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Marleen.

    â€˜Yes,’ said our underground barrack historian, whose ebony eyes stood out like burning coals against his cadaverous white face, ‘some of the things that happened here sound more like nightmares.’ A strange air of foreboding shadowed his voice, as if he was fearful of disembodied ears floating in the gloom to betray him. ‘But what nightmare could equal the realities of life in camp? That boy’s death was registered as suicide by electrocution.’
    He paused and nodded sadly.
    â€˜I wish I could tell you some uplifting stories about Ebensee,’ he added. ‘But who can produce a clean thing out of unclean matter?’

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    Â  The Stillness of Death  
    The last commandant of Ebensee, Bachmayer’s successor, was a notorious SS man, an ill-humoured sneerer who out-did all previous commandants in cruelty. He had once been a bouncer in a nightclub. Our barrack scholar, whom we called ‘The Rabbi’, enlightened us: ‘This Bouncer, enwombed by Scylla and diswombed by Charybdis, whose barbarity has been handed down through the generations, was born an inverted kabbalist — he knows how to transmute life into dead matter.’
    Among the Bouncer’s many ingenious methods of bringing lives to an end was his habit of making us stand naked in freezing snow throughout the night, facing the furnace where piles of bodies were awaiting cremation. ‘Gentlemen,’ he would announce with mock-compassion, ‘I promise you that corpses have a trouble-free life. You’re in for a warm, radiant future.’
    As the echoes of the approaching American artillery began to wake Ebensee’s mountainous terrain from its lethargic sleep, and the mighty trees of the Schwarzwald that for years had kept the blue sky out of the prisoners’ sight began to quiver, scores of inmates attempted to make their escape. Our Bouncer knew that his time was up, yet he went after these desperate freedom-seekers with all his might. When caught they were ceremoniously brought back, and, though they were already half-dead from beatings, he would hang them with enthusiasm and panache.
    On such occasions the entire camp population was assembled to witness the Lagerführer ’s incredible triumph.To ensure that everyone had a proper view, the Bouncer divided the camp into three rows. The first row of prisoners sat on the cold mucky ground in front of the gallows; the second genuflected behind them as if in worship; the third stood like a line of grey, resigned tombstones in some shimmering graveyard.
    These executions were timed to coincide with evening roll-call — always the dying light, the horror of swinging ropes, the backdrop of gratuitous violence. To enhance the ceremony with his own malevolent sense of mischief, the Bouncer would force one of the victim’s closest companions to kick away the stool supporting him.
    The Bouncer’s trusted informers included a certain electrician called Harvas, a stocky, short-legged man whose vacant face resembled a full moon where the twin tadpoles that passed for his eyes swam restlessly in muddy puddles. The Bouncer loved him dearly, not only for being a natural squealer but because Harvas understood the art of trust and betrayal.
    Just a few days before our liberation, Harvas encouraged a Russian boy to cut a piece of rubber from a waterhose to mend his cracked wooden clogs, splinters from which kept aggravating the boy’s already lacerated feet. Having performed his good turn, the treacherous messenger quietly reported the youngster’s misdeed to his benefactor, who must have received it with relish. The boy, barely nineteen, was hanged. I remember the dark marble firmament, and the camp sinking into an eerie twilight, and the sad, insipid light dancing on the victim’s features — what perfect touches to a well-thoughtout spectacle. Asthe stillness of death grew around us, we prisoners were marched