Holocaust - Khurram Bukhari

Holocaust 288“I’m past sixty,” Felsher wept. “Weak kidneys. I’m no hero.”Later, Inga told me, Karl realized his own surprising courage stemmedfrom his need to prop up Felsher; without Felsher to reassure, toencourage, he might have cracked.“They won’t kill us,” Frey said.“Yes, and they tell me that after a while, you don’t even notice it,”Karl added.Felsher would not stop sobbing.Karl rattled the iron door to get his attention. “Listen, Felsher, haveyou ever been to Italy?”“No.”“Frey?”“No, Weiss, but it’s been a dream of mine for years.”“Well, let’s make an agreement. When this is over all three of us willgo there. Venice, Florence, Rome, Siena. I’ve always wanted to seeMichelangelo’s David—not a photo or a copy, but the huge, real whitething, all by itself.”Frey continued the game. “You’ve got a deal, Weiss. The three of usand our wives. Italy! Yes, an artist’s tour. We mustn’t forget Arezzo. Iam a Piero della Francesca man myself. There, Weiss, is the greatestfigure of the high Renaissance.”My brother laughed. Felsher had stopped sobbing. “Well, I have aprejudice for Pinturicchio,” Karl said.“Bah,” Frey said. “An illustrator. Not in the same class with Piero.”Felsher was beaten first.The guards stood him against the wall, with his back to them, andslowly, methodically beat him with rubber clubs, starting at the back ofhis head, working their way down his back, buttocks, legs, feet.He screamed, of course, and my brother and Felsher kept shouting athim not to say anything.“To hell with them!” Karl shouted. “We’ve given in too long! Felsher,tell them to go to hell!”At length his screams diminished. He must have fainted.