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"YOU ARE NOT MY JUDGE"

STOOLPIGEON HARTWIG was paid off in the washroom one morning. He was felled by a blow on the head as he stood over the washbasin. The room, crowded to capacity a moment before, was cleared within a few seconds and the detested toady left lying in a puddle of soapy water. Recovering consciousness, he reported to his "friend" Stormleader von Zaskowsky that he had been attacked by prisoners. Zaskowsky raged and did everything in his power to obtain an investigation, but apparently met with resistance on the part of the commandant and some of the other officers. Many of them undoubtedly disapproved of his sexual relations with the informer and may have been apprehensive, too, of an open revolt in camp. In any case Zaskowsky's efforts came to nothing and the person or persons who knocked out Hartwig remained unidentified. But another prisoner, an old man of almost seventy, fell a victim to Hartwig.

Old Karel, as everyone called him, was no longer fit for anything but potato peeling. Seated on a bench in the courtyard one day, he caught sight of the stool-pigeon carrying a breakfast tray into the Administration Building.

"So that scoundrel's on his feet again," he said aloud.

Two minutes later he was called before Zaskowsky. Hartwig was standing beside him.

"What did you say in the yard just now?" the stormleader inquired.

"I was surprised to see that this scoundrel here was back on duty."

The officer picked up a blackjack and ordered the old man to lie down across the table. At a sign from Zaskowsky, Hartwig threw himself at old Karel, forced him to the ground, and held him there with his knees. The stormleader proceeded to blackjack him.

The old man crawled down the stairs and knocked at the commandant's door, something which no prisoner had ever dared before.

"What do you want?"

"I've just been beaten by Stormleader von Zaskowsky."

"Why?"

"I said I was surprised to see the scoundrel Hartwig was on his feet again."

"Then you got what was coming to you. Get out, or I'll give you another dose."

"It's with your consent, then, that prisoners in camp are mistreated?"

"Don't be insolent!" the commandant bellowed.

"Herr Kommandant," repeated the old fellow imperturbably, "it's with your consent, then, that prisoners here in camp are mistreated?"

The commandant gasped. "Just what do you want from me, anyway?" he shouted.

"I'd like to ask you whether everything that goes on here in camp goes on with your knowledge and consent.

"That's none of your damned business! Am I answerable to you for what I do?"

"Herr Kommandant," said the old man, "some day you'll be called to account for what goes on here in camp." He turned and walked out.

Old Karel went to his company quarters, wrote steadily for a time, then returned to his place among the potato peelers. The others cast timid sidelong glances at him. What was going on in the old man's mind? We knew he had been arrested for having asked, on the occasion of one of the innumerable Nazi drives for money, whether begging wasn't forbidden in the Third Reich.

At noon he was called before the commandant. Supported by two prisoners, he dragged himself across the yard. The commandant asked him why he had written his will.

"Because when you're in the hands of murderers, you never know how much longer you've got to live."

The commandant changed the subject. "Why are you giving us so much trouble?" he asked. "You're an old man. I'd like to spare you any further punishment."

"You can't punish me. You're not my judge."

"If you're going to be so pig-headed I'll have no choice but to put you in the coop."

"That's up to you."

"I can't allow you to send this letter off. It's likely to create a false impression of my camp. But in view of your age and your blameless record, I'll make an exception in your case and allow you to see your family some Sunday noon."

"I don't have to be treated any differently from the other prisoners."

"How long since you were arrested?"

"Eighty-seven days."

"What for?"

"For disrespect to the Third Reich."

"I'll see what I can do for you. But I'll expect you to refrain in future from any further breeches in camp discipline."

The old man's health declined rapidly from that day. His strength was ebbing. He spent most of his time on the pallet and would thank us with a friendly "God bless you, lad," when we slipped him a morsel in passing that was fit for his gum to chew.

One Sunday a visitor was announced for old Karel--the retired country pastor whose sexton he had been for half a lifetime. Two prisoners carried the old man to the First Aid Station wheere, in the presence of the SS officer on duty, the pastor was waiting for him.

"Well, Karel, how are you?" he asked encouragingly.

"I'm nearing the end, Your Reverence."

"Are you in pain? Are you ill?"

"This man here," said old Karel, pointing to Zaskowsky, who was the SS officer on duty, "this man here beat me."

The pastor's startled gaze turned from one to the other. Zaskowsky's face remained expressionless.

"This man beat me with a blackjack," old Karel continued, as though he were telling a tale that concerned no one in the room. "And what he did to me he does every day to other prisoners."

"If you make another statement of that kind," Zaskowsky said, "I'll have to withdraw permission for this gentleman's visit and report you to the commandant."

"The commandant knows all about it and does nothing. What goes on here in camp shrieks to high heaven."

"Karel," said the pastor quickly, "don't upset yourself. I'll go to the government and ask for your release. I'll tell them you've been a good man all your life."

"A release is no good to me any more. I don't want to go on living in times like these when the truth can't be told and rascals hold the power."

The stormleader rose. "I'm sorry," he said to the pastor, "but I'll have to cut your visit short because of the prisoner's insolence."

"Insolence!" exclaimed the old man, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers. "Here look here."

His sunken chest still bore the bruised and livid traces of the blackiack. The pastor gazed in horror at the marks of the Third Reich.

"How could you bring yourself to lay hands on this old man?" he stammered, beside himself. "This is absolutely revolting."

"I should be sorry to have to detain you here in camp,"the stormleader replied. "Weigh your words more carefully next time. Now go."

Old Karel was carried to the coop and kept there until an ambulance from the city hospital came to remove him a few days later. His old friend, the pastor, had at least spared him the necessity of dying in that dark hole.

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