The Applicant

‘Well, your credentials and references are all in order. Which one would hope from an experienced administrator like yourself, eh?’

The applicant looked unsure. Was this a joke? He wasn’t good at jokes. The other man sat back expansively in his seat and gave a big grin, all teeth and red cheeks. ‘Relax, relax. I'm just having a little fun with you. That's us Bavarians, you know. We speak our minds, but are quick to have a laugh at others, yes. Hahaha.’

The applicant smiled thinly. He’d never been to Bavaria, but had met enough of them, particularly over the last few years. They seemed to be everywhere all of a sudden.

The Bavarian looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘Anyway, Herr...Herr...ha ha, funny. I've read your name countless times since you applied for the position, but now when it comes to saying it out loud I realise I can't pronounce it. It's not German, that's for sure, eh?.’

The applicant smiled and spoke his name. ‘I’m a German citizen, as you know. But my great-grandparents were from Romania. Hence the funny name.’

‘Ah, Romania!’ The Bavarian said with a smile, before the inevitable comment, ‘Land of the vampires, eh? Hahaha.’ He made a sort of vampire leer with his teeth, his fingers curled into comedy claws.

The applicant gave a faint smile and nodded. ‘Yes, so I've heard. I’ve only been once, when I was young. To Bucharest where I still have family. I didn't see any monsters.’

‘Hahaha. Good, good. Well then, I'm pleased to tell you that you've been offered the role. They were very impressed by your interview. Sign this form and you will officially be the new Director of Logistical Administration for the South-Eastern Sector. Quite a grand position, and newly created too. In a role like that, you can make a big impression on the right people, know what I mean? With quite a pay rise too. You must be a happy man.’

The applicant was indeed delighted, and for the first time visibly relaxed and gave a genuine smile. ‘Oh, it's just the best news, really it is. Thank you. It's been a difficult year, what with one thing and another.’

The Bavarian nodded his head in acknowledgment of some shared but unspoken difficulty.

‘Anyway, thank you again. I'm grateful and delighted. My wife will be so happy.’

'That's the main thing’, replied the Bavarian. ‘A happy woman is a quiet woman. That’s all we want from them, eh? And sex and good cooking. Hahaha.’

The Bavarian looked at the calendar on his desk. So, today is Thursday and Friday is no good. We’ll expect you at Regional Headquarters on Monday at 6am prompt. How does that sound, Herr Direktor?’

The applicant, caught off-guard by the use of his new title, was suddenly flustered. 'Yes. I mean, of course, absolutely. I look forward to it.’

The Bavarian stood and shook his hand. ‘Well then, Herr...oh god damn it, I’ve forgotten already.’

The applicant laughed, more relaxed now. ‘Oh don't worry, I'm quite used to it. Romanian is not an easy language. Thank you again.’

‘A pleasure. And good luck to you. Please extend my regards to your lady wife.’

The applicant gave a small bow of gratitude, and walked out of the office into a bustling Berlin street in Spring. He could see his tram coming in the near distance, bells clanging. But the sun was shining, he’d got the job he’d dreamed of, and he felt, for the first time in a long time, almost happy. Smiling at the thought of that ridiculous Bavarian, he decided to walk home instead. 

---

Following the habit of a lifetime, the applicant arrived 20 minutes early to work on Monday. He hated lateness, particularly at work, which always produced disorder of some kind, an intolerable situation for a man who valued accuracy and attention to detail. He knew he was a bit of a cold fish to his colleagues. Not unfriendly as such, but reserved with a manner that implied seriousness. People rarely sought him out unless necessary. He didn't crack jokes or join in the office banter. Gossip appalled him. Pointless natterings, gleaned from rumours and misheard fragments from someone else’s conversation. If someone cracked a joke, he rarely laughed. In fact, now that he thought of it, he didn’t recall laughing at a joke, ever. He would listen politely, and when the punchline came, give just a quick smile and nod of the head that said, ‘Yes, I got it, no it wasn't funny and no, I don't want to hear another one.’ 

Learning quickly, colleagues just greeted him politely in the morning and then left him alone, which is how he liked it. He excelled at his job, liaised in a professional manner when required, and then went back to his desk to pore over the plans, schedules, maps and graphs that lay at the heart of his role as a senior transport administrator.

He found his new office quickly enough, a small-ish, drab room with filing cabinets, two desks on either side of the room and, at the far end on a slightly raised dais, a slightly larger desk with a leather chair. He savoured the sight for a moment, hung his hat and coat on the stand, and walked over to his new desk. ‘Herr Direktor’. He smiled. ‘Finally’, he thought. ‘I’ve finally made it.’

‘Good morning’, said a loud voice, startling him. A heavyset man, with blonde hair and ruddy cheeks was approaching him, hand extended and a cheerful smile. The applicant hadn’t heard him enter the room. 

‘Our new leader, I assume. Welcome Herr Direktor, good to have you in charge. I’m Stefan. We could use a little management around here, eh? Hahaha.’

The applicant sighed inwardly. Another Bavarian. 

Stefan clapped his hands together loudly. ‘So, are you a Berliner or have they moved you too? Sorry I ask too many questions. You’ll either get used to it, or have me moved to another unit, hahaha’

‘No, I’m actually from Bremen. We moved here in November.’

‘Oh, a Northerner! I’m sorry to hear that. Ahahaha. Only joking. I like jokes, you know. I’m from Bavaria. Munich. Well, I say Munich, but actually a small village outside, but no one’s ever heard of it, so now I just say Munich and they’re happy.’

The applicant, now sitting at his desk, smiled, ‘Yes’, he said, silently wondering how he was going to cope with this all day. At least he didn’t have to put up with them struggling to pronounce his foreign name anymore. It was Herr Direktor from now on. He looked up from his reverie. The Bavarian was talking again. He may not even have stopped, the applicant couldn’t tell.

‘So apart from Hamburg, where are you from originally? That’s not a German name if I may say. Just as well I can call you Herr Direktor, so there’s no problem, right?’

‘I’m a German citizen, but my Great-Grandparents came here from Romania.’ He paused here, as he always did in this standard introductory conversation that he’d had thousands of times before, to allow the other party to make the inevitable vampire joke which, on this occasion, failed to materialise. 

‘Oh, they’re the good guys, eh? What's his name, your leader? Erm, I can never pronounce it, hahaha, sorry.’

‘He’s not my leader, I’m German’, said the applicant pointedly. But you mean Marshal Antonescu, I think.’

‘Oh sorry yes, that’s him. All I know is that he’s on our side, so he must be a good fellow, eh?’

The applicant nodded. He’d heard differently from his cousins in Bucharest, who wrote to him occasionally. ‘Antonescu is an idiot’, wrote one. ‘We should have just kept out of the war, like that ridiculous strutting cockerel in Spain. Maybe he’s not as stupid as he looks.’ 

Like a lot of Germans every now and then, the applicant broke the law, by tuning into the BBC’s World Service to get their take on events. He assumed that much of it was propaganda, and his English wasn’t great, but there was something about the delivery, the way the words were spoken. It was different from the hysteria-tinged hectoring and sneering heard in German newsreels. The British announcer sounded calmer, somehow. More measured. Self-assured. 

And if what they said was even half-true, and rumours spread by returning or injured soldiers suggested that they were, then the operation in the East was not going to plan, to put it mildly. Stefan was speaking again, or still.

‘Herr Direktor? Oh sorry, you were distracted. I was just saying that the first scheduling directives arrived on Friday. I thought I’d leave them for you to open. Otherwise I’d get lumbered with them. Hahaha.’

The applicant picked up the large brown envelopes on his desk and opened them, pulling out a pile of charts, timetables, shipping records, request slips and some other forms he didn’t recognise. He looked at the scheduling charts first, charted paper with densely packed information, symbols and lines, illegible to the untrained eye.

‘You’ll see on the main scheduling graphs, the items with red dots require military authorisation. The rest is up to you.’ Anticipating his boss's next question, Stefan continued. ‘You can get authorised either by phone using this number, followed by this password. Or if the phone lines are down, which they often are since the bombing got worse, then use the radio in the corner. Call sign ‘Red Eagle 7’. Sounds pretty badass, huh?’

Ignoring this comment, the applicant looked at the currently empty shipping records. ‘When are the first freights due to begin?’

‘No one will say. It’s all very hush hush. We only find out at a moment of their choosing.’ He paused for a while and looked thoughtful. ‘But if I were a gambling man, I’d put some money on the 25th. This Thursday coming.’ 

‘And what is the freight? What are we moving? Armanments. Troops. Rations. Tanks. What?’

Stefan gave a slow, exaggerated shrug of unknowing. ‘Honestly, I don’t know. State secret. Classified. Verboten. No one knows.’ 

The applicant put the charts down and looked at this friendly, but irritating new colleague. 

‘Stefan, you’ve worked in this job for some time. I imagine you’re well plugged into the system by now. You play the funny guy well, but I think you have influence around here. Perhaps more than you realise.’

Stefan’s stupid grin had been replaced by a more cautious expression. His eyes narrowed a little.

‘Let me level with you. You have something I don’t, and never will. A thing that can’t be purchased or learnt, but that I need if I’m to do this job successfully.’

‘And that is?’

‘People skills. I don’t have them. I don’t know how to talk to people like you do. Make jokes. Put them at ease. Gain their trust. In truth I feel more comfortable calculating shipping records than I do talking to another human being, with the possible exception of my wife. Conversely, you have all those qualities, and that means you know things. Maybe even things that have ‘State Secret’ stamped on them.’

Stefan nodded slightly in acknowledgement of what was, in fact, a pretty shrewd assessment. This odd, taciturn man with the funny foreign name was smarter than he'd thought.. 

‘I like to chat to people, it’s true. I’ll chat to anyone, even a Jew. You can find out things from Jews. I’m a talker, for sure. But I listen too.’

‘Well, keep your ears open ok, and we’ll get on just fine.’

Stefan grinned happily. He was easily pleased.

‘Oh, and one more thing Stefan.’

‘Yes, Herr Direktor?’

‘I like to work in a little peace and quiet, if you know what I mean?’

Stefan looked mildly crestfallen, but smiled bravely anyway. ‘Of course, I understand. It’s that kind of work.’

The two fell silent for quite a while, the applicant poring over his papers, with Stefan looking distracted, fiddling with his pen for some time. Eventually, he cleared his throat and spoke.

‘Herr Director, so, with respect, you honestly don’t know?’

The applicant smiled. ‘I may be Herr Director of the South-Eastern Sector Stefan, but really I’m just an administrator. I don’t have security clearance for anything, let alone state secrets.’

‘It’s just that...well...it’s just that, yes it’s a state secret, and yes, I do possess a certain talent for...hearing things, but this isn’t about that. If it’s a secret, it’s the worst kept secret in Germany. I thought everyone knew. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but my six-year old boy knows. My grandmother knows. She said it was the best idea she’d heard in years. ‘About time too!’, she said.’ Stefan chuckled at the recollection. 

The applicant realised, with a pang of regret, that really he didn’t know much of anything at all. 

He loved his wife and he lived for his work, and that was it. Apart from the BBC occasionally he didn’t pay much attention to anything else, living in a world of whispers and rumours that he had never paused to listen to.

The applicant looked down again at the graphs, maps, shipping records, request slips, infrastructure routes, personnel listings. The critical minutiae of mass planning and administration. Judging from the cargo records, the estimated weight of each freight carriage, suggested an overload of 200%, twice the recommended weight for each carriage. 

‘Stefan, these trains are overloaded by twice the recommended capacity. What, are we taking to these places that is so heavy?’ 

This cargo, whatever it was, was coming from thousands of locations all over Occupied Europe, places with either direct train links, or close enough to make no difference, all converging on a small cluster of locations in Eastern Europe

Stefan laughed and shook his head. He looked at the Direktor for a moment, smiled, and then stood and walked over to a large map of Europe pinned to the wall. Scanning it quickly for the place he wanted he nodded and then planted a thick index finger firmly on a location.

‘Here’, said Stefan. ‘That’s where they’re going.’

The applicant walked over. ‘I can’t pronounce that name. It’s foreign. What is it?’

‘That’s because it’s written in their dog language, You know the way retards and mongoloids jabber on? It’s like that.’

The applicant looked at him impatiently. ‘And? What is it?’

‘It’s a small shithole town in the southern zone of the General Government, about an hour south from Krakow. They’re working on a new expansion based just outside the town. It’s quite a project.’

The Director looked at him. ‘You just said ‘they’. The cargo, ‘they’. You mean people?’

Stefan had a knowing look on his face.

‘Stefan, why are we moving hundreds of thousands of people from across Europe to this remote place, whatever it’s called.’ 

‘In their own cretin-speak, it’s called Oswiecim. But we gave it a proper German name. At this, Stefan paused and looked out of the window for a few moments before turning back to his boss. His eyes were suddenly colder, the expression flinty and unsmiling.

‘It's called Auschwitz, and it's going to change everything.’

Nick Jordan