The Butchers of Berlin Read Online Free Page B

cubicle which he supposed was for the supervisor. The building was freezing cold, without heating, and windows covered with tar
paper. The space told nothing about its inhabitants. If they had been shipped out that morning taking nothing, then they had left nothing behind. When they were there it must have been like they
had already gone.
    The side of the barracks was overshadowed by a substantial hangar whose flank wall was blank, with low dormer windows set above. Ahead in the distance was Stoffel’s parked car, and the
clumsy figure of the foreman, Baumgarten, was shambling down the street in Schlegel’s direction.
    The smell in that part of the estate was a mixture of refuse and sewage, the full strength of which only hit Schlegel as he was confronted by a stench he thought came from some kind of septic
tank until he saw the large slurry pit. There was no fence around it. Anyone stumbling into its black sludge on a dark night wouldn’t get out in a hurry. Overcome by the fumes, he had to
steady himself.
    He became aware of a snorting and shuffling coming from inside the hangar. The first entrance he tried was locked. At the end of the building he found another set of doors, which gave at the
shove of a shoulder. The place was awash with urine, which added an astringent layer to the general stink. The grunts and squeals sounded so human that Schlegel at first thought the mass of
writhing, grimy pink flesh was people engaged in a bestial orgy. The pigs were rammed on top of each other, three or four emaciated animals wedged into stalls meant for one, which even then were
too small to turn around in. Many were scabbed or had running sores. In one pen a mother had squashed her litter. In another, two pigs were eating a third which had expired. One pig chewed the tail
of another too weak to resist. It paused and fixed Schlegel with its gaze. He noted pale lashes and blue eyes whose active intelligence appeared to find him wanting.
    He saw at the far end of the hall, up in the roof, a suspended room with a large window. He could not say why he went up. He had already decided to leave. Perhaps it was the way the stairs ran
up the outside of the building, inviting inspection.
    It was a large empty room where the smell from downstairs was less evident. Schlegel stood before the big window and watched the herd squirm. At a distance it looked more like an army of
maggots.
    He grew dimly aware of another smell, coming from the corridor to one side.
    The putrid odour reminded him of pus-ridden gauze and the sticky smell of butchers’ shops. He should go. He had done what he had been asked. Yet he felt compelled.
    The corridor was in the angle of the roof. The stench came from the room at the end. Its door stood ajar. Schlegel stepped into what looked like an old laundry. Tiled cream walls, a large sink
with a long wooden draining board above an open gutter. An improvised shower had been fixed up above the sink, attached to the tap by a hose, which was tied to a high pipe with rope and a stick.
The window was covered with brown paper. He peeled a piece away. It overlooked the Jewish barracks, which seemed almost close enough to touch.
    A trolley like in a hospital stood in the middle of room, which was surprisingly warm.
    His heart beat faster. The pill had made him focused and reckless, excited almost, in a hurry to take everything in. The shiny set of knives. A chain. Pen and ink. Stationery cards. A fat book,
its pages open. A strange, crude drawing scratched into the plaster on the wall of a herd of animals throwing itself over a cliff into a broiling sea. And above all that stench. Slops in the tin
bucket. That was the smell. What looked like offal floated in blood.
    The lettering in the open book appeared to be Hebrew. His illogical thought was this was a room where the Jews performed their butchery in the traditional way.
    A voice was calling.
    It was Baumgarten, sent by Stoffel to find out where on earth he