The Whisperer of Auschwitz

By Jeremiah Crumb

To save a single life, is to save the world entire, and all it took was a whisper.

Michael is a righteous man with more than a past. He is the someone and no one that you pass by without notice, hidden in plain sight.

A man from Hebrew legend, a tzadikim, and one of only thirty six in each generation who saves mankind, one virtuous act at a time. 

Living through the Warsaw ghetto, cattle wagons of Auschwitz and the coal fields of Britain's greatest industrial dispute - the miners strike. He has been waiting for Jud and dreaming of his lost love Zofia.

Jud, the youth from humble beginnings who will stop the hell trains from his nightmares, the one whose arrival the lord Almighty awaits with baited breath.

He has the potential to be the last Tzadikim, the Messiah, the one who will usher in a golden age for all mankind.

Michael has a decision to make as the shadows of a war torn Warsaw catches up with him. Can he find a way to be with his lost love Zofia, and still prepare the way for the last Tzadikim? 

From the horrors of the Warsaw Ghetto to the violence of the miners strike picket lines, the men in black uniform once more assume control. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: May 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803139487

Book preview

Contents

Foreword

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

PART TWO

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

PART THREE

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

PART FOUR

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

PART 5

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Epilogue

Foreword

This story, and the characters within, are a work of fiction. However, it is strongly rooted in the very real legend of the thirty-six righteous men who walk the earth.

Prologue

Mad Mick

The long nights were unbearable, when the long-forgotten horrors he had pushed into the darkest recesses of his mind always reappeared. Like a portent of things to come they clawed their way out of the shadows, and sleep never came easily, if at all. Michael’s railway horsebox, his hiding place – the place he called home – didn’t make him feel safe.

The Nazis and Dr Mengele were to blame, cursing him to have once existed amongst the deportation trains, death tracks and cargoes of misery. Tonight, forty years on, he had a yearning for cleansing, to feel untarnished by a past life he had not chosen. Tonight, the only way to sleep was naked. Naked and innocent, as if newly born.

He needed no blankets or pillows and the coolness of the rough wooden floorboards against his back felt familiar. The chill night air through the joists was pleasant, making sleeping unhidden worth the risk. Michael recalled those endless twilight nights, sleeping on attic floors in the Warsaw ghetto, and on the coarse bunks of Auschwitz. Unheard, he shouted the Jewish prayer, the Shema into the night, but still, his dreams were the railway nightmares of old.

The sound of a steam whistle heralded a hell train hurtling his way. It was hidden from view, only the clanking rhythm of the cast iron wheels on the track reaching his ears, louder and louder, until it emerged, monstrous, from the darkness: a pitch-black snake of carriages and tender, billowing steam from its funnel.

Unstoppable.

Michael, a short distance from the tracks, felt the ground pounding beneath his feet, and the feet of his horrified comrades beside him. Nobody was safe from this force, the train always known as the Iron Lady.

Then suddenly a young man, shimmering with light, stepped from the crowd directly onto the track, where he faced the oncoming train head on. He stood, his legs stretched wide, and his right arm extended with an outstretched palm, as if prohibiting the train from passing him – to stop. It was a gesture of doom, because the Iron Lady was unstoppable.

With the train a scant few seconds away, Michael took to his heels and with a prodigious leap, he dived across the track, bundling the shimmering young man out of harm’s way. It was Michael, himself, who took the impact of the train. His body exploded, fragmented in a head-on collision with the evil of the Iron Lady.

Then, blessed oblivion.

PART ONE

Jud

Chapter 1

Jud stood on the chilly pine floor and towelled his skin dry, capturing the rivulets of water trickling down his back; their frigid tendrils and frozen edges accentuated the atmosphere of the unheated bathroom. The only sanctuary from the arctic air creeping through the cracked window lay in the downstairs living room, which was bathed in the warmth of a real coal fire burning in the hearth.

It was from there that Jud’s father’s voice, with a hint of urgency, travelled the stairs and beckoned him down.

Jud knew his father’s routine like clockwork, and Sunday night was Dad’s time. With his TV dinner on his lap, George Jackson had dominion over the living room; the settee was his cotton twill throne, from where he awaited his favourite TV show, the current affairs programme, Pandora’s Box. Jud enjoyed sharing the grown-up, intimate hour with the father who finally spoke to him as a young man, not a child, sharing his often-astute observations. So half-dried, Jud firmly gripped and twisted the towel around his waist and fled the cold bathroom. He skipped several steps to thump down the stairs and arrive in the living room in short order.

I’m here, Dad. Jud positioned himself with his back to the heat of the roaring fire, the towel twisted and hitched around his waist.

About bloody time. George said, with mock severity, leaning forward for a better view of the grainy TV screen.

As if on cue, Aveline Closkey turned in her swivel chair and spoke through the camera lens to the viewers. The former weather girl had matured into her role as the nation’s favourite TV presenter and fashion icon and had carefully cultivated her image as the people’s champion and voice of conscience.

George sat ready, fuelled with loud, fired-up comments as though Aveline could hear him. Jud knew his father had a soft spot for the presenter. He approved of her thick black hair, the fringe that impeded her vision, and her aquiline nose. It gives her the appearance of the Pharaoh Cleopatra, he said every week. Many a politician and business leader have had their agendas destroyed, and their egos trimmed by her insightful questioning. He liked her directness.

Aveline appeared to be choosing her words carefully and her delivery was especially measured, as if speaking individually to every viewer.

Tonight’s Pandora’s Box is the first in the series of extended shows in remembrance of the victims of the Holocaust, she said. That dark time in history, when the world was consumed with an all-encompassing madness. Tonight, we have broken away from the usual political intrigues, and the triviality of celebrity. She paused fractionally, with a look of rueful gravitas. My guests deserve patient and emotionally considerate questioning. They are the few who were simultaneously both victims and survivors. It is my privilege to introduce the bravest of people that I have ever met, those who were witnesses to mankind’s greatest crime.

As Aveline spoke the camera panned across five faces, and she turned to face them, completing her final words of introduction.

In addition, these five people here are those who met and heard the voice of one particular enigmatic person. He’s not here in person, but he’s a man this programme wants to explore in depth. We call him – The Whisperer. She paused again. The Whisperer of Auschwitz.

For once, George was silent, and Jud looked on equally mesmerised as the first of the guests, a middle-aged man, dexterously unbuttoned his shirt cuff and pushed the sleeve halfway up his left forearm to display a faded blue number that looked to Jud like a poorly executed tattoo.

My name is 62456, Dr Harold Parker, the man said. I’m a victim of the Holocaust. I received this tattooed number on the day I arrived at the concentration camp, Auschwitz. That was also the day I met The Whisperer.

The words hung in the air of the studio, in the midst of a silence as thick as congealing fog. The primaeval tension seemed to reach down the television cables and tug the viewers’ hearts – Jud’s included – increasing their pulse rates, instigating a fight or flee tension into living rooms across the country.

Bloody hell, Son. George whistled. You’d better sit down for this. It could get interesting.

Jud sat by his father’s side, no longer cold. He laughed. As long as you don’t ask all the questions on her behalf. You know she can’t hear you.

Ssh, was all George said.

On screen, Dr Harold Parker still held his sleeve back, and in unison, as if to some unspoken cue, the other guests also drew up their sleeves and revealed the mark they all carried. Fading, indistinctive blue tattoos, ageing like their owners.

The mark of the survivor, Aveline said.

What’s Auschwitz? Why does he have a tattoo with no image, only numbers? Who was this Whisperer? Jud hitched his bum on the edge of the settee, closer to the action. He exchanged expressions of anticipation with George: this was not the Pandora’s Box they expected and Aveline was not going to get much help from Jud’s father tonight.

Harold. Aveline reached over and gave his knee a comforting tap. Please tell us about Auschwitz and your encounter with the man called The Whisperer.

Harold allowed his sleeve to fall. It was 1943, he began slowly. I was thirteen, and my parents owned a small, isolated farm. The middle of nowhere really, not another soul for miles, and we thought we were safe. He looked down at his feet and shook his head. The Germans were clearing the villages of all their Jews, and one day they came for us. We were awoken early from our beds with threats and vague promises of work. Envious neighbours who coveted our fertile fields had betrayed us to the Germans, and we were bundled into an Army truck and delivered to a remote railway spur, away from prying eyes. Men. Women. Children. He gestured with open hands at Aveline, his voice cracking, the memories raw. There were hundreds of us, confused and scared with no idea what was happening. They forced us into cattle wagons, eighty or more at a time, crushed shoulder to shoulder. I lost sight of my parents. I shouted Mama! Papa! but there was no reply, and I knew in my heart, I would never see them again.

Harold Parker’s voice had become raspy. He sat upright for a moment and inhaled a deep long breath. Aveline was prepared. She poured Harold a cup of cold water from the jug on the table beside her, then made a hasty grab at a box of tissues and concealed some of them up her sleeve.

George said, Looks like Aveline is preparing to get emotional. She knows it’s going to get tough.

"Ssh, Dad. She’s talking again.’

Harold, you were not much more than a child, Aveline said.

I was in that mobile coffin for five days, he replied. We were packed as sardines in a tin, hardly room for your chest to rise and fall. The Germans had placed a large bucket of water near the door, but only those closest to it were able to get a drink because there wasn’t enough room at first to pass it around. After a couple of days, though, the old man at my side slumped to the floor dead. He swallowed hard. Dead! I had never seen anyone die before. He’d become my friend, asking about my family, sharing his memories, and then he was no more. I tried to move away from him but it was impossible.

The studio audience listened in horrified silence, rapt.

The heat from all those people crushed together was unbearable, and the air was hot and stale. It was an eternal journey from hell, so claustrophobic. I desperately needed fresh air, and to my shame, I stood on my old friend to try and gain the height I needed to breathe. Harold’s voice cracked. Without it, I knew my life would fade away, just as it had from the others.

Jud found himself holding his own breath as he listened to the rest of the doctor’s story.

"After three days, I was starving and thirsty, but we piled the dead high against the back wall, which gave us room to breathe and stretch. There were probably fifty of us left alive. I sat with my legs splayed open, facing the wagon’s sliding door and watching the sleepers fly past through a hole in the floorboards. Once when the train stopped for refuelling, I could hear voices outside. It was early in the morning and the carriage door suddenly slid open. I couldn’t see him at first – my world had become a twilight world – but staring directly at me stood a railway worker. The sun behind him gave him an otherworldly glow, he looked ethereal.

He shoved a fresh bucket of water around the door and threw a loaf of bread between my legs. I was too weak to move and so I asked him where we were going, and he replied, his voice soft and kind, ‘I don’t know, Son, I don’t know its name, but I know it’s a couple of more days. On screen, the older Harold took another gulp of water. The worker reached into his breast pocket and flicked me a bar of chocolate – such a luxury in those days – and said, ‘Good luck’. The door slid shut and we sat in semi-darkness again. We all shared the bread and water, and I got to keep the chocolate. Harold smiled sadly. "I still think of the risk that worker took for us, and question who he was. I have an idea… but I digress.

I worried the whole journey, dreaming about finding my parents and the rightful praise I’d be due to receive for reuniting the family. In two more days we arrived at what I now know to be Auschwitz concentration camp.

The camera zoomed in on Harold Parker, transported back to a darker time, and for a brief moment there was dead air, usually a no-no for a live TV show.

Jud jumped when the moment was rudely interrupted by his mum flinging open the kitchen door, and he felt George flinch beside him, too. They turned as the smell of cooking followed Elsie into the living room, where she stood blocking their view of the television, her hands on her hips, swaying with a cheeky expression on her face. Elsie modelled herself on Diana Dors – the British Marilyn Monroe – resplendent with platinum blonde hair, piled high, and wearing a leopard skin blouse.

You’ve got lamb for tea, boys. Any complaints for the chef?

Ssh, Mum. Jud leant to the side to see around her hips.

What? Yes, love, lamb’s fine. George absent-mindedly patted her bum and pushed her away.

Suit yourselves, miseries. And Elsie flounced back into the kitchen, giggling. I know when I’m not wanted.

Jud and George didn’t even notice her absence; Harold was speaking again.

…I knew it was night-time. I could see bright arc lights through the cattle wagon vents and I heard harsh, angry voices and anguished cries. I tried to push my way to the back to hide behind the grown-ups. The cattle wagon had become my refuge, and I had the childish idea to hide amongst the bodies, play dead, but I couldn’t get to them. Everyone was trying to get away from the door, away from the barking dogs and the gunshots.

This was Auschwitz? Aveline confirmed.

Harold nodded. An angry German soldier opened the doors and shouted, ‘Raus! Raus!’ again and again, not going away until we all got out. Strange men dressed in striped pyjamas leaned a wooden plank over the threshold for the older people to disembark from, and the rest of us jumped to the floor. All around us, dirty men in soiled pyjamas scurried about, backs hunched, heads down. They, like us, suffered blows from the German guards, and their eyes when you saw them were haunted and held no emotion. As if they were dead to their very souls. Harold closed his own eyes as if to regain composure before carrying on. A pyjama man pushed me to where other men were standing and I moved between them, finding a safer place, hidden in the herd, away from the edges and the blows.

Again Harold stopped, his shoulders rising and falling to the rhythm of sobs that no longer came, robbed from him by the years. Jud wanted to pass him some tissues through the TV screen, just in case, and Aveline made a move to hand some over, but he was a well-dressed man, and removed a hanky from his Harris tweed jacket. He dabbed his dry eyes and wiped the sweat beading on his brow.

So sorry, I am ready again, Aveline.

Please, no apologies, Harold, take your time. She added quietly, Is this when you met The Whisperer?

Yes.

Jud and George were on the edges of their seats. Jud was also aware of the smell of the ambrosial hot food his mother was cooking, which seemed wrong somehow. Elsie had form for arriving just at the wrong-right time: when there was a goal, or the black got potted, taking the snooker trophy. Jud said a silent prayer, a promise to make his own bed, if she just held off a few minutes more with one of her dramatic entrances, declaring, Food’s ready!

The pyjama men had striped caps on their heads, and this one had his cap pulled down low on his brow, partially obscuring his face. His neck was bent over and he was engrossed in collecting clothing from the floor, weaving through the crowd in a fury of work. When he was about a yard in front of me, he picked up a discarded tallit, bundled it with other clothing into his arms and came even closer. When he straightened up, we stood face to face. His face looked stubbly and world weary, but his eyes weren’t dead like the others, they shone bright – or I should say they spoke of life.

Jud heard the wonder in Harold’s voice at the recollection, a wonder so great it had remained with the doctor all through his life. The man looked straight into my eyes and I felt subjected to his judgement. When his mind appeared made up, and with his bundle of clothing grasped firmly to his chest he moved behind me, but I was too afraid to look around.

And then? Aveline sounded as if she was holding her breath.

Over my shoulder, he whispered into my ear.

Jud and George – no doubt, every viewer – waited on Harold’s words, the ones he spoke as if he knew they would puzzle everyone, except those from Auschwitz, the only place on Earth they had held an exclusivity of meaning.

Until now.

What did he say? Aveline prompted.

He said, when you meet the Angel of Death, tell him you are seventeen and a carpenter.

There was a confused silence, in the studio and probably in most homes.

What? Jud spoke to the television out loud. What the hell does that mean?

Aveline put it more politely. Harold, who was the Angel of Death? And why were you to call yourself a carpenter?

Harold smiled. I found my courage and turned to ask the same questions but the man was gone. He left a new feeling with me though–

Hope, interjected Aveline.

That’s right, said Harold. I decided there and then to trust fate and follow those words whispered in my ear. After all, what else could I cling to?

The cameras panned and Aveline spoke. We will be back soon, please stay tuned.

The screen flicked to an image of an ancient, gilded box, the lid laid slightly ajar with light flooding out from its interior. The words below the box in gold letters spelled Pandora’s Box, and then the rolling adverts started.

Chapter 2

Brightly coloured bed sheets appeared on the TV screen, emblazoned with the words, ‘Brentford Nylons. SALE! NOW ON.’ The plummy authoritative voice of masculinity addressed housewives like Jud’s mother.

Brentford nylons sale, now on, don’t miss out, ladies, save pounds. Print or plain sheets from £1.79, buy two get a third half price. Hurry on down while the sale lasts.

George turned to Jud. Your mum got some of those bed sheets last week; she was going to go back and get you some. I told her not to bother, I daren’t move in them, my toenails get stuck, and the static makes my hair stand on end.

Well, I don’t want any, said Jud. I bet that posh bloke on the advert doesn’t sleep in them anyway.

Elsie walked in on cue, and the smell of chips, chops, beans and egg followed her from the kitchen. She bent over with a mock bow, right knee bent, a plate held in the palm of one hand, and the other hand in the small of her back, curtsying. Elsie could not help herself; she was a flirtatious and humorous drama queen. In mock subservience she passed George his meal and stood upright. George grinned back up at her, and like an aspiring actress playing a taunting role, she added, I hope my lordship enjoys his meal, and if he doesn’t, would he mind keeping his opinions to himself or tomorrow he’ll be making his own tea.

Elsie often told Jud that with the right chance, she could have been an actress, but instead of treading the boards of the stage and theatre, she was confined to her small glass-fronted office at Jud’s own school, where she worked as the receptionist and unofficial front of door security. No kid would dare try to sneak past Elsie; in or out, she missed nothing and knew every excuse.

Usually her antics would make Jud laugh but tonight he had been waiting for the adverts to ask a serious question. He’d heard mention of Auschwitz in the school playground, but knew very little of Jews, except that his mum often declared, So the wandering Jew returns, when he was late back from playing out. He had never thought to ask her who or what the wandering Jew was.

Dad? He took his chance while Elsie was bringing in the other two plates.

What?

Is tea alright, dad?

It’s great, Son.

Dad?

What?

"What’s a Jew?

George let the beans on his fork rest in mid-air, caught out by the left of field question. Hearing the kitchen door re-open, he resumed the fork’s journey to his mouth, appearing to ignore Jud, but his face looked thoughtful, and his brow furrowed.

Elsie was back. She had Jud’s plated lamb chops in one hand and half a grapefruit on a saucer in the other – it was the latest fad: The Hollywood Diet, a side of grapefruit with every meal, yet Elsie omitted the meal part. The citrus enzymes burn the fat. It’s the ten day, ten pounds off diet, she declared every time she went on it.

There you go, love. Having passed Jud his meal she made herself comfortable by his other side. ‘What’s the subject tonight?’ Elsie asked, as Pandora’s Box appeared back on screen.

Wait and you’ll see, George managed to say between mouthfuls, and Jud knew he’d have to wait for an answer to his own question; he didn’t dare talk over the programme.

Aveline Closkey peered back into the nation’s living rooms. She gave the viewers the most cursory of recaps, almost to the point of rudeness. For the less perceptive, it appeared discourteous, aloof, maybe even dismissive, but for most it was what endeared her to the public. They shared the same curious, impatient lust for a good story, and tonight Pandora’s Box was delivering that in spades. Aveline invited Harold to resume.

He nodded. Thousands of us crowded onto a narrow strip of land, trapped between the cattle wagons and adjacent tracks which were patrolled with trigger-happy guards, and snarling German Shepherds. SS Guards worked their way between us, with clubs, and divided us into two shambolic lines, women and children on one side, men on the other. There was a narrow gap, running between the lines and I saw mothers call out to their husbands and sons, the men shouting back reassurances. They were all unaware these were their last stolen moments together.

Everyone watched Harold brush his palm over his forehead in a rapid moment, appearing to try to rub the memory from his brain, disbelief etched across his face. Aveline, can you imagine not knowing that you will never see your family again? That final image imprinted forever on your brain like an old sepia photo. The smile, just for you, to be gone, within the hour.

Aveline, dabbing at her eyes replied, Those poor families, Harold. I can’t imagine.

Young boys sneaked across the gap leaving the men’s side to join their mothers and siblings; the guards didn’t stop them and just laughed. Some mothers, sensing the danger, sent their sons back and they would be the lucky ones – they, at least, might get selected for work and be given a chance to live. The mothers with small children were doomed; within an hour the Germans would kill them all. Harold took a tremorous breath. With trembling knees I got closer. The line became quiet, the Germans striking anyone who spoke, they wanted silence for some other kind of selection process. One officer stood out, I could see he was the senior rank, the one in charge, the power.

Was he the Angel of Death, Harold? Aveline asked quietly.

Yes. Yes, that was him. Harold feigned spitting. Hell must have spat that monster onto mankind.

Back in Jud’s family living room, George leaned over, looking at Jud and Elsie in shock. Elsie had eaten her grapefruit and was gently stroking the back of Jud’s neck. She was uncomfortable with serious topics, and Jud knew she was reassuring herself with human contact.

You know who that’s going to be, Jud, don’t you? The Angel of Death. George shook his head and replied to his own question. The man who decides who will live and who will die.

Jud felt his mother’s hand stop mid movement as she chided George. Well, let the old man finish the story then.

They turned back to the TV just as Aveline said, Harold, please describe to us that moment: what you saw, and how you felt?

Less than a minute it took. Harold inclined his head slightly. There were about thirty men in front of me, and he and his fellow officers stood at the head of the line with two other doctors, and a dozen SS guards. The SS officers addressed him as Herr Doctor, but the prisoners called him Mengele, or the Angel of Death. Harold paused while his words sank in. I could see his arm waving to and fro in the air while people were pushed into new lines, and the old and weak were dragged away. I heard the whispering man’s voice in my head, the words like a crutch, ingrained, and I said them over and over again to myself. Harold smiled without humour, adding, I was only a few feet away from the Angel of Death and I saw a handsome young man in his early thirties, dressed in full SS uniform buttoned all the way to the top button, fastidious in his appearance. I noticed the dirt on his polished boots, and I remember thinking, I bet that annoys him. One, two, maybe three seconds – that’s all he took to make his decision, and suddenly it was my turn. I felt the loneliest boy in the world, standing on God’s most forsaken patch of earth, and I looked into the eyes of the Angel of Death. Harold stared deep into the camera. There was no sympathy behind those eyes. He didn’t really see me. His decisions appeared to be routine and more instinctive than informed. The Angel of Death pointed straight at me to go left, and it felt like two taps from a soldier’s gun. A guard grabbed me and I looked that way and saw only old men and children. l knew he had just killed me.

Go on, Aveline whispered gentle encouragement.

It’s the oddest thing, really. Harold sounded almost conversational as if confiding in an old friend. At that very moment I saw the whispering man again. He still carried bundles of clothing in his arms and looked purposefully occupied. He stepped from behind Dr Mengele and paused for a single heartbeat, a haunting image, forever engraved in my mind. His eyes found mine and he mouthed a single word: ‘Now.’ Then he disappeared back amongst the German soldiers.

What did you do?

I shook the guard’s grip from my arm, and turned to Dr Mengele, and pointed at my chest, shouting, ‘I’m seventeen and I’m a carpenter, sir!’ Mengele, his concentration broken, looked at me with amusement. I suppose I had broken the monotony of his work, so I tried to stand taller and look older, with the briefest of smiles. And Aveline, do you know? It worked. He sent me to the right to join the healthier-looking men.

Jud looked at the living room clock; Pandora’s Box would soon go over to the adverts and he was desperate to know the end of Harold’s story. He hoped Aveline’s timing was good.

Harold, what happened next? she asked, on cue.

That night the Germans made us shower, then all my hair was cut off and I was given my blue tattoo; we were no longer people with names, only numbers. I spent several days in the main camp dressed in my pyjama uniform whilst I was allocated work. Auschwitz was mankind’s greatest nightmare, an industrial death factory that could kill tens of thousands of people each day. Every day. Every week and every month, with no end to the killing. Harold spoke briskly. The fit and healthy became slave labour for the Reich. Starved and beaten, they had at least a chance of life, as I did when I was given work in a sub camp, working in the forests chopping timber, and from which I would later escape.

"And your family?’ Aveline looked as if she hated asking the question.

Unfortunately, my parents, along with all the children, their mothers, and any other people the Reich deemed undesirable, were taken straight to the gas chambers and murdered, their bodies burnt in the crematoria ovens.

With that, the camera framed the image of Harold Parker’s distraught face as the segment drew to its conclusion, and Harold gave his final thought, addressing it through Aveline.

You know, Aveline, I sometimes see the crematoria chimney in my nightmares, but it’s not the fiery glow or the smoke that horrifies me, it’s the utter waste. That very smoke carried love away in the wind, contained wisdom and knowledge, maybe the future cure for cancer, or the greatest person the world had yet to see. All of that could have made that final journey up those chimneys.

I have one final question, Harold, before we go to the break. Aveline was wrapping it up like the professional she was. Did you ever see The Whisperer of Auschwitz again?

"No. I never actually saw him again, although I heard the stories amongst the survivors. Stories much like my own, about a whispering man at the camp’s unloading ramp, a man who whispered righteous words, chosen to save your life.

Aveline, I only have to close my eyes to see him that day, stepping out from behind the Angel of Death, unseen amongst those uniformed monsters. The Whisperer was a real flesh and blood man, no mere rumour, as real as you and me, yet a man possessed with extraordinary abilities. In plain sight he committed a righteous act and he saved a young man’s life. Then Harold added with emphasis, Mine.

Chapter 3

Elsie’s lamb dinner had been a culinary triumph, the plates all but licked clean, and as the adverts rolled, she moved to collect them. Swaying along with a pretty, young songstress holding a bottle of Coca Cola on the TV, she burst into song, the plates balanced precariously in her hands, the threat of them falling onto Jud and George increasing with every second. Da da dah. Da da da dah, she hummed when the words slipped her mind.

Jud, embarrassed by her theatrics, especially after Harold Parker’s sobering story, moved to end her routine with a simple distraction technique. Tea was great, Mum.

It certainly was, Elsie, cooked to perfection.

Jud heard a hint of sarcasm in his father’s voice implying the meal was far from perfect, but really knowing it was excellent. He was making banter with Elsie and it registered. Elsie glowered back at him from over her shoulder with an I’ll let you have that one, look.

These were the Jackson family’s regular good-natured battles, their weapons of choice being sarcasm and dry wit. Elsie withdrew from the battlefield to the kitchen. The fire sucked and drew on the fresh air, drawing it from outside through the rotting window frames, and George got up and shook coal from the scuttle on to the dying fire. He looked over at Jud.

Are you warm enough, Son?

Jud realised he was still sitting with only his towel knotted around his waist. He could feel the chill air hitting his back and shoulders as they took the draught from the windows whilst his chest was nice and toasty. He wasn’t falling into his father’s trap by admitting to the chill – George would say, Well, get some clothes on then. Instead, Jud replied cautiously, Not really, only a bit. He should get dressed but he couldn’t be bothered. There was something much more important at hand.

"Dad, you