The Shadowboxer

by Behn, Noel;

  Spangler could see the rifle nervously pointing at him through the light beam.

  “I’m a cook,” he explained. “A senior cook.” The guard hesitated and lowered his rifle.

  “Would you like a cigarette?”

  “… Yes.”

  Spangler tossed the packet over the ditch and through the wire. The guard glanced right and left, stooped and picked it up. A match flared, momentarily illuminating the face under the steel helmet. The boy was seventeen at the most.

  “Thank you,” he said, starting to throw back the packet.

  “Keep them.”

  The arm motion stopped. “Thank you.”

  “Are you new? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

  “I am beginning my sixth night.”

  “Is this your first camp?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “… I hope so.”

  Spangler lit another cigarette. “Why are the fence lights off?”

  “I think they expect another air attack.”

  Spangler strolled slowly along the ditch line. The guard kept pace on the other side of the fence. “Do they know who did the bombing earlier tonight?”

  “The officers insist it was the Russians.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “… No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I saw the silhouettes.”

  “Didn’t the others?”

  “Silhouettes are easy to misread in a dark cloudy sky.”

  “But you read them correctly?”

  “I used to build models.”

  “Whose aircraft do you think they were?”

  “Luftwaffe. Junker Eighty-eights. I didn’t know we had any left.”

  Spangler reached the end of the compound, turned and started slowly back. The young guard kept abreast.

  “Why would the Luftwaffe bomb us?”

  “They didn’t. Everything fell half a mile out in the forest.”

  “Were they off course?”

  “I don’t think so. They were dropping delayed-action bombs. It’s sometimes dangerous to land with them aboard. They were probably returning from an unsuccessful raid and jettisoning extra explosives.”

  Spangler stopped. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Get me anything?”

  “From the Bourse. Do you need any merchandise? I understand your kitchen is short of milk. How would you like some fresh milk?”

  “I was only drafted six weeks ago. They haven’t paid me yet.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll work it out. When are you on again?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll bring you fresh milk tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you.”

  Early the next morning Spangler took his first shift at the shortwave radio. His instructions were brief. All he had to do was turn on the set every fifteen minutes and dial the two wavelengths, one for Cracow, the other for Prague. He was told that neither station had come on since the previous day. He took this for a good omen—the Russians might already have captured Cracow and Prague. On the other hand, if they had taken Cracow, they could arrive at Birkenau any moment—and that wouldn’t be so good.

  Spangler did not intend to rely on the Russians. He stayed at the set for three hours, formulating escape plans for himself and Jean-Claude. Whether Jean-Claude was at the Bugel or elsewhere was of no particular importance. The bordello passes gave Spangler mobility to search through the camp.

  He sketched out a map of the areas to be covered and carefully marked the paths of guard patrols and the distances between manned fence towers. He drew up alternate escape routes and outlined them. Whichever he finally decided upon, two things were certain: first, he would have to find civilian clothing to fit Jean-Claude; second, he would not even attempt to bring Tolan along.

  When Spangler returned to the barracks Der Gronck and one of the subcooks were bandaging their hands.

  “We have to fight again,” Der Gronck told Spangler grimly.

  “Just the two of you?” Spangler asked.

  “There will be more from other kitchens.”

  “Good luck.”

  There was no reply.

  Spangler entered the sleeping quarters and started to his bunk. Vassili lunged at him. Spangler sidestepped, and the giant crashed onto the floor. He tried to rise to his knees, but collapsed instead with a gurgle.

  “The underground is meeting,” Anvil yelled, bursting through the door. “They want you there.”

  “Why me?”

  “Who cares why when the meeting’s at the Finishing School!”

  49

  The Ukrainian SS guard pulled back the gate. Anvil and Spangler entered the sprawling Canada complex and walked briskly up the path. SS sentries were nowhere to be seen as they approached the long, high-roofed building known as the Finishing School.

  Anvil and Spangler circled the line of Kapos and “suppliers” presenting their special passes at the entrance and went in through a side door. The main room stretched sixty feet and was forty feet wide. Massive lights and wires dangled from the thirty-foot ceiling. Motion-picture cameras, stanchions, floor lights and other equipment spread across the concrete floor.

  “Wait up there until you’re called,” Anvil said, pointing to a line of chairs against the far wall. Then he disappeared behind a row of packing cases.

  Spangler took a seat among the ever-growing audience of privileged prisoners hurrying in from the main entrance. Technicians were adding the final touches to a set depicting a huge and ornate jungle cave with tiers of wide roughhewn steps. Tolan appeared and gave last-minute instructions. Props were realigned and the torches in the cave lit. The powerful stage lights were switched on. A group of large, pug-faced women costumed as bare-breasted Amazons strode onto the set as the prisoner audience cheered and whistled.

  “The women guards,” a Kapo next to Spangler whispered excitedly with a nudge of the elbow. “That means a Lesbian show. We haven’t had one for a long time.”

  Tolan barked an order and moved behind a big motion-picture camera. The Amazons formed a corridor leading up the cave steps. At the top stood the largest, and conceivably the ugliest, woman Spangler had ever seen. Her powerful legs were bound in Roman sandal straps. A short tunic barely covered her pelvis. The muscular arms were strapped in leather. One masculine fist clenched a whip, the other a steel rod. Link chains were draped around the bull shoulders, partially obscuring the enormous naked bosom. To her side stood a rack, an iron maiden and a glowing oven in which several iron prongs were being heated.

  The second cheer from the audience was louder still. As Spangler watched, six girls from sixteen to eighteen years old were being pulled forward by even more Amazons. The girls wore fifteenth-century Spanish finery; all had braided hair.

  “Virgins,” the Kapo whispered ecstatically to Spangler. “The rumor is they’re all virgins this time. That ought to be something.”

  The Amazon priestess looked over the crop of terrified girls and pointed to one. She was dragged up the steps and forced to kneel. The Amazon lifted her tunic and snapped an order. The girl froze, then suddenly broke away and bolted hysterically through a line of attendants, upsetting torches and collapsing a section of scenery.

  “Get me six new ones,” Tolan shouted in disgust. “Six new ones who’ll do what they’re supposed to! And fix the scenery,” he shouted, storming off behind the packing cases.

  The five remaining girls were stripped of their costumes and hurled into the audience of cheering prisoners.

  Anvil returned, drew Spangler from his seat and led him down a hallway and into a room where Kapo leaders sat crowded on benches.

  Klempf entered a few moments later, took a rigid stance and hooked a thumb under his belt. “The time for pretense has passed,” he began curtly. “I know that you here represent the major force in the camp underground. I have always known it. You have existed only because I chose to let you e
xist—only because I felt one day your services might be required. I am afraid that day is upon us.

  “The latest report from the eastern front indicates that the Wehrmacht counterattack has failed to stem the Russian offensive. The Reich’s northern defense lines have been annihilated, and the Russians are now swarming down through Poland. Advance units have already crossed the Nida, less than a hundred and forty miles east of here. It is expected that the Russians will be at Cracow within a week and will reach us the following day.

  “Needless to say, if the Russians overrun Auschwitz-Birkenau before the installations can be evacuated, if the Russians see what has taken place here—well, that wouldn’t be very good for the SS or the Kapos, would it?

  “I include you Kapos along with the SS for one very simple reason: once the Russians enter Auschwitz-Birkenau and start talking to ordinary prisoners, they will realize that, for all practical purposes, it is you who have been running the camp; they will see how you have treated your fellow inmates. When that happens you may be even worse off than we SS. Your paltry underground activities will not help you.

  “Had Berlin taken any logical action to meet this peril I wouldn’t be here talking to you now. Berlin, it appears, has not only ignored our plight, but has openly decided to worsen it. As of four hours ago, transport into Birkenau has been increased. When the commandant protested that the crematoria and the pits can’t handle what we have, Berlin was deaf and still insisted on adding eighteen additional trainloads to this week’s schedule.

  “Berlin’s orders to the SS here at Auschwitz-Birkenau were received early this morning. No one is to leave his station. No preparations are to be made for evacuation. To make sure we comply with the orders, Berlin has deployed Waffen-SS troops in the immediate vicinity—but luckily there are not very many of them—so far.

  “In a word, Berlin has signed a death warrant for every SS and Kapo at Auschwitz-Birkenau. But that is not the end of it, not for us here in this room. The commandant has no intention of remaining. He and his staff have already made arrangements to flee when the Russians reach Cracow. Mengele and his medical aides have made similar plans. Cars have been requisitioned and prepared.

  “The commandant and Mengele met secretly several hours ago. They have concocted a plot to shift their guilt to others—to divest themselves of as much responsibility for camp activities as they can before they leave. They have agreed to make it seem that the true persecutors of prisoners at Auschwitz-Birkenau are the Bourse and other exchanges, the bordellos, and so on. To be more precise, they have decided that the men in this room and those connected with us, both Kapo and SS, are to be the sacrificial goats.

  “On the commandant’s order, SD and Gestapo agents have already opened an investigation and are collecting evidence against us. More agents are on their way. The commandant prefers everything to be legal. If by some miracle the Russians are checked, he can simply put his findings in a drawer and save them until he needs them again. After all, who will run the camp if he does away with us?

  “Should the Russian advance continue at its present speed, the commandant will have us arrested, tried and found guilty. Whether he shoots us on the spot or turns us over to the prisoners to hold for the Russians makes very little difference in my eyes.

  “So there you have it. Not only must we worry about the Russian advance, we must avoid the SD and Gestapo as well. Under the circumstances, I see no alternative but to emulate the commandant and Mengele: we must escape as soon as possible.”

  “Where to?” asked one of the Kapos.

  “The Russian lines.”

  “How?”

  “I have already worked out the details, but for the sake of security they must remain with me. What I now propose is an alliance between all of you here, as well as those involved with you, and myself and my men. I must insist, however, on having full control of the operation. If you wish to designate one of your number, I will take him as my personal aide and advise him of the details. But only he and I must know the total plan. I will wait outside for your answer,” Klempf said, and stepped out the door.

  Discussion was brief. Klempf was called back. The Kapos agreed to the alliance and named Tolan as their representative.

  “We will go out as prisoners,” Klempf said to Tolan, handing him a list. “These are the supplies we need. They can be collected through the exchanges without causing suspicion. The last bit of business for tonight is assigned to you.” Klempf added, turning and dropping a thumb at Spangler. “You will kill Vassili.”

  “Why?” said Spangler.

  “We don’t question orders here,” Tolan snapped.

  “Let him ask, let him ask,” Klempf said quietly as he studied Spangler. “First of all, Vassili is an SD agent. They planted him here from the beginning. Therefore we must rid ourselves of him. Since you’re expected to kill him anyway, no one, especially the SD, will be suspicious when you do. If someone else ended his life, questions might arise.

  “Secondly, I don’t know anything about you. You just arrived. I haven’t had time to check you out. For all we know you may be another one of the undercover men the SD has been trying to send in for the last few weeks. There is no better way of finding out whose side you’re on than by letting you take care of Vassili. I doubt whether one SD agent would kill another. You will do the job the day after tomorrow. I don’t want it to be connected with our little gathering tonight—just in case someone may be watching. And when you murder him, do it out in the open where you have a good many witnesses.”

  50

  Der Gronck was not present when the Bourse opened that night. In his place sat a dazed, battered, hulking young man. No one knew the youth’s name or where he was from, since his papers had been lost. No one understood the language he spoke. Even so, the Process had to be observed. He had broken Der Gronck’s neck fair and square; he was now a senior cook.

  Trading hit an all-time high. Three unscheduled trains from Hungary contributed to the activity. The Kapos’ cautious purchasing of escape supplies and placing of future orders were also a factor. Goods had never been so plentiful, prices never so right. Spangler’s order for women’s silk clothing was filled within half an hour. He was able to purchase milk fifteen minutes later.

  After the trading he went back to the fence. A train was unloading at the ramp under the emergency lights. Shouting from the other side indicated the progress of the selection. Something else caught Spangler’s eye. He looked down at the near spur. Three railroad cars stood in the darkness. They were not freight, but metal passenger cars.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” the guard said from beyond the fence, “but they had me over at the ramp.”

  “I have the milk.”

  “Hand it under the wire. It’s all right to come forward—the tower guard knows about it. I’m giving him some.”

  Spangler moved across the death ditch and waited as the young guard propped up the bottom wire with his rifle butt. No sparks flew; the fence’s electricity was either turned off or kept extremely low during blackouts. This could alter his plan of escape, Spangler realized as he passed the container under; it could alter it greatly. He would even be able to go out at night.

  “What’s the news?” Spangler asked, stepping back and lighting a cigarette.

  “They say the Russians have driven north around Warsaw and are now heading down behind German lines east of Lodz.”

  “Do you know this for a fact?”

  “No. Only rumor. Everything is rumor. They’ve shut off all our communications. Only a few officers have radios left, and they won’t tell us what’s happening.”

  “And what of us? What of the prisoners? Has there been any word on our future?”

  “No. They won’t tell us anything. My sergeant did say that it wouldn’t hurt to start befriending prisoners, though.” The guard began walking along to keep up with Spangler. “How do you want me to pay for the milk?”

  “See if you can get me some saltpeter.�
�

  “Saltpeter?”

  “It’s difficult for me here. My wife was quite healthy and I am still true to her. I have no stomach for the bordellos.”

  “I think I understand. But how do I get saltpeter?”

  Spangler took a stack of bordello passes from his tunic and tossed them under the fence. “Buy it from the SS cooks, but …”

  “Yes?”

  “I would appreciate your not telling who it’s for. If word got out the others might laugh at me.”

  “I’ll do my best—and thank you for the milk.”

  Spangler turned to go. As he did he saw light along the near spur. He gazed down at the metal railroad coaches. A group of six young girls were being loaded onto the last car by the light of storm lanterns. They were all between sixteen and eighteen. All were blond, with their hair done in braids. All wore white sliplike dresses.

  51

  Spangler knew he was being watched. From the time he left the compound he knew someone was following him at a distance. He didn’t bother to turn. Instead he hiked the sack higher on his back and continued along the road. The morning sun was thawing the mud. The breeze carried the scent of forest pine.

  He noticed the guard patrols as he walked, and he made a mental note of any deviations from what he had recorded on his map the day before. There were few alterations.

  Spangler noticed something else. Prisoners were busy adjusting fence lights in every compound he passed. Every fourth bulb along the strings was being tinted blue. Those between were being loosened. The shielded bulbs along the exterior fence were receiving similar attention. Labor Kommandos stood atop crude stepladders painting some and unscrewing others by half a turn. More prisoners were helping install dull-green sirens.

  Spangler was passed through the exterior fence, and he entered the SS billet area. Here too, air defense work was under way. Barracks windows were being covered from the inside. Lights were being painted, sirens attached.

  Spangler paused at the bus stop, glanced at the arrival-and-departure schedule and continued on his way.