Echoes of Silence

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  She moaned as the young man approached her. “A fool’s errand, Fräulein. Let me see that foot.” He squatted beside her. “You never should have run—” His rebuke stopped short. Isabel had bolted to her feet, her right arm cutting a wide arc and gathering momentum backed by all the strength she could muster. The heavy brick did its work, smashing into the side of his head and sending his cap flying. The flashlight hit the ground as his hands shot to his head. She heard his grunt before he collapsed at her feet.

  Surprised at her own success, Isabel felt a surge of triumph. She reached for the light and knelt beside the fallen man. His left ear was a shiny mess, blood matting the closely-cropped hair above. Fierce-looking abrasions marred his jaw. She waited a long moment before placing a hand on his unmoving chest. She shone the light on his nostrils and mouth and made certain no breath shimmered in the chill air. Satisfied, she cautiously made her way back to the doorway.

  Her abandoned shoes lay scattered beside the Ford, gathering a dusting of snow. They remained unwieldy, but felt good on her cold and bruised feet. The laces had been cut to strands by the trooper when he had freed her hands. With a silent curse she chided herself for forgetting to take his small knife. Now there was no time to return to the corpse. Who knew what Doro was facing? Tension gripped her every fiber. She inhaled deeply and released a billowing cloud of vapor, steeling herself to take on the remaining guard.

  The side door was ajar. She eased it open onto a vast industrial space. Row upon row of huge lathes stretched into the darkness, colossal soldiers at parade rest. The frigid air smelled of metal and oil. She stopped to listen but picked up only silence. They were in there somewhere. She allowed the beam to scan the immediate area at ground level. Wooden racks along the wall held steel panels in tight rows and varying lengths of iron rod. She quietly pulled out one the length of her arm and tested its heft. It would do. She abandoned the cumbersome shoes, feeling again the deep chill as her stockinged feet met the concrete. She would have to walk the long aisles in sequence until she stumbled on her prey and his captive. The search would require stealth.

  The first aisle yielded nothing. She took a chance and swept the space ahead with the flashlight as she took the turn. Nothing appeared out of place, just more rows of bins and machinery. Then a glint caught her eye. In a distant corner of the vast space she saw the outline of a man-sized door, a sliver of light escaping the frame. Got you, you bastard! Approaching the target, her light picked out a small sign: Achtung! Eintritt ohne Zulassung Strengstens Verboten. No entry without permission—like hell, she thought. Large metal barrels lined the exterior wall of the storeroom, the twisted tabs on the lids suggesting they now sat empty. Skull-and-crossbones and names of industrial acids showed their former purpose. The door, scuffed by years of mistreatment, bore faded record sheets beneath a block-lettered sign reading Aufsicht, supervisor.

  With an ear to the door she heard only muffled sounds, but her nose picked up a disturbing stench. Her editor father had sometimes sent her on off-putting assignments, perhaps hoping she would abandon real journalism. A story on new efficiencies at a Chicago slaughterhouse forced her to witness workers stunning cattle with blows to the beasts’ foreheads. Many still twitched and bellowed as the men winched up the carcasses and opened their neck arteries with curved knives. She now recognized that salty mix of blood and sweat. The stench confirmed that these violent assholes were capable of any mayhem.

  She held her breath as she peered through the keyhole, allowing her eye to adjust to the interior glare. A lighting fixture hung from the ceiling of a large room, illuminating only the center of the space and leaving the remainder in deep shadow. At first she saw no movement. Then an image at the edge of the circle caught her eye and her guts began to churn. She knew she deserved every bit of damnation for what was happening there. The brutish guard had Doro on her knees, her face pressed to the concrete. He’d wrapped her head in the jacket, all other clothing piled to the side. Her butt was fully exposed under the glaring light. The assailant’s dun-colored trousers pooled at his ankles, his stubby cock stood erect. “Spread ‘em wider, bitch!” he snarled. “Gotta loosen you up for the Storm Leader.”

  All hesitation forgotten, Isabel shoved the door wide open and reached the attacker in seconds. “You fucking bastard!” Her shout echoed in the closeness of the room. The iron rod split the man’s upturned face, his nose a spray of tissue and blood, but Isabel could not let up. As he keeled over, she beat him repeatedly over the head before ramming the bar into the softness of his exposed belly. He twitched several times before his chest collapsed and he lay still.

  Isabel finally exhaled. She felt lightheaded, almost faint. She had never killed before that evening. Now she had, and twice.

  She helped Doro to her feet. Together they removed the jacket encasing her head. “Come on, love, it’s over now. Get yourself dressed as best you’re able. We have to get the hell out of here!”

  Doro was trembling, her head shaking from side to side in denial. With Isabel’s help she pulled on the soiled clothing and shoes and blew her nose on her sleeve. Isabel searched the impaled attacker for keys to the Ford and retrieved her shoes as they neared the exit. She guided Doro by the arm out to the car. Doro finally found her voice, a hoarse whisper as they climbed in: “Please tell me you can you drive a car.”

  Despite all the horror, Isabel couldn’t help thinking her friend had finally mastered the throaty, masculine voice, the errant thought helping relieve the pent-up tension of the last few minutes. “You bet I can.” They clambered into the Ford. The engine caught on the first try and Isabel eased the car into gear. It lurched forward, stuttered, and the engine fell silent. “A little rusty at this,” the excuse more for herself than for Doro. She tried again, and the car lunged once more before dying. In the pale glow of the dashboard she saw Doro still trembled. She forced herself to be calm. Having once learned to drive years before on her grandfather’s farm, she had never needed the ability either in Chicago or Germany. She quickly rehearsed the release of the clutch and balanced pressure on the gas pedal, then gave it another try.

  This time the car inched forward and she allowed the engine to rev higher, hesitant to up-shift for fear of killing it again. They covered less than a hundred meters on the pitted road when lights pierced the darkness in the distance. Another vehicle was heading toward the metal gate now in the reach of their high beams. She went for broke, slamming into second and accelerating, knowing that if the car bringing that bastard Storm Leader reached the entry first, they’d be at the devil’s mercy. They gained on the exit but the other car was closer still, its driver obviously more skilled. They would miss escape by a few meters, and once blocked, their fates would be sealed. Isabel brought the Ford to a halt, its brakes squealing as it slid on the loose gravel.

  She handed Doro the flashlight and yelled: “Get the hell out of here and don’t look back!”

  “But—”

  “No buts, love—get going!” She pointed to the woods on the horizon. “Hide in those trees, then find your way back to Toni’s. She’ll look after you!”

  Doro abandoned the car, stumbling in her untied shoes before disappearing into the dark. Isabel jammed back into gear and accelerated, intending to barrel headlong into the other vehicle. With any luck they’d all be killed and she’d be spared a far more painful death. But then, shifting up again, she killed the engine and this time it refused to turn over as she rolled to a stop. The other car had now passed through the open gate, its headlamps blinding her as she repeatedly turned the key in the ignition and cursed a blue streak.

  A man leapt from the other vehicle while still in motion. She recognized the cruel-faced Veidtner. He took off running, his flashlight seeking out Doro. Isabel screamed “No!” at the top of her lungs, but the windows were up and she heard only the futile echoes of her own impotence in the face of this disaster. She sprang from the Ford as the other car came to a stop a half-meter from her vehicle’s grill. The
driver was already out with a revolver in hand. Isabel stopped short, her eyes now pinned on the black field off to her right. A flash of light pierced the darkness, the crack of a pistol shot close on its heels, and then another. Isabel heard a scream, and she knew Doro was finished. A moment later a third shot rang out. The flashlight beam wavered in the gloom before pivoting back to head her way.

  Tears of fury, frustration and bitterness flowed down her cheeks and she began to sob. She had only herself to blame for this fiasco. She offered no resistance as the Brownshirt slammed her against the hood of the Ford and twisted her around, kicking her legs out to the sides. “Stay where you are, Jew-cunt, until we say otherwise. You’ll soon wish you were dead.” He hissed into her ear: “And once we’re through with you, you’ll thank us for ending it all, understood?”

  She nodded. She did.

  ❖

  Berlin, Germany

  December 1941

  “My God, Ryan—Do you see what I did? Doro died because of me! I pulled that trigger as surely as I killed the bastard who was raping her!”

  Ryan slid over on the sofa and drew her close. All thoughts of keeping his distance had dissolved in the horrors of her tale. He would have offered his handkerchief but knew she was beyond caring about tear-smeared make-up. “Go ahead now, let it out. You’ve held it in too long.”

  “That’s just it, darling, there’s no letting it go, the guilt never leaves. Every single day it gnaws at me, begging for release. I often awaken with my pillow drenched and can’t fall sleep again for the shame of it.” She squeezed his hand. “You’re the first in years I feel safe telling this to, so please know how grateful I am to have you back in my life. It’s as devastating as the night it happened and won’t stay buried!”

  Ryan nodded. “You’d be surprised by what I do now, by what I’ve become. I have blood on my hands, too. I wish I could tell how to move beyond it, but I’m still seeking answers. You simply have to look beyond the guilt and find ways to help right a world gone terribly wrong.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried, but this is so personal, so damning of me and who I was. I tell you, Doro never wanted to go to that cursed meeting. I manipulated her; I appealed to her convictions.” She wiped the tears with her hand. “For me, it was one more lark—always the new challenge, always the new adventure. I was so damned determined to prove myself anyone’s equal—man or woman—I ran roughshod over my best friend and she suffered a horrifying death for it.” She pulled away long enough to look into his eyes. “I know it must have been difficult for you, as well…my silence.”

  Her sobs were easing at last. It felt so natural to hold her in his arms, to feel her familiar body against his. He nestled her closer, and silently cursed himself for feeling aroused in the depth of her misery. What a story she told, but many things left unexplained. How much of it to believe? Isabel had always had a calculating streak and a flair for the dramatic. She rested her head on his chest as if no time had passed in the decade since he’d last held her. He gently kissed her forehead but found no further words of consolation over such agonizing loss.

  “Why do they do it, Ryan?” Her voice was softer, the crisis passed for now. “I thought only of myself and caused Doro’s death, but these people live for such behavior. They crush anyone they think weaker and never give it a second thought. How can anyone be so cruel?”

  The same question plagued him endlessly. “There’s no explaining this shit away. It’s just there! For them the world’s a test of strength where they must constantly prove themselves the victors. Only winners and losers, and no place for compassion. It must come from feeling inferior, from coming together so late as a nation. All those little German principalities and kingdoms had warred against each other forever, each demanding to be seen as something special. Well, now this Reich is something special all right: their might makes right, and the bullies can do as they wish to anyone they choose.”

  She stared vacantly across the room. He knew she saw only her horrid memories. “It’s just not fair.”

  “You know as well as I that fairness is the greatest of lies.” He gave voice to his bitterness. “An innocent child slips and drowns in a river. Who or what justifies that? Century after century some live in luxury while others slave in poverty. The poor watch their children die from hunger, from lack of proper medical care. Is any of that fair?” He shook his head in disgust. “And now Europe is under fascist control and the bastards slaughter innocents right and left! No, I’ve given up on ‘fairness’ in life. Twice I’ve tried to make a difference, and each time I’ve failed.” He paused, recalling efforts thwarted by powers beyond his control. “I no longer look at things the same way. I just do my best for a cause I still believe humane and right.”

  Ryan wanted to express the depth of his hurt back in ’31, to reveal how responsible he’d felt for sending her into that fateful night alone. He’d carried her presumed death as his personal sorrow. As much as she condemned the ruthlessness of the Nazis, this beautiful woman had also behaved callously, and yet he wanted desperately to forgive her. The sharp edge of her self-blame scored him deeply, and he wouldn’t add to her burden.

  How had she survived, and why had she never reached out to him? She could easily have sought him out in Marburg before he left for the States. If not that, surely the university would have shared his forwarding address. She was a reporter, after all, and knew his origins in Lawrence. Just what had she done with that entire decade? And most troubling of all, why was she now working with those SS bastards at a concentration camp? Too much yet to learn. He fought against surrendering to her despair, against letting go of memories of the emotional pain he’d suffered at her hands. He still had a story to hear. And to find credible.

  “This guilt and sorrow are difficult to leave behind, Isabel, but the world is now so different from back then. The Nazis were just one of many parties, dangerous players but seemingly no threat to the world. Now times have changed, and clearly you have, too. But I’m also a different man, no longer that greenhorn who abandoned himself to whims at the drop of a hat.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “I’ve become harder in the face of my own challenges.”

  A bit of the old Isabel surfaced: “You were always hard enough for me.” A wry smile brightened her face at last as she reached for his handkerchief and blew her nose. “I think I’m ready to tell the rest, but promise me one thing—you’ll still think fondly of me when you learn the whole truth.” He offered only the hint of a smile in return, unwilling to commit himself fully.

  And she continued the tale.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Berlin Outskirts

  February 1931

  Isabel knew what was sure to come. Rumors of Nazi torture and brutal murder were widely shared among foreign correspondents. Her mind raced. No time to mourn Doro for she herself would soon be dead. Or worse still, they make her suffer horribly for hours or days before tiring of it. She remembered Hallinger’s chilling order to make it the last meeting they’d ever attend.

  Leaning over the hood of the car, she trembled, tasting bile, her guts churning. How long before her knees buckled? I’m the worst kind of fool, she thought, so self-centered I’ve sacrificed Doro and myself, and all for nothing. Should she reveal her identity as a journalist? Could she bribe this Veidtner who had just murdered Doro? My God, I’ve just killed two of their men! There’s nothing left to trade.

  The brute emerged from the darkness, still gripping his pistol as he gave an order to the SA man: “Go bring back what’s left of the little bitch.” The Brownshirt moved off in a hurry, his flashlight retracing the route of the Storm Leader. Veidtner caustically called out after him: “Careful of all the blood!” He turned to Isabel. “Now, what the hell have you done with my men?”

  She desperately hoped to buy time, but why even bother? He’d soon find his henchmen’s bodies. She went for broke anyway, weaving a seemingly plausible story: “The older guy wanted to rape us before you got here, but the other sai
d to obey your orders and wait, so he called the young guy an Arschloch and much worse. They threw punches and when the younger one stormed out, the other followed and came back alone.” Isabel couldn’t see Veidtner’s eyes beneath the hat brim, couldn’t tell if he was buying the story, so she plunged on: “The older guy must have killed him—he came back splattered with blood.” The lies came more easily now. “Then he said ‘why should Veidtner be first with the fun?’ and he stripped my friend naked. I managed to break loose while he was raping her, and when he turned on me I hit him with a metal rod. It was self-defense—you must believe me!”

  “So both are dead?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “And this because one of them tried to make a fool of me?”

  She saw a glimmer of hope. “Yes, it’s true!”

  He slipped the pistol into his pocket and grabbed her by the base of the neck. “Then let’s have a look.” His grip felt like a pincers. “Get moving!” She nearly lost the loose shoes as he shoved her into the sedan. The engine caught and they backed up, then swerved past the Ford and covered the distance quickly. “Raus!” he commanded. She got out, shuffling alongside him as they headed toward the glow of the office.

  The scene inside the torture room almost paralyzed her. God, what a horror! When she’d come to Doro’s defense she’d paid no attention to the surroundings, but now they hit her like a brutal blow to the gut. A tall wooden rack resembling a cross hovered over the circle of light. Hand restraints hung on either end of the arm, just beyond the reach of any captive. A repurposed billiard-cue stand held bludgeons and whips. Worse still, a metal table was outfitted with hand and foot cuffs at either end, and a nearby table displayed glistening bladed tools, an automobile battery with jumper cables, and bottles labeled for various toxic and caustic substances.