The Shadowboxer

by Behn, Noel;

  Spangler dashed along the fence. The young guard lay motionless in the dark, his knees drawn up under him. Spangler knelt and rolled the boy onto his back. The youth’s neck had been broken. Spangler glanced down the track. A dim line of SS could be seen walking forward from the tower at the railroad gate.

  He slid under the wire and hurried back into the compound. He was halfway across the roll-call area when the all-clear began to sound. Spangler doubled his pace.

  The bunker was dark. He didn’t light the lamp. It was twenty minutes before Prague or Cracow would be broadcasting. He pulled Vassili’s locker away from the wall so he could crawl in behind if he had to.

  Spangler stood in the darkness waiting and thinking. Why had the men of the Bourse and the other exchanges been tricked and murdered? Why had Klempf gone through such acrobatics to do it? Why had they arrived at the gas chamber five minutes ahead of schedule? Everything was worked out to the second; why had they changed the plan? One hundred and twenty men had been assembled at the Finishing School, but he had counted only one hundred and eighteen waiting in line. Who were the men not accounted for? Unless he had been mistaken. Spangler thought he had had a clear view, but maybe he was wrong. Who had killed the fence guard, and why?

  The sound of the shifting potato sacks was heard overhead. Spangler squeezed into the hole and pulled the locker back in place.

  Footsteps descended the ladder.

  “No one’s here,” he heard Anvil’s voice call.

  “Is the radio warm? Has it been used recently?” Klempf’s voice shouted from above. “Has the lamp been used?”

  “No,” Anvil announced after a few seconds. “No one’s been here.”

  “Are you sure he came back into the compound? Did you actually see him?”

  “I saw him come back to the fence. Then he stopped and looked across in my direction. I had to duck so he wouldn’t notice me. When I looked up he was gone. He wouldn’t have had time to go anywhere else.”

  “What did you do after killing the boy?”

  “I told you—I came through the next compound and waited for him on the road. He never appeared.”

  “All right, come out of there.”

  “Shall I bring the radio?”

  “No, he may return. Where else can he go? Make sure he isn’t scared off. Watch the bunker—from a distance. I’ll have the guards sweep the railroad yard just in case he’s still out there.”

  “But we’ve just searched the yard.”

  “They may have missed him. Now get a move on.”

  Spangler heard Anvil climb the ladder and drop the trapdoor after him. He waited a full ten minutes before pushing out the locker and climbing from the cubbyhole. He lit a match and checked his watch. He turned on the radio. Neither Cracow nor Prague was heard from. He waited another hour before trying again. Both cities remained silent.

  57

  Spangler slept in the bunker through most of the day. He did not expect any air attacks. In the past, they had come at night, around roll-call time. He checked the early-evening radio schedule. Cracow and Prague remained silent. Bits of the Lone Ranger and a medley of Benny Goodman were all that came across.

  He opened Vassili’s locker and changed into the SS uniform. He dug up his homemade bombs, stripped the batteries from the shortwave set and the repair kit and connected the explosives. He took the trousers of his prisoner uniform, fashioned them into a crude knapsack and placed the bombs inside.

  Spangler gave himself another two hours before he slipped on the knapsack, climbed the ladder and put his shoulder against the trapdoor. He rose slowly into the potato shed, got to his feet and peered out. The compound was bathed in dim blue light.

  He stepped through the door and out behind the rear of the kitchen. Two Ukrainian SS guards lolled at the front gate. The usual road patrol was absent. Spangler moved into the shadows and waited.

  Fifteen minutes passed before he heard a noise. Spangler moved along the building, silently turned the corner, slipped up behind the officer, clamped him around the neck and dragged him back into the darkness. He spun his captive around, shoved him against the wall and pressed the Luger under his chin.

  “Anvil, what a pleasant surprise,” Spangler said quietly. “It’s always a pleasure running into old prison chums unexpectedly. Tell me, which branch of the Secret Police are you with?”

  “Spe—Special Security.”

  “How long have they had you undercover in the compound?”

  “Th-three weeks.”

  “You’re answering very well, Anvil. Now let’s try a harder question or two. Why were the Finishing School men murdered?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try to think.” He jabbed the Luger deep into Anvil’s neck.

  “I don’t know why. I swear it. I didn’t even know what was going to happen to them. My orders were only to watch you.”

  “Watch me do what?”

  “Kill the guard and cut the wire. They weren’t sure you’d do it. They wanted me to report what you did.”

  “Who is ‘they’?”

  “Klempf.”

  “When you were undercover in the compound what were you supposed to watch for?”

  “Anything suspicious, but mostly Tolan and Vassili.”

  “Why Tolan and Vassili?”

  “I don’t know. Klempf wanted to know their movements.”

  “Who is Klempf?”

  “You know as well as I do. He’s head of Secret Security.”

  “Anvil,” Spangler whispered, as the muzzle pushed deeper under the chin, “I asked you, who is Klempf?”

  “I don’t know for sure. He was here when they sent me in. I think he’s with R. S. H. A.”

  “And what did Klempf ask you about me?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “What did you say about me without being asked?”

  “That you didn’t seem frightened. That nothing seemed to affect you. That’s all I told him, except for what you bought and sold on the exchange.”

  “Why was that important?”

  “I don’t know, but he wanted to know what each man privately bought and sold on the exchange.”

  Spangler lowered the pistol slightly. “Anvil, now I want you to think very carefully. Where would you say my best chance of escape would be?”

  “Why—why, anywhere. The guard detachments are down to almost nothing throughout the camp. Everyone is out looking for you.”

  “But if you had to pick one particular spot, where would it be?”

  “The … the railroad yard, that would be best.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ve taken more guards from there than anywhere else. There are only three to a train now—two on the ramp and one on the track side.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I helped arrange the assignments.”

  “What about the yard sentries and the guard towers?”

  “Only one guard tower is operating, and that’s near the gate. It’s easier than last night.”

  “Show me.”

  Spangler prodded Anvil forward with the Luger. They followed the shadows until they reached the death ditch. A train was almost finished unloading at the ramp under the few scattered blue lights. The rest of the yard lay in darkness. Spangler glanced toward the near spur. The two metal passenger cars could be distinguished in the distance. He searched the area. No guards could be seen.

  “Now, precisely how would you go about it?” he asked Anvil.

  “Wait for the train to get moving. Then head for the cars near the engine. The doors will be open. There aren’t enough men left to seal them. Two more trains are waiting outside, so they must work quickly. The guard is near the end of the train.”

  “And does the blue light still go off in an air raid?”

  “I imagine so, but you don’t need to wait for that. You can make it as it is.”

  “But can both of us make it as it is?”

  “Both?”


  “You’re going out with me, Anvil, comrade. You know what’s beyond the gate, I don’t. Now be a good lad and take off your clothes.”

  “Takeoff … my clothes?”

  “This uniform is too large for me. After all, why should I be the one who’s uncomfortable? Change.”

  They exchanged uniforms in the darkness. The Special Security uniform was also too large for Spangler, but a better fit then Kuprov’s. Anvil’s new uniform was too small.

  “Is the fence electrified?” Spangler asked.

  “Not during dimouts. You know that.”

  “Then let’s go through.”

  They slid under the bottom wire. “Here, you carry this,” said Spangler, and hoisted the knapsack filled with time bombs firmly onto Anvil’s back.

  “Why did you kill the young guard?” he asked, as they waited.

  “Klempf’s orders.”

  A whistle blew, signaling that the empty train was ready to move out.

  “Eat dirt,” Spangler ordered.

  “Dirt?”

  “Put dirt in your mouth and eat it.”

  Anvil hesitated. Spangler kicked him in the shin. Anvil dropped to one knee, scooped up a handful of earth, stared at it and began swallowing.

  “Faster.”

  Spangler reached into the knapsack and set four of the time bombs at five-minute delay. The fifth he set for four minutes. He grabbed Anvil’s right hand and squeezed. The fingers broke. The dirtfilled throat emitted only a low moan. Then he broke Anvil’s other hand and pulled him to his feet. He reached up and cut the overhead wire. Sirens began to wail. The few blue ramp lights went off.

  Spangler dragged Anvil down the fence, turned him around, took the four-minute time bomb from the knapsack on his back and placed it at the base of the concrete post holding the main electrical transfer box.

  “Now you go across first,” Spangler whispered into Anvil’s ear. “I’ll be right behind.”

  Anvil took a step forward, but Spangler pulled him back.

  “I forgot something,” he said, scooping up some dirt and rubbing it in Anvil’s face. “And something else.” He pulled out a piece of white cloth and tied it around Anvil’s arm.

  The secret policeman’s eyes bulged as he violently shook his head. The train was beginning to move slowly up the track.

  “You run toward those cars,” Spangler said menacingly. “Run as you wanted me to run. Run, or I’ll snap your neck in two. I’ll snap it forward—slowly.”

  Anvil stared at Spangler in terror, then dashed awkwardly forward. Spangler darted down the spur. He fell prone when he heard guards shouting in the darkness. He leveled his Luger, fired two shots and moved farther down the spur.

  The shouting continued under the noise of the sirens. A rocket flare was suddenly released overhead. Steam shot from the train engine. The drive wheels locked as it screeched to a stop. The platform lights went on, but they were not blue lights—both ramp and siding blazed in the full glare of searchlights as the doors of every boxcar slid open, revealing SS guards with raised machine pistols. Anvil ran frantically, waving his crushed hands in desperation.

  Spangler squeezed off two shots. Two SS fell from boxcar doorways. Others began firing in all directions. The ground patrols paused momentarily, then charged forward at Anvil. They had almost reached him when the first explosions went off. The yard plunged into darkness. A minute later the night reverberated with a second explosion, far more prolonged and powerful.

  Spangler jumped to his feet and began running down the spur to the metal passenger car, crawled under it, came out the other side and tried the door. It pulled open. He climbed in.

  58

  Spangler stole forward between the walls of transformers, eased around the half-open corridor door, moved quietly through the cowled diaphragm and carefully pulled back the door of the second metal railroad car. The corridor was short and carpeted. Spangler walked to the end, slowly slid aside the metal panel and gazed in.

  “What do you mean, nothing was left?” Klempf was shouting into the telephone. He was seated in a swivel chair before a control panel, with his back to Spangler. Banks of radio receivers and transmitters stretched along the wall to his left and right. The opposite wall was covered in thick velvet draperies. “Something must have been left of the face! The SS uniform isn’t enough. Where’s Anvil? How do we know whom we have unless we find him? Continue searching!”

  Spangler leveled his Luger. “Tell them to connect the engine.”

  Klempf’s back tensed, then relaxed somewhat. “Engine?” he asked without turning around.

  “The engine waiting outside the gate. Tell them to connect it. Tell them that Anvil has just arrived—that the man out there is the one you wanted. Tell them your work is finished.”

  “Of course,” Klempf agreed with a nod, and he picked up the telephone. “Fergy, have them bring up the locomotive,” he said quietly. “It’s time for us to leave.”

  Something inaudible to Spangler emerged from the receiver. “No, Fergy,” Klempf replied almost paternally, “our work is finished. Anvil just arrived, so you see we did get the right man after all. There’s nothing more left here for us. Now do as I ask, Fergy. Call in the locomotive.”

  Klempf remained facing the control panel as Spangler crossed behind him and moved to the rear door of the compartment. “Who else is in this car?”

  “No one to bother you.”

  “Where’s the lock?” Spangler demanded as he inspected the door panel.

  “This button here.” Klempf pointed to the control panel in front of him. “It locks electrically. Everything is electrical. I designed it myself. Before the war I was a designer of railway equipment. My present position has limited those skills to this car and one other. The one you stand in is an electrical miracle; the other can boast only a steam bath and pornographic films. Shall I lock the door for you?”

  “Slowly.”

  Klempf cautiously pressed a button. Spangler heard the click. He tried the panel. It was locked. On order, Klempf pressed a second button. The door at the opposite end of the compartment clicked shut.

  “Now turn off some of the lights,” Spangler told him, “but make sure I can still see you.”

  “Why don’t I simply dim them?” Klempf suggested amicably. “I included rheostats in the lighting system. I can lower the lights enough for you to see outside and watch me without danger.”

  “Lower them.”

  Klempf carefully turned a wheel, and the lights reduced to a low glow.

  “Would you like to handcuff me as well?” he asked Spangler. “Perhaps it would make you feel more at ease? There are handcuffs in the desk to your right. I can still operate the board while wearing them.”

  Spangler hesitated, then opened the drawer, brought out the handcuffs and studied them.

  “They’re quite authentic,” Klempf assured him, “and I’m no Houdini.” He swiveled around toward Spangler and held out his wrists.

  The manacles were snapped on and Spangler returned to the opposite wall, pulled back a section of the curtains and looked out. The outlines of helmeted guards could be seen throughout the dark yard, lit by occasional bursts of light from a flashgun.

  “I assume it is Anvil’s remains they are photographing out there?” Klempf asked.

  “Assume whatever you like.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt it’s Anvil. You should really thank me for letting you catch him.”

  “Letting me?”

  “I did assign Anvil to watch the bunker. And we both know that Anvil isn’t—wasn’t very bright. I mean, it’s hardly very bright to let someone kill you in your own trap, is it? Yes, you should thank me. I had a suspicion you were still in the area.”

  “And if I hadn’t been?”

  “Then you would undoubtedly have escaped from the camp already and I would have been disappointed. When did you know the railway yard was set up as a trap? Was it when Anvil suggested it in his own inimitable fashion, or was
it something else—like his not wearing an armband during the blackout?”

  Spangler could see the track being cleared. A locomotive was backing toward them under the gate tower.

  “And when did you decide that radio Cracow and Prague came from this car?” Klempf continued.

  “Did they?” Spangler answered indifferently as he watched a yardman swing his lantern and wave the locomotive onto the spur.

  “Oh, of course, you must never give yourself away,” Klempf said. “But something must have told you the broadcasts were fakes. Was it when the first few could hardly be heard and we had to move this car right into the camp to provide reception? Or a few little technical slip-ups, like Cracow knowing what was going on in Prague before Prague did?”

  “Where are the Russians?” Spangler asked.

  “Not yet in Poland. But doubtless it won’t be long. Tell me, didn’t the radio broadcasts fool you at all?”

  “I’m sure they fooled everyone.”

  “Everyone isn’t important. You are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the whole thing was set up just to identify you.”

  Spangler turned from the window and stared at him.

  “Certainly you’ve been in enough camps to know that there have always been markets, but nothing like the Bourse has ever existed elsewhere. And it was an essential part of von Schleiben’s idiotic idea. He put out the bait. He knew you’d be coming for either Jean-Claude or Tolan. That’s why he sent them both to this camp seven weeks ago.

  “The only problem was that he didn’t know what you looked like. He knew nothing about you, except that you were inordinately strong and that you killed in a most specific way. That’s why every likely suspect at Birkenau had to fight. If he fought exceptionally well or showed exceptional strength he was immediately made a cook and brought to the Bourse, where he could be watched.

  “Every new prospect inherited the Bubel route for a time to see if he’d try to make contact with Jean-Claude. But Jean-Claude outsmarted all of us, didn’t he?