Cimmerian: A Novel of the Holocaust (13 page)

The sound was dying inside the shower now. It dropped suddenly to a murmur then to nothing.

Eva.

“Good job,” Wolff barked before sending Peter to begin his shift with the SonderKommando behind the shower. Those working there had used the earlier delay to catch up. Max said he was glad to see him. “I'm dead on my feet.” He saw the joke after he said it and laughed a little. They were all going a bit crazy by then. “I think I have the ticket for us,”' he said. “Be ready to move out tomorrow. If his deal comes through we will dress in civies and make a break for it. I think even the damned officers will see the light by tomorrow. Wait for my word, right?”

He nodded.

“Good lad. Stick with Max. I will see you through this. Now for a beer and a last crack at the brothel. There is a bitch I picked out last week and if those Ukrainians haven’t spoiled her I'd like to get a piece before we take off.” He staggered away to the brothel.

Routine was what kept them going. Routine ran the world. The routine continued even as the Russian guns thundered nearby.

The bell sounded, the door popped open and the men began dragging the bodies out then along the path to the HimmelKommando and the crematorium.

One of the trustees pulled Eva out by her heels ten minutes later. Her mouth was locked wide open in a scream like all of them. Her eyes were wide open in terror. There was a film already over them. As her body bounced with the ground she looked exactly like a thousand other bodies he had seen. No different. In the end they all end up like this and someone drags them by their heels to their grave.

That night, towards midnight, Peter climbed into his bunk in his clothes. Though it had not been cold he was shivering. Kraas cried out in his sleep. Peter felt tears roll down his face until his pillow was wet as he shivered in the dark and waited for morning.

###

The stillness of the KZ and the silence of the Russian guns woke him with the dawn. Everything was as silent as any place he had ever known. In this gloomy valley with its perpetual mist and smoke, with the wall of ancient trees in the surrounding hills, the wind rarely stirred. But the KZ was a noisy place of gunshots and shouting, of slammed doors and Kommandos, barked orders and savage beatings, endless PA announcements and always the snarling, barking, vicious dogs with their lust for blood. In the background was always the throbbing of the generator that kept the fence alive.

This morning Peter could hear one of the guards turn softly in his bunk across the room. There were no sounds from the mess, no smell of breakfast either.

He found the gate to the KZ slightly ajar and could see guards scattered randomly near the electric fence standing quietly. There were no dogs. They were strangely quiet in their kennel. The generator was not running. There was no electricity, there was no water. A pall of smoke rose from behind the gas chamber but it was a thin column of after-burn lifting nearly straight into the mist.

Most shocking was the condition of the prisoners. There were no Kommandos. There were no orders being given. The kapos had vanished. The prisoners in their shabby pajamas stood in perfect stillness beside their Blocks, watching.

As a man starves his eyes appear to grow in size until, as he nears his final days of life, they appear as big as saucers. The prisoners formed a mass of people and it was the eyes staring lifelessly, without emotion that startled him most.

There was no anger or hate in these eyes, no curiosity or interest. There was just the unblinking staring, the occasional subtle shift in position, the patient waiting.

That was when Peter realized what was occurring. The prisoners were waiting for the Russians to come, waiting for the guards to flee. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen. The killing, the dying had stopped of its own at last. In its place was stillness -- and waiting.

One face in the standing mass stood out. Sol, the goldsmith. Somehow, against all the odds he was still alive.

There were no orders, no duty. There was no train whistle, no music, no screaming or snarling dogs. It was as if all the life had been drained at long last from this place. There was no energy for anything but the waiting.

Koch came up to Peter and asked if he had heard about the Kommandant yet. Koch was more than a little drunk. The day before, it seemed, Herr Kommandant Hoffmann had packed Frau Hoffmann in a car with the children and sent them away.

Peter had seen him briefly as he had walked the KZ, for what he now learned was the last time, with a pale countenance and awkward steps, his riding crop slapping half-heartedly against his boot. He gave no orders, expressed no opinions. In the corner of the KZ was a hut where he housed his mistress. Peter had only seen her a few times, in printed dresses or fur coat. She was a well-fed Polish Jew. She had been his mistress for two years. Koch said he escorted her like a couple on an evening stroll, with her arm in his, through the KZ to his cottage. An hour earlier Glauss had discovered the pair naked in bed, dead from poison.

The Wehrmacht had collapsed in this Sector. Rumor was that the Russians were now in the valley, their cannon silent as they advanced. There was no one to oppose them. Most of the officers had deserted during the night. Those of the guards left were too dumb to know enough to leave, too frightened to move, too confused to plan; men like the Ukrainians and kapos with nowhere to go, and those like Peter, incapable of real thought, beyond caring, too exhausted, too defeated, too empty and used to care or act.

By midmorning the sun had burned through the mist. An unusual light breeze had cleared the smoke from the dying fires. The day was the first real spring for them after a week or more of promise. The guards shed coats and unbuttoned tunics. The air was fresh, and for the first time in months Peter could not smell the smoke from burning flesh.

Max approached and flashed written orders. “Time to leave, boy, and not an hour too soon. The Mongols will be here in no time. This is the plan. I've gathered a half dozen prisoners with connections. These orders say get them to Berlin. They're good until we arrive. I've got us a lorry and enough petrol to get the hell out of here. We go until it is not working for us, ditch the prisoners, put on some civies I've got packed and join the civilian refugees. Then it’s every man for himself. No problem. Orders say four. I’ve got a spot for you even if you can’t pay for it like the others.”

Peter shook his head. “No.”

“Don't be a fool. This is the only chance you’ll get. There’s no other way. Go alone and anything can happen. Most likely the Russkies will get you. They'll be here soon enough. Then it's every guard to the wall.”

“I'm staying.”

“But why? What's the point? It's over.”

“Maybe ... because it is over.”

Max looked at Peter as if he were mad. He thought by then they all were. “All right. Have it your way. There's plenty of others.” A short time later Peter watched the lorry drive off down the road with Max and the others. Towards noon SS-Obersturmfuhrer Wolff, who Peter had thought long gone, dressed in a dapper civilian suit, drove off in the Kommandant's second car, a Mercedes Benz coupe. Why not? he thought.

The dogs were barking from their kennel. No one had fed or watered them. Well, good. Maybe no one would, ever again.

On one side of the KZ was a meadow. Peter had never been to it before. At the gate he dropped his gun and unfastened his harness. He removed his helmet and let it fall. It was warm. Uncle Hans. He wondered if he got his wish, with so many dying, he surely must have.

Uncle Hans had been right. It was spring with flowers and bees. Summer would follow. A spring and summer without war. He could not clearly remember a time like that. It had been war since he was thirteen years old.

During the night he had thought about his father's death and considered what Hans had said. He still could feel nothing at the loss. He had cried several times, but the tears flowed spontaneously, without emotion.

The memories coming to him now were not of his childhood, however. He was remembering the family he had killed , the people he had crammed into the shower, the endless, grotesque bodies he had dragged to the crematorium.

He had joined the SS, been assigned to this place, to save himself. Instead, he had been destroyed. He could no longer think clearly or make plans. He had suppressed all emotion for so long he was empty.

Eva was right. He was what he had become, just another Nazi brute. He had killed and raped. He had at times enjoyed it. There was nothing for him.

In saving himself he was destroyed. You cannot brutalize without becoming a brute, or murder without being a murderer.

Peter heard vehicles, then shouting followed by shots. On the other side of the KZ soldiers were approaching wearing the familiar Russian helmet. Guards sprinted from the KZ, forced into panicked action at last. A group ran towards Peter, making for the tree line behind him. They shed gear as they ran.

“Come on,” one shouted as they approached. “Russians!” He could see the dirty Russian veterans now clearly. They were approaching rapidly in scrimmage line. There were bursts of automatic fire, the measured shots of marksmen. One of the guards running by him fell with a bullet in his back. Peter instinctively bolted with the rest and was at the trees in a few seconds. Two more of the guards fell. The one who had first called out to him shouted something incoherent again as the survivors vanished into the trees.

Peter had stopped at the tree line and turned to face the Russians. They were at the edge of the meadow now. He had unbuttoned his tunic to his waist earlier and in the running it had fallen open. He stood motionless and waited.

About ten meters from him a very young Russian, no more than seventeen, took aim with his Tommy gun and let loose a burst. The impact was like a heavy blow to Peter’s chest. He looked down and saw blood at once.

He dropped to his knees. The Russians ran past him and let loose a volley into the trees. It was as if the air had been knocked from him. He tried to stay on his knees but pitched forward into the new spring grass. Russians gathered around him like hunters crowing over a newly killed deer. One was asking if he should finish him off. An older voice said he was already finished. There was some laughter, some bragging, a quick shout of orders, and boots tramped off. Peter could feel the sensation through the ground quite distinctly.

The grass was a bright green. Blades were right at his eyes. He had trouble focusing. The smell of the grass and of the earth under it was pungent. He struggled to breathe so he could get a last smell of the grass and earth.

There was a yellow flower only a few inches away but already it was a blur. He tried to focus on it but could not manage.

There was a moment’s panic as Peter realized he could not get air. He felt no pain, no bodily sensation at all. He perceived an arm was caught awkwardly under him but he could not feel it.

A dirty, well-worn boot blotted the flower. It was precisely located where his eyes focused and he could see it quite clearly. The boot needed cleaning badly. Peter opened his mouth to tell the soldier that, that his boot needed cleaning.