The Barbed Crown (The Vatican Knights Book 13)
Page 1
THE BARBED CROWN
by
Rick Jones
© 2017 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: rick@rickjonz.com
Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at: www.rickjonz.com
Table of Contents
ALSO BY RICK JONES:
PART I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
PART II
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
PART III
Epilogue
ALSO BY RICK JONES:
Vatican Knights Series
The Vatican Knights
Shepherd One
The Iscariot Agenda
Pandora's Ark
The Bridge of Bones
Crosses to Bear
The Lost Cathedral
Dark Advent
Cabal
The Golgotha Pursuit
Targeted Killing
Sinners and Saints
The Barbed Crown
Stand Alone Novels
Familiar Stranger
The Valley
Mausoleum 2069
Hunter Series
Night of the Hunter
The Black Key
Theater of Operation
The Eden Series
The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Menagerie (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
The Atlantis Series
City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
(COMING) The Sea Temple (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
(COMING) City Within Clouds ((A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)
PART I
Arbeit macht frei
Chapter One
Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp
The Second Transport from Warsaw
September 3, 1943
Arbeit macht frei (Work sets you free). Though this was the greeting to the thousands of Jews who marched through the gates of Auschwitz I, there was no such greeting in Birkenau that offered any hope of freedom to those who walked through its gates in September of 1943 during an unseasonably cold month, as daily arrivals filled the air with their vapored breaths while being directed to the left or the right by Josef Mengele with a simple flick of his cane. Having been sent to go to the right by the doctor granted indescribable hardship yet to come; to the left, however, the gas chambers were for those deemed too weak, too infirm, or those who already had the look of hopelessness.
When sixteen-year-old Ayana Berkowitz entered the gate alongside her family, she was the only one who had been directed to the right, whereas her mother, father and two siblings were steered toward a bunker-style chamber known as the Red House.
Feeling utterly alone, Ayana was taken to conjoining barracks where she was stripped of her clothes and given a gray smock to wear. Once fitted, her once beautiful hair had been sheared away by a man dressed in a leather apron, as the rough-edged blades callously nicked her scalp as if a cat had gone feral with its claws that left her skin lightly scored and actively bleeding. As soon as the shearer completed his obligation with Ayana, she was then escorted to another chamber by an SS guard, and bound to a chair with the soldier tethering her wrists to the armrests with leather straps.
A second man who wore a leather-clad apron approached Ayana with a small tray that held a needle-like device and a bottle of black ink, then sat in the vacant chair beside her. Appearing as a person of indifference, he examined the record’s card for Ayana’s identification, evenly asked for her name, confirmed who she was, then took the needle to Ayana’s left forearm and began to prick her flesh with the cold fortitude of a machine.
Twenty minutes later and without so much as a word spoken between them, the tattoo artist placed the needle on the tray, capped the bottle, and went off to continue the procedure on a woman who pled for the man’s forgiveness, stating that she was ‘sorry’ for being a Jew. And this bothered Ayana greatly since there was nothing to forgive. Being vilified was not the problem of the Jews, only for those who continued to cast stones against their heritage. In fact, she was very proud as to who and what she was.
As the woman’s cries went unheard, Ayana Berkowitz realized that she had just been catalogued with the numerical shapes bleeding along the edges of her forearm. Once the binding straps had been removed from around her wrists, Ayana looked at the numbers more carefully on her forearm and thought: This is my new name.
100681.
When she looked at the numbers they read: 100681. But when she twisted her forearm in such a way and read the numbers from a reversed or an upside-down angle, they changed from 100681 to 189001. Same tattoo, different numerals, 100681 becoming 189001, the numbers now upside down and backwards. When she tilted her forearm to look at the numbers directly rather than upside-down, 189001 went back to being 100681, the inked figures changing back to their original sequence.
The magic numbers, she told herself. Two identities based on one original arrangement.
Then a Nazi officer grabbed her roughly by the triceps of her arm, hoisted her from the chair, and then ushered her to a line of females with shaved heads who wore similar smocks. From there they were ordered out of the barracks and into an annex where their photos were taken by a man wearing striped garments, a Jew, who was a part of the processing team. The photographer was a diminutive-looking man whose outstanding feature was an old scar that ran laterally down his cheek to his top lip, the scarring pulling down the corner of his lower eyelid enough to expose the glistening pink tissue within. Whether the scar was born by an assault from a German wielding a truncheon
or by an accident prior to the ‘social change,’ Ayana did not know. But she did wonder.
Once the processing was complete, Ayana, along with many others, were persuasively ushered into the quad outside the barrack where a gray mantle covered the ground, as distant chimneys belched forward columns of smoke.
As they marched across the compound, Ayana looked at the drifts of flakes and believed it to be snow. But they weren’t white or pristine at all, but somewhat sickly in color. When she stuck her tongue out to allow the flakes to alight, her palate told her it wasn’t snow at all, but ashes. So she spat repeatedly to cleanse her mouth of the taste before she swept a sleeved arm across her mouth, which brought laughter of malicious amusement from the SS guards around her.
Ayana Berkowitz had no idea why the sky rained with ashes, especially when she could see the rind of the sun trying to peak through the veil of cloud cover that weren’t really clouds at all, but slow swirling eddies of gray-black smoke.
When the women reached their barracks, they were given an orientation by the Blockführer as to what would be expected of them, such as how to act and live and breathe, if they wanted to breathe at all. Then when the officer swept the door closed behind him, women began to sob openly, the wailings filling the barrack like a house of pain.
But Ayana maintained herself. She was a young woman who refused to live in fear because living in fear was not living at all. So she raised her chin in defiance, a measure stating that she was unwilling to bend to the atrocities she knew would surely come.
Living in fear is not living at all, she told herself.
…Living in fear is not living at all…
And she continued to repeat this over and over again in her mind like a mantra.
As the wails inside the barrack continued and others called upon God for divine intervention, Ayana went to the window. The sky had various discolorations of gray-black clouds that seemed to move like restless spirits looking for a final place of salvation, the entities swirling, dipping and curling amongst themselves as if they were lost. Then she saw the chimneys at the far side of the camp and the rising columns of smoke. That was when she realized that the chimneys were to the left of the gates with no barracks in sight.
Mama! Papa! Abigail! Lydia!
Restless spirits continued to circle the air in the form of cloud and ash.
But in the end, and as strong as Ayana tried to be, she knew she was an orphan with no siblings to lean on for comfort, and therefore she cried along with the others inside this House of Pain.
Chapter Two
On the day of his seventeenth birthday, Frederic Becher celebrated his baptism by fire. After serving as part of Hitler’s Youth Organization, and on the day of his seventeenth birthday, he was ceremoniously conscripted to serve as an SS guard inside Auschwitz, where his acclimatization to the camp came by way of committing his first murder.
When Becher arrived with six other soldiers, he was ordered by the commanding officer to pick a Jew from the line at random, which he did, a young female perhaps no older than he, and walked her to the gallows.
She was hideously thin with limbs no thicker than broomsticks, and her face gaunt and hollow-looking with sharp points to her cheeks and jawline. As she walked to the gallows, she kept her eyes to the ground and was unable to see her shadow, the sun blotted out by the slow curling eddies of smoke and ash.
Once she reached the makeshift gallows, she stepped up onto a stool and took position directly beneath a ringed wire that was fixed to a crossbeam. She showed nothing other than stoic fortitude as she took her place beneath the wire’s loop, and looked over her audience of Jews who were impotent to save her.
But her marginal smile to them said it all: It’s all right. I know there’s nothing any of you can do and I’m fine with that. I have stood among you many times and watched others stand upon this stool for which I now stand upon. So believe me when I say that this is a blessing… because I’m tired of being afraid.
Then she closed her eyes, a tear escaping from one corner.
Becher was then ordered to wrap the wire around her throat, which he did…
…And to kick the stool out from beneath her.
Becher turned to his commanding officer who had an ape-like appearance with a prognathous jaw and simian brow, along with deep-set eyes so pale they appeared like ice. And whenever he spoke, he did so with authority as spittle flew from his lips.
Becher appeared to be at a crossroads, however—a seventeen-year old commanded to steal the life of another with the justification that she was a Jew. Then he looked into the face of the victim and the wire wrapped around her throat, and believed at one time that she may have been pretty, perhaps even beautiful, if her skin hadn’t been ravaged by sores before starvation had whittled her down to bare bones. And then he saw the tear slide down along her face, a slow trek.
The SS sergeant’s yells became louder and sharper, the biting words goading Becher to take his first life, and to bathe in the glory of the kill thereafter. In submission to his sergeant’s commands, he lashed his foot out and knocked the stool out from beneath her feet. The young woman’s legs pedaled for purchase of the landscape with her feet a few inches above the ground, the surface so close, but the short length of cord that kept her from doing so a deliberate measure of cruelty.
And she swung to and fro. Becher felt his stomach clench into a slick fist as a wave of nausea swept over him, could feel the bile rising, then fall. The girl opened her eyes and looked skyward, the whites turning red as blood vessels broke from the strangulation, the wire biting deep into her neck, into her flesh, her face growing scarlet in color, then purple, her tongue beginning to protrude from lips like a serpent’s head, becoming bloated as her life began to escape her. And then her legs stilled while her body swung in half-circles and her bladder evacuated, a final and stinging blow to what was left of her dignity.
Becher fell back and looked at the body upon the gallows the same way an artist falls back to appraise his work from a distance. Whereas some would approve of the rendering, Becher did not, seeing something abysmal by his making and anything but a masterpiece.
As Becher stood by the gallows, the SS sergeant’s words sounded distant and hollow as he bellowed orders to the Jewish constituency to return to their labors. All Frederic Becher wanted to do was to stare at the corpse as it swung in lazy half-circles, at the life he had taken simply because her crime was to be a Jew.
Though he had been groomed to hate an entire ethnic group from the days he was a member of the Jungvolk, his actual participation in an active genocide seemed vulgar, especially in the eyes of his god. And for the next few days he would have to watch the body swing from the wire, as birds roosted upon her shoulders to peck at the soft tissue of her eyes. It was a way to desensitize him from what was to come, as well as to harden homicidal ambition. And killing the girl would be the first of many. This he understood.
Feeling a hand fall upon his shoulder, Becher was turned around and redirected by the SS sergeant to take post by the gates, since a train had just arrived from Poland, the second of the day.
That was when he laid eyes upon Josef Mengele for the first time as he dictated who lived or died with a simple motion of his cane.
Chapter Three
Frederic Becher stood at the gates of Auschwitz-Birkenau watching people pass beneath the sign knowing they would eventually become thin to the point of emaciation—this thought having been born from remembrance of those who stood by the gallows as spectators.
Then he closed his eyes as a wave of nausea swept through him, the bile rising deep inside his gut, hot and acidic. And then he took a couple of deep breaths of cool air to stem the rise and settle his stomach, which it did, though a bad taste remained.
Keeping his eyes closed even though there was a leakage of tears at their edges, Becher could see the Jewish girl’s face and the landmark sores that ravaged it in his mind’s eye. He saw the overwhelming sadness in her
eyes, the lack of hope, and recounted the moment she pedaled her legs in self-preservation after he knocked the stool out from underneath, then the ensuing convulsions and the loss of bladder control, until she finally stilled.
I’m a killer, he considered. For no other reason than being a Jew… I killed her.
Becher found no comfort in this when so many others seemed to bathe in the glory of the kill, even when he had been groomed over a lifetime to do so. For Frederic Becher, his first kill had come with a crippling emotional cost. He wondered if this sudden rack of underlying guilt would burgeon with every subsequent kill, an act that was expected of him inside the camp.
“It’s the second one today,” he heard a voice say from behind.
Becher opened his eyes and quickly brought a sleeve up to dry the areas around them, and then he faced an SS guard, someone who had the fresh-scrubbed look of youth, even though he had a cigarette wedged between two fingers as if it was a prop to give off the impression that he was much older.
“From Poland,” he added. Then he brought the cigarette to his lips and took a drag, the butt’s end flaring a moment before he finally blew a cloud of smoke that mingled with the vapors of his breath. Then he used the cigarette as a pointer and directed its burning head towards Becher. “You’re new,” he said. “A kid.”
“And you’re such an adult?” Becher asked him, determining that the guard was not much older than he.
The guard nodded. “In here? Yes. I am. People grow up fast in a place like this. As will you.” He took another drag from the cigarette and flicked it off to a distance where it would smolder on the gravel. Then: “My name is Hans.” The guard extended his hand to Becher, who took it. “Welcome to Auschwitz.”
Becher shook the guard’s hand, released it, and focused his attention to the throngs of people being herded off the trains and through the gates. “So many people,” he commented softly, as if thinking out loud.