Florian's Gate

by T. Davis Bunn

  “One day a pair of prisoners escaped, and we were forced to stand in the square until they were found. Eighteen hours we stood there, in the dead of winter. Any time anyone fell, he was beaten and kicked to the point of death. Eventually the guards found the fugitives, and they were punished with the Standing Cells.”

  In the cellar were the Standing Cells, arrived at through a barred crawl-space perhaps two feet square. Four prisoners were crammed into a space three feet wide, three feet long, and four feet high. Those placed there for trying to escape, according to the sign above the first cell, were left to starve to death.

  “They had a crematorium already in operation. The prisoners knew about it, of course. Even I, as a sixteen-year-old boy, learned what was happening there beyond the wires. But many were already seeking a way to commit suicide. Many men threw themselves against the barbed-wire fence so the Germans would shoot and kill them. For many of the prisoners, death was preferable to an endless stay in this living hell.”

  Across from the Standing Cells was the first experimental gas chamber. Another chamber at the end of the cellar hall was the Death Cell, where prisoners were held before being placed inside the gas chamber. On one wall of this room, a prisoner awaiting death had carved the figure of Christ. Alexander stood there for a long time before turning and leading Jeffrey back upstairs.

  At the turning that led away from Block 10, the walkways and window ledges were filled with modern-day casualties of Auschwitz; men and women, boys and girls, knelt and wept and prayed or just stared with blank-faced blindness at the passers-by whose legs would still carry them. The eyes of those crippled by what they had witnessed resembled those of the prisoners whose photographs hung within.

  Alexander led him through the barracks dedicated to the Poles who died in Auschwitz and to the Polish war effort. He then turned down the path and led them out the gates to the main gas chamber and crematorium. They were located beyond the camp’s perimeter fences in a smaller enclosure all their own. The entrance was a stone-walled path leading into the side of an earth-walled bunker.

  The death chamber was a tomb of concrete, where 800 prisoners were gassed at a time. The next chamber held row after row of curved brick furnaces. Candles and flowers were strewn in the long metal trays used to pass in the bodies and bring out the ashes.

  A guide standing beside Jeffrey told his group that the Nazis would notify the families of Poles who had been killed, saying that the relative had passed on of a heart attack, and that his or her remains could be collected upon making a payment. Whenever anyone appeared with the money, they would shovel up a boxful of ashes from whomever had just been incinerated.

  Alexander led Jeffrey out into the bright sunlight and back to where their car and driver waited. The narrative continued as his softly droning voice kept them company on the journey back to Cracow.

  “As soon as my mother learned of my arrest, she began seeking my release. My father was one of the commanders of the Polish forces fighting under General Anders, in the Polish Second Corps under British command, and my mother remained in Cracow all alone. Someone told her to go to the Gestapo headquarters, and time and again she went and pleaded with anyone who would listen to tell her news of her son. She was repeatedly thrown out on the street, just tossed out the door and down the stairs like refuse. But she kept returning.

  “Then someone else told her that there was a German lawyer with connections. If she could get her hands on a thousand zloty, he would help her. So my mother sold her rings and went to this German; he took my name and promised he would do what he could. To this day, I don’t know exactly who it was that in the end worked out my release. I don’t know how many people my mother spoke to and pleaded with. But I do know that there was a commandant of the Polish police, a good friend of my father’s from before the war. He had the responsibility of supervising Polish police in all of Poland under German military command. My mother went to him and pleaded for his help. But whoever helped her never admitted it, and so I have never been able to thank the one responsible for my release. But somehow, somehow, toward the end of January 1941, I was released from Auschwitz.

  “That morning, as we gathered in the square, a German called out several numbers, mine being one of them. We were ordered to report to the Schreibstube, some kind of office. The head Gestapo, the chief Auschwitz commandant, made a little speech to us, which was translated by a Polish count who was also a prisoner there with us. It was a patriotic German speech, saying how lucky we were to live in these days and watch the rise of the German empire. Then we were ordered never to tell anyone anything of what we had witnessed inside the camp. If we ever did speak of it, we were told, we would be returned to Auschwitz immediately, and there would be no release for us except death. Then he ordered us to go, and to do well in the great new empire of Adolf Hitler.

  “Five of us were released, and with typical German efficiency, they gave us back the very same clothes we had arrived in. Upon my capture in August I had been wearing a thin shirt, no jacket, white pants and sandals. Now it was mid-winter, with snow on the ground, and very, very cold. I was allowed nothing but these same summer clothes.

  “Two Gestapo men took us to the Auschwitz train station and bought us our tickets. While we were waiting for the train to leave, a girl of perhaps eighteen or nineteen came up and took off her beret and said to me, ‘Please take this so that your head won’t grow cold.’ We were still shaved, you know, and from our starved looks everyone could see we had just come from the camp.

  “So the Gestapo put us in a third-class train compartment and stood there waiting for the train to leave. Then up came another attractive young lady. She spoke to the Gestapo in a very sweet voice, taking the button of one of their long leather coats and twisting it as she tried to persuade them. Finally he snapped, aber schnell, make it fast, and she rushed away. Five minutes later she came back with a huge package and shoved it through the train window to us, then turned and walked away. In this package were sausages and fresh bread and butter, everything.

  “Eventually the train departed, and as we were sitting there and eating, a German officer came walking by our compartment. He opened the door and asked where we were coming from. He was a soldier, so we did as he ordered and told him that we had just left the Auschwitz camp. He stood there a moment, then asked if we would like to have a pack of cigarettes. He just handed them over, this German officer in uniform.

  “We had to change trains soon after that, at the border between Germany and the General Government, or GG as it was known then. The German officer went into the waiting room and chased out the Germans—this was in Silesia, so the people there were mostly German. He came back and told us to go inside and lie down and rest. While we were lying there, he went inside and brought back big glasses of beer.

  “By that time we had finished the food the lady had given us, and in the train restaurant there was a display of some really appetizing sausages. We were still extremely hungry. We searched our pockets and came up with forty-eight pfennigs between us. The price of a sausage was four marks and something. But we were moving into the GG area, where the zloty was the official currency, so I took the money and went to ask if we could get maybe a little slice with it while we could still spend it. An old lady was tending the counter. I laid down my small coppers and asked if I could please have a little something for this money. She stood there and looked at me, and looked at me. Finally she said, ‘Yes, sir, right away.’ And she gave me four kilos of sausage. Mind you, this was during wartime rationing. That was how bad my appearance was after leaving Auschwitz.”

  The car pulled up in front of their hotel. Jeffrey got out, rushed around, and helped his friend get out. Alexander stood very slowly, raised his eyes to the heavens, and blinked several times.

  “Can I help you to your room?”

  Alexander lowered his gaze to the pavement at his feet. “No thank you, my boy. It is time to face the fact that I am alone. It cannot be put off
any longer.”

  With that he turned and climbed the stairs and disappeared through the doors.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jeffrey was already awake when Alexander called him shortly after six the next morning. “I am sorry, Jeffrey. My attack of memories has become most severe. I fear staying here in Poland just now would only make matters worse.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yes, I thought you would. I am catching a flight in two hours and leaving you here in charge. I shall return to London and assist your young lady in running our shop. Please call when you can. Until later, then. Goodbye.”

  * * *

  When Jeffrey climbed to the second floor landing, Gregor was waiting for him with a bulky sweater wrapped around his shoulders, his eyes full of concern. “My dear boy, are you all right?”

  Jeffrey rubbed a tired hand down his face. “I didn’t sleep so well last night. I think I’ve inherited Alexander’s voices.”

  “Yes, we all have the night whispers from time to time. It is the price of being human.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “It was some day.”

  “I am sure it was. Alexander stopped by this morning and explained his departure. I told him that it was no doubt the best thing to do, and that we would get along fine here together.” Gregor turned and limped heavily into his apartment. His movements were much stiffer than usual. “Where are my manners? Come in, Jeffrey. Come in.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “It is simply another attack. I have long since learned to accept the complaints of this cantankerous body. I will be fine in a day or so. Sit down here and tell me everything.”

  Jeffrey did as he was told. Gregor stood above him, silent and still, save for occasionally pulling the sweater closer around his chest, consumed by the act of listening.

  “Poor Alexander,” Gregor sighed, once Jeffrey was finished. “If only he would not insist on carrying that burden alone.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “I keep wishing I had known what to say.”

  “In cases such as this, it is sometimes best to say nothing at all. To listen from the heart, without judgment, without impatience, is sometimes the greatest gift one can give.” He turned toward the alcove and winced at the sudden movement. “Would you like a glass of coffee before we go?”

  “Okay, thanks. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “As I said, I have these attacks from time to time. The nicest thing about them is that they pass. I don’t suppose you would object to using Alexander’s car and driver this morning? I don’t believe I would be able to drive.”

  “That would be great.”

  “I thought you would approve. Tomek has promised to come by as soon as he sees Alexander off. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  Gregor moved into his alcove. “In times like this, I often find that words of my own can do nothing at all. What Alexander needs more than my words in his ear is the Holy Spirit speaking to his heart. Perhaps sympathetic listening will help him to quieten enough to hear that stiller voice speaking deep within. I can hope, at least. And pray.”

  Jeffrey thought back over the day. “It was incredible how caught up Alexander was in remembering,” he said. “All his life he’s tried to put the Auschwitz experience behind him, but when he was walking around with me, it was the most real thing in his entire existence.”

  Gregor pushed the curtain aside. “These experiences were so great, so powerful, that at times other aspects of life dim to unimportance. For some poor souls, the experience leaves the rest of life caught in shadows. All life carries the grayness caused by that which they can not overcome.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “I don’t see how anybody could ever leave something like that behind.”

  “Perhaps you can’t,” Gregor agreed. “I resent these people who rest in the comfort of their faith and say with smug glibness that if only a person in pain would believe a bit more strongly, or pray a little more, the Lord would heal their every wound. I know too many devout believers who remain crippled by their pasts to ever agree with such nonsense. No, all I can say for certain is that the Lord has promised us a peace that surpasses all understanding. Even in the midst of our suffering, this peace is promised us. Peace for now, salvation forever.”

  Jeffrey felt the rising up of his own old shadows. “How can you have peace in the middle of suffering?”

  Gregor set a glass of coffee down at Jeffrey’s elbow. “Better you should ask how a man might have peace at all in this world, my boy. Now you let that sit until the grounds have settled to the bottom of the glass.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “About how to find peace? Of course not. Such understanding can only come through experience, not an exercise of the mind.” Gregor pulled over a straight-backed chair, settled himself, went on. “There was another survivor of Auschwitz, a man by the name of Father Bloknicki. Before the Nazi invasion, Bloknicki was an atheist, a philosophy professor. Like a lot of Polish intelligentsia, he was declared a threat to the new German state and shipped off to a concentration camp. Once in Auschwitz, Bloknicki looked around himself and realized that intelligence or education made no difference whatsoever as to the presence or lack of evil in a man. He spoke German, and he discovered that many of the officers and even some of the enlisted men were intelligent, well-educated people. And yet here they were, making it their life’s work to foster evil.

  “Bloknicki decided that there had to be an underlying concept of morality. There had to be something behind life, something that granted man a choice and gave him both strength and purpose. There had to be a God. Then and there, in the horrors of a factory of death, he gave his life to Christ.

  “By a clerical error—or miracle, whichever you prefer—Bloknicki was released long before the end of the war. He did the only thing a man of God knew to do in the Poland of that time—he became a priest. He first started working with alcoholics, and was imprisoned once again, this time by the Communists, because of his success in both curing and converting the addicted men.

  “While in prison this second time, he received a vision from God as to how to work with young people. He was to involve lay people, utilize the Scriptures, and foster an atmosphere of communal prayer and Bible study. He began as soon as he was released, and enlisted the help and the support of many other local priests. Then he came into contact with several Protestant mission groups and asked them to help as well. This was a most unusual request. The government, some of the Protestant mission boards in the West, and the Polish church hierarchy began to oppose him. But still he went on.

  “By the seventies, this little group of believers had become what is now known as the Oasis, the largest mission organization operating in all Poland. They would arrange to come into a medium-sized village for a fifteen-day revival and prayer retreat, and literally take over every square inch of available space. They would usually have with them thirty or forty thousand students. They slept in primitive farmhouses or makeshift tents, and held their classes in barns. By the time martial law was declared in the eighties, over a million young people had taken part in these revivals.”

  Gregor sipped at his coffee. “Even in the darkest of hours, people have a choice. They can turn toward self, or they can turn toward God. They can turn toward hate, or they can turn toward forgiveness and love.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “I just don’t understand how you can have such confidence in your faith after all you and your family have been through. Where is the assurance for Alexander when he comes out of the concentration camp and finds his sister imprisoned and beaten to death? Where is God when your country has been occupied and your people imprisoned and tortured and murdered?”

  Jeffrey ran half-clenched fingers through his hair. “I don’t see how you can praise God and then turn around and see the misery and the poverty and the pain that surrounds you everywhere.”

  Gregor’s kind, tired, patient eyes shone with an other
-worldly light. “Has there been such pain in your own life, Jeffrey?”

  “Not like this. What has happened here is a lot worse than anything I’ve ever gone through. But it doesn’t make what I’ve known any less real for me.”

  “No, of course it doesn’t. That was not what I asked.”

  “I know. It’s just that I feel a little silly talking about my own problems when I’m surrounded by things I couldn’t even imagine before coming to Poland.”

  “Pain is pain,” Gregor replied simply.

  “It seems to me you’re trying to avoid my question by talking about something inside my life.”

  “The world is such a big place,” Gregor replied in his own mild way. “Greater men than I have spent lifetimes discussing your questions. I’m afraid my little mind is only able to deal with such things one person at a time. I only asked you, my young friend, because I hoped to help you find an answer for your own life, if such an answer is indeed needed. I will leave it to you to find answers for the rest of the world.”

  Defeated by the man’s calm honesty, Jeffrey stretched back in his chair and replied, “Then the answer is yes.”

  “I see. And did you turn to God and ask Him to end the pain?”

  Jeffrey nodded glumly.

  “And He did not reply.”

  “Not a word,” he replied bitterly.

  “You and Alexander have more in common than you realize,” Gregor said.

  The door buzzer sounded. Gregor cast aside his blanket, reached for a well-patched sweater hanging by the door, slipped it on, and pocketed a small book from his shelf. “That will be our driver. We have an appointment in less than an hour. We can discuss this as we drive.”

  * * *

  Gregor said nothing more until he had made his way to the car, walking like a boat passing through heavy seas. The effort of motion required all of his attention. Tomek helped him settle in the backseat, nodded a solemn greeting to Jeffrey, started the car and headed them out of town.