1

‘They gave us three days. No more, no less, three days… Looking back at it I suppose it was more than enough.’

Pawel pulled a red Marlborough from the pack and lit it with a gasoline lighter. The subtle smell of burning gas filled the space between us for a second or two.

‘The first day was all right, as much all right as it could be given the circumstances I suppose. There was only one victim that day’

I wasn’t sure if victim was the right word here, but I didn’t want to interrupt.

Pawel continued. ‘His name was Krauss, Johan Krauss to be precise and he was actually one of the better ones. Not that he was good, none of them were, and they were all monsters. That’s how I still remember them 60 years on anyway. He was only twenty when I met him for the first time six months earlier. I actually felt for him at the beginning. He was initially unaware and sort of innocent. Hitler Jugend never thought him how to act in a concentration camp. He just didn’t know what to do. It was quite funny, in a morbid way obviously, when he saw the effects of the gas chamber for the first time. Poor bugger puked all over his clean, creaseless shirt. Oh did he look miserable. Anyways, he was the first one. ‘

Pawel extinguished his cigarette butt in a skull shaped ashtray. I still wasn’t sure about this interview. This guy in front of me claimed he was 87 years old. Smoking like a chimney and sipping double malt. I just couldn’t get over the fact that he was old, clearly an amber juice lover and … I was still to establish his credibility. Pawel continued in a harsh, yet sort of soothing voice.

‘Johan died a quick death. He’s been stabbed with a bayonet through the heart. Janek and Kurtz got to him first.  Janek was a young Polish farmer; he lost his wife in Dachau, at least that what he was claiming, but he was off his nut by 1945, so no one really knew.  Kurtz on the other hand was an Austrian bookkeeper. As for a bookkeeper he was hard as nails I tell ya’. He was rumoured to work for some Jewish gangster and amassed an enormous wealth. Apparently the Nazis wanted a piece -read all of it- and that’s how he ended up in a concentration camp. Never mind, Janek held Johan and Kurtz buried the bayonet deep in the young German’s chest. Blood spurted right out of his mouth.  That wasn’t the end of him of course. He’s got another twenty or thirty stabs at least I’d say. Also, being the first one he held the privilege of having his head stuck on a pole right above the main gate. They actually nailed his hat to the top of his head, so no one could confuse him for a camp guest, that’s what we called the prisoners of the camp, ourselves I mean. The birds took a quick liking to the skull. Don’t think the eyes lasted an hour…’

   Pawel glanced at me, and pulled another Marlborough out of the pack. He poured a fair measure of whiskey into the plastic cup and offered me some. I had another 70 miles trip to the Buenos airport ahead of me … I should be all right, thought to myself.  

  

2

This was my last stop on my 6 weeks trip around South America. Being a Polish descendant I was mighty interested in those stories about Germans running away from prosecution and settling in the Latin countries after the Second World War. I was planning to look for some clues, maybe find a German war criminal, but to no avail. Nearly six weeks passed and I didn’t find one.

   However I’ve overheard a conversation about a Polish man in one of the bars in Buenos Aires. He was a butcher and apparently lived close to San Miguel del Monte, small town on the outskirts of Buenos. I’ve decided to make this my last stop on my travels.

I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived. The neighbourhood was really quiet. The cottage itself was very remote, probably good 5 miles away from the town. It stood on a little hill, very much surrounded by bushes. There was a sign on the fork of the roads, pointing towards the butcher’s villa.  A few hundred yards further up the road and there it was – a small white building; probably just one or two small bedrooms inside.

The host was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair. He was smoking a cigarette.

Pawel was his name, he said that he left Poland just after the war. His parents died in 1941 and he had no other immediate family left. He married an Argentinian girl, dead now, bless her soul. He also had two daughters, both living in Buenos Aires. He lived in this small, white cottage surrounded by a huge garden all by himself. There were piles of wood lying around and a large wire mesh dog enclosure in the backyard. The view at Laguna Del Monte was beautiful.

   He kept a lot of animals, ranging in size: from chickens to pigs. Although the living quarters were small, the whole premises including farm buildings looked impressive. We sat inside accompanied by a bottle of Chivas I brought with me.

3

   ’The next day was fairly quiet. We rounded up all the guards we could find. The front gate was bolted shut from the outside by the Allies. You have to understand that the Americans were mostly young boys and very traumatised. However there were some senior figures there as well. Those boys been through a lot themselves and seeing us in the state of almost decay, helped them in making the decision to put us in charge. In charge of the camp for three days… I think that there was only about 50 or 60 SS left. The rest was some fake militia. This was plenty I tell you.

The Yanks brought us food and other supplies. Some of the prisoners weighted around 80 pounds at the time the American soldiers walked in.’

Pawel butted another cigarette and quickly reached for the next one.

‘You sure you want to listen to this son? The next part will be real nasty you know?’

He looked at me again, but must have figured something by now.

‘You said your name was Tommy, what’s your full name son?’

‘Wysocki, sir, Tom Wysocki’.

Pawel raised his eyebrows.

‘A compatriot then, at least by blood I suppose?’

I didn’t want to discuss my family tree, but thought that this man deserved some sort of explanation.

‘My granddad was in this concentration camp sir. Sure you’ve met. From my father’s side. Stanislaw Wysocki.’

Pawel seemed to have been digesting this information.

‘Sorry, son. ‘twas so long ago you know? Well in this case I think you may actually like the next part of the story.

Janek and Kurtz assumed the lead. There were some other lads: Grzes, Moshe, and Ash – we called him ash ‘cause he used to roll grass and smoke it from newspaper, all the time. Can you believe I have not smoked at the time?’

He started laughing, but nasty phlegm surfaced accompanied by a horrible, loud cough.  The phlegm landed next to the ashtray. It looked as if the skull, half filled with ash now, had a nasty boogie accident. Pawel took out a large hankie and wiped it off leaving a greasy smudge on the shiny surface of a glass coffee table.

The cottage was very well kept, which probably wasn’t that difficult given the size. You walked straight in to the living/dining room. That’s where we were seated. It definitely had the European look, but with a hint of Latino. There were many colourful blankets around. Lots of pillows, probably placed there by the wife, and left as a memoir. It didn’t seem like a traditional Argentinian or Polish interior, a real mix indeed.

   There was a cobbled fireplace which looked somehow like a small pizza stove. Above it there hang a painting. It must have been a reproduction, surely.
The original’s gone missing during the WWII. It was Hunting Trip by Jozef Brandt – famous Polish 19th/20th century painter. I knew it as my grandmother loved art. She used to sit me down next to her by the kitchen table, and go through a book filled with famous Polish paintings. There was Malczewski, Kossak, Brandt and many others in that book.

I could suddenly smell an apple pie. That was what I normally had hen browsing the painting book with my grandma.

It was a very dynamic piece. It depicted a horse mounted wagon occupied by 19th century Polish noblemen. They were leaving their folwark, as suggested in title – starting their hunting trip. It sent shivers down my spine. Just felt a bit eerie. The talk about the concentration camp and this picture combined made me feel really uneasy.

In both corners of the room, just by the door, they were flowers – pink Argentinian queens. Beautiful. 

‘So as I said, this is the part you may like. I think it was the second day of the annihilation. I call it annihilation, as the Yanks really left the prisoners be. It was like the bull runs in Spain you know? They let the malnourished and abused inmates into the crowd of Nazi soldiers. Well small crowd but still. Oh the boys took their revenge, trust me.

Janek and Ash cough two Nazis hiding in a cellar of the kitchen building.
They bound them and laid them on the pavement outside. You can see they eyes glomming instantly. Ash took one of the Nazis, he found a cigarette pack and a lighter in his pocket. He lit the cigarette. Was in no rush I suppose. Finished the cigarette and started another one of the butt of the first. Then he extinguished the butt in the soldiers left eye. Jesus did the Nazi scream; I bet the Allies heard it from their camp a couple of miles from where we were.

Janek tried to put the second cigarette out the same way but the smart German closed his eyelids. Fucking burning it must ‘ev been.

Janek got pissed off. He spoke to Ash briefly and got something from him. Couldn’t see clear from my position, but then Janek kneeled down next to the screaming Nazi. Third cigarette has been almost finished by that time. He opened a pocket knife, a bit rusty it was. Next thing he grabbed the German by his hair and started cutting. If the first scream wasn’t enough the second was even worse.

He somehow managed to remove both eyelids of the bound soldier and with a victorious grin on his face, put out the third ciggy in his right eye.’

Saying this, old man lit another cigarette, and poured himself another measure of whisky into the cup – his hand trembling this time.

It was somehow mesmerising to see his facial expressions change so rapidly. Pawel started crying, not like a loud cry when you find out your grandma died, or a painful shriek when you accidently hit your thumb with a hammer. It was a silent yet very tearful cry. I felt sorry for him that time. He looked so innocent and hopeless.

4

He excused himself and went to the toilet, third time I think in the last hour. The cottage was fairly small so I heard him sobbing through the short corridor and this wooden door.

I got up and went to look at the painting. Hunting Trip. Seemed appropriate. I took it off and turned it around. There was something between the back plank and the actual painting. Something sticking out, just a corner visible.

I pulled it out. It was a picture. It was a family. A woman was standing behind two kids with her hands on their shoulders. She was smiling.

The men next to them seemed somehow distant, wasn’t touching any of them. His Nazi cap was casting a shade on his handsome face.

There was black pen writing on the back of this picture: Behrender familie, 1941.

It was Behrender. He apparently committed suicide in April 1945. He was one of the worst sociopaths and sadists in a Nazi uniform.

I heard the old man entering the room.

‘So you found it eh? You little shit.’ Pawel or Ulrich as I should probably call him now, didn’t sound amused.

‘You Polish fuckers, oh how I hate your rotten nation. Fuhrer’s stoves were big enough I always say.’

I turned around; he was holding a Luger P08 pistol. It was hidden under the table all the time, in a holster fixed to the underside. I knew that, I’ve seen it before and played with it the first time he went to the toilet. He didn’t know that. At least I hoped he didn’t…

I heard myself talking in a calm, yet firm voice. It was like listening to someone else.

‘You see herr Behrender, my granddad Staszek told me about the dogs you kept in the camp; and about your sadistic and sick ways of beating the inmates personally, to death. I noticed you still keep dogs, outside, chained to the pole. In the enclosure.’

Ulrich pressed the trigger; the chamber was obviously empty now. I knew he wasn’t prepared for that, yet he could have had some ammo hidden somewhere in vicinity. I, actually, was prepared for that; having my Smith and Wesson 6906 neatly tucked neatly in my under arm holster. But he surprised me yet again. Like this time when he played a really good role. If I didn’t know better he could have tricked. In the beginning of the interview he was really into his assumed personality.

Ulrich landed heavy in his chair.

‘Herr Behrender …’

‘Don’t call me that!’ Old Nazi’s voice was surprisingly strong. ‘I did what I had to do! They were vermin, fucking vermin I say! We wanted to purify the world. We’ve had big plans! We invented so much. Cured so many diseases… I lived here peacefully, in this town for nearly sixty years. But you stubborn fuckers couldn’t leave me alone. I buried my wife 5 years ago. Good woman she was. She knew I was a good man. I only hit her when she deserved it. And the girls, oh I love my daughters. They don’t even come to see me anymore you know. I only wanted to love them…’

Thousands of thoughts raced through my mind. Did he kill his wife in one of his drunken rages? Did he love his daughters a little too much for their liking? I composed myself, it didn’t matter anymore. Not now.

I let him have his cigarette, but took away his cup now. I didn’t want his to pass out. He was old, and fragile. I would not have forgiven myself should something happened to him now.

He finished his cigarette. It landed on the carpet which started burning slowly. It was old you know. I walked out for few minutes to prepare everything.

Once back inside I raised Ulrich from his chair, he was completely motionless now. He fainted; I think all the screaming had exhausted him.

Slowly we walked outside into the Sun. The backyard was full of wood piles, the grass was dry. I looked at the marks of gasoline I poured around. It was fine somehow. Suitable. The dogs were still asleep, good old laced bratwurst I threw into the enclosure upon my arrival help them have a good nap.

I have unchained them and fixed the shackles on the Nazi. I wasn’t worried about the cigarette burning through the carpet. I had my personal vision of hell deep in my mind. The Dogo Argentinos’ backs were covered in scars. Years of abuse from the old bastard I suppose. I wondered for a second if his deceased wife had scars on her back as well?

I left the enclosure open, cut the wrists of Ulrich with a Swiss army knife – they’re very handy. One man army as they call it. The German started screaming, jeez he was loud.

I walked away, open the door and climbed inside the Range Rover.

There was a small dog whistle in my heart pocket. I couldn’t hear a thing, when I blew into it, but the dogs did. They jumped up and started growling. I could see the old bastard trembling now, he shouted: ‘HALT!’ and it worked for a second, but the canines were too hungry, they smart dogs as well I read somewhere. Breed from an extinct Cordoba Dog species – vicious as hell. There were two, of them. Both were white, one completely while the other had a black patch over his right eye. He looked like a pirate, and boy did he ransack. He stole the Nazi’s right palm. Yep, took it away with him. I could see the bones and flesh dangling from the hand stump. 

The screams weren’t even that loud now, more like whining. Like a little pig.

I looked again to make sure I left the enclosure open for the doggies to run away after their meal. Mild OCD of mine, I’m never sure if I turned the stove off, unplugged the iron, those little things you know? I didn’t want the doggies to get stuck while everything around them went up in flames. I also opened the gates of the pig pen and barn. Few pigs have already started wondering around, looking for food.

The enclosure was open and so was Ulrich’s belly now. He did not look much like a human being anymore. Bloodied saliva was dripping out of his lipless mouth. He still had his right ear though, I wouldn’t bet on him hearing me anymore…I picked a pack of Camels from the glove compartment and lit one with a long wooden match. It went on the ground after. The gasoline did not lit up immediately like in the movies, it took a few seconds but now the flame was reaching the first pile off wood. The flames were raising higher now. I was glad that the cottage was so remote, and the fork roads just around the corner. No one knew I was visiting, surely someone may have noticed the car, but it was old and banged up. I will abandon it somewhere in Buenos; there were no plates on it anyway.

I started the engine and took a quick glance in the back mirror. The painting was resting calmly on the back seat. I really liked it. Hunting trip it was indeed.