RUDOLF M. KRUEGER
77
"You know ... and don't interrupt. ..." she whispered one
evening. It was dark, and a soft rain was falling.
"I feel my days are numbered. I don't really want to live ... be
quiet ... hear me out. I'll be fine over there. I'll be with my father.
They shot him. And I'll be with my mother. She died when I was a
baby." "But, you know," she went on almost inaudibly, "I'm so glad
that I had a chance to eat my favorite berries-that I met you.
"Now, listen to me carefully. The day after tomorrow is Satur–
day. They will take you all to the bathhouse. After that, you come to
the guardhouse at the camp entrance. I know who's on duty Satur–
day night. I managed to hide a pair of silk stockings. For those they
will let us have fifteen minutes in the back corridor of the guard–
house." She glanced away. "I want to make love once before I die.
And now, for heaven's sake, don't say anything ... just go. We'll
meet day after tomorrow."
My head spinning, I ran to my barracks and threw myself on
the slats of my wooden bunk. I couldn't sleep. I thought and
thought, remembering that awful night of June 1941, a year ago.
Seven NKVD agents came to arrest me. Their search went on all
night. From that time on I seemed to be living in a bad dream . . .
the interrogation ... my refusal to sign a false confession ... a blow
on the head . . . solitary confinement. Maybe I should have signed
... it would have brought an end to my misery - a firing squad.
Then came deportation to a concentration camp.
"Sentence by Special Decree," issued there five months later
without so much as an investigation or trial.
Tree cutting, exhausting tree cutting. Death - death every
day-death to my comrades of misfortune. Here was no thought of
love or women.
"Would I be able ... would I disappoint her?"
"Drink it. Don't get excited."
We are in the narrow corridor of the guardhouse. She hands
me a tiny flask. I put it to my lips. It's pure alcohol.
"Lay your jacket on the floor ..."
Now my head is really spinning. I seize her. We drop to the
floor. I pull up her skirt. She has nothing under it. I kiss her dry lips
... her eyes remain open as she looks into mine . . .
No more than ten minutes pass . She gets up. "Thank you ...
thank you, my dear ..." she whispers, kissing my brow. "I'll go now.
You leave in a few minutes."
