Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil

by Christopher Pike

  He leaves. Thank God he leaves.

  • • •

  I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know if I blacked out or if I was driven into unconsciousness. I only know that when I raise my head and open my eyes I’m no longer in the concrete dungeon.

  The Nazis have moved me aboveground, to a low bluff at the far end of the concentration camp. I am chained to an identical pole, with cuffs that feel no different from the previous set. I believe they are the same cuffs. I can’t break them. Around me, on all sides, is a dome-shaped wire cage. I stand in the center, like before, with my arms pinned above my head, the toes of my feet barely touching the muddy ground. A light rain falls. The sky is gray and dismal.

  The camp looks and smells like purgatory.

  On my far right, a quarter of a mile away, is a deserted railroad track. I can tell by the excellent condition of the rails that trains roll in frequently. Next to it is a row of wooden buildings that could be dormitories. Yet I doubt anyone stays there long, for beside it, almost directly in front of me, is a wide stone structure with a low ceiling and a series of vents sticking out of the roof. The vents are at least two hundred yards distant but give off a harsh disinfectant smell that burns my sensitive nose and causes my nostrils to run.

  It is not disinfectant. It is gas.

  I am looking at the building where the Nazis kill the Jews.

  On my left are the ovens, the tall smoking towers, where thousands—if not millions—of corpses are turned to ash. Even as I watch, the towers belch thick black clouds of stinking vapor into the forlorn sky. Ash litters the landscape; it mixes with the steady drizzle and pelts my head and stings my eyes.

  No, this is not purgatory. I am in hell.

  Yet a peculiar silence grips this insane world. The occupants of the last train have already been murdered; their disposal is being taken care of methodically. Faintly, I hear men speaking in hushed tones, in Polish and German and Hebrew, inside the crematorium. It takes me a minute to get it. The SS, who guard the camp, are using Jewish men to shove the bodies into the flames.

  “Oh, God,” I whisper.

  A bald woman, wearing a drab gray prison suit, shuffles toward my wire cage. Her head is down and she moves with great weariness, but there is no question I’m her goal. It takes me a minute to realize I am looking at Harrah. My shock is overwhelming. How long was I out? How long have I been at the camp? Harrah is thirty pounds lighter than the last time I saw her, and she was thin then. Her skin has lost all luster; it resembles the ash that covers the camp.

  Somehow, though, Harrah summons a smile to greet me.

  “I heard they had taken you captive,” she says. “I feared you were dead. It’s good to see you, Sita.”

  “I’m sorry, Harrah, it’s not good to see you. Not here.”

  She nods. “You warned us. We should have listened.”

  I shake my head. “I might be the reason you’re here.”

  “Don’t say that. The day you vanished, they picked up all the Jews left in Paris. They were watching us the whole time, waiting until the invasion.”

  “Did the Allies take the beaches at Normandy?”

  “We’ve only heard rumors but we’re almost certain they succeeded. The guards here are scared. They know the Russians are closing in.”

  “The Russians?”

  “They counterattacked the Germans after the Americans and the British established a base on the continent. They’ll get here first.”

  “How soon?” I have to struggle to hide the pain in my voice. My burns have healed but the muscle spasms in my arms, legs, and chest are unbearable. It’s like my crucifixion will never end. If I were human I would have smothered to death a long time ago. My lungs are on fire from the slow drain of blood from my abdomen, and from breathing the stench of the gas.

  Harrah hesitates. “It’s probably best not to get our hopes up.”

  Now she’s the realist. The Germans might be surrounded but their soldiers are highly disciplined. They won’t give up without a fight. Their leader won’t let them. Germany’s defeat means Hitler’s head. And his inner circle must know they’ll be executed once the truth of the camps is made public. They’ll destroy their precious fatherland before surrendering.

  And they’ll kill everyone in the camp before the Russians arrive.

  “How’s Ralph?” I ask.

  “He’s sick but alive. They have us working on the north side of the camp making uniforms. Sixteen hours a day and a miserable bowl of soup.” Harrah shrugs. “It could be worse.”

  “Are there many like you? With jobs?”

  “There aren’t many Jews. The Poles get most of the jobs.”

  I have to ask. “So what makes you two special?”

  Harrah stares at me. “The guards told me to go talk to you. They didn’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts.”

  Clever. Make sure our relationship is as strong as ever, then exploit it. “They want to use you as leverage against me,” I say.

  For the first time Harrah shows a flash of her old spark. “Don’t give in to them, Sita. They can only kill us once. Whatever they want you for, it can’t be good.”

  I want to warn Harrah that the SS can make a single death feel like a thousand. But she knows; she just has to look around her.

  “I’m not sure what they want,” I say.

  “They haven’t told you?”

  “Not directly.”

  “Maybe it’s your blood.”

  “I assumed that was it. But as far as I can tell, they’ve taken none, and they’ve had me helpless a number of times. It has to be something else. Something in my past.”

  Harrah glances over her shoulder and moves closer to my cage. “There’s talk the Beast is coming here,” she says.

  “Himmler?”

  “He’s supposed to fly in tomorrow from Berlin.”

  “Who’s your source?”

  “A Catholic priest in the kitchen. We call him Father Bob. He cooks for the guards. He’s a good man. He says the Germans talk about you and nothing else.” She pauses. “They act like you can win the war for them.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “Himmler wouldn’t come here unless it was important.”

  “The Nazis have a peculiar sense of what’s important.”

  “Be careful around him. They say he knows black magic.”

  “Speaking of magic, were you able to hide the veil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. I’m wearing it under my coat.”

  “Jesus, Harrah. Is that wise?”

  “They came in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what else to do. I had to make a decision. I couldn’t leave it behind.”

  “Have they given any sign that they know about it?”

  Harrah frowns. “I’ve been asked strange questions—mostly about my family. I get the impression they’ve heard rumors about the tradition of Veronica but nothing substantial.”

  “I wish I could wear it for a while,” I say.

  Harrah’s eyes moisten with compassion. “You’re in pain.”

  I struggle with the cuffs, for all the good it does me. The flesh around my wrists and ankles has worn away. It’s bloody, and the constant pressure on the joints keeps it from healing.

  “It’s this damn metal. I’ve never seen anything like it. One of their brilliant scientists must have come up with it.” I bang the cuffs together in frustration. “Get me the key to these damn things and I’ll get us all out of here.”

  “Ralph says he’s seen the key.”

  “What? Where? How would he know?”

  “He’s seen the strange woman who tortures you. He says she keeps the key on a chain around her neck.”

  Now that Harrah mentions it, I remember Frau Cia wearing a gold necklace. “Tell Ralph if he can get it without getting himself killed, you’ll live to see your grandchildren.”

  She puts a hand to her mouth. “He talks about nothing else
.”

  “Harrah, I was joking.”

  “No, you weren’t. And what you say makes sense. It’s too late to play it safe. You’re our only hope. If we can get you free, you could destroy the whole camp.”

  “I could destroy it at full strength. But now . . .” I don’t finish.

  “You’re thirsty. You need blood.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Sita, we’re depending on you! If you need blood then we’ll get it for you.”

  “From your body? If I drained every drop in your veins, Harrah, I doubt it would touch my thirst. No offense, but your neck looks like it belongs on a chicken and your head looks like a coconut.”

  She scratches her head. “A coconut has more hair.”

  “What happened to it? Did they shave it off?”

  “I did. Lice. We’ve all got them. It’s the only way to keep from scratching yourself to death.”

  “Lovely,” I mutter. Fortunately, my powerful immune system has spared me her affliction.

  Harrah looks toward the north end of the camp. “I better get back to the factory. The size of this place is obscene. It took me twenty minutes to walk here.” She pauses. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come back.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Concentrate on staying alive.”

  “If Ralph can get ahold of the key, he’ll visit you tonight.”

  “No! They’ll post guards at night.”

  “A beautiful vampire like you can’t handle a few guards?”

  I see she’s serious. She knows about my hypnotic ability.

  “Tell Ralph not to take any crazy chances. Stay alive! Both of you! The Nazis are bound to slip up. Then I’ll pounce and I’ll have all the blood I need.”

  “What if we all pitched in? What if Ralph brought you two pints?”

  “Good-bye, Harrah,” I say, nevertheless wondering what she would say to the others while she was collecting the blood. You see, I have this wonderful friend. She’s not a Jew, she’s a vampire, but she hates the Nazis as much as we do. Good old Harrah, it’s hard to watch her leave. I wish I had told her more how much it meant to me to see her alive.

  And the veil. I’m relieved the Nazis don’t have it.

  Trouble is, if Harrah goes to the ovens, chances are the veil will go up in smoke. I have to get free! The ancient fire inside overrides my weakened state and I strain with all that’s left inside me to pull the pole free of the ground. Unfortunately, I can generate scant pressure on the tips of my toes, and I finally realize that the pole is attached to a massive block of concrete.

  Damn. Have the Nazis designed the whole place for vampires?

  The day stretches on forever. My breathing goes from bad to worse. I can inhale, but when I try to relax my diaphragm and let the air out, I feel a sharp stab just below my sternum. It feels like I’m being poked by a knife and makes me want to stop breathing altogether.

  I think about dying. For the first time, really.

  After so many years, I assumed I would live forever.

  But to die, to accept my death, to imagine my body still and lifeless, is difficult to contemplate. It seems impossible but ever since I met Krishna and he told me I had his grace, I assumed nothing could destroy me. My faith went beyond blind—it was insane. Even in the worst of situations, I have always felt I would survive. Tomorrow would come and I would be there to see the sun rise.

  Now, I feel so weary, so hurt, I don’t pray for death but for once it feels inevitable. My haughty words to Harrah aside, I doubt the Nazis are going to make a mistake. It’s not in the German’s nature to err. Just look at them, one small country on the verge of taking over the world.

  Until the Americans entered the war.

  I wish Patton could break through the German lines. I wish he could save us all. But even if Eisenhower has turned over command to him, which I feel is likely, Patton must still be battling the Nazis and their fearsome tanks in the French countryside. Harrah is probably right—if help does come, it will be from the east, from Russia.

  Yet it won’t come in time.

  Night falls and the drizzle changes to a freezing downpour. I’m starved of blood, so my ability to resist the cold is poor. I picked the absolute worst time to get caught. So busy trying to help the Resistance, and prepare for the invasion, I kept postponing finding a victim to drink from. When I returned to France from London, I should have jumped the first Gestapo I saw. Now I have no reserve to fall back on. I start to shiver and find I can’t stop. The icy water, as it drips over my frigid flesh, makes me feel as if my own blood is leaking away.

  It is true, it is a fact. I am dying.

  But as dawn breaks, the clouds disperse and the sun shines warm and soothing over my trembling body. I drink up its rays like they are nectar from heaven, and I’m reminded of the days right after Yaksha came for me, when I was first made a vampire, how the sun stung my eyes whenever I turned in its direction. My long life has granted me at least one great favor—it has taught me to love the dawn.

  The respite is brief. Horror follows the new sun.

  A train arrives, almost a hundred railroad cars long. It comes from the west and its cargo is the most precious—and sadly, the most wretched—imaginable. It’s stuffed with Jews, and as the doors of the cars open, I’m stunned at how many people stumble out. It’s as if the Germans have literally piled them on top of each other.

  The men and women have already been separated, but the children are still with their mothers. But then I see a sight that goes beyond any act of cruelty I have ever witnessed. The children are torn away from their moms. Only infants, who can’t walk, are left alone. But kids as young as two years old are forced into a line that leads into the first of the three gates of hell. Their cries, their pleas, their screams—I can’t bear it.

  I have lived too long, I realize.

  It takes two hours but the train platform is eventually cleared. The men are the last to enter the wooden structure. I doubt any of them are given a chance to see their families. On the far side of the entrance, I’m forced to watch as a steady line of naked children is marched into the second gate of hell—the stone structure with the vile-smelling vents. They are followed by an endless stream of nude, sobbing women. A few find their children; they lift them up, but there is nowhere to go. The SS guards yell out their lies.

  “Enjoy your warm shower!”

  “Wash your hair carefully!”

  “Use plenty of soap!”

  “Fresh clothes await you on the other side!”

  I can’t help myself. Knowing it is useless, I scream anyway.

  “They are taking you to die! Fight! Fight back! They are going to gas you!”

  My voice can be loud, when I put my power into it, and a few appear to hear me. They cast a dark look in my direction. But none of them listen. I can’t blame them, most can hardly walk. God knows how long they’ve been imprisoned on the train.

  The line to the stone building stops. The thick steel doors are shut tight. The SS guards back off. Even a whiff of the gas hurts the lungs and they know the routine—how many thousands of gallons of poison are about to be poured into the bodies of the women and children.

  Filthy gray fumes begin to spew out of the vents. Inside, the screams begin. They start and don’t stop. I don’t understand why. The gas should kill them within minutes. But a half hour after the doors are locked shut, I swear I still hear women crying in agony.

  Finally, though, there is silence.

  The doors to the stone building remain shut.

  A third line—this one of naked men—begins to trek from the first building to a smaller stone structure behind the one where the women and children were killed. The SS guards no longer shout their lies. There would be no point. The men have heard the death screams of their wives, children, sisters, and mothers. Their faces are stamped with the black mark of total despair. All hope has been lost. They are the walking dead. At this moment, from their point of view, the death o
f their bodies is a mere formality.

  They enter the smaller of the stone buildings.

  The gas is turned on. They know what is coming but gassing is a terrible way to die. Basically the tubes in their lungs are scorched to the point where they rupture and bleed out.

  I can’t listen. I am forced to listen.

  But I close my eyes and hang my head—an hour later, after all the gas had been pumped from the buildings—when they haul the bodies into the third gate of hell, the ovens. I can’t watch, because my earlier guess was accurate. The guards refuse to dirty their hands. They use Jews to dispose of the Jews. I don’t know why, but I feel this is the Nazis’ greatest sin of all.

  The black smoke of the burning thousands chokes the entire camp. The stink makes me vomit, although there is nothing in my stomach. The rain of ash is like a snowfall in Hades. How I swore at the freezing rain during the night, and how I pray for it now. If only to be rid of this foul coat of sin. To be so close to such an atrocity, to witness it and to do nothing—even though I can’t—makes me feel I am no better than the Nazis. Now it is I who feels cursed, and I curse the mind behind this camp for making me a part of this nightmare.

  Suddenly, I feel I can’t die. Not until I avenge this crime.

  It takes hours to cremate so many bodies. While the stacks continue to spew out a steady stream of black smoke, I have visitors. Major Klein has returned with Frau Cia, and they have brought a guest. The second most powerful man in the Third Reich. The head of the SS, chief of the Gestapo, and the one person, besides Hitler, most responsible for the creation of the concentration camps.

  Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.

  His uniform is tidy, it is dry, although his boots are muddied from the hike to my cage. He is heavier than his pictures, the war has been good to him, and his brown mustache is something of an afterthought—it hardly reaches to the edge of his lips. He is not an ugly man, but he feels foul. It’s his eyes, of course, and I thought Major Klein had sick eyes. Himmler’s are not mere windows into a dark soul, they are holes into the abyss.

  This man is not a man.

  I feel it the moment we meet. There’s something inside him, some kind of creature that has come from the outside, using him.