“You don’t have a blanket,” the woman on her left said. “ We’re all sleeping under mine, so you can just move your ass over a little.” She turned to Katja and held out her hand, “Cecily Lefort. This here is Violette Szabo and Denise Bloch, and Miss Generosity over there is Bertha something or other.”
Katja nodded at each name, then replied, “Katja Sommer.” She looked down at her empty bowl and added. “Is this all you get for supper here?”
“It’s all you get at all. Some filthy hot water in the morning, but that’s it until after the fourth roll call.”
Cecily climbed up onto the middle of three bunks and took her place at the far left. Violette and Bertha clambered in after her, and Katja pressed herself into the space remaining on the far right. Denise slept in the middle row of the platform across the way.
“How do they expect us to work if they starve us to death?” Katja asked. “Even slaves have to eat.”
Cecily rose up on her elbow and spoke across the two bodies between them. “Because we’re lower than slaves. We’re disposable labor. The camp hires us out to factories and businesses for profit. Fortunately for them, there’s lots of us, and more coming every day. So, they work us to death and replace the dead with fresh workers. It’s a perfect wartime business model.”
“Tell her about the Jugendlager and the crematorium,” Violette said.
“The Jugendlager is where they take you to die,” Cicely ex-plained. “They say it’s a recovery camp, but no one ever recovers. Their dresses come back the next day for reissue with new numbers.”
“Thus the crematorium,” Violette added coldly.
“They never reuse the numbers?” Katja asked.
“No. It’s their way of keeping a record of the arrivals and ‘departures,’” Denise said from the other side of the aisle. “They just keep adding higher numbers. Low numbers show you’ve been here for a while. For whatever reason.”
There was a certain logic, Katja agreed, then noticed that Cecily’s dress number was 111,222, while Violette and Denise had higher but almost identical numbers ending with 98 and 99. The two must have arrived later, but together.
Just then the lights went off and the block senior’s voice called out. “No more talking! If I hear anyone making noise, they’ll sleep outside.”
Katja stared bleakly into the darkness. She tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that at least Frederica was safe, but the physical stress of where she lay was too great. She began to shiver and tried to huddle close under the blanket that was now covering four women, but Bertha shoved her away.
*
February 1944
At four in the morning the sky was still dark, but the Lagerstrasse that ran down the center of the camp was lit by fiercely bright lights atop high poles. The women lined up ten by ten to make up units of one hundred. Katja had no way to gauge the total number in the roll call, but had the impression it was several thousand. For the briefest moment, she had a memory of uniformed men standing in similar blocks on a wide field, patriotic, waiting for command.
The thin and rather oily prison coat Katja had been issued was wholly inadequate for the winter air, and when the second roll call to assignments began she was shivering violently. Finally, as dawn broke, she heard her number follow those of her barrack-mates for the wood-collection detail.
The gates of the camp swung open and they began the half-kilometer march to the woods. Katja went with a forward detachment of twenty women to cut the wood while the second team of six came after them pushing a cart along rails. One Kapo and one female SS guard oversaw the work, and although talking was not allowed, amidst the sound of sawing and cutting, Katja noticed that the women exchanged quiet remarks.
The Kapo seemed intent on proving to the SS woman that she had control over the other prisoners, and she prodded and shouted at them as they worked, though it did not change the pace of collection in any way. When the cart arrived, Katja began to drop bundles of the cut wood into it, keeping her eyes lowered to avoid attracting attention. “How are you doing?” a voice next to her whispered.
“Oh, Cecily, it’s you.” She glanced toward the Kapo, who seemed indifferent. “I’m all right.”
“Save your strength,” Cecily murmured. “We’ll be doing this for twelve hours, and you don’t want to collapse and be sent to the medical barracks. You don’t want to be anywhere near the doctors.”
“Why?” Katja asked under her breath, hefting another bundle of kindling into the cart.
Cecily glanced around and saw that the Kapo was out of earshot. “Experiments. Two women from our barracks went in with small saw wounds on their hands, and the doctors sewed something inside to start an infection so they could try out some new medicines.”
Nurse Rumoldt’s boast about the medical testing by Charité doctors shot through her mind. “So what happened? Did the wounds heal?”
“No.” Cecily changed the subject. “Why were you arrested?”
“Undermining the war effort. I listened to a patient raving about losing on the Eastern Front. I worked at the Charité as a nurse.”
“Oh, good. You’ll be helpful in the barracks so we don’t have to go to the doctors.”
Katja couldn’t imagine how she could be. Without medicines or soap or bandages, she was the same as every other prisoner. All she could do was name the things they were sick and dying from. She knelt to tie up a bundle where it was harder to be overheard. “What about you? I hear your English accent.”
“I’m Anglo-French, actually. I was caught in France, and Denise and Violette a few weeks later. For sabotage.”
“All of you sent over from England? How brave you are. Every little bit helps.”
Cecily shrugged laconically. “Only until you’re arrested. But we all managed a few jobs before they caught us.”
“Did they try to coerce you to tell more?”
“They already knew about the SOE. They tortured us in the beginning for more names, but we all kept strong, and finally they left us alone. I guess it was enough that they had our radios and our transmission codes.”
SOE? Frederica’s organization. Katja was stunned. Then she remembered the names. These were the agents Frederica had talked about. She longed to confide in them that the woman she loved was one of their own. They might even know her by her code name, Caesar. But it seemed a betrayal of Frederica, a needless and highly dangerous one. Many ears were listening, of people who would gladly provide information to the camp commandant for as little as a full meal or a blanket. And if it were known that she had SOE connections, she would certainly be tortured. She was not at all sure she could “keep strong.”
The Kapo began to stroll toward them and so they fell silent and set to hacking their tree branches into kindling.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The air raids over Berlin intensified as the British Mosquitoes gradually gave way to the heavier bombers of Britain and the United States. But for all that, Peter ceased to take shelter under the Lion House, partly out of sympathy for the big cats, terrified by the tumult. In the midst of the hellish cacophony, he stayed with them, in front of their cages, trying to soothe them. But he also hated cowering in the cellar. It seemed just an exaggeration of the abject hiding he did every day, and it sickened him.
The bombers usually came in the evening, just before sunset, using the last of the daylight to spot targets. But one day they came an hour early. Peter ran to comfort his cats.
“It’s all right, Sultan,” he said to the male Sumatran. “I know how it feels to be caged and helpless while they’re doing this. But this is what happens when men become savage beasts. They don’t just kill one another, face to face. They destroy each other’s cities.”
There was a deafening crash as a bomb hit close by. Peter hit the floor and covered his head. A second explosion sounded, slightly less loud, perhaps in the next street. He stayed on the floor through the rest of the raid, hearing other detonations farther away and final
ly nothing. Then the all-clear sounded.
The Lion House was unharmed and the cages intact, and when he ventured outside, he saw immediately the cause of the ear-splitting noise. The zoo canteen had been struck.
The commercial building across the street was burning as well, and fire trucks and ambulances were just pulling up there. The empty canteen was for the moment ignored, so he jogged toward the twisted steel and stone wondering if he could retrieve any food.
The bomb had struck one side of the building, reducing it to rubble, while on the other side, which still stood, a gas line had been broken and a fire raged, fueled by the cooking gas and shattered wooden tables. He could see the copper pipe jutting from the side of a pit, with a long blue flame projecting from the end of it.
He stepped carefully among the rubble, looking for anything to carry away, then felt something soft under his foot. He recoiled when he saw the arm of a half-naked woman. It was one of the cooks, the one who often gave him food. He couldn’t remember her name. The angle of her head suggested a broken neck; in any case, it was clear she was dead. But what was she doing bare-breasted in the canteen?
Peter searched farther among the rubble and found the answer. A Wehrmacht soldier lay crumpled, his skull crushed. It looked like one of the soldiers from the nearby flak tower had sneaked off for a quick one with his girlfriend. The impact had thrown him sideways, where a section of ceiling had fallen on him. The concrete must have crushed him immediately, before he could even button up his trousers.
Peter made a sudden decision. It took all his strength to lift the block of concrete, but he finally managed to free the body. Quickly, he yanked off the boots, then stripped the tunic, regulation shirt, and trousers from the dead man. At the last moment he recalled the metal identity tag and snatched it from the man’s neck. Then he dragged the cadaver toward the flaming copper pipe and tipped it facedown into the pit where the fire still crackled.
He gathered up tunic and cap along with the other clothes, and with his arms full, he fled the rubble, just as the emergency service arrived from the other direction.
Peter was confident that after the heavy bombing, the police would not try to identify the charred flesh of the man in the burning rubble. Most likely, he would join the hundreds of bodies laid out in various city gymnasiums waiting to be identified. The soldier would be listed as missing from duty from his regiment, but nothing would connect him with the naked cadaver or with Peter, the all-but-invisible zoo caretaker.
He hurried back to his storeroom and locked the door. Brushing off the dust and ash, he rifled through the pockets of the tunic and found the soldier’s Soldbuch. The first page held the dead man’s full name, Gearhardt Kramer, and his rank, Lieutenant. Across from it was a thumbnail photo of Lt. Kramer in his new uniform looking vaguely, very vaguely, like Peter. Already a plan was forming in Peter’s mind.
The number of his dog tag was listed, as well as his company and battalion numbers, his blood type, gas-mask size, service number, date and place of birth. His religion was Catholic, his civilian occupation had been accountant, and the detailed physical description, along with distinguishing marks, matched the photo.
Several pages down were his unit information and his list of promotions, his reporting station, company and unit number, training locations, and a list of the clothing, equipment, and arms issued to him.
Peter was amazed at the detail. Lt. Kramer’s marital status was single, his father was listed as a civil servant, his parents’ address was Karlsruhe.
The soldier’s medical record was brief. Other than the required inoculations, he had made a single visit to a military medical facility, for an accidental fall, and to the army dentist for removal of an abscessed molar. He had a few decorations, Sharpshooter 2nd class, a silver medal for four years’ service, outstanding-service medal in a flak battery, and a close-combat medal, bronze.
The last pages held his record of leaves and furloughs, and indicated an ever-decreasing frequency of visits home. Perhaps no fiancée waited for him, which might also explain the fatal sexual adventure in the zoo. The details gave Peter a feeling of familiarity with Lieutenant Kramer. Would he have found him attractive if they’d met in a bar?
Peter closed the Soldbuch and turned his attention to the uniform itself. Having it opened up new opportunities.
The tunic was gritty with ash, but unstained. The pants, however, were torn and bloodstained. In the following days, Peter brushed the tunic meticulously and polished every button. He washed the pants carefully in cold water and a dilute solution of the cleaning agent he used in the animal cages. It caused the stain to mute and lighten, so it was less visible to the casual eye. After drying them, he pressed them between two boards and slept over them on his mattress.
The uniform was slightly large on him, but years of sewing theatrical costumes had made him an expert tailor. He ventured into the city briefly and purchased sewing needles, scissors, and thread, none of which were rationed, and set about making the repairs and alterations.
A few days later he put on the tunic and pants and ventured out, striding purposefully through the streets, though keeping far away from the zoo flak tower where the lieutenant would by now be missed. With so many soldiers in the city, almost no one looked at him.
At first he simply enjoyed the freedom of walking down a street and seeing respect in people’s eyes.
But one afternoon he saw two soldiers in the next street dragging a man out of a building. A Jew, apparently, who had managed to hide. They slapped him a few times, then forced him into the back of a truck.
Peter backed away, to avoid being called upon to assist, and hurried off in the opposite direction, his heart pounding with impotent rage. He was dressed like the soldiers, but as a Mishling, he was one of the wretched they terrorized. No, he muttered, almost stopping. He would no longer be terrorized. He would stand up to them, even if it cost him his life.
In the safety of his storeroom, he brooded on what he could do. He had no knowledge of how to interfere with communication or block deportations, but he did have access to flammable solvents. And he knew how to start a fire.
The hydrogen peroxide he had been issued for diluting and cleaning was an excellent fuel and, undiluted, it burned explosively. The cool, quick fire would do to ignite other materials, so he searched for targets that contained them.
A week later he decided on the AEG Turbine factory in Moabit. He finished his work early and used the afternoon to survey the factory. The machines were too big for him to tackle, but he could at least disrupt the administration and thus slow down production.
He returned to the shabby industrial suburb the next day with his tools in a suitcase and waited for the air raid to provide cover. When the air raid alarm sounded, he noted that the factory workers stayed at their stations. Only the German staff were permitted to take shelter in the basement. When they had vacated what seemed to be the command center, he broke a window and threw in three wine bottles filled with hydrogen peroxide. They shattered upon hitting the floor, sending the liquid out in a wide pool. He tossed in bundles of rags to soak it up and hold the flame, then lobbed in a burning match. The entire width of the floor gave off a bright explosion with a crackling “wooof” lost in the thunder of the bombardment. Then he fled.
The next day’s newspaper listed the neighborhoods that sustained the most damage but didn’t mention the fire at the AEG factory. Compared to the air raids, he was only an annoyance.
He had to expand his explosive capacity. The hydrogen peroxide caused a sudden bright flame but would not sustain a fire and could only ignite other materials. Then it occurred to him that Berlin was already loaded with explosives, in the munitions factory in Spandau.
As soon as he was able, he passed by the factory and scrutinized it. To his dismay, the factory was well guarded and, by all evidence, impenetrable. In an air raid, it would simply go into lockdown. But he noted trucks moving in and out all day. The arriving trucks ca
rried the raw materials, and the out-going, presumably, the munitions themselves. With good timing and a little luck, he could blow up a truck. Or two. He merely needed to devise a slow-burning fuse that would allow him the time to escape.
It took weeks to prepare the device, since he had to contact his black-market friends to ask for black powder and fuse material, then wait until they could collect it. It cost him all the cash he could muster. But when everything was ready, he returned to the Spandau site with a canister full of thick cotton wicks soaked in hydrogen peroxide and two long coils of fuse. The benefit of the long fuse was also its drawback, for the two minutes it would take to burn would allow him to escape but would leave the fuse exposed. Anyone seeing it could simply snatch it away from the wicks, and the device wouldn’t explode. He depended on the British bombers not only being on time, but also laying down heavy enough fire that no one would want to venture out. He found an inconspicuous spot some distance from the factory and waited.
When the bombers struck and the sirens cleared the streets, he rushed toward the loading dock where two trucks were parked. He unscrewed the caps from both their fuel reservoirs and threaded in the wicks, attaching the outer ends to the meter-long fuses. He ignited them and ran for his life.
He had made it across the street when the gas tanks in the trucks detonated. A second after, one of the trucks exploded in a fireball and the heat scorched his face. Hoping the explosion would be attributed to the bombardment, he turned and marched purposefully toward the nearest air-raid shelter, joining the police who guided people to safety.
Upon emerging at the all-clear, he was pleased to see smoke still coming from the direction of the factory. It seemed unlikely he had prevented the production of a single shipment of arms, but at least he’d finally struck a blow. He was a resistance fighter now, not a cowering victim.
Over the next months, he repeated his little acts of sabotage, at the munitions factory in Kreuzberg, and at a military supply depot.
Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright Page 18
