Beneath the Universe

by Jennifer Gaskill Miller

  He watched her and she knew he was waiting for some sign that she understood and would let it go. But she didn’t know how to give him that, so she just kept staring at his shirt buttons.

  “Come with me.” He stood and waited for Cora to get up. She smoothed the dolls hair once more before setting it on the table. As she stood, she started to reach for his hand as she did with her mother but he had already turned away so she simply followed him into the yard and watched him take a shovel out of the garden shed.

  “Go get them,” he commanded.

  Cora went back to the kitchen where her mother already had them in the saucepot. She took it by the handle cradling it close to her, looking down at the squirming bald mice as she carried them to their executioner. They were so tiny, she thought. So small and pink and their eyes weren’t even open. How could they be dangerous? Of course, Cora knew they would grow, but if she kept them in a cage, what would be the harm? Her father had said no, though. Well, he hadn’t actually said no, but he was upset and had more to say about them than Cora had ever heard him say before, at least to her. He had noticed her, earnestly trying to tell her something. She looked at him. He was waiting beside the shed, wielding the shovel in his hands like an axe. She was suddenly very afraid of him.

  “Papa,” she pleaded. He sighed deeply. He was tired and Cora knew he wanted to get it over with and go back inside for supper. But she couldn’t make her feet move her any closer to that shovel.

  “For heaven’s sake, Cora, stop thinking of them as a family of pets! They are vermin. They are not cuddly. They are dangerous. We must do this.”

  He kept saying they must, as if it were a task designed especially for them, a quest set forth by the Almighty. Cora wondered then why God would give them such a task. Why would he create mice at all if they weren’t meant to live?

  “But why, Papa? Why would God make them if we were supposed to kill them?”

  He was stunned for a moment. Cora was surprised herself. She didn’t usually argue and she was suddenly afraid that he might use the shovel on her. But he sighed again and looked up at the night sky. He thought for a long time before he said anything. When he did finally speak, Cora had the feeling he was talking to someone else.

  “I do not pretend to understand the workings of God. Why can’t my wife give me a son? Why does anything happen?” He stopped for a moment and looked right at her. He didn’t look angry. She could almost reach what he was trying to explain to her and she wished she were a grownup and could grasp it, could please him with her understanding. She tried to make her face seem older. She straightened her knees and lifted her neck. She tried to widen her eyes. Maybe if her eyes were bigger she would look like she knew something, like she was wise and completely in tune with him. But he looked away again, frustrated and uncomfortable.

  “If someone came into our home and tried to hurt you and the only way I could protect you was to kill that person, you wouldn’t be asking questions. But God makes bad people, doesn’t he? He creates the innocent and the guilty, the good and the evil. He made Christians and Jews. This world is not perfect. It should be, but it isn’t. God didn’t make it that way.”

  Cora thought about this. She tried to remember what she’d learned about the world in Sunday school. When they talked about the Creation they didn’t talk about evil, only the good things like trees and animals and stars. Why wouldn’t God make the world the way He wanted it to be? When her mother made a meal she did it the way she wanted, adding salt or leaving out an herb she didn’t care for. If Cora drew a picture she erased her mistakes and wasn’t finished until her creation was what she wanted it to be.

  “Is it because He’s not finished?”

  Blaz considered this idea. Cora watched him roll it around in his mind.

  “It’s because He wants us to make it perfect. If we came into a perfect world what would be the point? We are challenged and we make sacrifices and we live the best we know how. We live to prove our worth. Do not think of these mice as creatures we have to kill. Think of them as a lesson from God. Can you do that? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  She shuddered and looked into the pot again. She swallowed the threat of her tears and looked up into her father’s steely gaze.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  She wanted to run back inside, into the warm kitchen and the light. She wanted to hide her face in her mother’s apron and be held by someone who didn’t require her to kill or to understand anything, but she stayed. She stayed to please him, to prove to her father that she could be brave like him. She held out the pot for him. He didn’t take it. He stepped back and held out his hand, waiting for her to dump them out. As she tipped the pot the mice fell in a heap onto the grass.

  She did not understand, didn’t want to understand. But she hoped he would keep talking to her. It made her feel close to him, seen. He did not ask her to step back, though she did anyway. The shovel rose up into the night sky and came down in one swift motion. For some reason, Cora thought she would hear a lightning crack or thunder bolt. But the sound was soft, a quiet thud on the ground. She didn’t hear bones cracking or the mice squealing. When he lifted the shovel, Cora made herself look. They didn’t look that different than when they were alive. They were still tiny and pink. They weren’t squirming now and there was blood, but it was an easier sight to see than what she expected. One of the mice twitched, though, then another. The shovel came down again and again. When the flat blade came away, the pile was stuck together. Mice mash, Cora thought. The ball of mash collapsed slowly, the little bodies falling apart and away from each other. She hadn’t flinched. It was over and she hadn’t flinched. Blaz wiped the blade on the grass and put it back in the shed.

  “Good girl,” he told her before going back inside. Cora stayed for a moment, engrossed in the mice. She squatted close to them, tempted to poke them with something. She was about to use her finger but found the idea repulsive. She didn’t want blood on her hands.

  She looked around the yard and saw the woodpile. Next to the chopping block were all sizes of wood bits. She picked up a long, thin one and went back to the mice. With the sharp end she skewered one and lifted it, turning it over as she examined the arms and feet, the miniscule head and the wrinkled body. There was a little blood coming out of its mouth and something black and putrid leaked from its crushed stomach. She flung it back onto the pile. Then she found a larger, flat piece of wood and used her thin one to scoop them, as if onto a plate. One by one she balanced them on the end of her stick and arranged them in a line. Their lifeless bodies wobbled as she carried them to the scrap heap and unceremoniously dumped them out.

  Back inside she washed her hands and then went to the dining room to set the table. Her parents were talking in the kitchen. A thought occurred to her.

  “Papa?” She asked him.

  “What is it?” He called back.

  “Maybe we should set a trap to kill the other mice.”

  “I’ll take care of it after supper.”

  “Papa?”

  “Yes,” his voice was strained, anticipating more questions.

  “May I do it?”

  CHAPTER 3

  October 1941

  Blaz

  A grey sky yawned above the camp like a dirty canvas tent. The palette of Mauthausen was changing, subtle but it was there. The summer had yielded greens and pinks and violets so vivid one could photograph any garden or street in town and turn it into a postcard. By mid August the greens turned to gold and then faded to orange absorbing the light and water until they were a passionate, lip-stained red. But the fever of autumn never lasted long. Like a young romance it took away the very breath of the countryside then cooled without warning. The apricots shriveled and finches that had sung all spring and summer started to vanish one by one. Blaz licked his lips and knew that fall was fading already. The months passing, however constant, were never a guarantee of a change in the weather. But he could feel it in the air, in the tiny cr
acks in his lips as they dried and the way his nose itched, teased by the new fragrance of impending winter storms.

  He tugged one shirtsleeve into place at his wrist exposing the starched white beneath the fierce black of his uniform. Ideal uniforms for an ideal faction, they were designed by theater companies, dramatic and vibrant. Blaz loved the smart cut and strength of the adorning silver, turning men into veritable weapons. He appreciated the streamlined fit, contemporary corseting, that kept his men in constant remembrance of who they were by what they wore. And whether in town amidst vendors, cars and crowds or in the bland and pale camp they stood out.

  Claus walked beside him, wearing his own uniform with the same dignity as Blaz. Behind them Agner monitored the two prisoners towing a cart. They exited the main gate and turned off the road into the orchard where the late summer months brought pears, apples and apricots. All along the curve of the nearby Danube River villages grew their own trees and each proclaimed to have the best cider. Had Mauthausen been a pleasant village retreat they may have resorted to marketing their own ciders and jams. But for what it was it served as the most lucrative concentration site. So much so, in fact, that the kapos [5]were given special privileges including receipt of personal food packages from outside family members and since Himmler’s decree, the use of the brothel as well. Blaz had initially fought the order for the building of a brothel, especially considering that some of the inmates were there for prostitution. But the more “luxuries” made available to the kapos, the more cooperative they were and the less likely to break the rules. And of course the SS guards themselves were appeased and less likely to fall victim to the wiles of female prisoners. It still happened and when it did punishment was swift and absolute. But at least the prostitutes transferred from Ravensbruck had curbed the need for it. It was the cheapest security measure they had adopted.

  The orchard trees were bare now, creating long lines of pale trunks stripped by wandering deer. The deer also picked up most of the fallen fruit but here and there shriveled corpses of apples dotted the trail as Blaz and the others made their way along. Halfway down the row they found what they were looking for.

  Four skeletons hung from the branches of one of the trees, their dried remains twitching together in the breeze like a gruesome wind chime. Barely more than bones with brown, rotting skin sucked tight from dehydration, the bodies dangled half naked as the oversized clothing slipped off what were once hips and shoulders. Back in August these prisoners had been caught smuggling the fruit intended for shipment to military units. They could only carry a few each, but even that proved too obvious. They hugged the round and wobbly fruit to their cavernous bellies and Claus had noticed. At first it looked as though they suffered from hunger cramps. But when Claus grabbed one by the arm and raised it over his head the apples slipped from his loose shirt. Detecting the other thieves was easy then and the four men were hung from the same tree. It wasn’t a usual place for executions but was used as a warning to any more thieves. The problem was, much to the embarrassment of Claus, the hanging inmates were forgotten once they stopped harvesting. They may have eroded into oblivion had a vexed mayor not called claiming that some children from town had wandered into the orchard and seen the display. Claus came to Blaz with his mistake and, true to their friendship, Blaz set out immediately to oversee the removal of the bodies personally. It wasn’t like Claus to overlook anything and Blaz had the impression that the mistake had been someone else’s.

  “Take them down,” Blaz ordered. Claus motioned for the inmates with two fingers, not wanting to waste the German language on the inmates who couldn’t interpret it. The prisoners left the cart and hastened to where the ropes were wrapped around the trunk. In the interest of saving the rope necessary to reinforce the barrels when harvesting, only two ropes had been used, stretched around the tree and cast over opposing branches so that all four ends dangled. Blaz watched as the scrawny men tried to fight with the dried ropes that over the passing weeks had been rained on, wind beaten and frayed from the weight of the bodies scouring them against the bark. With little dexterity in their cold, bony fingers they struggled until, impatiently, Agner thrust one to the side and began his own attempt at untying them. Claus and Blaz exchanged stifled grins and finally Blaz stepped forward unsheathing his dagger and sliced both ropes against the trunk. The dangling corpses dropped swiftly onto the prisoners who had backed up beneath them. One was startled out of the way but the other grappled awkwardly, trying to catch a body as it fell only to have the brittle spine snap and collapse leaving him standing with only the upper half. Agner burst into guffaws and Blaz himself couldn’t hold back a small snort, but he gathered himself and glared purposefully at Agner who quickly composed his own laughter under Blaz’ gaze. The inmates collected the skeletons and loaded them piece by broken piece onto the cart. Blaz noticed something odd about the bones. They were more than porous; they were covered in dents, lines and chips.

  “Claus,” he motioned, removing a glove and pointing a finger at the striations. “What do you suppose that is?”

  “Birds, I think.”

  “Birds?”

  “I’ve seen it before. The crows can get very aggressive. They peck and claw away at the flesh and in places where there’s barely anything but skin over the bones they leave marks. Vicious little creatures, aren’t they?”

  “Vicious,” Blaz repeated the word as if trying to summon the meaning. “Alright,” he addressed Agner. “That’s that. Send word to the mayor the situation has been handled.”

  “What do I tell him, sir?” Agner asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  He shuffled a bit. “What do I tell him about the bodies?”

  Blaz exchanged a superior look with Claus. “You don’t have to tell him anything, Agner. He may be the mayor but he’s not one of us. Off you go.”

  “To the crematorium, sir?”

  “Take them up to the Parachute Wall. Let them serve out their purpose.”

  The guard nodded curtly and ordered the prisoners back onto the trail, carting the remains with them. The Parachute Wall, or Fallschirmspringerwand, was a high cliff face in the granite quarry. As additional prisoners transferred in more and more sub camps had to be built, but the demand for space was more than the guards could keep up with and it was necessary on occasion to deplete the population quickly. One of the ways they accomplished this was to take the quarry workers to the Wall and give them the choice of shoving the man in front off or being shoved off themselves. In their state of exhaustion after working the quarry it would often be a matter of who was healthier. It saved on bullets and was an odd little experiment in social behavior. One could see defiance at first, but when it came to their turn, it was bewildering how quickly a supposedly selfless group could turn on one another. Also interesting was that as soon as Blaz mentioned the Wall the two inmates pulling the cart seemed to move just a little faster and stand a little straighter.

  “Is there something you want to say, Claus?” Blaz asked, yanking his glove back on. He wondered if Claus would admit that it hadn’t been his fault.

  “I just wish they’d been taken down . . . before children saw them. That’s all.”

  Blaz nodded. “It’s unfortunate, but there’s no point pretending these things don’t exist. Children will inherit the country we build. They may as well know how we built it.”

  “Would you say that if it was your daughter who had seen them?”

  Blaz thought about it a moment. “She wouldn’t have understood it if she had.”

  In his office, Blaz found Aribert Heim waiting for him. While the man who recently came to Mauthausen and was already known to the inmates as Dr. Death did important research, some of his methods disturbed Blaz. He always felt uncomfortable as if he were being sized up.

  “Good afternoon, Doktor. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Good afternoon, Sturmbannfuhrer. I need to order more medical supplies.”

  “Doesn’t your office d
o that?” Blaz asked.

  “Under normal circumstances, but there are some new things I’d like to try and I have to have clearance. Silly, I know and I hate to bother you with it, but we have regulations for a reason. Am I right?”

  “Of course. So what is it you need? A different kind of anesthesia?”

  “No, no, we’re done with that. I hardly use it. Unnecessary I think and rather counter productive. I can document so much more without it.”

  “How’s that?” Blaz asked.

  “Well, I can research things such as, say organ dissection for example. Then I can research human responses to pain. Or I can do them both together. You see?”

  “I do. Very clever, Doktor.” Blaz hid the twinge in his stomach. “So what sort of supplies do you want?”

  “Well, I was thinking this would be a good opportunity to study various toxins. We don’t need much. If we inject directly into the heart and other organs, the reactions will be most interesting.”

  “What sort of toxins?”

  “Oh, the usual poisons I should think to start with. I’ve done water and petrol already. I’d like to try phenol and whatever you can order for me.”

  Blaz cleared his throat. “You know I support your work here, Dr. Heim. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to use the poisons you already have access to?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see the problem. I asked you for something and your response should be ‘Of course, Doktor. Whatever you need.’ Am I mistaken in expecting that?”

  “Doktor Heim, I’m not sure you understand my predicament. I’m not the person you would normally go to for such a request. My division has very limited funds, closely monitored funds, I might add. If I give the money to your efforts, I’m taking it from others.”