THE GREEN KING (part 18)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
At the moment,
he understood even more what had struck Settiniaz: Reb Michael Klimrod had a
strange, inexplicable aura.
He retreated to
his interrogation.
‘When and how
did you arrive at Mauthausen’.
‘Last February.
I am not sure of the date. Beginning of February.’ His voice was deep and his
speech was very slow.
‘By Convoy?’.
‘No convoy.’
‘Who was with
you?’.
‘The other boys
who were buried with me.’
‘Someone had to
bring you here’.
‘SS officers.’
‘How many all?’
‘About Ten’.
‘Commanded by?’
‘An
Oberstrurmbannfuhrer.’
‘Whose name
was?’
Klimrod was now
standing in the left corner of the room. Before him was an enlarged photograph
taken by Blackstock of the open door of a crematorium; the flash had made the
half-charred bodies especially white.
‘I don’t know
any names,’ said Klimrod quietly.
One of his hand
moved, upwards. His long fingers touched the glossy paper of the photograph, as
if to caress it. After that he swung around, leaning against the wall. He was
impressive, gazing into space, blank. His hair was starting to grow in, was
dark brown.
‘What give you
the right to ask me these questions? Because you are American and have won the
war?’.
In God is name,
though Tarras dumbfounded, for once in his life at a loss for words.
‘I don’t feel
as if I’ve been defated by The United State of America. In fact, I don’t feel
as if I’ve been defeated by anyone…’
His eyes fell
on a glass-fronted cabinet in which, to stacks of file, Tarras a few books. And
it was the books he was looking at…
TO BE CONTINUED
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I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
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