The soldiers exchange glances.
‘Fuck off,’ one of them says, and they resume their march, one of them shoving Lale as he goes by. He stands for several minutes as many more soldiers walk past, ignoring him. Accepting their indifference, he carries on, receiving only an occasional glance. He decides to walk in the opposite direction to them, reasoning that the Russians are probably heading to engage with the Germans, so getting as far away as possible makes sense.
Eventually a jeep pulls up alongside him and stops. An officer in the back eyeballs him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m Slovakian. I have been a prisoner in Auschwitz for three years.’ He pulls up his left sleeve to reveal his tattooed number.
‘Never heard of it.’
Lale swallows. It is unimaginable to him that a place of such horror should not be known.
‘It’s in Poland. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘You speak perfect Russian,’ the soldier says. ‘Any other languages?’
‘Czech, German, French, Hungarian and Polish.’
The officer eyes him more carefully. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’
‘Home, back to Slovakia.’
‘No, you’re not. I have just the job for you. Get in.’
Lale wants to run, but he would have no chance, so he climbs into the passenger seat.
‘Turn around, back to headquarters,’ the officer instructs the driver.
The jeep bumps over potholes and ditches, heading back the way it has come. A few kilometres further on they pass through a small village and then turn up a dirt road towards a large chalet that sits on the top of a hill overlooking a beautiful valley. They enter a large circular driveway where several expensive-looking cars are parked. Two guards stand either side of an imposing main doorway. The jeep skids to a stop, the driver scrambles out and opens the door for the officer in the back.
‘Come with me,’ the officer says.
Lale scurries after him into the foyer of the chalet. He pauses, shocked by the opulence before him. A grand staircase, works of art – paintings and tapestries on every wall – and furniture of a quality he has never seen before. Lale has stepped into a world beyond his comprehension. After what he has known, it is almost painful.
The officer heads towards a room off the main foyer, indicating that Lale should follow. They enter a large, exquisitely furnished room. A mahogany desk dominates, as does the person sitting behind it. Judging by his uniform and accompanying insignia, Lale is in the presence of a very senior Russian official. The man looks up as they enter.
‘Who have we here?’
‘He claims he was a prisoner of the Nazis for three years. I suspect he’s a Jew, but I don’t think that matters. What does matter is that he speaks both Russian and German,’ the officer says.
‘And?’
‘I thought he could be useful to us. You know, in talking to the locals.’
The senior officer leans back, seems to consider this. ‘Put him to work then. Find someone to guard him and shoot him if he tries to escape.’ As Lale is escorted from the room the senior officer adds, ‘And get him cleaned up and into some better clothes.’
‘Yes, sir. I think he will do well for us.’
Lale follows the officer. I don’t know what they want from me, but if it means a bath and clean clothes … They walk across the foyer and head upstairs to the first-floor landing; Lale notes that there are two further floors. They enter a bedroom and the Russian goes to the closet and opens it. Women’s clothing. Without a word he leaves and enters the next bedroom. This time, men’s clothes.
‘Find something that fits you and looks good. There should be a bathroom through there.’ He points. ‘Clean yourself up and I’ll be back in a short while.’
He closes the door behind him. Lale looks around the room. There is a large four-poster bed draped in heavy covers and with mountains of pillows of all shapes and sizes; a chest of drawers he thinks might be solid ebony; a small table complete with Tiffany lamp; and a lounge chair covered in exquisite embroidery. How he wishes Gita were here. He stifles the thought. He cannot afford to think of her. Not yet.
Lale runs his hands over the suits and shirts in the closet, both casual and formal, and all the accessories needed to resurrect the Lale of old. He selects a suit and holds it up to the mirror, admiring the look: it will be close to a perfect fit. He throws it onto the bed. A white shirt soon joins it. From a drawer he selects soft underpants, crisp socks and a smooth brown leather belt. He finds a polished pair of shoes in another cupboard, a match for the suit. He slips his bare feet into them. Perfect.
A door leads to the bathroom. Gold fittings glisten against the white tiles that cover the walls and floor; a large stained-glass window casts pale yellow and dark green light around the room from the late-afternoon sun. He enters the room and stands still for a long time, enjoying the anticipation. Then he runs a deep bath and lowers himself into it, luxuriating in it until the water cools. He adds more steaming water, in no hurry for his first bath in three years to end. Eventually he climbs out and dries himself with a soft towel that he finds hanging with several others on the rail. He walks back into the bedroom and dresses slowly, savouring the feel of smooth cotton and linen, and woollen socks. Nothing scratches, irritates or hangs baggily off his shrunken frame. Clearly the owner of these clothes was slim.
He sits for a while on the bed, waiting for his minder to return. Then he decides to explore the room some more. He pulls back large drapes to reveal French windows that lead out onto a balcony. He opens the doors with a flourish and steps outside. Wow. Where am I? An immaculate garden stretches out before him, lawn disappearing into a forest. He has a perfect view down onto the circular drive and he watches as several cars pull up and deposit more Russian officials. He hears the door to his room opening and turns around to see his minder alongside another, lower-ranked soldier. He stays on the balcony. The two men join him and look out over the grounds.
‘Very nice, don’t you think?’ Lale’s minder says.
‘You’ve done well for yourselves. Quite a find.’
His minder laughs. ‘Yes, we have. This headquarters is a bit more comfortable than the one we had at the front.’
‘Are you going to tell me where I fit in?’
‘This is Fredrich. He is going to be your guard. He will shoot you if you try to escape.’
Lale looks at the man. His arm muscles bulge against his shirtsleeves and his chest threatens to pop the buttons that hold it in. His thin lips neither smile nor grimace. Lale’s nod of greeting isn’t returned.
‘He will not only guard you here but will take you to the village each day to make our purchases. Do you understand?’
‘What am I buying?’
‘Well, it’s not wine; we have a cellar full of that. Food, the chefs will buy. They know what they want …’
‘So that leaves …’
‘Entertainment.’
Lale keeps his face neutral.
‘You will go into the village each morning to find lovely young ladies interested in spending some time here with us in the evening. Understand?’
‘I’m to be your pimp?’
‘You understand perfectly.’
‘How am I to persuade them? Tell them you are all good-looking fellows who will treat them well?’
‘We will give you things to entice them.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Come with me.’