The Barbed Crown (The Vatican Knights Book 13)

by Rick Jones

  They watched as the last of the kapos climbed into the bays. At the rear of the line was Liev Bodner, his face registering obvious dread as it began to show signs of cracking.

  “I can’t watch this,” said Ephraim, walking away. “Not anymore.”

  Dror, however, remained. After seeing the canvas flaps to the trucks lowered, Dror closed his eyes and said: “Good-bye, Liev.”

  * * *

  After Becher aided his unit to clear the kapos dormitory, he noticed that they had lived a life of perks in regards to Jewish living. They had slept on mattresses instead of the splintered bunk boards and straw bedding that the ‘camp Jews’ had become accustomed to. And in the room’s center a table appeared as if a banquet was taking place at the time of the roundup, a king’s feast, with loaves of bread, jars of olives, and blocks of cheese.

  The moment Becher’s unit vacated the room, Becher managed to grab three wedges of cheese and an olive jar, bundled them together inside a handkerchief, and stuffed them inside his uniform.

  Frederic Becher, once again, was about to buck the rules of the Nazi system.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As Liev Bodner wept, the kapos sitting close to him were sensing a foreboding as well. But unlike Bodner, they remained silent and prayed that this would not be the end, with each man hoping for the long journey to either Chelmno or Belzac or Majdanek.

  Thirty minutes later they got their answer.

  As the trucks took what appeared to be the rises and dips of rough terrain, they eventually stopped and the SS guards leaped from their trucks, then pulled aside the canvas flaps to the kapos trucks, with the SS guards yelling for them to get out and quickly.

  Schnell! Schnell! Time to stretch your legs, yes?

  And somebody within the truck made the comment that it was only a half hour, maybe less, a mention that drove Bodner into a sobbing fit.

  Schnell! Schnell! Into the field! All of you! Stretch your legs!

  One by one they leapt from the trucks and onto a carpet of grass that was beginning to go dormant with the cooling weather.

  Into the field! A guard yelled, waving them to a spot beyond the trucks. Into the field!

  When Bodner jumped down, he was embracing himself with a hand to each shoulder, the man crying, his face flushed. “Please don’t do this,” he managed. “Please. It’s hasn’t been three months.”

  “Shut up. And into the field with you to stretch your legs.”

  “Pleeeease.”

  With a heavy shove from the stock of his rifle, the SS guard forced Bodner to follow the others.

  “Pleeeease.”

  About thirty yards from the trucks was a trench, about twelve feet deep. Inside were the bodies of past kapos, their corpses having wasted away by the elements that left nothing but grinning skulls and coffee-stained bones.

  “Stand along the edge of the channel!” the guard yelled. “All of you! Line up! Schnell!”

  The kapos did as they were told, some raising their chin in defiance, whereas others cast their eyes to the ground before them. When they were lined up, the guards stepped away.

  Liev Bodner shook his head in a no-no-no-this-can’t-be-happening-type behavior, then he looked into the ditch behind him, saw the bodies lying there in wait, the one-time kapo almost hearing their voices call out to him and saying: Come down to the dark with us.

  When Bodner turned around while clutching himself in the same tight embrace, with his hands to his shoulders, he saw the canvas flap of one of the escorting truck’s peel back. Inside was a soldier who was manning a .50 caliber machinegun, the barrel long and threatening.

  With tears flowing freely from the corners of Bodner’s eyes, Bodner could only think about his betrayals to his own kind as he looked skyward, the man now consumed with regret, all which had been born by his—

  Gunfire could be heard throughout the valley for miles, the report echoing great distances like a drum roll.

  Thirty minutes later, the trucks were back at Auschwitz.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ayana was working at her garment station when Becher walked calmly beside her, tapped his truncheon lightly against her desk, and pointed to the rear of the building, meaning that he wanted to see her outside, alone.

  When the door closed behind them, Ayana was clearly shivering against the morning chill. “Yes, Herr Becher.”

  “How are you, Ayana?” he asked her. “You’re looking pale.”

  “I’m fine, Herr Becher.”

  “Frederic. I want you to call me Frederic.”

  “As you wish, Herr Frederic.”

  In the short period that she had been in Auschwitz, she was already beginning to show the signs of the burdens the camp had placed on the Jews, such as the small portion of rations and the fatigue that seemed to weigh down her shoulders.

  “You’re tired,” he told her. “And you’re hungry.”

  “I’ve only had one tin since I arrived here, Herr Frederic. Just one.”

  Becher knew exactly what a ‘tin’ was—a dented cup of semi-hot water with a few cubes of potatoes. Then he looked around to carefully scan the area, and noted that the SS guards were working a distance away, whereas Jews appeared everywhere as they worked their details. Then he turned back to Ayana, the girl shivering as her entire body trembled. “You’re cold,” he said to her, stating the obvious.

  She nodded. “If you don’t mind, Herr Frederic, there is work to be done.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course.” He gave another cursory look of his surroundings. When he felt confident enough not to compromise himself, he removed a small bundle from his ammo satchel, untied the small knot, and peeled back the corners of the handkerchief to reveal the bounty he was presenting her, a magical gift.

  In his hand were three wedges of cheese and a small jar of olives. “For you,” he told her.

  Though her stomach said ‘yes,’ she still erred on the side of caution. “Why?”

  “You must eat,” he said simply.

  She gave him a strange look. “Why me?”

  He presented her with the handkerchief, which she took with some measure of reluctance. “You must keep up your strength,” he told her.

  Then again from Ayana, she asked: “Why me?”

  Frederic Becher locked onto her eyes, could see the bafflement and mistrust behind them. “Because not all Germans, Ayana, believe in what goes on here.”

  “Do you do this for others?” she asked him. “Give them food.”

  After a pause, he said: “No.”

  Then for a third time, she asked: “Then why do you do this for me?”

  But he dismissed her line of questioning. Instead, he answered: “Ayana, whatever you do, never let it be known to others that I gave these to you. Trust no one who seeks to better their position with the guards. If you are compromised, so will I. You will be hanged upon the gallows and I will be shot; both as examples to others.”

  Ayana looked at the food. Then she looked at Frederic, her eyes filled with such gratefulness that Frederic couldn’t help but smile. Finally, he was beginning to crack the surface to reach underneath.

  “I will bring more,” he told her, taking back the food and tying up the handkerchief. “You will find these inside your barrack next to the buckets by the latrine, high on a shelf after the kapo investigates the barrack. There is a loose board there, one that can be pulled away from the wall and refitted, so as not to draw suspicion.”

  “You know what barrack I’m in?”

  “I know,” he answered swiftly, while placing the bundle inside his ammo satchel. “Tonight, after your work detail,” he continued, “you’ll need something to pry the board with. A stick, maybe. But the food will be there… And maybe everyday thereafter.”

  “Herr Frederic…” Her words trailed off, the woman almost dumbfounded by his kindness.

  And then from Becher: “Now back to your station,” he told her, “before the guard becomes suspicious. I’ll lead you back
to your desk. But whatever you do, Ayana, do not compromise either of our positions.”

  Softly, and in a tone that sounded incredulous of her good fortune, she said: “I won’t.”

  When Frederic reached up to grab her by the shoulders, he could feel Ayana tighten against his touch, which saddened him to a degree. But he understood her position and knew that it would not be easy to earn her trust. “I know you won’t,” he told her, still feeling her rigidness beneath his touch. As soon as he released her, he could see her settle a bit as her shoulders loosened somewhat.

  With nothing more added, she followed Becher to her station as planned. As Becher continued down the aisle toward the factory’s SS guard who carried a lascivious smile, Becher knew that the man had intuited incorrectly about the girl, and queried further about Becher violating the Jew. Becher, however, waved him off dismissively and broached another topic about the disconcerting rumor regarding the approach of the Red Army.

  In the meantime, Ayana was met with the curious and questioning eyes of those who sat around her, all wondering why Ayana was wearing a smile while she worked.

  * * *

  After his conversation with the SS guard posted inside the garment factory, both having dismissed the approach of the Russians as absurd since no one could fight fiercely enough against the Nazi regime, Frederic Becher was making his rounds and working his way toward the women’s compound, the man feeling light on his feet after breaking through the divide with Ayana, when he noticed the pushcart by the gallows.

  A work detail was finally removing the body of the young girl he had kicked the stool out from underneath. Her skin was horribly mottled and bloated, the gases building up. And her eyes were gone, the crows having feasted on the tissue until there was nothing left but deep hollows in her head. When they undid the wire cord and lifted her body, her head dangled loosely on her neck as if she was without a spine, and turned in such a way that she faced him with those pitted hollows giving off an accusatory glare, deep and hardened, before they tossed her body onto the wagon.

  Becher continued to stare, couldn’t take his eyes of her, those red pits in her skull the size of communion wafers, staring, the holes sucking the life out of Becher until he could look no more, the man finally turning away with a sense of self-loathing.

  I did that, he thought.

  Whatever he was feeling before, that air of lightness on his feet, was now gone.

  I did that.

  Feeling the bundle within his ammo satchel, he made his way toward Ayana’s barrack. With the food, he thought, perhaps he could save his soul with kind offerings to compensate against his transgressions, through acts of kindness. Perhaps, he considered further, I can save my soul and find salvation by offering a bundle filled with cheeses and a jar filled with olives. But he knew that it would take so much more than a single gesture to reach the Light of Loving Spirits, but something much greater.

  His path, he knew, was going to be a long and difficult journey.

  Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw the pushcart being wheeled to the crematorium. The girl appeared to be staring directly at him with black judgment, though eyeless, as the cart pressed on, which made it all that much more damning to him.

  Quickly, Frederic Becher turned away never to look back.

  And though he did not know which bunk Ayana slept in, he did as he promised and placed the food behind the loose board, hoping that saving a life would make up for stealing a life. Somehow, he knew that God would expect more since salvation cannot be reconstituted on a single act of kindness.

  But it’s a start, he confirmed to himself.

  Nevertheless, in the weeks to come, Frederic Becher would damn himself further.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Since more than 20% of the kapos had been summarily purged from duty with another 20% to be purged thereafter on a monthly basis, the Lagerkommandant had delegated the SS guards to seek out replacements.

  When Moshe Chapiro learned that the SS guards were looking for substitutions for those who had been reassigned, it was a perk-position he wanted since it enabled him to wear civilian attire; enjoy meals that consisted of cheeses and meats, even if the protein was of cheap variety that came in loaves; and to drink water that wasn’t brown when it left the mouth of a well pump.

  So Chapiro, while lugging his pails of human waste from the barracks to the latrine pit with an older man who struggled with the weight of the buckets, came upon SS Sergeant Kaiser and two other guards, laid the buckets carefully on the ground, removed his striped cap, and stood before the Germans with his eyes cast submissively to the ground before their feet.

  “Something you want?” asked the SS sergeant.

  Chapiro began to wring his cap nervously in his hands. Behind him, the old man lowered his buckets and took the same submissive pose, cap in hand and eyes to the ground.

  Chapiro nodded. “It has come to my understanding that you’re looking for kapos, yes?”

  “Look at me,” said Kaiser.

  Chapiro did, looking into the simian-like features of the big man who looked more like a gorilla with the wide breadth of his shoulders and thick arms.

  SS Sergeant Kaiser gave Chapiro a belittling smile, one that said: you’ve got to be kidding me. Then he directed his finger to Chapiro’s left arm and then to his right, his smile broadening as he pointed out Chapiro’s wispy-looking limbs. “You don’t look like you can hold a club, let alone swing one,” he said, the comment goading laughter from the SS guards.

  Chapiro returned his gaze to the ground once again, as his hands continued to twist the cap first in one direction, and then the other. “But I’m strong, Herr Sergeant, because these buckets have weight to them. And the many journeys from the barracks to the trenches over time have made me strong.”

  “You think you can wield a truncheon when necessary?” Sergeant Kaiser asked him. “You think you can beat a Jew down when necessary?”

  “I do.”

  SS Sergeant Kaiser turned to the two guards and laughed, his amusement of Chapiro becoming infectious enough to cause the others to join in. Then he turned to Chapiro with the corner of his lip paring back and skinning his teeth, until it ended up looking like a snarl. He then removed his baton from a ring attached to his belt and offered it to Chapiro. “Here,” he said. “Take it.”

  Chapiro did, hefting the weapon and feeling its weight, its power. He then looked brazenly into the SS sergeant’s eyes. “Does this mean I’m a kapo?”

  “It means that you must first prove your worth.”

  “My worth?”

  Kaiser’s snarl disappeared and was duly replaced with a half-smile whose edge had curled with the thinness of a fishhook. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t hand over a club to any Jew just because they ask for one.” Then he pointed to the older Jew and ordered him to his knees. The old man, who took to the surface of rough gravel on his knees as demanded, did not betray his emotions as he complied with Kaiser’s request. Once the old man was on his knees and his eyes cast to the ground, SS Sergeant Kaiser removed a Luger from his holster and held it close to his thigh. “This is the agreement, Jew. You have five strokes of the club to prove to me that you’re capable of the position, yes? Five. If this yid”—He pointed his Lugar at that old man—“is dead after the fifth blow, then the role of kapo is yours. However, if he’s still breathing, no matter how shallow his breath, then I will shoot you dead right where you stand.”

  Chapiro sucked air between his teeth, the intake a slight whistle, wondering if the grisly challenge was one he could meet.

  Kaiser pointed the Luger at Chapiro’s center mass. “Five,” he told him. “That’s all you get.”

  Chapiro gripped the club tightly, his fingers flexing and folding around the handle. Then he approached the old man who continued to stare at the ground without showing something as little as a nervous tic. But it was something Chapiro had seen before and nothing unique inside the camp. It was clear that the old man’s hope
had abandoned him long ago, which left him without any sense of self-value and nothing to care about, not even his own life.

  “Five chances,” said Kaiser. “And I will not wait all day.” The SS sergeant thumbed the safety switch until it clicked and locked in place, the firearm ready.

  Chapiro stood over the old man whose hair had thinned to the point of revealing a grouping of lesions upon his scalp. As the old man continued to stare at the gravel with a blank look, he did not see this as an end, however, but as an act of charity and a new beginning to something different and wonderful.

  “I will count to three,” said the SS sergeant, keeping the point of his Luger directed at Chapiro. “One…”

  Chapiro swallowed as he examined the liver-spotted scalp that was his for the taking, the old man’s crown ripe and waiting.

  “Two…”

  Chapiro raised the club until it reached its highest point, then brought it down against the old man’s skull, which dented on the first blow, the crunch as audible as a stalk of celery snapping. The old man buckled and fell forward, and hard. Then Chapiro lashed out with a second and third strike as if caught in a killing fever, the cudgel splitting the old man’s head until a portion of gray matter started to slide free from the skull’s cradle and onto the gravel, along with the slow and circular spreading blood.

  Blood splatter and droplets spotted Chapiro’s uniform and face, giving him somewhat of a savage look. His eyes showed mostly whites that were filled with red stitching, an angry hue, with the lust behind them paramount as he raised the club to give the old man a fourth shot. But Kaiser grabbed Chapiro’s wrist and held it aloft.

  “Enough,” said the SS sergeant.” After holstering his pistol, he removed the truncheon from Chapiro’s hand and slipped it back inside the ring of his utility belt. And then he said to Chapiro as he released him: “Impressive. It only took three blows. It takes most kapos at least ten blows, even those who are strong enough to yield a club.” Kaiser pointed to the buckets sitting on the gravel. “Perhaps you were correct when you said that carrying that filth has made you strong.”