Near the Danube Bridge

A SHRINK-WRAPPED SKELETON

Three damp, dark, and dreary concrete walls joined by a heavy metal door enclosed Kalman and the Kommandant. One tiny, barred window, fitted high up in barely a cranny, revealed a miniscule amount of light, hardly a reminder that an outside world existed. A small pail in the opposite corner overflowed and reeked of excrement. Icy urine glistened around the edges of the cramped prison cell. Huddled in a corner, unable to even crawl, Kalman would one day describe himself appearing as a “shrink-wrapped skeleton.” The Kommandant, a construed abuser of his authority, bellowed orders as spittle foamed around his mouth and his face blazed red. “I want this cell to be cleaned today.” He grabbed Kalman, thrust a mop and bucket into his hands, and trumpeted, “I am going to break your faith. I am going to make you work on the Sabbath.” Unable to hold the mop and bucket, Kalman fell.

The Kommandant lifted Kalman as easily as if his prisoner were a small child. He held Kalman’s flimsy, emaciated substance of what remained of his body and flung it back and forth across the frigid chamber, bouncing him from one side to the other, slamming his head against each wall. The Kommandant specialized in torture and knew how to bring his victims to the brink of death without killing them. Kalman’s battered skull subsisted beyond the sensations pain brings. The Kommandant at last hurled him to the floor and stomped on him. Seething with hostility, he danced on Kalman’s stomach and twisted his boots impenitently over Kalman’s hands, grinding them mercilessly while reveling maniacally. After what seemed to be an excruciatingly long passage of time, the Kommandant proclaimed, “You would like to die for your God more than anything else.” Kalman’s voice, barely audible, pleaded in breathy gasps, “Put an end to this. Let me die.” The Kommandant, undeterred and unrelenting, pistol-whipped Kalman across his face. He continued the crucible, picked up the heavy metal bucket, threw its soapy water in Kalman’s face, and continued the beating with the bucket. The Kommandant worked Kalman over for what seemed like an eternity while maintaining that the bullet in the gun was too expensive to be used on him and that it would have been too easy to end Kalman’s life with it. Bloody, bruised, swollen, and purple, Kalman passed in and out of consciousness, convinced he was going to die on the bone-chilling concrete that very day. The Kommandant, exhausted, pulled his arm back to administer one final blow and exit the sweaty, smelly, bloodied, cell-turned torture chamber. It seemed as if only yesterday Kalman had been playing his violin in church.