Padlocked, page 16
“Leave the boxes,” Hank said hoarsely.
They briskly tucked the boxes behind some machinery and hurried around to the main doors, where new equipment was being delivered. Finding an opening, they scurried past the movers, only to be halted by a soldier with a surly expression.
“Where is the manager?” Rafe asked in German.
“He is gone. Sent away,” the soldier answered.
“Sent away where?”
“What is it to you?” he spat.
Hank stepped in. “Tell him we were sent to take pictures of the new setup.”
As Rafe complied, the soldier eyed Hank’s camera suspiciously. He appeared to recognize Max’s name, but the younger man continued to stand in their way.
“Ask him why they are changing the equipment.”
Rafe interpreted and then said to Hank, “They are switching out chemical manufacturing for ammunition.”
“They’re going to make ammunition here? Where will they make the Pervitin?”
Rafe again translated, then turned to Hank. “They’re not.”
“What do you mean, ‘they’re not’?”
The soldier shouted suddenly. Both men instinctively jumped, then eased when they realized he was bellowing orders to the movers. Then he turned to them and said something in German.
Rafe grabbed Hank’s arm. “Danke,” he said as he began pulling him away.
Hank quickly moved outside with Rafe. “What’s going on?”
“He said for us to come back later when the equipment is installed. I thanked him and got the fuck out of there.”
Hank opened his mouth but shut it abruptly. Through the gate, he observed the officer he’d seen earlier. He was leaning in to speak to Otto. “Do you see what I’m seeing?”
“Fucking Affirmative.”
“We’re not going back for those boxes.”
“You think?”
They acknowledged the soldiers at the gate, but their eyes were riveted on the officer. There would be questions, as the regular guards would expect their pills, but everyone seemed to understand that there was entirely too much activity. As they neared the vehicle, they heard the officer speaking sternly to Otto.
Otto spotted Hank and Rafe and pointed in their direction, answering the officer as if attempting to protest. Before Hank could ask for a translation, Rafe said something in German as he motioned toward the camera hanging around Hank’s neck.
The officer then responded in rapid fire, motioning for them to follow him back through the gate.
“What’s going on?” Hank whispered.
“Holy fuck, he wants us to take pictures of the Jews. Get your camera up and start snapping.”
“Jeder lächelt, lächeln,” he said to the group.
“He’s telling them to smile,” Rafe muttered as Hank began taking pictures. “They’re at the gates of hell, and he wants them to smile.”
The officer began again in rapid fire, motioning toward the people in line.
“He wants pictures of smiling faces and their suitcases, the little girl holding her doll.” As they looked into the faces of those in line, they were met with haunting and forced Cheshire grins. “Holy fuck,” he repeated.
“Gut, gut,” he said finally. He motioned toward Otto, leading the way as they followed. When he reached the vehicle, he said something to Otto, pointed briefly to them, and then strode back inside the gates.
“Get in,” Rafe said as he jumped in beside Otto.
As Hank climbed into the back, Otto and Rafe spoke as they pulled away. Although he could not understand the language completely, he picked up familiar words here and there, and he could feel the tension. He could clearly view Otto’s profile from his seat. The man was breaking out in sweat, despite the crisp air, and his hands were shaking. He was surprised he hadn’t asked Rafe for his customary pill.
Rafe turned in his seat, and Hank leaned in. “The officer ordered Otto to follow the line of vehicles leaving Będzin. The Jews are following; other soldiers are marching them out.”
“Where are they going?”
“I don’t know. To another factory?”
“That makes no sense. Why wouldn’t they put them on a train?”
“Beats the hell out of me. Look, when we stop, the brass back there wants you to take pictures of the people walking happily out of Będzin.”
“Did you say, ‘walking happily out’?”
“That’s exactly what he said.”
“Holy fuck,” Hank said.
The wait was extensive, and the longer they sat in the vehicle, the more nervous Otto became. Rafe explained to Otto that the pill factory had been closed down and would be replaced by an ammunition manufacturing facility. Otto was clearly upset and began rocking back and forth.
“I told him to cut it out,” Rafe said finally. “Just look around us. We’ve got Nazis in front and Nazis behind. He can’t lose control now.”
“What do you think is going on?” Hank spotted the first in line as they rounded the far bend, and he climbed out of the vehicle. Rafe joined him in the middle of the road as Hank snapped a couple of pictures. “They’re too far. I’ve gotta wait for them to get closer.”
Rafe peered up and down the road. “There’s got to be hundreds of soldiers here. Do you see those transports?”
As if on cue, someone blew a whistle and shouted an order, which was passed down the line. The soldiers scrambled out as if they were preparing for battle. As they formed crisp, orderly lines, Hank turned and snapped photographs. He caught one of Otto as he joined their ranks. The young man appeared as though he might double over and puke. His skin was as pale as a ghost, and even from this distance, he could see sweat pouring out from under his helmet. He stood at attention, his rifle over his shoulder, his hands shaking so hard that his shoulders shuddered.
It was another half an hour before the first in line came into clearer view, and Hank and Rafe moved to the shoulder, snapping pictures as they passed. There were a few men who struck Hank as odd, because men were more valuable in factories and as manual labor. Most of the procession consisted of women and their children. Several women carried infants, and one waddling pregnant woman appeared ready to give birth at any moment. They were eerily silent. For a moment, Hank recalled the women and children in his North Carolina town, gathering for church or the occasional parade. The North Carolinians would chat, seemingly nonstop, as laughter filled the air. Their children would also run and play; even if they’d been instructed to remain close, the mothers couldn’t keep them from games of tag. In contrast, these children marched in complete silence, their eyes on the ground.
As the procession reached the front of the line of vehicles, an officer called out an order for them to halt. Hank continued snapping pictures of those directly in front of him. An elderly man stared back at him, and he lowered the camera and looked down the line.
A sickness swept over him. He felt sweat breaking out across his brow, and the scene in front of him began to waver like a watercolor painting.
An order was given, and the soldiers began marching the civilians into a thickly wooded area on the other side of the road. As the crowd cleared, Hank took a step forward to follow them, but a vehicle sped up, cutting off his movement.
Rafe was at his side in an instant. Hank recognized the officer as the one who had ordered Otto to participate in this detail. Now he reached his hand out, pointing to Hank’s camera. His message was clear, even though Hank did not fully understand his words. He barely heard Rafe’s translation as he opened the camera and extracted the film. He handed it to the officer as if in a trance.
“We are not to take any more photographs here,” Rafe translated.
“Verstehen?” the officer asked.
“I understand,” Hank responded without Rafe’s translation. “Verstehen.”
“He says if we attempt to enter the woods, we will be shot,” Rafe said.
“I figured as much.” Hank’s eyes were locked on the officer’s eyes. His eyes might have been hazel, but they were almost too dark to tell. It wasn’t the color, Hank realized. They were veiled. As a journalist, he had a lifetime of reading people, sensing when they were lying, and detecting their motives. He could not read this officer at all.
The vehicle moved forward and parked on the shoulder with the others. The officer remained in his car. After a moment, Hank and Rafe moved to the opposite side of the road, furthest from the others. A lone bird cawed, and he instinctively glanced up. He was surprised to discover that it was a beautiful day. The skies were a serene azure, dotted with a few scattered, fluffy clouds —the kind he liked to watch roll past when he was a child, lying on his back in an open field, his arms folded beneath his head. For a moment, he was transported back to that time and place, when the air was so thick it blew the scent of salty ocean air inland, when the white clover bloomed, and butterflies of every color flitted past on lazy afternoons.
A gunshot rang out, jerking him from his memories as flocks of birds took to the skies from both sides of the road. Without thinking, he ducked behind a vehicle and met Rafe’s eyes as he found him crouched beside him. Another shot popped, and then the air was filled with screams and the rolling thunder of too many gunshots to count. A little girl’s voice rose above the din, screaming for her mother.
As Hank peered around the corner of the vehicle, he spotted the officer’s vehicle turning around in the road. He passed them on his drive back toward Będzin, his face immobile, his eyes focused on the road ahead.
As soon as he had disappeared around the distant bend, Hank rushed across the street with Rafe on his heels. They stopped at the tree line as Hank fumbled to load another roll of film, his hands trembling so hard that he had trouble threading it. He had been through numerous battles before, particularly during the Spanish Civil War, and had a reputation for steel nerves. This was different. This was not two armed forces facing off against one another, each with a commanding officer and trained soldiers. These were children, women, and elderly men, unarmed and helpless.
He got the roll in, snapped the cover shut, and began taking pictures from the cover of a wide tree. Smoke filled the air, causing him to cough, and he didn’t take the time to aim; instead, he snapped continuously.
He felt Rafe yanking at his arm, but he felt frozen in place until the man nearly dragged him away. “They’re leaving,” Rafe said hoarsely.
Hank nodded. He knew they could not risk being misidentified as one of the civilians. Adrenaline would run high with these soldiers, and all it took was one to spot them, take aim, and plant bullets in their heads. They raced across the street, located Otto’s vehicle, and hunched down beside it, facing the opposite direction.
One by one, the roar of engines starting reached their ears. One by one, they rolled past them in the direction of Będzin. Transport vehicles loaded silent soldiers while intermittent shots resounded, the remaining soldiers finishing off those that weren’t yet dead.
Otto was one of the last to step away from the tree line. He moved as if he were not a man but a machine, with one foot precisely in front of the other while he stared straight ahead. When he reached their vehicle, he did not stop but continued past it. Only when he found a tree stump along the opposite woods did he hesitate. He stood for a very long moment beside it. Hank quietly pulled out his camera and snapped his picture, a lone olive figure, featureless in his issued helmet and unadorned uniform, staring into the woods opposite from where he’d come, his rifle still held against his shoulder as though he was in formation, his shakes oddly gone.
He was still standing there when the last of the men departed. As Hank and Rafe joined him, he removed his helmet and sank to the tree stump, allowing his rifle to slide down beside him. Hank moved to take it from him, but it was hot, and Otto held onto the barrel as though oblivious of its heat.
“I shot her mother in front of her,” he said flatly.
Hank and Rafe stared at his profile as Otto kept his gaze straight ahead.
“She was screaming for her mother even after she fell.” He turned slightly toward them. His eyes were wide and incredulous. “And then I shot the child. She fell with her doll in her arms.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Rafe’s voice sounded crude in the stillness. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Without waiting, he began a purposeful stride back to the lone vehicle. “Hank!” he shouted.
Hank pulled at Otto’s uniform. “Come on,” he said.
Otto grasped Hank’s hand with surprising force and pushed it from him.
“Hank!” Rafe shouted. “Otto!”
Hank reluctantly moved away from Otto. Rafe was right. The officer could return at any moment, and he needed to get the film into his shoe. He didn’t know what he might have, but if he had captured anything at all, both of them could wind up beside those in the woods. He clambered into the back seat, removed the film and his boot, and managed to get the roll into his usual hiding place. He was retying his boot as Rafe continued to shout for Otto.
Hank turned around to peer behind them. Otto sat motionless on the stump, his eyes still riveted on the woodland. Then, as they both watched, he grabbed his pistol from his belt. With one smooth movement, he lifted the gun, placed it against the side of his head, and pulled the trigger.
Hank jumped out of the car as Rafe scrambled across the seat to the driver’s side and started the engine. “Hank!” Rafe shouted. “Hank, get back in the car!”
He stood as if paralyzed, his eyes riveted on Otto’s body. He had fallen off the trunk and now lay beside it, the blood pooling on the ground. He turned back to Rafe. “There could be someone alive in the woods. Maybe they’re wounded but not dead.”
“Get in the car, Hank!”
Hank took a step toward the area where the civilians had been taken.
“Get in the fucking car, Hank!” Rafe roared. “I’ll fucking leave you behind!”
Hank reluctantly climbed into the passenger seat, his body acting mechanically. He had barely settled before the vehicle jumped into gear, and Rafe floored it. Hank grasped the grab handle on the door as they barreled along the road, heading away from Będzin.
21
Max
Max sat slumped on the park bench. He had never felt so sick in his entire life.
The sun had long ago dipped beyond the horizon, and the temperature had plunged. He shivered, his arms wrapped around his body, the ice and snow feeling as though it was attempting to close in around him. He stared upward at the skies, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of cheery stars and moonlight, but dark clouds had descended, effectively cutting off all light, as if it were attempting to mirror his soul.
He had sat there for hours. He should have returned to his office, if for no other reason than to tidy up his desk and close and lock his door. But he could not. His feet had grown heavier with every step, and a crushing pain in his chest left him feeling as if he might crumble right there on the sidewalk.
He had listened to the troops march the Jews out of the city. Someone played a drum at the start of the line, which he found absurd. He sat on a side street and watched the procession from a block away as it passed between two city blocks. No one appeared to glance his way. All seemed to be focused on what was ahead of them. Soldiers were undoubtedly considering where they had been ordered to stop, while the civilians might have been imagining a new place with more food and less turmoil. He could not think of Mrs. Weiss and Celina. His mind would not allow him to go there.
He didn’t know whether the soldiers were aware of the full orders, and he suspected they weren't. He had recognized Bereitschaftsleiter Braun sitting in the back seat of an open vehicle, his personal driver at the helm. They had been in the last car as if they were grand marshals in a holiday parade. In front of him were at least twenty more vehicles. Roughly two hundred Jews walked in between them. The elderly, women, and children considered too weak or useless to remain alive were forced to walk several miles through the city to its outskirts.
When he closed his eyes, he envisioned the road they would travel. There were agricultural fields they would have to pass before reaching a heavily wooded area. He thought he was far removed from it now, but when the first shots rang out, they sounded as if they were only a short distance away. The constant barrage reverberated like the height of battle, a heavily engaged conflict between two superpowers. Yet, he knew the shots came only from the German soldiers. The Jews would have been completely vulnerable and defenseless; their screams intertwined with the bullets.
Max was not prepared for how long it seemed to continue. When he thought it was finished, another shot rang out and then another in a haphazard fashion. He imagined soldiers rummaging through the bodies, dealing a final shot to those still fighting to survive.
When the massacre was over, he was surprised to hear more screaming. He turned his head to discover the commotion came from the Jewish sector. The mayhem had continued for hours. Even now, under the dark clouds and in the frosty air, he continued to hear the shouts, cries, and screams from the other side of the city. It was surreal that he could listen to it, and he supposed it was due to the silence in the non-Jewish part of town. The streets were now deserted, with citizens inside, perhaps discussing what they thought had occurred. The Polish Underground Resistance would no doubt find the site during the night, and word would spread throughout Poland.
And he had ordered it.
He took a deep breath. But he had not actually murdered anyone. He had simply been following orders, and those orders were to instruct the Bereitschaftsleiter in the Jewish sector to round up approximately two hundred Jews. Yes, he had passed along the instructions to lead them out of the city, take them into a wooded area, and kill them. But he hadn’t fired the weapons. No, the murders were on the soldiers’ heads and consciences.
A dark shape moved between the trees, and he stood, startled. “Who’s there?” he called out.
