As the war dragged on, though, life at Ravensbrück grew more difficult. Fresh transports arrived around the clock, loaded with infected prisoners from the Führer’s conquered territories.
Without Halina the Revier was a madhouse, teeming with disease carriers from every country. There was little time to spend missing Fritz or Mutti. I stayed in my office most days, but the place had to be managed. The camp doctors in particular needed a break, and we received one in the form of an especially fine Yuletide celebration. Across Germany, citizens suffered with reduced rations, but the camp staff still enjoyed real coffee, salami, Polish vodka, and good champagne.
Our party began with a pageant. Binz and her guards shuffled into the canteen dressed as angels, in white satin robes tied at the waist with golden ropes. She’d even convinced me to wear one such outfit, which was good, because the bell sleeves covered the few cuts on my arms and helped me avoid embarrassing stares and questions. This cutting of mine was a phase, a typical tensional outlet, not surprising given the stress of my duties.
Binz and each angel on her staff wore a foil headpiece with a cross rising from the forehead and carried a tall pole topped with a gold-painted swastika that almost scraped the low ceiling. As they filed in, each lit a candle on the tree in the corner, which was fitted with candles on every branch and strewn with the usual silver tinsel threads. Then SS men entered, dressed as shepherds in costumes of robes and long headpieces made of shimmering blue material. Bringing up the rear of the procession was Commandant Suhren, our Father Christmas on stilts. He wore a long red felt robe trimmed with white fur and carried a rod in one hand. He tipped his pointy cap forward to enter the doorway.
“Who’s been naughty or disobedient?” he shouted, a twinkle in his eye.
Soon Father Christmas threw down the rod and opened his sack of sweets. Where was he getting such treats in wartime? Beer, the chosen beverage of the group, flowed freely. Even Father Christmas had a mug.
When the new religion ushered in by national socialism first appeared, it had seemed strange, but one adjusted. According to the Führer, one could be a German or a Christian but not both. He suggested we be Christ ourselves, which seemed a practical solution.
Many German people resisted this change, but all members of the SS converted to this new religion. Gradually, religious aspects of Christmas were replaced with symbols of nationalistic pride, and we celebrated the winter solstice instead of Christ’s birth. Soon even Father Christmas was replaced by Odin the Solstice Man. Mutti chafed at all this, for she was raised a devout Protestant and my father a Catholic, but eventually even Mutti had both a “People’s Tree” topped with a Germanic sun wheel and a traditional Christmas tree. This new religion suited me, for it freed me from troublesome theological issues.
I sat alone and watched the angels and shepherds enjoy their dancing.
Commandant Suhren approached my table, his Kris Kringle pillow belly bouncing as he walked. “You’re not eating, Fr?ulein Oberheuser.”
He slid his plate of meat and buttered potatoes onto the table.
I turned my face away from the smell of the bloody beef. “It’s ‘doctor,’ Herr Commandant.”
“You must keep your strength up. Meat has protein and iron, you know.” Why did it never occur to him not to lecture a doctor on nutrition?
“We’re counting on you. I know it isn’t easy with Fritz gone and Dr. Gebhardt off lecturing so much. And with the incident—”
Why did everyone refer to what happened with Halina as “the incident”? “I’m fine, Herr Commandant.” It was true. Chronic insomnia was common among concentration camp staffers.
As Suhren shook at least a jigger of salt onto his potatoes, Binz and her boyfriend Edmund kissed in the corner. It looked like an angel giving a shepherd mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Binz, recently promoted to deputy chief wardress at the camp, was not letting her new position disrupt her love life.
“I’d be better if we could manage the situation of the Rabbits, Commandant,” I said.
“I have a lot to deal with right now. Seventy subcamps, all with their own problems. Siemens complaining the prisoners are dying at their benches. Besides, my hands are tied on the Rabbits situation, Fr?ulein. Since Berlin slapped my wrist, I don’t even receive reports about what’s happening at my own camp. And Gebhardt doesn’t communicate.”
Suhren had protested the sulfa operations, claiming he needed the Polish girls as workers. Gebhardt appealed to his friends in high places, and Suhren was overruled. He was forced to apologize to Gebhardt face-to-face, a humiliating blow to his ego by all indications.
“So what is the latest?” Suhren asked, rolling a potato with his fork. He’d seen it all from his office no doubt. Why did he need my version?
“Well, after the Rabbits marched in protest—”
“Marched? Half of them can’t walk.”
“They were carried to the square and demanded to see Binz.”
“I heard some of this part.”
“They handed her their manifesto, demanded in writing a halt to future operations.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t incite a scuffle. So you operated anyway?”
“In the bunker this time. Couldn’t use anesthesia down there but we needed the extra security. The whole camp has become very protective of them.”
“How can I help?”
“Berlin heard about the protest, and they are reviewing the situation. Gebhardt says there’ll be no more Rabbits at the shooting wall until further notice.”
“So?”
Suhren watched Binz and Edmund in their corner. I was losing him.
“If we can’t make the results of this experiment go away, we may be the ones left holding the sack. Fritz is gone. Gebhardt’s traveling.”
That got his attention. “I can’t overrule Gebhardt, I’m afraid. He speaks to Himmler himself every day.”
“Well, something must be done soon. If this leaks…”
Suhren waved that thought away. “Our security is near perfect. Only three escapes, and two of the escapees apprehended. Himmler himself complimented our censors. They do not allow leaks.”
This was a blatant falsehood. I’d heard all sorts of things got through our censors. Binz found evidence of this daily. A bottle of hair dye in a box of rolled oats. Antibiotics in a toothpaste tube.
“Besides, the surgeries were performed in secret with the patients blindfolded. None of them can identify you.”
“But—”
“Patience, my dear. I’ll see to it the problem is addressed. Leave this to me.”
Suhren wandered off leaving his napkin wadded up on his plate, beef blood seeping into the linen. As Binz’s chorus of misshapen angels gathered to sing a medley of German folk songs, I felt my first shiver of fear about it all. I knew too well that loose ends tend to unravel.
CHRISTMAS 1943
Any spare time I had that December I spent chasing commuters at Grand Central Terminal, selling war bonds. Seemingly overnight, a 125-foot war-themed photo mural had sprung up on the station’s eastern wall. Warships and fighter planes loomed over the sea of commuters, many of whom were in uniform themselves. The caption left no ambiguity as to the mission: BUY DEFENSE BONDS AND STAMPS NOW!