The Interpreter by A. J. Sidransky

Author:A. J. Sidransky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Opal Books

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Kurt walked around the grounds at Mechelen in a fog. Sam had a meeting with the commanding officer. He said he would be no more than half an hour. The barracks, if you could describe the shacks that housed the prisoners as that, were filthy and overcrowded. The prisoners ranged in age from their early twenties into their fifties. They were to the last man, dirty, disheveled and angry.

The prisoners complained in low grumbling voices about their defeat. In his American uniform, they assumed Kurt couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Kurt listened, intently. Some blamed the German High Command, some Hitler, but most blamed the Jews. Somehow, they had convinced themselves that the Jews, dead and turned to ashes, were responsible for Germany’s defeat. It was as it always was, the valiant Aryan race was the victim of a Jewish conspiracy to destroy it.

Kurt felt no empathy for these men. They were his enemies and would remain so, always. Kurt walked among them with his hand on his pistol. His uniform inspired fear in them, the same way their uniforms had inspired fear in him in what had come to feel like another lifetime. He liked that feeling.

Kurt considered his conversation with Sam. The breach of military protocol and security was enough to get them both court-martialed. However, Kurt knew von Hauptmann belonged here, in this camp, or worse, in a maximum security prison, awaiting a death sentence. Kurt had heard reports of what the Soviets had done in their zones. They didn’t wait for justice, or trials, they summarily executed every Nazi officer, Wehrmacht, SS or Gestapo they came upon. Millions of Russians had died at the hands of these men, and the Soviets weren’t wasting time with legalities.

Kurt approached the perimeter fence. He narrowed his eyes, envisioning Saul standing on the other side looking for his parents. Kurt turned and looked back at the large, grassless, open field between the fence and the barracks and imagined it filled with people, his people, Jews. They were dressed in whatever they were wearing when they were rounded up, perhaps carrying a suitcase or holding the hand of a small child. Kurt saw the fear on their faces.

Kurt squatted down and looked at the fence again, imagining Saul there with his father. He became nauseous. Kurt remem-bered Monsieur Seidleman. He was tall and thin with a short dark beard, kept immaculately trimmed. He dressed modestly and always had a smile when he saw you. When you asked him how he was, Seidleman would always respond, “very well, baruch haShem.”

Kurt imagined Seidleman at the fence, holding Saul's hand, imploring him to live, tears running down his face. In a tiny moment, the image in Kurt’s mind changed. It was Kurt on the other side of the fence and Hertz on this side pleading with him to live, to survive. Kurt’s nausea worsened. He hadn’t eaten since early that morning. It was now early evening. He felt himself dry heave. Between paroxysms, Kurt promised himself that von Hauptmann would never go free.

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