The Shadowboxer (31 page)

The other cooks had just wakened and were dressing in the darkness and leaving to prepare the morning meal when Spangler climbed into his bunk and fell asleep.

A huge hand seized him by the neck. Spangler grabbed at fingers. The grip could not be broken. He was dragged slowly to the edge of the bed and his head forced around. He stared helplessly into Vassili's massive face. The flaming eyes bulged. Thick lips moved against Spangler's ear.

“Jean-Claude,” came the almost inaudible rasp, “Jean-Claude … has … killed himself.”

Spangler gazed paralyzed at the giant.

Vassili nodded sadly. “Killed himself … to protect you, … stupid bastard.”

The trembling started slowly, then quickly mounted out of control. Tears flooded Spangler's eyes. A deep agonizing moan rose in his throat, but was silenced as Vassili's other hand clamped on his mouth. The giant's grip held tight as Spangler's body heaved and thrashed. It was many minutes before the torment eased.

The powerful hand moved from the mouth, lowered below bunk level, returned a moment later to press a cold gun barrel against Spangler's brow. “Now come, … stupid bastard.… Time to make you a hero.”

“Who are you?” Spangler finally managed to ask.

“Stupid bastard,” the laugh-cough spit out sardonically, “I am … the one … who could have helped you. Now come.”

The massive hand tightened around Spangler's neck and jerked forward. Spangler crashed to the floor. He was lifted to his feet by the back of his head. Vassili draped a weakening arm around his shoulder.

“Now … walk me … walk me out,” he rasped, and he slid the gun down under his tunic until it hit Spangler's ribs.

The back door pushed open. Step by step they made their way out into the darkness of the paradeground. The cooks saw them and rushed from the kitchen.

“Tell them …” Vassili breathed out, “tell them—go back.”

Spangler shouted over his shoulder. The crowd stopped, stepped back a pace or two, then waited.

Spangler walked the listing hulk farther out into the night. The roll-call area lay behind, a fence fifteen paces ahead.

“Far enough,” came the rasp.

Spangler stopped.

Vassili pushed himself free, staggered to keep his balance, kept the gun hand in his tunic and raised the other in a fist. “Fight … fight me.”

“You can't even stand,” Spangler objected.

“Stupid … stupid bastard—they all watch … they all watch us.” The body rocked forward slightly. “Now hit … hit me.”

Vassili lunged ineffectually. Spangler tapped him lightly on the chest. The giant fell past and slammed to the ground. He rolled slowly over, raised himself weakly to all fours and finally back to his feet.

“Stupid bastard …” He hissed as he swayed, “they watch. Give them … what is wanted. Hit me … hard.”

Again he reeled forward. Spangler had meant the punch to graze the brow. Vassili had moved his head intentionally. It caught him full face.

“Good.… Good.…” He struggled and slowly managed to right himself. “Good, stupid bastard. Once again.… Again—harder.”

Spangler glanced back. The shadowy cluster of cooks stood motionless at the far end of the field. Vassili stumbled into him from the back and spun to the earth. Again he raised himself.

“Stupid bastard—give them … their show.”

The pathetic ritual continued. Vassili attacked unsteadily. Spangler tried to avoid hurting him. Strength finally gave out. The fading giant could rise no higher than his knees. “Now … hit … again … and drag me … over there.”

Spangler blanched.

“Stupid … stupid bastard, … don't worry—you murdered me many days ago … murdered the only one … who could help. Hit—drag me by foot …” The gun pointed from under the tunic.

Spangler threw a light punch. Vassili sprawled on the frozen ground. Spangler seized his foot. He pulled him toward the wire. Fence guards who had been watching the fight from a distance moved even farther away. The cooks, however, had moved forward and now formed a ragged line in the middle of the field.

“Sit me … sit me up … and let me fall against it,” Vassili said, bringing out the gun and handing it to Spangler.

“There's no power,” Spangler said desperately. “The electricity goes off during the blackout. Come on. I'll take you back. We've given them enough of an exhibition for one night.”

“Sit me up against it. I—I can wait.”

“No.”

“Stupid bastard—would you have me die
their
way?”

Spangler stiffened, then studied the pleading face. He moved forward, raised Vassili to a sitting position and leaned his back against the fence.

Vassili's quaking arm reached out, draped around Spangler's neck and coaxed him forward. “I … I am not SD … Kuprov—I am Kuprov.… Russian … espionage.… I know who you are.… They don't … not yet.” The former chief of Russian Counterespionage, Second Sector, smiled bitterly and coughed out a laugh. “You … you get out of here.… Get out on your own.… Don't trust—keep away from Klempf escape.… Keep away from all of them.… Something behind it … don't know what … but all wrong.… Locker—look behind locker in cave.… See for self.”

Kuprov blinked and tried to focus on Spangler. His eyes were beginning to cross. “Stupid bastard.… Do me a favor sometime—pay little Schleebund back for me.”

Spangler stood up and glanced to the east. Dawn was near. The black out would soon be ending. Electricity would be restored. He considered momentarily and then moved to shield Kuprov with his body so the others in the distance could not see. His fist shot out. Only the head fell unconscious to the side. Kuprov's massive torso remained sitting upright against the wire.

54

Spangler replaced Anvil in the bunker for the afternoon shift. He set the alarm clock and went to Kuprov's locker. A small cubicle had been dug behind it and in it were an SS uniform, a Luger and a long roll of paper tied in red string. Spangler brought out the paper, slid off the binding, and spread out the sheets on the table. He knew at a glance that Kuprov had somehow come across official maps of Auschwitz, Birkenau, the Buno camp five miles away and seven smaller subcamps, as well as a chart of the exterior defense lines.

Spangler began studying the Birkenau map. The sheet showed the official guard deployment and schedule for day and night assignments. Kuprov had already begun marking the disparities. Spangler was quick to realize the rest. Almost nothing he had seen in guard numbers and positons since his arrival at Birkenau corresponded to the official arrangement. In the six weeks since this map had been issued, camp security had been reduced by almost a half and the area assignments completely altered. In and around their own compound the guards had been cut to one-fourth the official number.

The alarm clock rang.

“… after a thirty-six-hour battle,” the voice from Prague boomed out, “the German surrender was total and unconditional. Russian officers have already guaranteed that we may continue broadcasting to all of you just as before. We can come out into the sunlight. We are free. Prague is free! Long live Prague!

“On other fronts the Russian advances …”

Music began to rise above the announcer's voice. Again the lyrics were in English.

“… night is clear,

And the bombardier

Drops a bomb that's wired for sound,

How I yearn

To return

With my head in the clouds

To the girl I left on the ground.”

Spangler quickly switched to the Cracow band.

“Hey there, Tex,” a voice said in English, “did you notice anything unusual about that stranger that's been in town the last week or so?”

“Which one?” a second voice asked.

“You know, the fellow with the big white horse? Notice anything queer about him?”

“Nope. Can't say that I did. What's there to notice?”

“Well, he was wearing a mask, that's what.”

“Say, you know something? Now that you mention it, he
was!
”

The hoofbeats of a galloping horse were heard in the background. So were strains from the William Tell Overture. The hoofbeats grew softer.

“Come on, Silver,” someone in the obvious distance called out with stentorian confidence. “Let's go, big fellow. Hi-ho, Silver! Away!”

The William Tell Overture rose to a finale as Spangler switched back to Prague.

“… then add the beetroots and let the mixture come to a boil,” a familiar woman's voice was saying in German. “If you prefer a darker shade, a teaspoonful of soot can be added. Once the garment is immersed …”

Spangler again tried Cracow. Instead he heard:

“Who's that little chatterbox?

The one with curly auburn locks?

Whom do you see?

It's Little Orphan Annie!

She and Sandy make a …”

The volume decreased as Spangler heard the noise overhead. He scooped up the maps, returned them to their hiding place and pushed the locker back just as the feet started down the ladder.

“What's the news?” Tolan asked, reaching the floor.

“The Russians have taken Prague.”

“What about Cracow?”

“I don't know.”

“Can't you get Cracow?”

“I get the wavelength, but something keeps drifting in on it. On Prague as well.”

“We have to find out about Cracow,” Tolan insisted. “The whole escape depends on that. We plan to go out tomorrow night if the Russians keep their present position or move forward. If they retreat we must go tonight.”

“Are we ready to go tonight?”

“Not really. But if the Russians are thrown back we'll have to. The nearer they are to us the better our chances of reaching them.”

Tolan fiddled with the radio and turned up the volume. Cracow was off the air. The dial turned to Prague. Prague also was not sending.

“They'll be on again in fifteen minutes,” Spangler offered.

“Where were the Russians the last you heard?”

“Anvil said the battle was still raging fifteen miles beyond Cracow, and that's all anyone knew.”

Tolan thought. “We can't take chances,” he finally concluded. He handed a list to Spangler. “These people will have to be silenced before we leave. Each of us will have to finish five of them. Take your pick.”

Spangler read the names. All the Habes were included. So were three apprentice cooks.

“Why?”

“We can take out only a hundred and twenty among all the groups. That means eliminating some of our own. Now pick your five.”

“Why am I going out rather than the others?”

“I like you.”

“I don't like you.”

“Then put it in these terms: if you hadn't beaten Vassili, he would be in charge—and making up that list you're holding. In that case, my name would have been first. So I'm meeting a good turn with a good turn. Pick your five.”

“I won't kill anyone.”

“We must each pick five. That's an order.”

“I took care of Vassili and that's it, order or no order.”

Tolan hesitated, then turned and climbed the ladder.

Spangler brought out Kuprov's Birkenau map. He studied the official deployment and schedules of the guards at the railroad sidings and marked in the positions and numbers he had personally witnessed in the last few days. The force he had seen was one-third the indicated requirement. Their stations and patrol routes were nothing like those on the map. Had official specifications been met, escape along the track could not have even been considered. Under present conditions it was the most logical route.

He unrolled the chart of the outer-guard defense positions around Auschwitz-Birkenau as the alarm clock rang.

Spangler switched on the set. Prague was not sending. He moved to the Cracow band.

“… a third column is believed to have moved up from Nowy Sacz to complete the pincer,” the voice said in Polish as heavy fire thundered in the background. “If this should be the case the Russians would find themselves trapped outside Cracow. German reinforcements and material are moving up quickly for this decisive battle. Whether the Russians will hold their ground and fight or whether they will begin their retreat is still not known.…”

55

All through the late afternoon and early evening squadron after squadron of Luftwaffe fighter-bombers roared over Birkenau toward the northeast. The blue dimout was in effect as of sundown. Reports from the radio bunker described the battle of Cracow. German losses were staggering, the destruction was devastating.

Two air alarms were sounded at Birkenau within an hour's time span. On both occasions the camp was pitched into total darkness.

The Bourse began operation at 9
P.M.
Forty-five minutes later a subcook burst in from his post at the radio. The German retreat from Cracow had begun.

Kapos began drifting out of the barracks. Tolan ordered the cook back to the radio room and then began organizing his own men. The three apprentice cooks whose names Spangler had seen on the list were told to assemble the Habes in the kitchen. The remaining cooks and the compound Kapos were assigned times to leave for the rendezvous. The subcooks picked up knives, clubs and garroting wire and headed for the kitchen.

Spangler went out alone through the compound gate. The guard stopped him. He had forgotten to wear his armband. He returned to the barracks, tied the white cloth to his upper arm and started out again. He crossed the road, showed his pass at the Canada gate, was passed through and made his way toward the Finishing School.

A line had already formed along a row of tables. Escape uniforms and provisions were being issued. A special table was set aside for the escaping SS. Arms were stretched across and a red-hot iron smoked into the flesh to burn off the double-lightning SS tattoo. Both the Kapos and the SS were changing into escape uniforms. Personal identification papers were thrown into a pile, doused with kerosene and lighted.