Padlocked, page 32
The calmness that Agata had felt outside felt like strong arms enveloping her. A sensation like hot liquid coursed through her body, and she became acutely aware of her baton in its holster. Without taking her eyes off Anke, she knew exactly where the other woman’s baton was positioned, as well as a loaded pistol Anke always wore.
“You are wrong,” Agata stated flatly. Her voice surprised her, sounding powerful and confident as it echoed in the vast, empty hall. She raised her chin in defiance.
“Others will determine whether that is the case,” Anke hissed. “You will be tried.” Her lips curved into a wicked smile, and her eyes remained cold-blooded and icy. “And executed if found guilty. Of course, you will be punished long before you are transported to trial.” She half-turned toward a clipboard on a table.
Agata slipped her hand around her baton and held onto it as if her life depended upon it, which she was sure it did. As Anke half-turned, she raised the baton and, with both hands, slung it against the other woman’s head. Blood burst forward, spraying the pristine, white wall.
To her astonishment, Anke did not lose her footing. She turned toward Agata with the strange expression still on her face, as if it was frozen in time. As her hand went to her pistol, Agata leapt forward, pummeling the woman with the baton still held in both her hands. As Anke began to withdraw the gun from its holster, Agata hurled the baton against it, causing it to ricochet off the wall and slide along the floor.
Agata knew that Elfriede must have heard the scuffle. She knew that every second counted. She was determined now to bash Anke’s head in, and she went after her like a madwoman. She no longer saw the hallway, even as she assaulted Anke against one wall and then the other. She no longer felt the energy presence of a line of women only a few yards down the hall and around the corner.
Yet, Elfriede did not come to Anke’s aid. No one did. It was only Agata and Anke in hand-to-hand combat, as Anke tried unsuccessfully to wrench the baton from Agata’s hands. Anke’s hands were bloodied as Agata remained transfixed on them. She would not allow the woman to reach any weapon.
They came to be locked against the wall, Anke pinned against it as Agata held her there. The woman was strong to the point of seeming superhuman, and the slightest bit of doubt began to encroach on Agata’s thoughts. God help me, she thought as she struggled against her. Anke’s eyes held no fear at all but a strange fascination with the unfolding events, which further unnerved Agata.
Anke moved an inch along the wall, forcing Agata to remain with her. Perhaps she intended to reach the corner where she would receive reinforcement. She opened her mouth, and Agata, her hands and arms still locked with Anke’s, butted her head full force against her teeth. Anke’s call for help became a warbled, bloody wheeze as her front teeth flew across the floor.
The wall was interrupted by a door jamb. Anke’s face was bloodied now, and Agata could feel blood rushing down her own face, though the adrenaline had prevented her from feeling the brunt of Anke’s blows. A moment later, she lost her grip on Anke as she reached the open doorway. As Anke stumbled backward to regain her footing, Agata grabbed the door handle and slammed the door shut.
Agata tried to lock the door, but it had no lock. She realized it could not be opened from the inside, only from the hallway. Their eyes met through a glass window in the door. Anke’s expression had turned to horror as she stared back.
A movement to her left startled Agata, and she whirled around with her baton in her hand. The line of prisoners had been ordered to move up, and now the end of the hall was filling with them. The ones in the front had seen the combat playing out between Agata and Anke. They stood completely still, some trying to hide their naked bodies.
Agata returned her baton to her hip. Her eyes searched the surrounding area. She didn’t have to look far before finding something that looked like a breaker near the door. As she reached for it, Anke’s face was plastered against the glass. Her lips were moving frantically as if she were begging, but Agata could not hear her. It took both hands to pull up the breaker. There was a slight hissing sound.
Agata backed away from the breaker and the door. Through the glass, she could see Anke rushing around the room as if trying to find a way out. She kept low to the floor, perhaps knowing the gas would escape through ceiling fixtures into the room below.
She pulled the baton from her hip as she started down the hallway, fully expecting to encounter Elfriede. She wasn’t sure if she could fight another woman as strong and determined as Anke. Her strength was already ebbing.
One of the prisoners was frantically pointing to something on the ground behind her, and Agata whirled around, expecting another foe. Instead, her eyes landed on Anke’s pistol. She hurried back, grabbed the gun, and moved forward. “Run!” she called out. “Tell everyone to run and hide. Get as far away from here as you can!”
She turned the corner with the gun drawn, but Elfriede was gone. The line was falling apart as the women were breaking up. They could not run, Agata realized. They were too weak and too infirm. And there was still a male guard on the other side of the building. It would only be a matter of time before he discovered what had transpired. As bloody as Agata was, anyone with half a brain could quickly identify who had shoved Anke to her death.
As she exited the building, she stopped short. The camp was filled with men, and they were all shouting orders in Russian. Her knees threatened to give way, and she grabbed onto the side of the building to steady herself. In the blink of an eye, she could no longer see the prisoners as scores of soldiers came between them. Several had their eyes on her, fixing her with a stare as though she was now their prey.
And, she realized, in her camp guard uniform, she was.
44
Hank
January 27 was a blustery day. A thaw the day before had resulted in refreezing overnight, and the top layer of snow was blown off the sidewalks and streets, leaving only ice. Hank and Rafe slipped and slid as they made their way to a building taken over by the Red Army. Thankful to find heat as they came through the large double doors, they made their way down the hall to a briefing room.
Misha rapped on a podium. As Hank and Rafe took their seats among Soviet soldiers, he announced, “Quiet, everyone. When we leave here, we will drive in a convoy to Auschwitz-Birkenau, a prisoner camp just outside the city limits.”
The buzz stopped as he pointed to a photograph that had been mounted on the wall behind him. “This is an aerial shot of Auschwitz-Birkenau, taken yesterday. As you can see, it consists of rows of barracks; each row is the equivalent of a dozen or more city blocks. We’ve labeled the rows on the photograph here, and each of you will be assigned to clearing out a specified area. We are looking primarily for Nazi soldiers, guards, or associated personnel, some of whom might attempt to hide or identify themselves as prisoners. If in doubt, consider them as prisoners of war.”
Misha pointed to a large courtyard near the front gate. “Bring all Nazis to this point after disarming them. We will have trucks lined up to accept all weapons. At least two soldiers should frisk each Nazi, regardless of age or gender. Recon has informed us that the Nazis have sent children as young as ten years old to the front. You may find some here working.”
There was a murmur of disgust at children fighting. “The children have been radicalized, so don’t let them fool you. We’ve been informed they are more likely to shoot to the death than the adults, so remain vigilant.” He used a pointer to identify specific buildings. “Other teams will fan out to these buildings. Recon informs us that some are administrative buildings and factories. Our sources also tell us there is a medical complex, latrines, and back here—” he pointed to what appeared to be a heap of rubble “—the enemy has been blasting whatever was housed here. Only industrial chimneys remain there. Assume they have mined the camp.”
An older man with a weathered face raised his hand. “Is that why it appears to be deserted? Have the Nazis abandoned it?”
“Yes and no. We have been informed that thousands of prisoners were confined here. Most of them were Poles and Jews, so expect to see something similar to what you’ve all witnessed in the Jewish Ghettos. However, as the Red Army has advanced, our recon tells us that most of the prisoners were marched out of the camp or placed on trains, presumably for other camps scattered around southern Poland, such as Świętochłowice and Siemianowice. The Red Army will round them up; it is only a matter of time.”
He referred to a piece of paper before continuing, “A few days ago, more than two thousand prisoners were placed on trains. For reasons unknown to us at this time, they were ordered off the trains in a rural area. Those too sick to disembark were killed with machine guns. Some who were left behind to die of their wounds were assisted by local residents. What this means to you—expect the Nazis to kill any remaining prisoners. Any that remain should be brought to this courtyard. Units there will separate them from the Nazis. There will also be a large contingent of medical personnel on hand.”
“Do we know how many might be at Auschwitz-Birkenau?” another asked.
Misha took a deep breath. “They estimate roughly seven thousand.”
“Seven thousand?” A murmur went up. “Seven thousand, after evacuation?”
“That’s right, and our sources tell us that the remaining soldiers or guards may be going from one building to the next, shooting all those who are left. So, time is of the essence. A few things before you go: prepare for a stench of dead bodies worse than any battlefield.” Misha pointed to an area where the detail was blurred, possibly due to the reconnaissance aircraft's speed. “These are pits. We have been told they are filled with murdered prisoners. Also,” he continued as if he didn’t want to dwell on that aspect, “those who remain might be starving. This isn’t a hard and fast rule, but our recon tells us that if someone is of normal weight, they are likely a Nazi. Any questions?”
As hands went up, Hank raised his camera and took a picture of the room with the photograph of Auschwitz in the background. As the men began to break up, he rose and walked to the wall as he studied the layout.
“Why do I feel as though we are going into the gates of hell?” Rafe asked as he stood beside him.
“If what you’ve been quoting all these years is any indication, we’ve been in hell all along.”
“See that?” He pointed to the industrial chimneys. “Those are furnaces. Big-ass furnaces.”
“Men,” Misha said as he came to stand beside them, “I have special instructions for you both. We want as many photographs as you can take. If this means returning there for days or weeks, so be it. The entire camp must be documented. We also need photographs of every person—”
“All seven thousand?” Hank breathed.
“All seven thousand. You must understand that for every prisoner we free, a family is looking for them. You’ll find paper and markers in an office down the hall.” He glanced up with a half-wave toward a soldier in the back of the room. “Sergeant Novikov will take you there and make sure you have all you need. Have each prisoner write their name, date of birth, and place of origin, and hold it in front of them for the picture.”
“We’ll need an entire truck filled with paper if we find seven thousand there.”
“You’ll have it. There will be other photographers there, and at least one videographer, so your area is here, these blocks.” He pointed to two rows of barracks-style buildings. “At the most, you may find a thousand prisoners there. Sergeant Novikov will remain with you, so if you become overwhelmed, he will radio to us, and we’ll bring in assistance.”
“And if we find someone who needs medical assistance?” Rafe asked.
“The sergeant will radio us. We have teams of medical personnel arriving—doctors, field nurses, and supplies. They will triage and treat the wounded or ill.” Misha hesitated. “Men, you’ve seen battle before.”
“We’re pretty battle-hardened,” Rafe offered.
“Well, we’re told this could still be a shock. These won’t be soldiers captured in battle. These are civilians—women and children, old men, the feeble. Put your emotional armor on, because you’ll have to work through any conditions you find there.”
“You can count on us,” Hank said.
“Your pictures—and those taken by the others—will be provided to all the Allied nations, including America.” He took a deep breath. “Very well, then. Get moving.”
Before Hank and Rafe reached the doorway, Sergeant Novikov had already moved into the hall and was marching briskly down the hall. As they hurried to catch up, Hank felt a heavy weight descending on him. He had been to battlefields before, covered the atrocities at Guernica, and photographed Poles massacred outside their villages. Yet, something was gnawing at him. He glanced at Rafe as they rushed into the supply room, where reams of paper awaited them. Rafe felt it, too. Hank could tell by his darkened eyes, furrowed brows, and pursed lips. This would be a day they would never forget, and something told him that the world would never forget it, either.
45
Max
It was nearly 3:00 in the afternoon before a convoy of Soviet vehicles made its way to the camp. There had been sporadic fighting in the area surrounding Auschwitz-Birkenau, but it was unclear to Max who was doing the fighting, as the Nazis had retreated before the Red Army’s advance.
Max rode with the 322nd Rifle Division. It was the first time he had ventured this close to the camp, as he’d made it a practice to keep his distance. It gave him plausible deniability, as he could always claim that he only filled personnel vacancies and had no idea what was occurring in the camp. That was true, to an extent, as he heard figures and anecdotal stories each night in the bars, but he had never witnessed the brutality himself.
Now, he could use that plausible deniability to try to save himself from a Siberian prison camp.
He was astounded at what he witnessed. The guards who customarily remained in the towers overlooking every foot of the camp were all gone, and a chain that had been locked across the gates was removed; the gates were thrown open. Hundreds of walking skeletons were in the courtyard. Those with enough spirit left cheered as the Soviets lined up their vehicles outside the fence. Others helped to carry those who could not walk. Several buildings had been destroyed, presumably by the Nazis, before they fled and were still smoldering.
A military officer, Sergey Zaytsev, arrived at Max’s vehicle as soon as it pulled to a stop behind the others. “Max Kursell?” he asked in Polish.
“Yes,” Max answered.
“Come with me.” He opened the door for Max and led him through the wide gates. They moved past hundreds of prisoners who watched them with growing curiosity. They stopped in front of a group of Soviet soldiers who were using bandanas to cover their noses and mouths. Sergey handed one to Max. “It is up to you whether you use it, but we have been warned there is disease in the camp—typhus, tuberculosis, dysentery, to name a few. Do not touch anyone. They carry lice and skin diseases.”
Max accepted the bandana, disgusted that he would be exposed to such an array of germs. He hastily tied the material around his face, but it kept slipping, which further annoyed him.
Sergey pointed toward a group of people with medical armbands. As he continued, he slipped back and forth between Russian and Polish while providing instructions to the group. “The doctors and staff are taking care of everyone, but it will take a while and a lot of personnel. In the meantime, you may be asked for food or water. Do not provide anything.”
Max thought he saw the slightest tear in the man’s eyes as he continued. He wondered why, as he shouldn’t have known anyone there. It occurred to him that Felka might be there, but he still couldn’t muster a tear over it. An idea popped into his head; if Felka was there and he reunited with her, it would prove that he had been an unwilling pawn during the Nazi occupation. Then again, he thought, his mother might say something that would ruin everything. It was far better to hope she didn’t see him there at all.
Sergey continued speaking, and Max tried to concentrate on his orders. “The doctors tell us that in their condition, random food can kill them. They will all be removed to medical facilities, where they will be properly fed and nursed back to health... those that survive,” he added. “Do you understand?”
Max nodded along with the others. No one else was dressed in civilian clothes as he was. They were all soldiers and lower-level soldiers at that. He puffed out his chest. He had been important with both the Polish and German armies; the least they could have done was team him up with higher-level officers.
“Several groups are searching for camp personnel who may attempt to hide among the incarcerated,” Sergey continued.
Max’s heart dropped when he realized he wasn’t the only one, and he wondered who else had turned allegiances.
“Our group has been assigned a specific area. Come with me.” Sergey led them several blocks away, which was more exercise than Max had encountered in ages. They stopped in front of a series of buildings. “Our job is to go through every building on both sides and all the way to that far corner, there.” He pointed to an area in which prisoners had gathered to watch them. “Identify every person. Every building must be emptied. Max, you are to identify any Nazis or Nazi sympathizers. They will be arrested and brought to a designated area in the courtyard.” When he turned to Max, his face hardened. “Do not attempt to escape. If you do, my orders are to shoot to kill. If you encounter a Nazi sympathizer and fail to identify them, your fate will be the same as theirs. Am I understood?” With the last words, Sergey almost seemed to grow in height as he towered over him.
A chill began in Max’s toes and moved upward to the top of his head. “I understand,” he managed to respond.
Before Sergey could continue, a ruckus began about fifty yards away. Several prisoners in striped, grimy uniforms had surrounded another person and were pummeling him. Max and the others in his group moved toward the crowd. Sergey abruptly stopped his charges, raising his arm to prevent them from gathering closer as they discovered the victim was a male guard. The prisoners had managed to disarm him and were using his weapons, consisting of a whip, a cat-o'-nine tails, and a baton, against him. He must have been three times heftier than any of the prisoners, and yet, the onslaught was ferocious enough to keep him doubled over as he vainly tried to shield himself.
