Beneath the Universe
By Jennifer Gaskill Miller
Copyright 2014
Helpful Terms:
1.) Obermsturmfuhrer: Equivalent to 1st Lieutenant
2.) Sturmbannfuhrer: Equivalent to Major
3.) Oberschutze: Equivalent to Private First Class
4.) Scharfuhrer: Equivalent to Staff Sergeant
5.) Kepi: a cap
6.) Kapo: a prisoner assigned to administrative and supervisory tasks
7.) Lebensborn center: Nazi breeding homes
CHAPTER 1
January 1941
Blaz
It was a smell that would stay in his nostrils for days. If he had to put a word to it, it would be evil. Yes, the smell of all those burning dispensable . . . pure evil. But he inhaled the stench with vigor, knowing that once the air was clear Europe would be just a little cleaner, too. He winced as the searchlight swept his face and turned away towards the blazing pit, trying to keep from flinching against the smoke as it plumed above the bodies, a devouring monster of black and grey.
These were his least favorite days of the job; the burning days. He would know one was coming before the order even came. He could see it in their eyes. Like horses sensing a storm the inmates would turn skittish, their violet rimmed eyes wide with the fever of fear. They could see it coming, clairvoyant in a place where no one wants to know what happens next. It was one of many unnatural things about them that made Blaz’s skin crawl. Another was the rotten smell of their bodies as they were consumed in the pit. Burnt flesh was never a pleasant smell, but tolerable at least. He had first experienced its sick aroma at the burial of one of the officers at the SS training facility. It had been a Viking burial; the body cremated in the Nordic tradition of their ancestors as the young men and women watched in reverence. The smell had been strong at first as the hair and skin bubbled and turned to ash, but soon smelled no different from the meat they cooked for supper.
With these things it was different. On burning days the guards were holding their breath from dawn until midnight. At least he could stand it, unlike some of the younger officers.
Dieter was practically retching beside him, his blonde hair arching over his head as he doubled over. Dieter was new to the camp, fresh from Vienna. His papers must have been rushed because he hadn’t cut his hair yet. It wasn’t so long as to be beyond regulation, but enough that it irritated Blaz. Dieter was half bent over his rifle, the straight blond mop swaying as he heaved. He was young but was given the desirable post of Obersturmfuhrer[1]. Blaz didn’t know exactly what the man child had done to receive such a rank after so short a time in service, but he was certain it had more to do with family connections than actual achievement. Dieter was tall and slim, with long, thin muscles that gave him the appearance of a giraffe. He was still not used to the sounds and smells of the camp and had not ceased complaining since the first day he arrived. Of course, he never wanted it to sound like complaining, that would be weak. The one thing he and Blaz had in common was that neither wished to appear weak. Although in Blaz’ case he did not wish to be weak either. But Dieter would complain about the stupidity of the prisoners and the long and arduous tasks given the soldiers because of their existence. He was a bully, throwing his father’s reputation in front of him as if it were his own and ever creating opportunities to harm and humiliate guards as well as inmates.
Blaz remembered Dieter’s arrival. He had been at his desk as the car pulled up beneath his window delivering Dieter and one other officer. Dieter had been required to surrender the front seat to the higher rank and was conspicuously ill from the car ride. He had stepped out of the vehicle and was trying to walk a steady line when an inmate happened by, a load of shovels balanced precariously in his arms. The other new officer, Petrik, growled contemptuously at the inmate, forcing the creature to stumble backwards and into Dieter who could no longer contain his sickness and vomited. The prisoner could have ran, but stood terrified. When Dieter had wiped his mouth he righted himself and took a practiced series of deep breaths. Then he drew his pistol, turned and shot the prisoner. Blaz had ignored it at the time but brought it up later in his office.
“What is written above the entrance gate?” Blaz had asked as he tried to get comfortable in his leather chair which was stiff from the cold.
“Work makes one free,” Dieter replied, intentionally not addressing his superior officer.
“It is important that the prisoners believe that. Understand that I will not tolerate summary executions. Start shooting on a whim and we lose order. The Jews especially are fond of hope. Let them have it. I have enough to deal with without having to worry about an uprising. Is that clear?”
“Sir, if he hadn’t bumped into me I could have made it inside without humiliation. First impressions are everything. I can’t have the other men thinking badly of me.”
“I understand not wanting to exhibit weakness. But as soldiers we support one another. Those men are your brothers.”
“I have brothers, sir. Brotherhood is the most vicious relationship of all. It depends on how they see me, particularly those under my command.”
“Ah, yes,” Blaz mocked aloud. “Your command. However did you achieve such an honor? Valor on the battlefield?”
Dieter laughed a snide little giggle that made Blaz dig his fingers into the arm of his chair.
“No, Sturmbannfuhrer[2]. My last superior and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye.”
“So you were sent here instead.”
“I wasn’t sent anywhere. I chose to be here. I can go anywhere I want. And I think you ought to know that my last commanding officer no longer commands anything.”
“Do not confuse my patience for this conversation as acceptance for your bullying. I don’t care what happened at your last post. You are here now and you are under my command.” Blaz paused, studying Dieter. “Don’t ever threaten me again.”
Dieter nodded curtly and pursed his thin lips. He turned towards the door but stopped as if a thought had just occurred to him. Clearly it was something he had done many times and in Blaz’s mind probably rehearsed in front of his mirror to get the condescending look just right.
“Do you know who my father is?”
There it was; the trump card he knew Dieter would try to play at some point. Blaz hadn’t expected it to be so soon but he had been ready for it.
“Yes I do. But you’re not him. Quit trying so hard to steal your father’s wings. You don’t know how to use them.” Dieter laughed again.
“I suppose you’re going to warn me about flying too close to the sun?”
“I can tell you that you’re flying dangerously close right now.”
Dieter was still smirking, but the corners of his mouth twitched and Blaz hoped that he had put the boy in his place if even momentarily. That was the end of their first conversation.
It was clear neither man liked the other, but equally obvious was the fact that neither could do anything about it. Blaz was the senior officer, but Dieter was protected by his family. So Blaz learned to live with the Giraffe, sharing the camp with as much enthusiasm as a lion shares the Serengeti.
At the pit the smoke was starting to thin out and the air was getting stiff. It was time to stop for the night. Blaz motioned for a pair of Oberschutze[3] to stay by the pit. They took their machine guns and walked in opposite directions, circling the hole like a pair of schoolyard bullies, poised to jump into the mass of ashen corpses and shoot anything that moved. Burnt bodies weren’t usually a problem. When simply shot and buried, survivors would try to play dead and wait for a chance to escape, even if movement was difficult as the dying writhed and their limbs settled and locked. But when fire was involved a
nyone trying to hide among the dead was consumed by the flames. Nevertheless, Blaz believed that caution must always be exercised.
He tossed his cigarette into the pit and looked up at the stars. They were barely visible when viewed from camp. Besides the residual smoke, the bright security lights along the perimeter gave off too much glare. But Blaz thought he could see Orion’s Belt. Absentmindedly, he folded his hands over his own belt and thought of his name. Blaz, “unwavering protector.” He was as Orion in the stars. Unwavering. Protecting. It was nights like this that he felt such a sense of accomplishment, such deep humility to be included in the changing of the world. He glanced at the soldiers circling the pit once more, then turned on his heel and headed to his house. As he walked away he overheard one boy teasing the other, something about ghosts and demon Jews.
He shared the house with three other officers besides Dieter. One was called Agner. He was the shortest of the officers, but made up for his lack in stature with his ferocity. Blaz thought of him as the camp bulldog. He was mean and slow and tended to growl during supper. But he did his job and stayed out of the way. Then there was Claus. He was the perfect Aryan. Tall, strong, blonde and he spoke such crisp, perfect German. It was easy to tell Claus loved his language above all others, even though he spoke half a dozen. He was grammatically irreproachable and spoke carefully, as if every word was being written in a heavenly book of judgment. He was calm and steady. If Blaz had anything delicate to accomplish he knew he could count on Claus.
Finally, there was Emil. He was nicknamed “The Shepherd.” Although he attended every Pagan celebration and embraced the rituals of the Reich with all the fervor of the sacrament, he was a devout Christian. Blaz had read the Bible, like many of the SS. But no one’s knowledge of scripture even compared to that of Emil’s. He looked very much like Blaz’s father. Slim around the waist and short in the legs, but broad in the chest and shoulders. He looked like a soldier, but was too meek for some of the things expected of him. Blaz often wondered why Emil had become an SS man. He seemed pained by the simplest responsibilities and Blaz had even heard him sobbing on more than one occasion when he prayed alone in his room.
They each had their own room, but Blaz was the only one with a private bath. Unfortunately for him it was accessible by a second door in the hallway and Blaz was constantly catching the others using his toilet and sink. They would blush and bow, backing out of the room while they jerked on their trousers, and he would usually give them a little glare that sent them tripping over themselves. It was unoccupied when he entered tonight, though. He washed his face and hands without removing his coat and the water soaked the edge of the black sleeves giving them a bold sheen to contrast the dull wool. Obsidian against coal. He could practically feel the stink of the pit, like an extra layer of clothing. But thinking of the bath made him smell soap and the memory of soap made him think of Giselle. So instead of drawing the bath he went to his desk and took out the stationary with his title and the eagle insignia of the SS and began to write.
My Darling Giselle,
He stopped. This happened every time he tried to write to his wife. He was consumed with grief, as if he had lost her. Rather, as if he had been lost and now wrote from the grave. He could not tell her what he was doing, at least not the specifics. He knew if she could only understand she would be proud of him. Giselle was not a child but Blaz didn’t know if she really knew what was required to create the world they longed for. He cherished her female sensitivity. There were certain precious things that made a woman different and he was not a man to upend such gender diversity. He would not write about his work. But then what could he write?
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He pictured her face, her eyes, the way her hair curled around her ear and how she was always needlessly tucking it back. He remembered being fifteen, frustrated with the girls he was forced to endure and imagining how different his future wife would be. While other boys lived in the moment, Blaz had been one to look forward. Giselle was everything he had fantasized. She was strong and beautiful, disciplined but tender, a natural mother. She was the perfect choice to raise sons of Germany, if only they had been blessed by such a son.
His reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door. He sighed and shoved the unfinished letter into his desk. Opening the door, he saw it was Agner.
“We have a problem.”
Blaz sighed again, more dramatically so that Agner would know just how put out he was. He shrugged as if to say, After you, and taking his cap in hand followed him out the door.
The prisoners were lined up against the fence, backs to the wind. Blaz stalked along the shed, hidden from view, trying to put off what he knew must come. So many of the things that happened here happened because they must. He looked around the corner to see if he was being watched. Hesitation was unforgivable, at least it should be, but luckily no one noticed him. He leaned back against the shed, pressing the full length of his body against the stone cold wood. As a boy, he hiked through a forest to reach town. The trees he faced now seemed identical. Tall, white, and slender; they were perfect trees. Feeling in his pocket for a cigarette, he watched the steam puffing out his nostrils. As he inhaled, the cold hit the tender hairs in his nose sharply, sudden and stinging. No cigarettes.
He licked his lips and glanced around the corner again. The prisoner standing at the end of the line against the fence saw him, but said nothing. Instead he fearfully looked away, as if showing respect might save him. As if Blaz might be avoiding the line out of pity. It was not pity, not at all. It was the sound he had to bear. The hollow air after a gunshot was so painful, as if the silence had created a soundless tornado in that space for a moment that threatened to suck him into it.
Blaz finally pulled himself away from the wall and came into the yard. He acknowledged the other officers and took a clipboard from Emil. All eyes were on him as he read.
Earlier that day seven prisoners had been assigned to shovel gravel by the main gate. When visiting officials came, the ash mixed with the snow from the camp would spit out from beneath the tires and cover their shiny black cars. A complaint was probably made over dinner some night, an order was given and that afternoon two guards took the prisoners out by the gate to fix the problem. At some point one of the guards realized his pistol was missing. None of the prisoners on the detail would admit to taking it and none would give any information. If any of them were planning to stage a rebellion it was up to Blaz to put a stop to it. The Commandant had other things to attend to and had charged Blaz with keeping things under control while he was occupied. So here they all stood.
He finished reading, held out his hand for a pen, signed the report and handed the clipboard back to Emil. Delicate Emil. Blaz’ presence for the execution wasn’t necessary. He could have just as easily signed the report from his office, but Emil could never carry things out on his own. Blaz stood there for a moment, looking at his boots without really seeing them. He felt for the Shepherd, but the boy had to learn how to deal with things. Still, perhaps tonight wasn’t the time. Blaz was about to perform the execution himself when Claus happened past. Blaz motioned for him and showed him the report. Claus didn’t need any more explanation than that. Blaz nodded to Emil, gave him a reassuring pat on the arm and walked back to the shed. As he passed the prisoner who had caught him stalling, Blaz resisted an impulse to give him a nod. The prisoner looked down and Blaz kept walking. The shooting began before he had gone five steps and it was over by the time he reached the shed. He did not turn around.
When he was back in his room he saw the bathtub again. Yes, he would bathe after all. He was exhausted but he would never sleep if he didn’t wash off the smell of the pit and everything else he had done that day. The idea of the future was comforting but the way the present seeped into his skin was not.
He slipped the chain over the spout with his thumb and let the stopper fall naturally next to the drain. By the time the water was warm enough to start filling the
tub it would right itself and nestle into the copper hole. He put his kepi [4]on his bed next to his overcoat and jacket. His belt he wrapped in a loop and placed on top of his boots. The rest of his clothes he removed with less ceremony, leaving them in a heap where he stood. He reached up with one hand and rubbed his shoulder. The rough white scar on his palm itched as he kneaded his muscles. He looked at his hand and felt the scar with his index finger. Again he thought of his wife and when the wound had been fresh, wrapped hurriedly in white cloth as they said their wedding vows. He had stood next to her trying to listen to the words of the ceremony but thinking of their future. At the time he had imagined their home and her sewing loose buttons on his uniform. He thought of waking up beside her on gray mornings and whispering conspiratorially in her ear as they waited for a table at Gerome’s.
But mostly, he had imagined their future children. He pictured a crowded house on Christmas morning, full of sons all in matching pajamas that Giselle would sew for them as a special present. They would be tall with square jaws and strong legs and have the sweet smile of their mother.
But there were no sons.
The tub wasn’t full yet, but he got in anyway, wincing at the heat before succumbing to it. He sat forward, leaning against his thighs, his arms wrapped around his ankles like a child. Giselle used to have him sit like this so she could wash his neck and back. He let his forehead rest on his knees and closed his eyes. He thought of how often he closed his eyes on days like this, how heavily he breathed. He imagined the face of the prisoner from the line. He wondered if he had been shot first or last. It didn’t matter. He did feel a small twinge, though, had the man been shot last. It must be terrible, he thought, with Claus as executioner. His rhythm with weapons was as perfect as his speech. One could almost set music to it. For the first one shot, it was sudden, like a vaccination. There was no telling how many seconds between loading and impact. But to be last . . . that meant every shot ticked off like clicks on a metronome; tick, tick, tick, dead. But someone had to be last.
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