The Last Meal

(TRIGGER WARNING: scenes of abuse, Holocaust, death penalty)

Sara turned up the volume.

“Frantz Weber, a former commandant in the Auschwitz concentration camp has been sentenced to death for cruelty, mass murder and crimes against humanity. The ninety five year old will be executed with a lethal injection.”

She has been waiting for this moment most of her life but now, after her wish for justice was finally fulfilled, she felt dissatisfied. Was it because the justice came too late? Was it because revenge is not as sweet as people want us to believe? The man who murdered her entire family, raped, abused, maimed and nearly killed her, the man who took her child away forever was now held in some kind of sterile detention center, handled with white gloves of justice. She couldn’t believe it was him. It was as if the shriveled creature she saw on TV screen was nothing but a shell of a Franz Weber she remembered. She even caught herself feeling sorry for him which subsequently filled her with guilt.

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“Alexa! Play ‘The Trout’ by Frantz Schubert!”, Ben commanded. He felt a strange connection to this particular piece. It helped him organize his mind throughout the many stages of prepping a meal. Its tempo seemed to calm his movements to a harmonious flow. It has been his work soundtrack ever since he started his adventure as a chef in a small stuffy restaurant in Rhode Island. His step parents emigrated to the US from Berlin shortly after the Second World War and took him along with them. They were long dead now.

Ben peeled the potatoes with care as if every single one of them had a unique significance in the universe. He disposed of the peels methodically one by one in the compost bin. After having been cooked, they were going to be mashed with some butter and milk even though the request didn’t quite specify what form they should take.

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Commandant Weber’s shift begun when the inmates were still asleep. Every morning he took it upon himself to wake them up. Every morning he would set up his gramophone in front of the camp stalls. Every morning he would play the same tune: “The Trout” by Frantz Schubert. The prisoners who didn’t line up before the piece ended would taste his baton and would have to endure a day without their food ration. A woman was late today but this time the commandant decided to skip the beating. She was visibly pregnant and he suspected that the baby she was carrying may have been his.

“Du hast Glück, dass ich kein Monster bin!”*, he screamed right into the woman’s ear. Then he randomly selected one of the healthier looking inmates to exact the usual punishment if only to ensure some order.

“Du kannst deinem Freund danken!”**, he said loud enough for everyone to hear. Other officers and the guards chuckled. They thought of their commandant as a 'true artist'.

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Ben sliced the pork chops carefully in half, gave them gentle pounding with a special mallet, then sprinkled them with a moderate amount of Kosher salt crystals and some black pepper. The batter was already waiting in the separate bowl to dip them in. Small puddle of oil started to wiggle on the frying pan surface. It was time to put the meat slices in the flour, then in the raw egg, then in the dried bread crumbs and finally in the hot frying pan. Satisfying sizzling sound soon joined in with “The Trout”. A sweet and delicious smell followed.

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The pregnant woman’s name was Sara. By November her stomach looked like a ripe fruit that was about to pop. Commandant Weber ordered she be placed in the camp’s medical facility until the baby was due. In just a few days she gave birth to a healthy boy. Frantz was now quite sure of his kinship with the child. It had his chin and his gray eyes. He took the baby from Sara and ordered the guards to throw her back in the stall. “Hör auf zu jammern oder ich werde dich zum Schweigen bringen!”***, he screamed as she was dragged away.

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Ben threw in a handful of bay leaves and a pinch of allspice to add subtle aroma to the red cabbage. He was going to steam it and then gently fry it with butter so that it will be both tender and slightly caramelized to crunch. When it was ready, he placed the pork with mashed potatoes on a plate and the red cabbage in a bowl next to it. A leaf of parsley on top of the potatoes completed the masterpiece. He placed it ceremoniously on the cart and covered it with a stainless steel dome as the final tunes of “The Trout” died out.

“It’s ready!”, Ben called out towards the hallway. The feeling of pride washed over him once again. His craft was truly significant to him, especially today, as this was his last meal preparation before his well deserved retirement.

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Commandant Frantz Weber thought of himself too young and too busy to take care of the baby. There was simply no room for a child in the life of a German officer during the war. He decided to give the boy away to be raised by a true Arian family in Berlin. He rationalized his decision with a slogan he may have heard somewhere. “Our children aren’t ours. They belong to the Third Reich!”

It made sense to him. He decided to name his son Benjamin, after his grandfather.

Late in the year of 1944 there were some news of Soviet troops moving west. Commandant Franz Weber was ordered to leave the camp. Everything after that happened very fast. In March 1945 he found himself on board of a transatlantic ship to Buenos Aires - his strange new home for many decades to follow.

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“You have a right to request your final meal, Mr Weber”, said the supervisor, “What will it be?”

The old man frowned as if in an effort to recall a faint childhood memory.

“Münchner Schnitzel with potatoes and fried red cabbage: a traditional Bavarian meal. My favorite. I haven't had it since the war started!”, he decided.

“You got it! We will tell our chef to prepare just that! I'm sure you will enjoy it. He is a true artist!”

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* “You’re lucky I’m not a monster!”

** “You can thank your friend!”

*** “Stop whining or I will silence you!”