The Orchids

IN THE RUMBLE of the General’s jeep as it pulls away, I can detect the crumbling foundation of the Republic. Built with the shoddy, decrepit timbers of El Presidente’s greed, it is a structure destined for collapse. The Camp, too, was destined for collapse, but the steady rumbling that rolled over it — echoing through the stinking barracks and settling into the contorted bodies that lay randomly in the mud or hung stiffly from the sagging wire — came from the air, as the bombers made their way toward the Leader’s tottering capital.

In medicine, there is a time of life known as the agonal period. It is the agony suffered by a creature that still lives but is irrevocably dying. In the jungle, the great birds convulse in a final fluttering of wings. On the river bank, the silver fish heave and shudder, their mouths twisted, gulping, their broken fins jerking sprays of mud into the indifferent air. The agonal period of the Camp was long and tedious, and Langhof watched it with a kind of aloof amusement. His compatriots gathered on the steps of the medical compound and trembled as the planes passed overhead. But Langhof did not tremble; he rejoiced. Once, slouching against one of the barracks with Ginzburg at his side, he watched a little knot of Special Section officers who crouched and whispered below the chimney of the now defunct crematorium.

“What do you suppose they’re talking about?” Ginzburg asked.

Langhof stared grimly at the black-uniformed men who huddled in the distance. “About what they’ve done, I suppose,” he replied.

Ginzburg shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said.

“What else is there to talk about?”

“Beer and knockwurst,” Ginzburg said lightly.

Langhof smiled. “It’ll all be over soon. You’ll be free.”

“I’m not so sure,” Ginzburg said, continuing to watch the men who stood together a few meters away. In an act that suggested their declining discipline, some of them had turned their uniform collars up against the wind.

“It’s just a matter of time now,” Langhof said confidently. “Nothing can save the Camp.”

Ginzburg scratched his chin and seemed to peer out beyond the barbed wire. “I once saw an automobile accident in Paris,” he said. “Two cars collided. A man got out of one. He had been driving, and I could see a woman’s body slumped forward in the passenger seat. His wife, probably. She wasn’t moving. You couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead. Anyway, the man got out. He was stumbling toward the curb — covered in blood, but conscious. Several bystanders rushed up to him. You know, to help him. We eased him down to the sidewalk and started unbuttoning his shirt. But he kept slapping at our hands. You could tell by his eyes that he meant to be saying, ‘Don’t worry about me, help her.’ But his mouth just wouldn’t get it right, and he kept repeating, ‘Don’t worry about her, help me.’”

Langhof looked at Ginzburg curiously. “What are you trying to say?”

Ginzburg shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know for sure. It’s just that I never forgot about that incident. It blackened my mood for the whole day. That night, on the stage, my rhythm was completely off. Practically nobody laughed for the entire performance. It was a disaster.”

Langhof fingered his lapel. “I won’t have any use for this uniform much longer.” he said. He touched Ginzburg’s shoulder. “What do you think you’ll do when it’s over?”

“I don’t expect to survive,” Ginzburg said dully.

Langhof looked at him, astonished. “Why not? Of course you’ll survive. They’ve already stopped the gas chambers. It’s over. Of course you’ll survive.”

“Perhaps,” Ginzburg said. He looked at Langhof. “What about you?”

Langhof shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Ginzburg smiled sardonically. “You’ll probably end up with a fat wife and a thriving practice in the suburbs.”

“I don’t care what happens to me,” Langhof said wearily.

“Do you think that’s heroic of you?”

Langhof shook his head. “I don’t think it’s anything. Just a fact. I’m completely worn out. I don’t care what they do to me.”

“They?”

“The Allies.”

The sound of another squadron of bombers passed over the Camp. Ginzburg looked up toward the sky, then back at Langhof. “What if things should suddenly change?” he asked.

“What things?”

“What if the war should turn around and everything started up again? The gas chambers. The medical experiments. What if that happened?”

Langhof sunk his hands deep into his pockets. “That’s impossible.”

“But what if it happened?” Ginzburg insisted.

Langhof stepped around to face Ginzburg. “I wouldn’t do it.” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t start it over again. I swear it. I wouldn’t!”

Ginzburg watched Langhof closely, as if coming to some determination about him. “Strange, Langhof,” he said, “but you know, even now I don’t think you can really speak for yourself.”

“You doubt me?” Langhof asked, wounded.

“Is doubt such a terrible thing?” Ginzburg asked softly. “I mean, it keeps you thinking, doesn’t it?” He turned away, his eyes moving upward toward a line of trees that stood in the distance, far beyond the wire. “I want to walk in Paris again,” he said with a slight smile. “I want to nibble a buttered croissant.”

Staring at Ginzburg’s bedraggled, emaciated figure, Langhof could scarcely imagine such a possibility. “I’m sure you will,” he said.

Ginzburg’s eyes drifted away from the trees. “Kessler has stopped screwing me,” he said. “He still feeds me, but that’s all.”

Langhof felt a cold wave of embarrassment pass over him. “I don’t like to hear you talk about that,” he said quickly.

“It’s a bad sign, Langhof,” Ginzburg said darkly.

“I should think you would be pleased about Kessler’s dwindling appetite,” Langhof said stoutly.

“It’s the only commodity I have,” Ginzburg said, “the only thing I had to offer him. Now even that is gone.”

“Enough of this,” Langhof said, waving his hand. He took a deep breath and tried to smile as he changed the subject. “You know, my friend, when the war is over, there’ll be plenty of need for comedians. You’ll have all kinds of offers.”

“I’ll play the big houses, you think?” Ginzburg asked dryly.

“I’m sure you will,” Langhof said enthusiastically.

Ginzburg glanced back at the soldiers in the distance. “Do you still have your little book?”

“No.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I burned it,” Langhof said. “You were right. There was no need for it. They were so proud of what they were doing here, they probably took thousands of pictures.”

“I would like to put them all in a big theater,” Ginzburg said, “and show them all the pictures, and then ask them one by one: Why did you do this?”

Langhof’s face darkened. “I would be in that theater, you know,” he said.

Ginzburg nodded. “Yes, you would. It’s too late ever to change that.”

Langhof suddenly felt a terrible chill pass over him, as if his life had been snatched from him by invisible hands. “I still don’t know what happened to me,” he said.

Ginzburg did not seem to care one way or the other. He turned toward the rotting door of the crematorium. “Do you know what I like about show business?” he asked. “I like the stage door. There is something wonderful about a stage door. When you are going through it, you feel like a special person. Everyone else is huddled outside. Maybe it’s snowing or raining, but they’re still out there, trying to get a glimpse of somebody famous. And you think, That’s me someday. I’ll be the person everybody is trying to get a look at.”

“Rather vain, don’t you think?” Langhof said lightly.

“Comes with the profession, I’m afraid,” Ginzburg said. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, then glared at the sleeve disgustedly. “You see, that’s what I’ve come to, wiping my nose with my sleeve. There was a time when I would never have done such a thing.” Then suddenly, to Langhof’s panic and amazement, Ginzburg lowered his head and began to weep.

Langhof glanced quickly at the guards, then stepped around to shield Ginzburg from their view. “Stop it,” he said fiercely.

“They’re all dead,” Ginzburg said. “All gone up in smoke.”

Langhof shook Ginzburg lightly. “Stop it,” he repeated. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

Ginzburg straightened his shoulders. “Yes, right,” he said. “I can’t let go, not yet.”

“It’ll be over soon, believe me,” Langhof said desperately, “Look at the way the guards are. There’s nothing left of them. They don’t care what happens now. When the Allies get here, they’ll turn their guns over without a fight.”

Ginzburg wiped his eyes. “It’s so strange,” he said. “While the Camp was functioning, I had a reason to stay alive. But now it’s over and there’s nothing left.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Langhof said vehemently. “Now you can begin to live again.”

Ginzburg shook his head slowly. “No. Now I’m ready for the gas.”

“Don’t say that,” Langhof pleaded.

“It’s so strange,” Ginzburg said. “It’s a feeling of … I don’t know … of having absolutely nothing to hold onto.”

The ground began to tremble as another group of planes approached.

“They’re going to liberate you soon,” Langhof said. “You’ve got to remember that.”

Ginzburg straightened the small, worn cap that barely covered his head. “I’m tired,” he said. “just very tired.”

“Think of something nice,” Langhof said, trying to joke. “Think of blowing Kessler’s head off.”

“Do you think that would do me good?”

“It might.”

A low wail came from inside the barracks, and Ginzburg seemed to shudder. “It’s already too late for a lot of them, you know,” he said. “They’ll be dead before the Allies get here.”

“I know.”

“Nothing can be done for them,’’ Ginzburg said. “Kessler has cut off most of my supplies.”

“He doesn’t have any supplies,” Langhof said. “They’ve stopped sending them.”

A few meters away a rat peeped out from the insides of a frozen body, peered about, then retreated inside once again.

Ginzburg brushed at the frayed shoulders of his striped suit. “I’d better be getting back to the compound.”

“Why? There’s nothing to do.”

“Just the same,” Ginzburg said, “I’d better be getting back.”

“Remember what I told you,” Langhof said. He secretly placed Ginzburg’s hand in his. “It’s all going to be over very soon.”

Ginzburg smiled weakly and began to walk away. Langhof turned to watch him. “Remember what I said,” he repeated to Ginzburg’s back.

Ginzburg did not turn around. He made his way toward the compound, walking steadily, his back straight. Then, as he reached the group of soldiers, he stopped. Langhof felt something cold harden in his stomach. Helpless, he watched as Ginzburg continued to stare rigidly at the guards. For a moment the guards did not notice him. Then one of them did, and indicated Ginzburg’s presence to the others. Slowly they turned to face him. When he had their full attention, Ginzburg brought his feet together, removed his cap, and made a slow stage bow. The guards stared at him for a moment, utterly confused. Then Ginzburg straightened himself, pulling an imaginary tie up to his throat, and passed on by.