Leading Edge
prisoners welcomed and adored him, while I learned to rely on him. He was always at my shoulder, to translate when prisoners couldn’t understand German: “Wo ist deine Karte?” I demanded. “Where is your card?” The woman stared at me, terrified and uncomprehending. I tried again. “Haben Sie noch Zustimmung in diesem Bereich sein? Do you have approval to be in this area?” No response. “Listen, I don’t want to get you in trouble, but unless I see your card I’m going to have to escort you out of this area.” Still no response. I reached for her arm, but she shrank back with a small gasp of terror. Suddenly, there was someone behind me, and a voice in my ear. “Ask, ‘Avez-vous une carte?’” It was the translator. I did so. The woman’s face cleared, and she handed me the tan card I was looking for. In that instance, and in many others, I would have eventually been forced to hurt or punish prisoners if I’d been on my own. But he would always appear, usually with a startling suddenness, whenever problems arose. He helped me keep up appearances, and he seemed to be the only one who understood what a poor Nazi I truly made. We continued to offer various privileges—most of them were refused with a smile, a bow, a shake of the head, and a tone of unswayable firmness. During the first seven months of his residence at the camp, the prisoner only asked for one thing: “Beg pardon, Kamerad Waldhar . . . I have a favor to ask of you . . .” “What?” “Is there any way to recover my violin? It was confiscated . . .” “Perhaps, kamerad, perhaps. It might have been thrown out . . .” “Ja, kamerad, I know. I would like my own, but if it can’t be recovered, is there any way to acquire a different one? It wouldn’t have to be new, as long as it could be repaired easily enough . . .” “Oh, ja! That can be done easily. Kamerad Klemens, look for one when you go into Berlin tomorrow. . . Actually kamerad, I’ll send him with you. He’ll know what to look for, after all. And then he can help you load supplies.” The prisoner smiled, and bowed to the officer behind the desk before turning to leave. He was called back. “One more thing, kamerad. I can’t have you playing that violin in the camp, though, especially not Gypsy songs or any garbage of that sort . . .” “Not even if I played Deutsche Lieder?” Waldhar laughed in pleasant surprise. “I suppose, kamerad, I could let you play German songs to your heart’s content!” The dark-haired man again smiled, and left with another small bow, leaving the Nazi to shake his head in wonderment at his prisoner’s strange request as he signed my newest barrack report.
“Am I not allowed to be curious?”
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