little. Good, at last she knew her place – a Jew was meant to feel terror.

‘Would you like to know what the Russians would do to you, Ruth?’ He slapped her face. ‘Would you like that? I’ll show you, shall I?’ He slapped her again and she whimpered with fear. He felt a stab of pleasure. He rolled her over on her belly.

‘Kneel,’ he said, taking off his trousers. ‘Kneel and spread your legs.’

‘No,’ she begged, ‘please, Klaus …’

But he hauled her to her knees. It was too late to beg for favours. He pushed her head to the floor, ripped her buttocks apart and forced himself into her. She screamed with the pain.

‘Do you like being taken by the Russians, Ruth?’ he panted. ‘They’re animals, the Russians, pigs, every one of them. And this,’ he grunted as he sodomised her, ‘this is what they do to Jew whores.’

When it was over and he was dressing himself, he watched her crawl on her hands and knees to cower in a corner of the room. She was bleeding, he noticed: a thin trickle of blood ran down her thigh. He crossed to the gramophone which was making scratching noises; the record was probably ruined now.

It had not been the way he’d wished, but she’d brought it upon herself, she had pushed him beyond his limits. He rarely lost his temper, he preferred to remain in control at all times. It was most regrettable that she had so angered him.

‘Wash and dress yourself,’ he said.

He must put her out of his mind, he thought. He would be leaving the camp the next day. All had been arranged and he must concentrate on his escape plan. Mengele had already left Auschwitz, and the Russians could arrive at any moment – he was running out of time.

Several minutes later, she returned from the bathroom wearing her faded striped uniform.

‘Come here,’ he said.

She approached him fearfully, and she flinched when he put a hand to her face.

‘No, no,’ he assured her, ‘I am not going to hurt you any more.’ Tenderly, he touched the cut on her temple where she had struck the table. ‘You will be safe in Bergen-Belsen,’ he said. Then he ran his fingers through her hair for the last time. ‘It was not meant to happen like this. You should have loved me, Ruth.’