by Rick Jones
“Herr Becher, if I don’t get back to work and fall behind—” She let her words hang.
“If you fall behind, Ayana, I will take full responsibility.”
Their eyes continued to lock on, blue on brown.
“Ayana, I will keep you safe. All I ask from time to time is that we have moments of conversation.”
“Herr Becher?” She appeared more confused than ever.
Becher, too, realized that he had overstepped his boundaries. Jews had been stripped of their citizenship. And Germans and Jews were not allowed to ‘date’ or ‘correspond’ with one another, these laws mandated by the Nazi administration. Yet here he was, trying to be a part of the system while skirting its rules.
“Ayana, it’s not going to be easy for you inside this camp.”
“So I’ve seen.” Then her eyes hardened. “The man at the gate… he sent my family to the left. Yesterday, inside the barrack, I was told what going to the left means.”
Becher nodded his sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that about your family, Ayana. But you were spared. And you are young and alive.”
“I don’t understand what you’re telling me, Herr Becher.”
And neither did Becher. He was so enamored by her that he wanted her close, always. But to tell her this only raised the level of danger for him since rape was encouraged as a means of open hostility, and not out of infatuation. What he needed was to win her confidence, which would be next to impossible. But he also knew that the word ‘impossible’ didn’t mean that something could not be done. It only measured the degree of difficulty.
“It’ll come clear to you,” he finally said to her. “Not all Germans are what they appear to be.” The moment he said this, however, he felt like a hypocrite. In two days he murdered two Jews, one by command and the other by impulse.
He lowered his head in shame.
“Is something wrong, Herr Becher?” Her tone remained firm and even.
He lifted his head, smiled, though he knew it would probably appear somewhat feigned to Ayana. “Everything’s fine,” he told her. Then he looked her in the eyes and saw nothing but absolute beauty, not only on the surface but deep underneath as well. Then: “Now back to your labors, Ayana. I will call upon you again to see how you are doing.”
Ayana nodded, a slight tilt of her chin. “Yes, Herr Becher.” Then she hastened away as if to draw distance between her and a bad situation.
When she was gone Becher questioned himself, asking how it was possible to be assimilated into the system while rejecting some of its directives. Worse, he had come to see himself the same way as Ayana looked upon him, as a demon, her eyes saying it all.
I may be a demon to some, Ayana. But I promise you, I will be an angel to others.
How Frederic Becher intended to keep this promise, however, was beyond him. To refuse Nazi directives invited a death sentence the same way Christianity was persuaded during the Crusades by the blade of a sword. Those who were not fully incorporated always paid the price, be it Germans, Jews, Hungarians, or anyone who didn’t take to the system. Firing squads were everywhere, these liquidation teams the first line of teaching.
Navigating his way through the yards that sounded off with the occasional burst of gunfire, his thoughts settled on Ayana. She was beautiful and whole, not yet stricken to bare bones. And in another life he could see themselves together, a German and a Jew, without mandated restrictions and being happy. It was also a dream, something that could never be.
Then he happened upon the body of the swinging Jew upon the gallows. The ravens had returned, pecking and stealing pieces of her flesh. And he shooed them away once more, this time yelling in anger which caught the attention of a few SS guards, Hans being one of them.
After waving a hand that everything was all right, he focused his attention on the dead girl. She was not as captivating as Ayana, he thought. But perhaps, if given the chance, she could have been to someone else.
The body continued to swing in slow circles, a young girl robbed of her life by his hands.
Then nausea swept through him, a burning bile so hot and acidic it burst as a projectile from between his lips. He had purged his soul of the sickness that dwelled there.
In the background a few SS guards laughed and pointed, making Becher the subject of ridicule, something the Jews knew all too well. Standing as if to regain a measure of pride with a straight back and a rise to his chin much like the way Ayana carried herself, he walked away from the gallows to finish his rounds.
Chapter Ten
When Ayana returned to her garment station, all eyes were upon her. After she sat down with a look of stoicism, the woman beside her, Rachel Horvitz, leaned toward her and ventured: “Are you all right?”
Ayana turned to her. “I’m fine,” she said, then she went back to sewing.
“Did he… touch you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Now everyone else looked on with curiosity with some giving sidelong glances as they continued to stitch and sew, most afraid to catch the eye of an SS guard should he see their hands become idle.
“What did he want?” Rachel asked her.
“To talk,” was all she said.
“That’s it?”
“He told me that ‘not all Germans are what they appear to be.’”
“Meaning what?”
Ayana shrugged. Then she said: “He seemed nice.”
Rachel lashed out at her louder than she intended. “Nice?” Then she looked at the SS guard at the other end of the floor, his attention elsewhere. Then Rachel came back at Ayana harshly. “If they appear nice, that means they want something. Don’t be so naïve, Ayana, or you won’t last long. Believe me, there is no such thing as a kind SS guard. Not here, not anywhere.” She then went back to sewing the hem of a smock, leaving Ayana with the impression that she was angry to a degree.
But Ayana believed otherwise about the soldier. Though the hairs on the back of her neck rose like the hackles of a dog sensing great danger, she sensed the man called Herr Becher, though not quite a man but on the cusp of becoming one, hadn’t been totally corrupted by the system. She could see the kindness in his eyes underneath. But she also saw uncertainty. He was an impressionable young man wading through life. This she understood since she was equally trying to find direction as well, though the obstacle of vilification had risen as a means of retarding any hope of true accomplishment. Nevertheless, she was learning by way of hardship. Herr Becher, however, was learning by institutionalization. Germans are Germans. Jews are Jews. And never the twain shall meet.
Ever.
Yet she could not shake off the sense that he was caring in the way he had spoken to her, as if she was more than a Jew and more his equal. And this was odd, she considered, after witnessing Germans treat her kind with brutality as if it was expected, if not the norm of the camp. She had seen women beaten with truncheons, even those who were pregnant, before having been carted off to the crematories.
Herr… Becher.
She could still see the shine of his blue eyes in the recall of her memories, as well as the measure and tone of respect. His eyes were like glimmering sapphires, jewels, the spark behind them telling her that she would be different to him than all the Jews in the land.
“Be careful,” Rachel insisted once more in a whisper. “Don’t try to think too hard about what he told you. Lies. All of them.”
But Ayana didn’t think so, though she would keep her hackles raised.
In unison with her sisters in captivity, she continued to stitch and sew.
Chapter Eleven
A man by the name of Moshe Chapiro, who’d been at the camp for so long that he appeared more dead than alive, was carrying buckets from the latrine behind Block Eleven—which had become empty after the purging—and was beneath a barrack window that had been opened to air out the stench that had thickened like a pall over time, when he heard a number of hollow-sounding footfalls hammer their way across the floo
rboards inside.
He immediately recognized the voice of Lagerkommandant Höss. The other two were the voices of an SS sergeant and a corporal, though he knew who they were but didn’t know their names.
“It still stinks in here,” complained the Lagerkommandant. “Though I expected no less.”
More footfalls, the men obviously investigating the premise.
“There’s a train coming in from Hungary later this week,” the Lagerkommandant finally said. “No one is to be processed. They’re to be sent directly to the chambers. I’ve already informed Herr Mengele not to waste his time.”
“Yes, Lagerkommandant.” This came from the SS sergeant that looked more like an ape than a man, thought Chapiro, putting a face to the voice. Then he put the pails filled with fecal matter and urine down onto the ground, the pails becoming heavy, and flexed the fingers of his hands to work feeling back into them, the weight of the pails causing them to go numb.
“Train after train filled with Jews and gypsies, and the Führer is asking for the impossible by raising the numbers of the death quota to unreasonable levels.”
More footfalls, the boots heavy.
And as they moved away from the window, Chapiro could pick up bits and pieces of words like ‘mass graves,’ ‘the fields,’ and ‘mass executions to appease the powers that be.’ Everything else in between was nothing but syllables that Chapiro could not decipher, until the footfalls crossed the floorboards once again toward his direction. Then the conversation between them became clearer as the Lagerkommandant continued to hold council with two of the key members of his staff.
“And the Sonderkommandos,” the Lagerkommandant went on, “from what I’m hearing is that they’re slowing down and becoming weak in their labors of tossing the dead into the ovens. Time to hasten the process with those who are fresh, yes? Given the sudden and pending rise in numbers.” Then there was a pause before the Lagerkommandant added: “Perhaps you can choose from the lot that arrived two days ago, if Mengele hasn’t directed them all to the chambers.”
“There’re plenty,” confirmed the corporal.
“Then see this done,” the Lagerkommandant ordered. “Remove the old Sonderkommandos from their post within the month. Start training new men, young men, those who can keep up with the pace.”
“Yes, Herr Lagerkommandant. And the fate of the Sonderkommandos?”
“They have served their purpose. Send them to the fields to be executed or have them gassed. I don’t care which. I just need their deaths logged for the register, since Berlin is fastidious about this.”
“Yes, Herr Lagerkommandant.”
And then one set of footfalls left the barrack, telling Chapiro that two remained.
“The Führer is asking for higher numbers from all the camps.”
Chapiro recognized the voice of the Lagerkommandant.
“Is it true that the Russians are approaching?”
Now Chapiro recognized the voice of the ape.
And then the men began to walk away, their voices once again becoming indecipherable, their syllables hard to pick up.
“You there!” It was an SS guard. In his hand was a submachine gun. “What are you doing? Wasting time when there is no time to waste?”
Chapiro flexed his fingers. “Forgive me, Herr. But the buckets are heavy.”
“Perhaps you have served your purpose, Jew. Perhaps I should get another to work your detail and send you elsewhere.” The SS guard, perhaps in his early thirties, meaning that he was a seasoned soldier with a skinny range of emotions when it came to Jews, showed him his submachine gun.
Chapiro immediately grabbed the handles of both buckets. “No, Herr. I’m strong and healthy. I am good at what I do.”
The SS guard looked at the buckets filled with waste. “I’m sure you are.”
“Thank you, Herr.”
As Chapiro attempted to pass the SS guard, the soldier put a hand on Chapiro’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “Even I can see that you’re a diseased-ridden Jew, becoming old and worthless. If I ever see you trying to avoid work again,” he told him, “I will not hesitate to put an old dog down. Is that clear?”
Chapiro nodded. “Yes, Herr.”
“Get moving.”
“Yes, Herr. It won’t happen again.”
Careful not to spill the contents onto the gravel, which would be cause enough to be made an example of in the middle of the compound with a bullet to the back of the head, Moshe Chapiro had information he needed to pass on, and quickly. There was going to be a major rise in the death quota. Whole trains filled with people, and the Sonderkommandos, all to fall victim by disappearing into mass graves whose whereabouts would be unknown.
Within a month, Chapiro thought.
All within a month.
Moshe Chapiro continued his journey with the buckets, and was careful not to spill a drop.
Chapter Twelve
After the Sonderkommando shift-change inside Crematories I, II and III, Dror and Ephraim were inside their barracks about to eat their daily rations of soup, which consisted of tepid water and three to four cubes of potatoes no larger than dice, from dented cups.
Moshe Chapiro was sitting beside them with a dented cup of his own, having finished his portion before he proposed an offer to Dror and Ephraim. “How much is it worth to you,” he began, “to know what your future holds?”
Dror looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”
Chapiro leaned in for a three-way council and whispered, “First, what is it worth to you for the information I have?”
Ephraim shrugged. “We’ve nothing to offer.”
Chapiro turned to him and pointed to his cup. “But you do,” he told him. Then he pointed to Dror’s cup. “You both do.”
“You want our meals?” Ephraim asked him, sounding terse.
“For the information I have, yes.”
“There is no information worth a full meal,” said Dror.
“Not true,” Chapiro returned. “Today, while working my detail, I was behind the empty barrack in Block Eleven, beneath the window, when the Lagerkommandant and two members of his staff entered the building for examination of the premise.” He pressed himself closer to Dror and Ephraim, then looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. Everyone, however, was busy sipping from tin cups, or running their bonelike fingers around the inside of the mugs and then bringing them up to their lips in an effort to savor every drop. Sure that no one was listening, Chapiro finally said, “What they were talking about is definitely worth the cups you hold in your hands. Believe me.”
Dror looked at Ephraim. Ephraim looked at Dror. The cups they held and the food within was a bounty, especially when the next filled cup might be days away.
“And if we don’t like what you say?” Dror asked him.
Chapiro gave him a wink of reassurance. “Trust me. What I have to offer is worth more than what you hold in your hands.”
Dror turned to Ephraim and locked eyes, the two on a symbiotic wavelength, each knowing the thoughts of the other without speaking. Then Ephraim nodded as if he knew Dror’s thoughts, agreeing to Chapiro’s proposition.
Dror faced Chapiro and said, “Agreed.”
Smiling, Chapiro put out his cup for Dror to spill his contents into, and then to Ephraim, who added his, the thin broth coming to the rim of Chapiro’s cup. Without hesitation Chapiro brought the cup to his lips and began to drink like a man who had been without water for days under a desert sun, tipping the cup and spilling little as he greedily finished it off.
When Chapiro laid the empty cup aside, Dror said in a firm measure, “What you have to say to us, Moshe, better be worth the cost.”
Chapiro nodded. “Trust me,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“Then spit it out,” said Ephraim. “I want to hear what my rations have cost me.”
Chapiro’s eyes darted around the barrack, the men moving about appearing more dead than alive, with everyone movin
g at a sluggish pace that was born from lack of hope rather than lack of strength.
“The barrack is to remain empty, this coming from the Lagerkommandant.”
“So,” said Dror.
Chapiro raised his forefinger for emphasis. “This weekend,” he continued, “a train from Hungary is coming in and no one is to be processed. All are to be sent to the chambers because Berlin has ordered a step up in operations.”
“A step up?” Ephraim asked him.
Chapiro nodded. “A step up in the death quota. For what reason, I was unable to hear since they stepped away from the window when the Lagerkommandant was asked if it was due to the encroachment of the Russians.”
Dror and Ephraim looked at each other, then they turned their attention back to Chapiro. “So the Russians are coming?” Dror finally asked him.
Chapiro shrugged. “Like I said, they walked away from the window before I could hear the answer. But the Lagerkommandant did say that the command to raise the death quota has been risen to impossible numbers, and that the ovens will have to work day and night to meet these demands from Berlin. They even spoke of executions and mass graves.” Then Chapiro checked his surroundings before attending the conversation once again. “And there’s something else,” he eventually added. “Something that neither of you will want to hear, but hear you must.”
Dror and Ephraim waited.
After a slight pause, Chapiro said, “I heard the Lagerkommandant say that the Sonderkommandos were becoming slow in their duties, becoming too weak to handle the numbers efficiently. So the Lagerkommandant ordered the dismissal of all Sonderkommandos within the month, with everyone to be swapped out with fresh replacements from the last arrival, people who can work faster.”
“And the dismissed Sonderkommandos?” Ephraim asked him.
Chapiro appeared genuinely dismayed and saddened when he said, “You’re all to be killed. Every single one of you, I’m afraid. Taken to the fields and executed.”
