``And do you really think that the world outside Poland will care any more than we do?''

The question frightened Andrei.

``Please don't go inside Majdanek.''

``I'm still a soldier in a very small way, Styka.''

It was an answer that Styka understood.

Grabski's shanty was beyond the bridge over the River Bystrzyca near the rail center. Grabski sat in a sweat saturated undershirt, cursing the excessive heat which clamped an uneasy stillness before sundown. He was a square brick of a man with a moon round face and sunken Polish features. Flies swarmed around the bowl of lentils in which he mopped thick black bread. Half of it dripped down his chin. He washed it down with beer and produced a deep-seated belch.

``Well?'' Andrei demanded.

Grabski looked at the pair of them. He grunted a sort of ``yes'' answer. ``My cousin works at the Labor Bureau. He can make you work papers. It will take a few days. I will get you inside the guard camp as a member of my crew. I don't know if I can get you into the inner camp. Maybe yes, maybe no, but you can observe everything from the roof of a barrack we are building.''

Grabski slurped his way to the bottom of the soup bowl. ``Can't understand why the hell anyone wants to go inside that son-of-a-bitch place.''

``Orders from the Home Army.''

``Why? Nothing there but Jews.''

Andrei shrugged. ``We get strange orders.''

``Well -- what about the money?''