jherbert.sepulchre-第30节

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　the　chosen。
　　An　SS　captain　provided　Janusz　and　three　panions　with　pliers　and　short　blunted　knives；　their　orders　were　to　pull　any　gold　teeth　they　could　find　among　the　corpses　and　to　cut　off　any　rings　that　had　not　already　been　confiscated。
　　This　was　no　shock　for　Janusz；　because　his　mind　had　long　since　decided　to　protect　him　from　such　traumas。　He　crawled　among　the　still　warm　corpses；　giving　them　no　more　regard　than　if　they　were　freshly　slaughtered　livestock。　Dead　meat。　That's　all　this　great　tumble　of　arms　and　legs　was。　White　carcasses。　Some　still　pink…coloured。　Like　the　little　pig　。　。　。
　　No　one　was　watching　as　he　lifted　the　hand　of　the　plump　woman；　the　flesh　of　her　finger　swollen　over　the　rim　of　her　gold　ring。　The　Gestapo　had　been　merciful：　they　hadn't　cut　the　jewellery　from　her　while　she　was　still　alive。　He　sawed　at　the　finger。　No　one　was　paying　any　attention。　He　slid　the　ring　off。　And　drew　meat　from　the　fingerbone　with　his　teeth。　He　swallowed。　The　woman's　eyes　opened。　She　looked　at　him　and　he　fought　to　keep　the　bloodied　morsel　down。　It　lodged　in　his　throat　as　life　went　from　the　woman's　eyes。　He　swallowed　again；　once；　twice。　The　meat　was　accepted。
　　That　was　the　real　beginning　of　Janusz　Palusinski's　survival。　He　had　found　a　food　supply。　He　was　filled　neither　with　joy　nor　shame；　merely　relief　that　he　had　a　means　to　exist。
　　Exist　he　did；　even　though　he　was　violently　ill　for　days　after　that　first　eating　of　human　flesh；　his　stomach　was　not　accustomed　to　such　richness。　He　was　lucky　to　recover；　for　his　general　weakness　might　have　allowed　permanent　damage。　But　Janusz　was　resilient；　if　nothing　else。　From　then　on　he　was　more　cautious　about　how　much　he　cut　from　the　piled　corpses；　often　concealing　small　segments　in　his　loose　clothing　to　be　consumed　late　at　night　beneath　his　thin　blanket。　The　amount　he　was　able　to　eat　was　never　enough　to　have　any　marked　effect　on　his　physique；　and　that　was　fortunate；　for　such　a　change　would　have　been　easily　noticed　amidst　the　walking　skeletons　of　the　Majdanek　concentration　camp。　But　it　was　sufficient　to　strengthen　him　and　thus　renew　his　desire　to　survive。
　　Disaster；　for　him；　came　months　later　when　for　no　apparent　reason　he　was　taken　off　the　burial　detail。　Perhaps　the　German　soldiers　themselves　had　grown　sick　of　his　eagerness　to　crawl　among　the　dead；　or　perhaps　they　felt　he　had　bee　too　privileged。　Whatever　the　reason；　Janusz's　specialist　services　were　no　longer　required。　His　condition　deteriorated　rapidly　with　no　regular　sustenance。
　　He　became　as　the　others　of　the　camp；　a　shuffling　corpse；　eyes　enlarged　as　his　skin　shrivelled；　his　bones　jutting　with　deep　hollows　between。　He　began　to　have　fits　of　coughing　that　drained　him　of　any　strength　he　had　left；　and　bloodspots　speckled　his　palm　when　he　took　his　hand　away　from　his　mouth。　Delirium　soon　followed。　Finally　he　was　moved　to　a　but　where　those　who　were　dying　were　left　without　food　or　care；　their　passing　hastened　by　lack　of　both。
　　He　had　no　idea　of　how　long　he　had　lain　there；　it　could　have　been　days；　it　might　only　have　been　hours。　But　something　had　drawn　his　senses　towards　one　focal　point。　It　was　a　smell。　Familiar。　From　the　past。　He　stared　into　the　greyness　above　and　his　tongue　ran　across　dry；　cracked　lips；　failing　to　moisten　them。　He　drew　up　his　knees　as　hunger　cramped　his　stomach　and　his　head　lolled　listlessly　when　the　pain　passed。　That　faint　smell；　what　was　it？　So　familiar。　He　was　a　boy　again；　and　he　stood　in　the　centre　of　the　room　watching　a　door。　Mamusia　and　Tatus　had　shut　him　out。　They　always　did　when　they　did　things　to　each　other；　unless　they　thought　he　was　sleeping。　He　could　hear　them　laughing；　and　then　he　could　hear　them　moaning　as　if　they　were　hurting　one　another。　But　one　night；　when　they　thought　he　was　asleep；　he　had　watched　them　across　the　bedroom　。　。　。　and　hadn't　liked　what　he　saw　。　。　。　but　had　wanted　to　be　part　of　it　。　。　。　to　enjoy　the　game　with　them；　to　be　hurt　in　the　same　way　。　。　。　but　he　knew　it　was　forbidden　。　。　。　The　faint　smell。　The　boy　looked　towards　the　table；　towards　the　source。　The　meat　was　dark　red；　blood　seeping　onto　the　rough　wooden　surface。　He　moved　closer。
　　Janusz　recognised　the　odour　of　raw　liver。　But　it　wasn't　possible。　He　was　no　longer　a　child　and　this　place　was　not　his　home。　No；　this　was　the　death　hut。　The　smell　though。　It　was　here。　There　was　raw　liver　somewhere　nearby。　His　smile　made　his　lips　bleed。
　　For　the　first　time　he　heard　the　dull　moans　and　they　were　around　him；　not　from　behind　a　closed　door。　And　the　smell　was　with　the　moans。
　　He　let　his　head　fall　to　one　side　and　in　the　pre…dawn　light　saw　the　shapeless　bundle　next　to　him。　There　was　hardly　anything　left　of　the　man；　and　he　barely　moved。　But　the　smell　was　from　him　and　it　was　mouth…watering。　Janusz's　arm　trembled　when　he　reached　towards　the　figure。
　　The　man　was　not　sleeping；　nor　was　he　really　conscious。　He　was　near　death　and　that　proximity　was　forting　for　him。　Most　of　the　pain　had　gone　to　some　distant　point；　so　far　away　it　could　scarcely　be　felt。　He　sunk　further　within　himself　and　realised　that　the　journey　inwards　was　the　way　to　final　peace。　Yet　something　was　moving　him；　interrupting　his　floating　descent。　Something　was　caressing　his　stomach。　Pain　was　ing　close　once　more；　and　the　man　did　not　want　that。　He　tried　to　protest；　but　a　murmur　that　was　only　a　sigh　was　all　the　sound　he　managed。　Sharp　agony　now。　And　something　hard　covering　his　mouth　and　nose；　stopping　any　more　sighs；　any　more　breathing。　The　agony　increased　as　something　gnawed　into　his　belly　and　he　was　too　feeble　to　protest　further。　But　the　pain　was　being　dulled；　bliss　was　washing　through　him；　for　his　senses　were　leaving　and　he；　at　long　last；　was　leaving　with　them　and　it　was　good；　so　ultimately　good。
　　No　one　went　near　the　but　that　day；　nor　the　next。　No　corpses　were　taken　away；　no　more　of　the　dying　were　dumped　inside。　It　was　to　be　five　days　before　the　door　of　the　Majdanek　death　but　was　opened　again；　and　then　by　Russian　soldiers；　for　this　was　the　summer　of　1944　and　the　German　invaders　were　being　driven　from　Poland。
　　The　Russians；　already　hardened　by　their　own　suffering　in　the　terrible　war；　and　by　the　atrocities　they　had　witnessed　during　the　march　across　their　neighbouring　country；　were　sickened　by　what　they　found　inside　the　hut。　Only　one　man　was　still　alive　and　he；　understandably；　was　demented　by　what　had　happened　around　him。　He　lay　on　a　floor　that　was　filled　with　corpses。　Many　had　been　mutilated；　for　it　seemed　rats　had　found　their　way　inside　and　fed　off　his　dead　and　dying　patriots。
　　Unfortunately　for　the　Polish　people；　once　the　Russians　had　occupied　their　country　they　felt　no　punction　to　leave。　Poland　came　under　munist　control；　and　oppression；　although　never　as　severe　as　under　Nazi　rule；　remained　the　norm。　Again　farmers　and　factory　workers　found　themselves　working　for　the　State　rather　than　for　themselves；　with　the　government　dictating　at　what　rates　produce　should　be　sold。
　　Janusz　Palusinski；　who　bore　the　indelible　mark　of　German　brutality　on　his　wrist　and　never　failed　to　let　the　tattoo　show　on　any　occasion　that　sympathy　might　help　better　his　cause；　came　to　thrive　under　the　system；　for　scrounging　and　self…interest　was　the　ideal　apprenticeship　for　a　black…marketeer。　It　took　him　a　full　year　to　recover　from　his　treatment　by　the　Nazis　（although　a　whole　lifetime　would　never　erase　the　damage　to　his　psyche）　but　his　will　to　survive　at　all　costs　had　been　enhanced　rather　than　depleted。　He　did　not　return　to　his　father's　farm　for　two　reasons：　he　was　not　sure　of　the　reception　he　would　get　from　the　villagers　who　must　have　known　that　it　was　he　who　had　betrayed　the　partisans　and　those　who　helped　them；　he　had　no　desire　to　bee　a　farmer　once　more。　During　the　year　of　recuperation；　most　of　which　took　place　in　a　small　hospital　just　outside　Lukow；　he　read　through　the　published　crimes　of　the　Nazi　regime；　always　searching　for　mention　of　his　own　village；　and　one　day　he　came　across　what　he　had　been　looking　for。　Listed　were　the　names　of　locals　and　villagers　who　had　been　shot　for　giving　aid　to　the　underground　movement。　A　hundred　and　thirty…two　people　were　on　that　list；　his　parents　among　them。　Even　now；　when　concern　for　his　own　wellbeing　was　no　longer　acute；　he　felt　no　remorse；　not　even　for　the　fate　of　his　own　mother。　Such　emotion；　never　strong　within　him　anyway；　had　been　entirely　eradicated　over　the　last　few　years。
　　As　time　passed；　life　began　to　flourish　for　Janusz；　who　took　to　the　illegal　trade　he　dealt　in　as　if　born　to　it。　He　supplied　goods…hungry　farmers　and　food…hungry　manufacturers　with　wh　they　desired；　trade　between　the　two　factions　being　lucrative　to　the　middle…man。　But　he　always　operated　in　a　small　way　in　those　early　years；　never　wishing　to　rise　in　fortune　so　much　that　became　visible　to　the　authorities。
　　Janusz　could　have　survived　very　fortably　under　the　munist　system；　except　that　the　older　he　grew　the　more　he　ppered　and　the　more　he　prospered；　the　greedier　he　became。
　　He　bought　a　four…storey　house　in　the　suburbs　of　Lodz　and；　as　front　which　legitimately　enabled　him　to　visit　farmers　arou　the　country；　he　maintained　a　small　farm　equipment　spare…part　workshop。　Middle…age　had　softened　his　caution　though；　and　went　against　his　own　basic　rule。　He　had　gained　too　much　and　was　no　longer　invisibl