Padlocked, page 26
“You like that one?” he asked.
“It reminds me of one I used to see when I was young.”
“Ah. Yes. Young and in—what was it?”
“Fürstenwalde,” she said.
“Of course. Where you were born.”
Frau Rökk returned, bearing a large silver tray laden with a pitcher of beer and two glasses. She meticulously placed the glasses on the table between Agata and Max and poured the beer. Then, she moved plates of potato biscuits from the tray onto the table beside the glasses. Straightening, she asked, “Would you like me to stay and serve supper?”
Max shook his head. “No, you go home to your family, Frau Rökk. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir. The food is ready for you in the kitchen, sir.”
Max nodded. He watched Agata tense as the older woman retrieved her outer garments and moved into the stairwell, the sound of her shoes against the steps growing fainter as she neared the door. There was a moment’s hesitation, and Max nearly came to his feet and tossed the key down to her, but he heard the door opening as she used her own key. He leaned forward and retrieved a biscuit from his plate. “Eat. Please,” he said as he took a bite.
He watched as Agata made no move to eat. After he finished the biscuit, he raised his drink to his lips. He drank it slowly, observing her. She avoided looking at him, instead feigning interest in the room. He returned his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So,” he said, returning to Polish, “why don’t you tell me why a young Polish lady of obvious breeding would risk her life to get into Auschwitz, when every other Pole is willing to risk their lives to get out of it?”
Her eyes moved back to him. They were methodical and calm. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Ah. But I think you do.” He paused for effect. “Let us begin with your father.”
“Henri Heinrich.” The name rolled off her tongue.
“Ah. But Henri is your uncle, isn’t he? But his name is not Heinrich. And his wife—”
“My mother. Herta.”
“Herta is not your mother. She is your aunt. Your own mother, Anna Heinrich, died in Fürstenwalde. And that is when you left for Warsaw.”
A glint of recognition passed through her eyes, though her hands remained still in her lap. A moment later, the veil returned.
“And your father is—or was—Ira Goldberg.”
As he emphasized the past tense, Agata’s spine straightened noticeably. “Do you plan to kill me?” she asked calmly.
He studied her for a long moment without answering, reveling in the heightened tension between them. Her eyes met his with an unwavering gaze. A woman who was not afraid of death intrigued him. “Not today,” he replied.
She appeared to process this for a moment.
“Rather,” he said, “I will keep your little secret—for now—but I want something from you.”
Her chin rose slightly, and her eyes remained locked on his. “I can only imagine.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think you can.” He rose and strode to the fireplace, where he rested his hand on the mantel. After a moment, he turned around to find her watching him intently. “You must understand that if you tell anyone what is asked of you, you will die the same death as the condemned Jews.”
“And that is supposed to frighten me?”
“I don’t care if it frightens you. It will happen whether you are frightened or not. Do you understand?”
Agata nodded.
“I want you to tell me whether you understand and what you understand.”
“I understand you will require me to do something. And if I speak of it to anyone else, I will be murdered.”
“Ah. And you put it so eloquently.” He stared at her for another long moment. The risk he was taking was beyond anything he had ever attempted. He returned to his seat, but rather than lean back as he had before, he leaned forward and steepled his hands in front of him. “There is a woman in the camp that I wish for you to find.”
Agata’s eyes widened; she clearly had not expected this. “But you have records of everyone in the camp already.”
“No,” he corrected her. “I do not.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I have records of every employee—every guard, secretary, nurse... I do not have records of the prisoners. Those are kept inside the camp.”
Agata’s face paled. “The SS maintains the death books.”
“I am not asking you to look through the death books.”
“Then—what? A prisoner? You want me to locate a prisoner?” Agata almost laughed. She had been searching for her own sister in vain, and now he thinks she can locate someone else with a snap of the fingers? She turned her head to the side. He never mentioned Elsa, only her mother and father. He doesn’t know. She turned back to face him.
“Her name is Felka,” he said.
“Does she have a last name?”
“I do not know it.”
“Then how will I know I have located the right one?”
“She worked in the sewing unit about a year ago.”
“A year ago? Prisoners rarely last—”
“If anyone could survive, it would be her.” When Agata did not respond, he continued, “You are not to approach her. You are not to ask anyone about her. You are simply to discover anyone named Felka and bring their descriptions back to me.”
“Is this a young woman?” Agata said quietly.
“No. It is nothing like that. She is—I don’t know, middle-aged—but she may appear much older. You may know her by her eyes. They were piercing blue eyes, the last I saw her.”
Blue, like yours.
She hadn’t said it, but Max knew she had thought it. He knew by the way she stared into his eyes as if she were searching for an answer there. Perhaps he should kill her. Only Anke would know that they had been together, and an investigation would not be launched on her word alone.
“I will do it,” Agata said. “Is there anything else? Hair color, height?”
“Gray hair,” he said. “She is about your height, perhaps shorter. She might be stooped. Her weight—”
“Her weight would have changed. Is she Jewish?”
“Is she—?” Max felt the blood drain from his face.
“I ask only because the Jews are separated from the rest of the population. It will allow me to search in the right areas.”
“No,” he answered. “She is not Jewish. She is a Christian. A Pole.”
“Then I will find her.” A long moment lapsed. “Am I free to go now?”
Max stood. “Would you like some food? I don’t know what Frau Rökk prepared, but—”
“Thank you. No.” Agata also rose. “There is food waiting for me at my boarding house.”
“Rationed food?” Max almost snickered.
“Yes. Rationed food.”
He grew somber. “Then, take something with you. I have fresh fruit, a rarity these days.”
“Thank you, but no. I am fine.” She made her way to the coat closet and retrieved her coat and hat. Unlike Anke’s, her coat was made of plain wool with no adornments, and her hat was simple, as if it were designed to keep her head warm rather than make a fashion statement. Max dutifully assisted her in donning the coat and stood back to watch her as she glanced in the mirror while positioning her hat. She must have been beautiful before the camp had hardened her. Even the guards changed once they entered it. Yet, she didn’t have the hardness around her eyes and mouth the way that Anke did.
He couldn’t imagine asking Anke to find Felka. The woman would have located her, questioned her, blackmailed him, and killed her anyway. “Remember,” he said as he followed her down the steps, “do not tell anyone of this, especially not Anke Bauer.”
She reached the landing and turned back to him. “I will not tell anyone.”
He retrieved his key, reached around her, and unlocked the door.
“You can trust me,” she whispered as she opened the door.
Anything he might have said would have been lost in the wind. He stepped outside and watched her walk away. She moved with purpose yet fluidly, her head held high with confidence. I hope I can trust you, he thought. I don’t want to kill you. But I will.
33
Agata
The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months. With the camp complex as large as a city, Agata despaired of ever finding Elsa, if she had ever been there at all. Guards, or attendants, as the females were commonly called, were forbidden from speaking to prisoners except to give orders, and paranoia ran rampant. Still, she managed to ask dozens of prisoners if they knew her, each day in a hoarse, clandestine whisper, but the response was always the same: eyes averted, chin tilted downward, a soft, nearly imperceptible shake of the head.
As the true purpose of the camp came into focus, she realized she had not ventured into the mouth of the lion but rather, descended into hell.
The war had turned the world upside down and inside out. The prisoners were not a threat to Agata, either physically or psychologically. The employees, however, demonstrated varying degrees of depravity that she often could not imagine a human being inflicting on another. The moral and ethical compass in most guards was dysfunctional at best or obliterated at their worst.
Three times a day and often four, she hurried to the courtyard when the whistle heralded the arrival of a new train. The chaos, heartbreak, terror, and abuse were so rampant and overwhelming that a shell formed around her psyche, causing her to go numb to it all. With each set of arrivals, she led a group of women to a set of barracks, often emptied only that morning, or to a holding place where another attendant received them.
It hadn’t taken long for her to comprehend what was happening.
The doctors determined the fate of each new arrival within seconds. The older, infirm, ill, weak, or otherwise appearing unable to work were led directly to the holding area. Other guards, often male, led them into gas chambers after they undressed. Prisoners then disposed of the bodies in a process that was ever-changing as they instituted “efficiencies.” Their clothing and possessions were sent to the warehouses, where other prisoners sorted them. The guards laughed and called the warehouses “Canada” because of the perception that Canada was a wealthy, abundant nation. Often, the trains that brought new prisoners were later filled with warehouse “supplies,” as they were called, before departing to parts unknown to Agata.
Those that the doctors chose to survive would be worked unmercifully until they regularly dropped dead. They arrived believing they would begin a new life, though it was forced upon them. Within a short time, they realized this was where their lives were intended to end.
The largest nationality was currently Hungarian, followed by Poles. A smaller but still significant population came from France, the Netherlands, Greece, Bohemia, and Moravia. They even came from as far away as Norway. It was apparent now why so many were surprised when Agata told them she was traveling from Warsaw to the Kraków region. This was the pit of hell that anyone not gleefully carrying out Satan’s work wanted desperately to escape.
At first, she looked at every new arrival, expecting to find Elsa among them. Between arrivals, she was tasked with inspecting the Polish barracks and providing translation services as needed. She was rarely asked to translate, as the guards’ batons and pistols seemed to be the only interpreters they preferred.
Agata was standing in her usual spot, directing the arriving women into separate lines, when a surreal sensation came over her. She turned around slowly, her eyes wandering past the women as she continued to point to the lines. On the other side of the doctors, similar lines were being formed with arriving men, who were the first to be separated from their wives and loved ones. She scanned the men, though she knew it was improbable that her father would be among them. Instead, her eyes fell upon a young, fit man with tousled, sandy hair. He had been directed to a line comprised of younger, more athletic-looking men than was typical on the trains. Some were in uniform.
She stepped forward and narrowed her eyes in an attempt to see him more clearly. Agata had no doubt it was Piotr. Her initial impulse was to rush to him, fling her arms around him, and tell him that she would figure out a way to get him out of the camp. But that was foolishness and would only get them both killed. As the line was instructed to march further away from her, she knew they were going to the prisoner-of-war area. She didn’t know exactly where it was located, only that it was beyond the civilian men’s subcamps.
As she watched him walk away from her, he tilted his head and began to look behind him, as though he could sense her watching him. A guard instantly pounced on him, striking him with the butt of a rifle. He stumbled forward from the blow and immediately lowered his head toward the ground before regaining his balance and continuing with the rest of the men. It was a stance they were all to require of the prisoners: head lowered in submission, eyes on the ground.
A woman screamed behind Agata, and she turned to see Anke whipping a newly arrived prisoner with glee in her eyes. Then Anke abruptly shoved her face into Agata’s.
“What are you doing?” Anke yelled. Her eyes were crazed, and flecks of saliva flew from her mouth. “Get these Schwanz to their designated location. Stop staring at the men, or I’ll use this whip on you!”
Agata briskly stepped around her and began issuing orders to the women in their native Polish. Then, she made her way to the front of the line to escort them further into the depths of hell.
34
Matylda
The Armia Krajowa network was strained, yet miraculously, it managed to remain active and defiant. Along with Hank and Rafe, Matylda rarely spent more than one night at a single location. They left under the cover of darkness, often with a destination in mind that changed upon sighting a tank or soldiers in their desired direction. The result reminded her of chased rabbits, zigzagging this way and that, often circling back to a spot where they’d hidden days earlier.
In each encounter with others in the Home Guard, someone inevitably had been injured and required medical assistance. She tried to do what she could with her dwindling supplies to clean and stitch wounds or fashion a makeshift splint. Fevers were more difficult because she had nothing to give them, and sometimes, with a gentle shake of her head as she left, she conveyed to the others that the person was likely doomed.
They exchanged the latest news with everyone they met, building a mental picture of the shifting Axis and Allied lines. Later, Hank, Rafe, and Matylda would discuss how their current position fit into the rapidly changing map. They joined in with sabotage efforts, which frequently consisted of destroying train tracks, disrupting supplies from reaching the Germans, and leading Nazi units on goose chases to prevent them from fighting a larger battle against Polish soldiers. Their allegiance was not to the Allies or the approaching Soviet Army, but to the Polish Underground State, led by the Polish government in exile in London. Their ranks were still rumored to be somewhere between a quarter and a half a million, with some estimates even higher.
Matylda kept low to the ground as a train was derailed yet again. In earlier days of the war, the trains were guarded by Nazi soldiers, so they were forced to escape as soon as the explosives were planted. As the war dragged on, however, they discovered the trains were often manned only by the conductor and his assistants, as the soldiers were needed at the front, the war having devolved into one of attrition.
One member of the Armia Krajowa raised his rifle into the air, signaling that only two civilians manned the train. Hank, Rafe, and Matylda sprang forward, racing down the sloping terrain to the tracks to fling open the doors and recover boxes. They were only three among a hundred people raiding the train. None of them wasted time determining the contents. They fanned out to separate train cars, each likely to have different supplies than the others, and carried what they could to the spot where they had watched the derailment.
As they joined one another and redistributed their loot, two gunshots rang out and echoed in the still night air. Sometimes the conductor and assistants were German, and other times, Polish. Their nationality did not matter. If they were driving a train for the Nazis, they were the enemy, and the enemy was always killed. As they lugged their boxes to a prearranged hiding place, they knew there were two fewer enemies to drive those trains.
It took the better part of an hour to locate their hideout, a tunnel hidden deep in rugged underbrush. Unlike the Riese tunnel complex in southwestern Poland, which was so extensive that military leaders and perhaps Hitler himself were rumored to use it as a command center, this one was relatively short, having collapsed about a hundred feet inside. They would not have found it on their own, but were given the coordinates by other members of the Home Guard. Inside, they had found candles, blankets, cauldrons for cooking, and a hodgepodge of paraphernalia to help them survive.
They opened the boxes with the glee of children on Christmas morning. One box held rifles; after food, it was their most valuable asset, as it would be distributed throughout the Home Guard. Another box contained gifts from family members to Nazi soldiers serving in Poland. This would require opening every box individually. However, it was always worth the effort, as they always contained homemade food or delicacies. The third box included first aid supplies, which were routed to Matylda, and the fourth held rations. The larger portions of each box would remain in the tunnel for future Home Guard refugees and eventually make their way across Poland.
Conferring amongst themselves, they decided to open a few of the gift packages and make a meal of them, as they usually did not require cooking. They were happily opening the packages when a figure appeared in the tunnel entrance.
All three grabbed rifles from their stash.
“What the fuck?” Rafe shouted.
“I am a friend. I have a message for Matylda.”
