LATER THAT MONTH, Binz came up with a plan she considered brilliant.
For weeks the male staff had planned a trip to Berlin to coincide with Commandant Koegel’s absence while he was in Bonn. It was to be a “special mission,” which they thought was secret. But the female staff knew the details of this mission, thanks to several of Binz’s Aufseherinnen who regularly slept with the male guards. It was to be a trip to Salon Kitty, a high-class brothel in a wealthy part of Berlin. Fritz, home visiting his mother in Cologne, had escaped the trip, but almost all the other male staff members emptied out of the camp into buses and motored off, looking like naughty schoolboys on holiday.
This left the following people in charge of the camp: Binz and her Aufseherinnen, three older male SS tower guards who patrolled the wall, one poor gate guard who had drawn the short straw, and me.
“I hope there is no escape attempt while you are gone,” I had said to Adolf Winkelmann as he prepared to leave.
“It has all been approved, Dr. Oberheuser. You are the ranking officer in charge tonight. Extra postenkette have been arranged as a precaution.” I was glad for the extra tower guards, expert marksmen all, but they were not allowed to leave their posts.
Winkelmann shuffled off toward the bus as several of our esteemed colleagues called out the windows, threatening to leave him behind.
In their absence, Binz suggested a party at one of the Aufseherinnen’s houses, a snug chalet-like home at the far end of the staff compound, outside the camp walls. They’d planned the celebration with great pains. There was to be a drinking relay, dancing, and card games. They had even had some Polish H?ftlings snip their famous paper cuttings from scarlet tissue paper and then strung them like garlands about the house.
I decided to forgo this party and stay at my office with Halina to finish some work. This was not a hardship, because for the first time since I’d come to camp, I had an intelligent friend, someone whose company I enjoyed, instead of just Binz, who told filthy stories. Not only had Halina cleaned up the Revier and reduced by three quarters the number of patients awaiting treatment; she also still completed important projects for the commandant in the bookbindery. She showed me the books she was assembling for Himmler himself. They chronicled the Angora rabbit fur operation at each camp, complete with detailed photos. Ravensbrück’s was one of the best fur producers, with twice the number of cages as Dachau. Halina bound the books by hand, wrapping each cover with soft angora fabric.
“You have so much paperwork, Madame Doctor,” Halina said. “How can I help?”
How quick she was with that, my favorite phrase. What a pleasure to spend time with a competent prisoner who was not afraid of me. Halina had no hunted-animal look, none of that contagious terror that sent me looking at the clouds or at a beetle in the yard. At anything but them.
“Address the envelopes, and I will insert the cards,” I said.
We mailed condolence cards, also known as comfort cards, to the families of prisoners who died at the camp by any number of means. Those chosen as special-handling cases and terminated. Those shot trying to escape. Those who died by natural causes. In my terrible doctor handwriting, I wrote, Body cannot be inspected due to hygienic considerations on most cards in case the family wanted to view the body. It was a ridiculous charade and added at least ten extra hours of work to my already busy week, but the commandant required it for appearances’ sake. Halina addressed envelopes whenever she had a spare moment, until her piles far outnumbered my completed cards.
“It must be hard for a family to receive such a note,” Halina said, addressing an envelope in her flowing script. Had tears come to her eyes?
With the condolence card was included an official form so the family could apply for that prisoner’s ashes. Four pounds of generic ashes were sent per female prisoner, in a tin canister, if a request was approved. At least I was not responsible for coordinating all that.
“We can take a break from this,” I said.
Halina sat up straighter. “Oh no, Madame Doctor, I’m fine. But I do have a favor to ask of you. Please tell me if—”
“Yes? Get on with it.” Halina had been a great help to me. Didn’t I owe it to her to at least listen to her request?
She pulled a letter from her pocket. “I wonder if you could post this. Just a letter to my friend.” It appeared to be written on camp stationery.
“Post it yourself. You’re allowed.”
Halina rested one hand on the sleeve of my lab coat. There was a piece of blue string knotted on her ring finger. “But the censors cut them to pieces, take out even remarks about the weather or one’s digestion.”
I took the letter from her. It was addressed to Herr Lennart Fleischer at a Lublin address.
What harm was there in sending such a letter? After all, Halina had been valuable to the Reich. There was plenty harm in it, though. If I was caught, the punishment could be severe. I would be reprimanded at best.
“I will think about it,” I said and slipped it in my desk drawer.
Halina bent her head back over her task.
“Thank you, Madame Doctor.”
From my office in the Revier, I could hear music and laughter coming from Binz’s party at the staff quarters at the far end of the camp in the woods. I chafed at the thought that almost every man in the camp had to leave before I was considered highest in rank.
Less than one hour into the evening, Halina and I were making excellent progress when a great bang was heard and the vibration from it shook the ground. Halina and I just looked at each other and then went about our work. Had it been a car backfiring? Loud noises were not uncommon at the camp and were often amplified by the lake.
Seconds later, Binz and others could be heard shouting from the direction of the party.
“Dr. Oberheuser, come! Irma has been hurt.”
Halina and I looked at each other, struck dumb.
In such situations, the instinct of a medical professional takes over. Halina stood and ran out. I followed close behind. We came to the main camp gate and could hear a great many cries from the direction of the house in the distant wood.
“Open the gate,” I said to the guard.
“But—” His gaze went to Halina. No prisoner was allowed to leave through that gate unless accompanied by an Aufseherin.
“Do it. You know I outrank you.” Why does a woman’s voice so often not command the respect it deserves?
After more stalling, the guard finally opened the gate.
Halina hesitated.
“Come,” I said. I needed an assistant, but would I be reprimanded for this?
Halina hurried with me toward the house, the sound of her heavy clogs muffled as we ran from cobblestone road to the soft pine needles of the woods. Abundant moonlight allowed us to see the house at the end of the pine grove, all light extinguished within.
Binz came running from the direction of the house. “The kitchen collapsed, and Irma’s down,” Binz called.
Irma Grese was one of Binz’s most fervent disciples and, some argued, more severe in her punishments than Binz. What would the commandant say?
Halina and I ran toward the house and Binz followed. “For God’s sake, Binz. How did this happen?” I asked.
“The gas stove—she lit her cigarette there, and the damned thing just went up. I told her not to smoke—”
Halina and I entered the house and found Irma unresponsive on the living room floor. The electricity had been knocked out by the blast, and the room smelled of gas. The kitchen wall behind the stove had been blown clear off, and above the stove a mangled piece of metal swayed, making a strangely human groaning sound. Even the wall calendar near us was knocked askew.
Halina and I knelt beside Irma. Even in the near darkness, I could see her accelerated breathing. Shock. Blood soaked the shoulder of her dress.
“Someone get a blanket,” I said.
“And a candle,” Binz said.