Zakrozwek, a Polish shtetl

The sun had barely risen when shops around the market square began to bustle with shtetl folk rushing to make last-minute purchases for the Sabbath. Candles, matches, kerosene, salt, and flour flew off the shelves.

By late Friday afternoon, the little village teemed with the scurry of women carrying earthenware pots of cholent, a ragu of meat, potatoes, beans, and barley, to Jankiel’s bakery, where their pots sat simmering in his oven overnight. They were collected the following morning, piping hot, and served for lunch since no cooking was allowed during the Sabbath.

At the sinking sun, all trade ceased. No money was permitted to exchange hands. Merchants closed shop early, and the streets grew quiet.

Cape Town, South Africa, January 1978      

I first saw the tattoo the morning of Hylton’s bris, the day after our reconciliation.

While I’m laying out platters of sandwiches on the dining room table for the small celebration that afternoon, Rifka sets about washing the breakfast plates. She unhinges the gold clasp on her watch, slides it off her wrist, and, with measured deliberation, lays it on the countertop next to the sink, a ritual I’ll become familiar with over the years.

Then I see it. KL.

Budzyń, a Polish labor camp

Following the meal, they were marched to the appelplatz.

Before them, seated on his snow white horse, was SS Oberscharführer Reinhold Feix, a thirty-three-year-old former barber and commandant of Budzyń, flanked by a squadron of SS officers, and a hideous little man with oatmeal skin, Otto the Small, his murderous wingman.

A nervous hush fell over the appelplatz as Feix, a Mauser hanging from a cord around his neck, dismounted and addressed the inmates.

“You have the good fortune of having been assigned to my camp. If you work hard here, you have nothing to fear.” Feix was well-spoken. A devoted father of two boys, he was an accomplished musician who spoke with the air of an educated man.

He was also a stone-cold monster.