The Emperor of Lies by Steve Sem-Sandberg Page B

, Józef Rumkowski
stalked over to his brother. And just stood there: right up close to him, with
his gaze fixed accusingly on him. He had done it ever since they were
little.
    Well, what
are you going to do about this? he said.
    And Rumkowski? As always on such
occasions, he sensed his feelings of inadequacy and shame being diluted by an
unreasoning hatred: of his brother’s rigid reproaches; of his subjection to a
wife who was trying with all the means at her disposal to divert attention from
the situation that had arisen onto her own interminable self-pity. In normal
circumstances, his anger would have erupted at that moment. But no angry
outburst ever made any impact on Jósef. His brother just went on staring. There
was no way of retreating from or evading that unyielding stare.
    Luckily, neither of them needed to do
anything.
    The Germans were already on the
way.
    From further down Zgierska, the sound
of emergency vehicles could already be heard – and a discernible sense of alarm
spread not only through the ranks of the demonstrators but also among the
policemen Rozenblat had called in, most of whom had already been knocked to the
ground or taken shelter against the walls of the buildings along Spacerowa
Street. Should they exploit the situation and try to look as though they were
‘responding forcefully’ when the Germans came, or copy the demonstrators and try
to run away as fast as possible?
    Most of them opted for the latter but,
like the demonstrators, did not get very far before a whole commando of German
security forces blocked all the surrounding roads with riot-squad vans and
strategically parked jeeps. Rounds of submachine-gun fire issued from the
vehicles to confuse the fleeing demonstrators, who didn’t know which way to run,
and seconds later soldiers came surging from every corner and alleyway. In the
space of a few minutes, Łagiewnicka Street had been completely cleared, leaving
only a handful of bodies lying there among a pathetic collection of broken
paving stones, abandoned caps, and trampled leaflets and banners.
    That night, Rumkowski called a meeting,
attended by Commandant Rozenblat, Wiktor Miller and Henryk Neftalin the head of
the Population Registration Bureau. Plus some of the district police commanders
in whom Rozenblat claimed to have particular confidence.
    The Chairman urged them all to take a
sensible view of the situation.
    Ordinary people, particularly men with
a family to support, did not take to the streets en masse unless exhorted to do
so. There were troublemakers in every district. And it was these agitators they
needed to get at: Communists and Bundists and activists from the left wing of
the Poale Zion; countless secret party cells had been formed inside the ghetto. Treacherous people. People who did
everything in their power to prove there was no difference between those in
positions of trust in his administration and
the odious Nazis. Rumour had it that there were even men in his own Council of
Elders trying to exploit the situation for their own gain, individuals who had
ways of discreetly stirring up the troublemakers with the aim of making the
Germans dismiss the whole Beirat .
    What the Chairman wanted from Rozenblat
and Neftalin was names . The lists of names
would be divided among all police units, which would be detailed to swoop on the
suspects’ homes the following night. It made no difference whether they were
socialists, Bundists, or just run-of-the-mill criminals and troublemakers. He
had already ordered prison chief Shlomo Hercberg to prepare special examination
cells for interrogations.
    The strategy proved surprisingly
effective. Between September and December there were no further incidents; the
ghetto remained calm. But then winter came, and winter was his enemy’s best
friend.
    Hunger .
    The discontented were driven out onto
the street once more, now so desperate that they stopped at nothing, least of
all a simple baton blow.
    *
    That was the first