The Shadowboxer (28 page)

“Half a loaf of bread.”

“Just the six passes and we can forget the preserves?”

“A full loaf of bread, and that's my final offer,” Der Gronck said menacingly.

Erik Spangler was no longer a Jew.

46

They passed the last compound. A stretch of sixty snow-covered yards lay between it and the beginning of the “death-zone” trench before the exterior barbed wire. Spangler studied the concrete fence-posts topped by shielded lights as he moved along. The electrified wire was strung on both sides of the columns. He glanced up at the endless row of guardhouses. A sentinel stood on the deck of every third one. Spangler concluded that some guards must be pulled out during the daylight hours to form an outer perimeter around the labor battalions. At night when they returned, all the guardhouses would be manned.

Twenty feet beyond the towers ran a line of telephone poles. Spangler stared up at the sagging wires as two Ukrainian SS guards at the exterior fence checked the passes Der Gronck presented. Two lines were for the telephone, the other was electric. His eye followed the electric wire down to the switchboxes on each of the guard towers. No other feeder was visible. His search was interrupted when they were let through the gate.

Der Gronck led him around the officers' billets and into the mess hall. The sack was opened and the officers' cook was given fresh milk, eggs and butter. Payment was made in officers'-bordello passes.

The next stop was the enlisted men's dispensary. Der Gronck brought out syringes, sleeping pills and a medical kit. Passes to the enlisted men's bordello were given in return.

Spangler and Der Gronck skirted the SS headquarters building, passed behind the bus shelter, moved along a walk and went up to a billet with portico and blue awning.

The door opened on the second knock. The face was round, the cheeks exceedingly puffy and heavily rouged. Lipstick was smeared thickly around the mouth. The false eyelashes were tinted green, the eyelids painted with eye shadow. The eyebrows had been plucked completely and replaced by thick green grease arcs. The wig was composed of various hair textures. The boy couldn't have been much taller than four feet ten, not much older than eleven. The dress he wore was open at the bodice so the stuffed brassiere could be seen. The skirt dragged along the floor as he led Spangler and Der Gronck into the room.

Two other Bubels were seated on the floor. Both looked similar to the boy who had led them in. One carried a Teddy bear. The second ran a crayon aimlessly over a sheet of wrapping paper.

“Little beauties, aren't they?” the sergeant said, entering the room and taking the sack from Der Gronck.

“I see you staring,” the SS man said to Spangler. “Does this type of thing appeal to you? If so, take your pick.”

Spangler said nothing.

“What a pity! You'll never know what you're missing. You owe it to yourself to try. I can guarantee that these little puppies are cleaner than anything the houses have to offer. Are you sure you wouldn't like to taste one?”

“I'm sure.”

The sergeant reached for a bottle of schnapps, swallowed heavily and began unpacking the merchandise.

“Excellent, most excellent,” he uttered as he sorted through the garments. “Those Rumanians have a way with silk.”

The sergeant reached into his pocket, brought out a stack of bordello passes and began peeling them off to Der Gronck. “Fifteen more trains are due in from Hungary in the next three days,” he said, toying with a pair of tiny high-heeled shoes. “See if you can get me twenty-five more outfits just like these—but make the brassieres smaller.”

47

Kapos stepped forward and made their reports. The day's dead were being dragged forward through the ranks of rigid prisoners when the ground tremors struck. The movement was brief but distinct. A moment later a thud was heard in the distance, then two more. A few prisoners began to look around. They were brought back to attention by the SS officer. The earth undulated in five rapid spasms. The following explosions were closer and more severe. The SS officer was impervious. He moved forward and began examining the line of ailing prisoners as the next series of bombs struck. The ice crust cracked. Mud, water and dirt geysered from the earth and splattered his uniform. A second series of quakes drenched prisoners and guards alike. Sirens began wailing in the distance.

The prisoners bolted. The officer shouted orders. Guards and Kapos rushed forward with truncheons and rifles. The exterior lights dimmed off. Shots were fired. The panic seemed out of control, then it suddenly ebbed. Both the prisoners and the SS raised their heads skyward. The drone of engines reverberated through the night, and the dark silhouettes of aircraft crept forward just below the cloud cover. Antiaircraft guns could be heard firing from somewhere distant. A solitary prisoner forgot himself and raised a weak voice of approval. All the rest remained inanimate, faces pointed upward, watching, listening.

Tolan darted from the kitchen, grabbed Spangler's arm and dragged him around behind the building. They ducked into the potato shed. Tolan feverishly tore sacks away from the corner and pulled up a wooden trap door. Spangler descended the ladder after him.

The three storm lanterns were lit. Two shelves were spread along one wall of the dirt room. On the top shelf were a few small arms and some ammunition; on the bottom shelf rested three rifles.

Tolan rushed to the table and switched on the radio. Only static came from the speaker. A Kapo technician climbed down into the room and replaced Tolan at the set. Static still prevailed.

“What is it? What's the matter?” Tolan demanded.

“I don't know,” the operator replied. “I've been tinkering with it all day, and so far only two wavelengths have come in, Cracow and Prague, and they're very faint.”

“Well, get them!”

“I'm trying, but they drift. It's this damned machine. It's built all wrong—put together with spit and manure. Klempf cheated us good on this thing.”

The room vibrated violently. Dust and soil showered down. Muffled explosions were heard in the distance.

Spangler looked around. Four locked wooden cabinets leaned against a wall. The names on each were printed in chalk:
DER GRONCK, ANVIL, BRILLY, VASSILI
.

“Is that my locker?” Spangler asked, pointing to Vassili's cabinet.

“How can you care about that at a time like this?” Tolan snorted.

“If it's mine, I want to see what's in it.”

Tolan dug impatiently through his pockets, brought out a ring of keys, slid one off and threw it at Spangler.

Spangler snapped open the lock and pulled back the door. The top shelf was stacked high with bordello passes. A small box at the side contained uncanceled postage stamps. The second shelf was jammed with cut pieces of lead pipe, the kind used in constructing homemade truncheons. Canned foods and sacks of sugar filled the third shelf. Behind them Spangler found a wooden cigar box and flipped open the lid. It contained wristwatches.

Another explosion was heard outside. Minutes later Der Gronck descended the ladder. “Whose planes are they?” he asked.

“We don't know yet,” Tolan answered impatiently.

Again the underground room trembled from an explosion.

The speaker crackled. The volume was turned to maximum. “… beyond Lomza,” was barely audible in Polish.

“It's Cracow,” the operator yelled. “We have Cracow!”

“Other elements of the Russian attack have swept south below Warsaw and are reported to have crossed the Vistula at Deblin. To the south, Wehrmacht troops have been routed and the Russians have advanced from Rzeszów to KoÅ¡ice. SS Division Hermann Goering is believed to be moving into the area to lead a counteroffensive. Farther south, Russian units are believed to have circled the town of …” The voice faded into static.

The operator turned to the Prague wavelength. The voice was too weak to be audible.

“Get to the underground members,” Tolan ordered. “Tell them we must meet immediately. Tell them the Russian offensive has begun.”

Der Gronck scrambled out of the bunker. Spangler followed him as far as the barracks.

48

Despite the blackout the Bourse opened on schedule, with Tolan missing. Suppliers brought their goods, bargained somewhat abstractedly and left. The SS buyers did not appear, but the crowd of Kapos for the open trading was extraordinarily large.

Auctioning had barely begun when Anvil motioned Spangler away from the table and into the kitchen. “The underground is meeting in the back,” he whispered as he handed Spangler a Luger. “If any of them makes a move to signal somebody outside the building, shoot.” He opened the door and pushed Spangler through.

The cots and bunks had been pushed back to make more room. Tolan and fifteen Kapos whom Spangler had never seen before were speculating on the air attack. One had heard that the English had invaded Germany through Italy, another that the Russians had captured Berlin, yet another that Germany had made a separate armistice with the United States. One rumor claimed that Hitler was dead; a second that it was Stalin who had died. Intelligence about Birkenau itself seemed more reliable. Agents from the smelters reported that the stockpile of precious metals was being prepared for shipment. A field Kapo revealed that an extensive air alarm system was already being installed. An administration Kapo warned that more secret SS detachments were being deployed in a ring around Auschwitz-Birkenau.

Anvil appeared in the door and cautioned that the auction was nearing its end. The underground hastily agreed that no final action could be plotted until more hard information was available. Constant intercompound communication was agreed upon, and one by one the members began to drift back into the Bourse.

Spangler wandered out into the compound, crossed the roll-call area, strolled between the two rows of dark barracks and stopped at the edge of the death ditch just inside the south fence. He lit a cigarette and gazed out into the railroad yard. The SS had just finished inspecting the empty cars of an incoming shipment. Doors were sealed and the SS walked along as the train began backing up the track. As it moved, the ramp beyond became exposed. Only a fraction of the overhead lights were in use; even so, Spangler could see the last of the right-hand line marching off toward the chimneys. Many little girls wearing silk dresses were among the number.

The remaining ramp lights went off. Spangler moved along the edge of the death ditch, staring up at the fence. His eyes strained to follow the conduit from one concrete post to the next. He finally located the transfer box. He traced the feed line back over two insulators and out onto a telephone pole.

The flashlight beam blinded him.

“What are you doing here?” demanded a voice from the darkness beyond the fence.

“Having a cigarette. Want one?” Spangler replied in German.

“Why aren't you in your barracks? Everyone is supposed to be in their barracks.”

Spangler could see the rifle nervously pointing at him through the light beam.

“I'm a cook,” he explained. “A senior cook.” The guard hesitated and lowered his rifle.

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“… Yes.”

Spangler tossed the packet over the ditch and through the wire. The guard glanced right and left, stooped and picked it up. A match flared, momentarily illuminating the face under the steel helmet. The boy was seventeen at the most.

“Thank you,” he said, starting to throw back the packet.

“Keep them.”

The arm motion stopped. “Thank you.”

“Are you new? I don't remember seeing you before.”

“I am beginning my sixth night.”

“Is this your first camp?”

“Yes.”

“You'll get used to it.”

“… I hope so.”

Spangler lit another cigarette. “Why are the fence lights off?”

“I think they expect another air attack.”

Spangler strolled slowly along the ditch line. The guard kept pace on the other side of the fence. “Do they know who did the bombing earlier tonight?”

“The officers insist it was the Russians.”

“But you don't think so?”

“… No.”

“Why not?”

“I saw the silhouettes.”

“Didn't the others?”

“Silhouettes are easy to misread in a dark cloudy sky.”

“But you read them correctly?”

“I used to build models.”

“Whose aircraft do you think they were?”

“Luftwaffe. Junker Eighty-eights. I didn't know we had any left.”

Spangler reached the end of the compound, turned and started slowly back. The young guard kept abreast.

“Why would the Luftwaffe bomb us?”

“They didn't. Everything fell half a mile out in the forest.”

“Were they off course?”

“I don't think so. They were dropping delayed-action bombs. It's sometimes dangerous to land with them aboard. They were probably returning from an unsuccessful raid and jettisoning extra explosives.”

Spangler stopped. “Can I get you anything?”

“Get me anything?”

“From the Bourse. Do you need any merchandise? I understand your kitchen is short of milk. How would you like some fresh milk?”

“I was only drafted six weeks ago. They haven't paid me yet.”

“Don't worry, we'll work it out. When are you on again?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“I'll bring you fresh milk tomorrow night.”

“Thank you.”

Early the next morning Spangler took his first shift at the shortwave radio. His instructions were brief. All he had to do was turn on the set every fifteen minutes and dial the two wavelengths, one for Cracow, the other for Prague. He was told that neither station had come on since the previous day. He took this for a good omen—the Russians might already have captured Cracow and Prague. On the other hand, if they
had
taken Cracow, they could arrive at Birkenau any moment—and that wouldn't be so good.