Padlocked, page 20
“Don’t forget Britain’s Channel Islands.”
“I’m out of fingers.” They stood side by side, leaning against the vehicle and facing away from the woods, smoking. “The Nazis’ entire ideology is based on hatred of other groups,” Rafe added.
“We’ve seen firsthand the brutality. I have never before witnessed a total lack of empathy, of humility, of a moral or ethical compass.” Hank dabbed at his eye. “I’ll never get this out of my memory. I never believed human beings were capable of this.”
Rafe jabbed his thumb toward the woods. “We are too far from Będzin for this to be the work of the same group.”
Hank paused. “It’s just as you said. Berlin had to have issued a widespread order. Multiple groups of soldiers have carried out—and may continue to carry out—indiscriminate slaughter.”
“We have to get these pictures to the west. The world has to know what is happening here. This is your calling, Hank. This is why you’re here.”
“We shouldn’t have let that girl go,” Hank murmured. “We knew what they did to those civilians, and now, these.”
“She had a purpose.” Rafe kicked mud off the bottom of his boots as he spoke.
“She was heading south. There is an evil hovering over southern Poland.”
“Yes. She was walking through the gates of hell. And she was doing it to find her sister.”
Hank stared down the road as if he could see her. “She can’t have gotten far. I say we go after her and take her with us.”
“The more we have with us, the more dangerous it becomes for all of us.”
“Self-preservation, my friend?” Hank continued without waiting for his reply. “Anyway, she’d just be one more. And, what if it was Dottie out there? I’d want someone to rescue her.”
“But what if it was Dottie attempting to save Susanna or Mary? And what if some stranger yanked her off the road and took her in the opposite direction? That girl’s sister might depend on her reaching her.”
“Agata’s life might depend on whether you and I get to her before the Nazis do.” When Rafe didn’t respond, Hank added, “You know what they will do to her.”
Rafe brushed nonexistent lint from his Nazi uniform. “She and I had the same idea about our clothing.”
“It’s a good idea, too, to dress like them.”
“Good thing Otto and I wore a similar size, and he hadn’t yet taken this to be cleaned.”
“But it isn’t exactly a Roman shield, is it? All it does—for you and for her—is prevent someone from afar from suspecting you enough to warrant getting closer.” He put out his cigarette. “I say we go get her.”
“I say we continue on our way and allow her to continue on hers.”
“I don’t know if I can forgive myself if I don’t try.”
“We already tried. And you may never forgive yourself if you force her to go with us and we find out later that her sister died because of it. Besides, we can’t go back in that direction. They have to know we’re gone. They’ve likely discovered Otto and know his vehicle has disappeared with us. In fact, Little Orphan Annie, we’re wasting time here.” As if to prove his point, Rafe climbed into the driver’s seat. “You coming?”
Hank reluctantly joined him. “Where to? What’s the plan?”
Rafe settled onto the floor of the church belfry and opened a tablecloth to reveal an assortment of food, including cheese, a few eggs of dubious age, hard bread, carrots, and turnips.
“Not bad,” Hank said appreciatively as he settled in next to him. He opened his piece of cloth.
“What the hell is that?” Rafe asked.
“Crawdads.”
“They’re fucking insects.”
“People eat them. They’re kind of like lobster. They had them in Spain, don’t you remember?”
“They’re fucking insects,” he repeated. “Only poor people ate them and only when completely desperate.”
“What do you think we are now?” Hank pointed to other items. “I also found lots of pecans. Must be a pecan grove near here. And look. A potato.”
“Too bad we left those boxes at the drug factory.”
“At the former drug factory. What do you think all those soldiers are going to do when their drug supplies run out?”
“And they’re all facing withdrawal? They’ll blame the Jews, of course.”
“Okay, so what do we eat now, and what do we save for later?”
Rafe moved the nuts, cheese, and bread to one side. “These will last the longest.”
“The crawdads and egg will need boiling. Too risky to do it here,” Hank added.
“And we already decided to spend the night at the highest point in the village.”
“That leaves the carrot, turnip, and potato.”
They eyed the sorry-looking vegetables.
“They’d be better in a soup,” Rafe said.
“A seafood soup.” Hank removed a half-empty cigarette pack from his pocket. “I think I’ll have a cigarette.”
“Fuck,” Rafe said. “I’ll have one, too. But tomorrow, for breakfast, before we head out, we’ll get in somebody’s kitchen—not like they’re coming back—and cook up soup. But I’ll tell you right now, I’m not eating fucking insects. You’d better not adulterate my fucking soup.”
Hank kept his cigarette low as he peered over the wall. “I don’t think we should be here when the sun comes up.”
“Yeah,” Rafe said. “I suppose.”
It hadn’t been challenging to decide where they should remain while they charted their course. The Catholic Church was situated near the center of the village, where all roads converged. It was a small building, as churches go, and plain. At least, Hank thought, it looked like it had been unpretentious before it was burned and looted. The roof was gone, the stained windows in shards, and several walls were missing. The pews were charred, indicating a massive fire. Yet, it appeared to have been burned long before the villagers had been marched into the woods. In the beginning, it was well-known that Catholic parishioners played a significant role in resisting the Nazis and assisting Jews who needed to hide or escape. As the Nazis conquered parts of Poland, they burned the Catholic churches along with Jewish synagogues in attempts to prevent groups of people from congregating and to erase Polish culture.
A few of the Będzin churches had been saved and converted to Positive Christianity, a religion unique to Nazis. Although Hank and Rafe had never attended a service, their religious beliefs were prominently displayed. As the Nazi Party rose in Germany, they issued a pamphlet outlining their ideologies, which included a statement regarding freedom of religion. As it turned out, it meant they were free to follow their religion; as they gained power, all other religions were systematically wiped out.
Positive Christianity was unlike any form of Christianity that Hank had ever known. It was based on the intolerance of people who did not fall neatly into the Nazi ideal. This included Jews, Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, and even other forms of Christianity.
Hank had concluded long ago that Positive Christianity bore no likeness to Christ’s teachings. They certainly did not open their arms to strangers, practice compassion or acceptance of others, or exhibit high morals or ethics. It had also been reported that Positive Christianity could border on occultism, though Hank had no firsthand knowledge of it. He did, however, have firsthand knowledge of the atrocities they committed in the name of Christ.
“I think you’re right,” Hank said quietly.
“About what?” Rafe had leaned back against the wall, his cigarette extinguished, his face in shadows as he dozed. He kept his eyes closed as Hank responded.
“It is a battle of good versus evil. It’s been harder to recognize because the evil ones come cloaked as Christ’s followers.”
“I’m not even going to ask where the fuck that came from.”
There was a moment of silence as Hank gazed out of the charred belfry, the stone walls and stairs saving the tower from complete ruin. The roads in all directions were pitch-black, and he wondered where Agata was sleeping tonight. He got his bearings and considered their options, because once Rafe had dozed for an hour or two, he planned for them to hit the road. They could travel at night with their headlights off. Their soup would have to wait. Daylight would bring more traffic and more opportunities to be discovered. Besides, Nazi checkpoints were often lit up at night, allowing them to identify them in sufficient time to get onto an alternate route.
Hank ruled out travel to the southwest, which led to Kraków, Oświęcim, and Będzin. To the southeast lay Romania, which the Iron Guard ran in collaboration with Nazi Germany; their behavior rivaled the Nazis’ atrocities, so that was not an option. He surmised that Romania, with its vast reserves of troops, equipment, and oil, currently played a crucial role in the fight against the Soviets. After all, they purportedly controlled the fourth-largest Axis force in the world after Germany, Italy, and Japan.
North was just as bad, as the Germans also controlled Poland in that direction. Even if they were able to cross the country and live to tell the tale, Lithuania met them on the other side, and they had shown fealty to Germany.
To the west was almost an entire continent under Nazi control. There was a smattering of neutral countries, such as Switzerland or Sweden, but they were too distant from their current location.
That left the east. Had it been 1939, the Soviets would have controlled eastern Poland as a result of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, an agreement between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union that divided the country between them. Once the Soviets completed their invasion of the territory agreed upon by Hitler and Stalin, it was renamed the Polish Soviet Socialist Republic, and the citizens went to the polls to elect their leader. What they found on the ballot was one name: Joseph Stalin. Their stint as a Soviet territory had flown out the window when Germany turned against their ally, invaded eastern Poland, and then the Soviet Union in 1941 in Operation Barbarossa. However, Soviet pushback was earnest, resulting in constantly shifting lines. For Rafe and Hank to attempt to flee to the east, they would meet more Nazis before reaching the Soviets, and God only knew whether the Soviets would welcome them.
Holy shit, Hank thought as he pondered their situation. They were surrounded.
25
Max, Oświęcim, Poland
The bar was long and narrow, the dark wood and low lighting casting most of the room into shadows. Earlier in the evening, those shadows had moved and morphed, but as the night wore on, they had dissipated, one by one. The owner-bartender had flipped the sign in the window from "open" to "closed" and was busy cleaning up behind the counter, while an older woman wiped down all the tables and set the chairs on top of them in preparation for cleaning the floors.
In the furthest corner, Max sat alone, his back against the wall, a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. He watched the employees without really registering their actions, his mind moving between the stupor of drunkenness and intrusive thoughts he fought to keep at bay.
“Can I get you another, Max?” the woman asked. She held a worn cleaning rag in a hand covered in age spots, and her nails were worn down. She must have been attractive when she was younger, Max thought. Her face was pleasant but rounded with age, and her neck was slack. Her eyes were clear blue, the kind the Aryans particularly prized. Her hair must have been the color of wheat back in the day; he could detect strands of it now, intermingled with white. She smiled pleasantly as she slipped into a chair across from him.
“No,” he said.
“Is it time for you to head back home?”
It was a question she asked every night when the bar had long been closed, and they were nearing the time when the employees, too, would go home. The woman lived alone; they had chatted before. She was German, brought to Oświęcim to serve the employees of the nearby camp, who filled the bar every evening after work. Her husband had been killed during World War I, and her two sons were now fighting at the front.
“Yes, Katarina. Do you know of any women searching for employment?”
“You are still looking?”
“I am always looking.”
“Ah. I suppose you are.”
“What about you? I can triple the pay you receive here.”
“I wouldn’t last at the camp, and you know it.”
“I can arrange an easy job.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
His eyes tried to lock onto hers, but he had difficulty focusing. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve had this conversation before, Max. I like being a barmaid. And if I leave, Hinrich would have to find someone to replace me.”
Max turned his attention to the man at the bar. He appeared to be middle-aged, somewhere in between Max’s age and Katarina’s. He was trim, his movements efficient as he worked behind the bar, his energy apparent even at this late hour. “Hinrich can get his wife to work here.”
“Not since you hired her in the camp.” Katarina smiled sadly.
He looked back at her, his lids beginning to droop. “Don’t you have a roommate?”
“There are others in the house. I wouldn’t call them roommates. We simply rent beds.”
“What about that young woman, the one with the long, brown hair?”
“What about her?”
“Can she work in the camp?”
Katarina shook her head. “You know she is Polish. She wears the letter “P” ordered by the Germans. I suppose one day soon, she will be sent the way of the Jews.”
“Ah, that’s right. Only Germans are allowed to work in the camp. What work does she do now?”
“You know what she does, Max.” Her voice was firm but gentle. “She works in the fields, growing vegetables for the camp.”
“What is her name again?”
Katarina leaned back in her chair. “You know her name, Max.”
“I have forgotten it.”
“It is Bogdanka.”
“Bogdanka what?”
“Max.”
“I am serious; tell me.”
“Bogdanka Laska.” Katarina rose. She barely suppressed a groan as she straightened her back.
Max rose unsteadily to his feet. He remained behind the table for a moment as he tried to right himself as if he stood on a teetering boat. After a moment, he stepped around the table, bumping into it and spilling the remainder of his drink.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get it,” Katarina said, making a move to right the glass.
“I am not worried about it.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t suppose you are.”
He made his way to the front of the bar, wobbling enough to grasp the edge of the bar at intervals.
“Good night, Max,” Hinrich said amicably. He moved ahead of Max and opened the door into the city center.
A blast of cold air hit Max full in the face as he stepped outside. For a moment, he wondered if he’d left his coat in the bar before realizing that Katarina would have given it to him. He vaguely remembered walking over at noon in a great hurry, not bothering to put on his hat or his coat. Now, he couldn’t remember why he’d been so harried.
He recognized a soldier moving across the courtyard, and he waved him over. The young man saluted him as he approached, and Max sloppily returned it. “Do you know Bogdanka Laska?” he asked him.
“No, sir,” the soldier replied. “I’m afraid I do not.”
“Find her,” Max answered. He waved his arm in the direction of the camp. “She lives in one of the boarding houses along the edge of town.”
“Yes, sir. And would you like me to bring her to you?”
“No,” Max answered. “Take her to the camp.”
“To work, sir?”
“As a prisoner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all.”
The soldier saluted again. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”
“See that you do.” Max returned the salute, and as the soldier hurried off in the direction of the boarding houses, he stumbled his way along the street toward his apartment. He struggled to put his key in the lock, his hands trembling from a mixture of frayed nerves and stout alcohol. When he managed to get it open, he hesitated as he stared at the long, narrow staircase leading to his apartment, unsure if he should attempt it or sleep on the stairs as he sometimes did. He decided after a moment that he wanted the comfort of his bedcovers, as the night air had made him cold if not sober. A gust that pushed the door against him solidified this thought, and he wrestled to extract his key, closed the door, and tottered up the stairs with each hand outstretched to the walls to secure him.
The door at the top of the stairs did not require a key and opened into a large room with hardwood floors in an intricate pattern, gold-patterned wallpaper against a creamy white background, gold fixtures, and high ceilings. A row of windows with wispy white curtains stretched nearly from the floor to the ceiling and overlooked the square below. Max paused at the round table, unsteadily dumping out his keys and pocket contents onto the freshly starched doily, before moving further into the interior.
The grand fireplace was roaring, its warmth inviting, no doubt stoked to perfection by his housekeeper. He almost plopped into one of the oversized off-white chairs where a cozy, homemade throw rested over the arm. He would be warm here. He knew that because he’d spent previous nights in that chair, sleeping off a stupor.
Instead, he began to loosen his tie as he moved into his bedroom. Another fire roared invitingly, effectively banishing the cold. He plopped down onto the bed and pulled the bedcovers around him so only his shoes poked out from underneath the covers. As he began to close his eyes, they hesitated on the chandelier above the bed, set into an intricate inlaid design.
Everything was right there in the square for him. His office was on one side, and his apartment on the other. He could order his housekeeper to cook for him, or he could pop into any of three restaurants. He was always seated promptly, even if it meant evicting someone from a table to do so. He was an important man here who could hire a person to work in the camp or, with a wave of his hand, banish them there as a prisoner, as he had just done with Katarina’s roommate, whose name he had already forgotten.
