45

The prisoners filed past the kitchen in the morning darkness, received their work rations, immediately re-formed in their respective labor Kommandos, picked up the chant as they stood marching in place and then, on command, tramped forward out of the compound to join the thousands of other prisoners high-stepping along the road.

Spangler followed Der Gronck back to the barracks. A tailor was waiting with a wooden box and a pile of cloths.

“First we get you a decent uniform,” Der Gronck told him, “and then I’ll show you the routes.” He opened the center locker and started filling a sack. “Senior cooks own the routes, the trading areas. Or, I should say you, me and Anvil own them. Tolan isn’t interested. He has the Finishing School—where they take the pretty young girls who are selected on the ramp. It’s across in the Canada Compound.”

“Is it a bordello?” Spangler asked, standing naked as the tailor measured him.

“It supplies the bordellos. The girls go in there for six to eight days and then are either sent to various houses here or put on the train.” Der Gronck watched the tailor spread a woolen jacket on the table and begin cutting it apart at the seams. “A special railroad car comes once a week just to pick up the girls. You’ll see for yourself, it’s due in tonight or tomorrow.”

“What happens at the Finishing School?”

“No one is supposed to know or even ask. Only Tolan is allowed inside, not even Klempf. But Tolan has made certain exceptions—for money.”

“Have you been inside?”

Der Gronck broke into a jagged smile and watched the tailor baste the jacket back together.

“You’re not answering,” Spangler said.

“It’s better to find out about the Finishing School on your own.”

“Has it been here long?”

“That’s a peculiar question.”

“How else am I going to find out about things?”

Der Gronck chuckled. “It’s rumored the school didn’t open until Tolan arrived.”

“I thought you were a veteran,” Spangler said as the tailor slipped the jacket on him and began marking it.

“I am. I’ve lasted longer than most. But sooner or later someone beats you and you’re shipped away.”

“Did everyone become a cook by fighting?”

“Everyone but Tolan and Vassili. They say that Tolan and Vassili were the first cooks when the whole Process was conceived, but no one is sure. No one else has lasted longer than three weeks—and that’s a ripe old age for most of us. If you want to stay around that long, you’d better kill Vassili.”

“Why?”

“Because he has the right to fight you again when he recovers—so why risk it? If he were in your shoes, he wouldn’t give it a second thought.”

“How would the SS take my killing him?” Spangler slipped on a pair of trousers for the tailor.

“They expect it. Everyone expects it. That’s how it is around here.”

“If I wait to fight him again, when would it be?”

“In about a week. They usually give you a week after your first fight. But since Vassili is in pretty bad shape, they may wait till he’s strong enough to make an interesting contest.” Der Gronck watched Spangler step out of the trousers. “Klempf likes interesting contests.”

“What’s Klempf’s position?” Spangler asked.

“He’s in charge of our line of compounds. He’s also with Camp Security, the Birkenau secret intelligence agency. But he spends his time running the black markets. I think he owns most of them. He’s a bad one. Stay clear of him. If he does manage to corner you, act afraid. He likes people to be frightened of him.”

“Tolan didn’t act frightened.”

“Tolan’s different. I don’t think he can be replaced.”

“Why?”

“No one is certain. Some think because he’s a red-triangle, a political prisoner. Others say it’s the Finishing School—that he’s needed here.”

“What do you think?”

“That he must be important to someone high up. I doubt if even Klempf can touch him. Tolan’s the only prisoner that Klempf is cautious with. Klempf is powerful. If he’s cautious, there has to be a good reason for it.”

“If Tolan is protected by someone, why does he have to fight?”

“He doesn’t. He just likes to. And, after all, if he can’t be replaced, what does he have to lose?” Der Gronck walked through the kitchen and into the dormitory. “Be back in a few minutes.”

The tailor’s needle flew through the cloth. Jacket and trousers were chalked and fitted twice more. Then they were spread on the table and carefully striped with white paint. By the time Der Gronck returned, carrying a pair of jackboots, Spangler was dressed in his new attire. The suit had been converted into an SS tunic and breeches.

“What kind of triangle?” the tailor asked, reaching into his work kit and bringing out a thick, worn envelope.

“Green,” said Der Gronck.

“With authentic papers?”

“Yes.”

“That will be expensive.”

“How much?”

“A pass to the Finishing School.”

“You can have half a loaf of bread,” Der Gronck replied. The tailor reconsidered. “Six officers’-bordello passes and a jar of preserves.”

“Half a loaf of bread.”

“Just the six passes and we can forget the preserves?”

“A full loaf of bread, and that’s my final offer,” Der Gronck said menacingly.

Erik Spangler was no longer a Jew.