by David Leroy
“That fucking bitch got the pancakes,” he murmured under the groans of the others in the boxcar. He knew she must have taken the food from him. Marc found a small crust of bread in his shirt pocket but he feared bringing it out for Jean.
They will jump me and kill me if they see it, he thought as he looked through the boxcar at the ravenous men. Men jumped upon the bodies, searching the pockets for any extra rations of bread.
Marc loathed himself for losing the food to Marie. He hated that he was not brave enough to bring the bread out of his pocket. Drifts of shame built up around his feet like the snow that fell through the roof and slats. Marc kept checking his pockets, as if the food would return.
“Jean, get up, get up now, please,” Georges pleaded with him as he slumped down. “Get up, Jean, get up.”
“Here, we can stop here for lunch now. The view is beautiful,” Jean whispered just above the sound of the railcar clicking along the tracks.
Chapter 42
February, 1945
Buchenwald, Germany
Marc watched the doors on the car next to his slide open. Boys, or just maybe teenagers, started to pile out. The guards gathered them in front of a pile of dirt at the rail yard. Marc looked away as they started to shoot the kids. He could not resist looking up through the slats. He saw a group of boys run just beyond the guards and disappear into the forest.
A day later, Marc’s car doors slid open. The guards yelled into the car, “Everyone out!”
Georges moved toward the door and Marc followed. Jean lay on the floor of the car, among the dead. Marc gave no thought any longer to Jean, for he was convinced that he would soon be joining him in a winter sleep.
Marc could not escape the echo of Georges calling out to Jean. “Get up, get up. You cannot sleep here.”
There were no machine guns for Marc and Georges, but instead a ragged horde of ghostlike creatures playing various instruments. These ghostly figures were the welcoming band to the camp.
Marc felt haunted by Jean lying in the railcar they’d just left. Maybe he was sleeping a very deep sleep? he thought. Marc’s own body ached for sleep and food. It would’ve been just a bit more and he would’ve been in the camp, he thought as the memory of Jean quickly passed away. Maybe he is right behind me? Maybe he was not yet dead. The thought clung to Marc, like a child dragging along, holding his leg. Just then, one of the twenty-eight men left alive, marching toward the gate of Buchenwald, fell face down dead. The doubt disappeared, and Marc accepted that Jean actually had died.
“Jacques, Jacques,” the man called through the block.
“Yes, what is it? I am here,” Jacques answered back.
“Some new arrivals have come, and there are some French among them from Paris. They are held up in the small camp, but maybe you know a few? Thought you would want to know.”
“Let Yves know. Tell him I need for him to take me down there, and check. Do you know any of the names?”
“I will find out. There are only twenty-seven. If you do know any, well, you will need to move fast because they are in very poor shape.”
“Go get Yves and try and find out the names,” Jacques said to the prisoner clerk. He wondered if any of them could be someone he’d known from Paris. It was another lifetime for Jacques. He was the head of a resistance group, and writer for an underground paper, but that was another lifetime ago. Now, he just sits at the door of his blockhouse in charge of sweeping the floor after the men leave for the quarry.
That evening, before the last roll call, Jacques and Yves walked down into the small camp to search out the new arrivals. Yves stood taller than any of the other prisoners, and he was nearly bald. His face wore wrinkles, but not due to his age.
“Are you Georges from Paris?”
“No.”
“Are you Georges from Paris? We are looking for a friend,” Yves asked another prisoner. He pointed over to two men lying down next to a wall within the camp theater.
“Are you Georges from Paris?”
“I am Marc, New York, but yes, Paris. This is Georges, from Paris. Wake up, Georges, wake up,” Marc said, shaking him.
“Jacques, is that you?” Georges said.
“Yes! I thought it might be you. Can you get up? Can you walk?” Jacques asked. He could hear the moans of the men, dying from exhaustion. Then he could see in his mind’s eye Marc helping Georges to stand.
“Look, we have come to get you. Stay right here,” Jacques said. He pulled out some camp money from his pocket and stuffed it into Yves’s hand. Yves patted Jacques on the shoulder and then guided him over to Marc, placing Jacques’s hand on Marc’s shoulder.
“I will take care of it,” Yves said.
“Marc, we need to get you out of here. Yves is going to go talk to them now.”
“They said we are here for a few days, to make sure we are not sick,” Marc slurred.
“How long have you been here? When did you arrive?”
“Uh, they said we will have jobs soon,” Marc’s voice drifted off into the distance of thought. Jacques gripped his shoulder, trying to give him some hope.
“Let’s go, now,” Yves said after he returned from the guard.
“Can you help Georges?” Jacques asked.
“Georges, Georges, come along. Let’s go. You are coming with me,” Yves said, grabbing him by the elbow and lifting him to his feet. Yves took from his pocket two armbands, giving one to Jacques.
“Marc, put this on, over your arm,” Jacques said to Marc, stuffing the armband into his hand. Yves took another armband and pulled it up over Georges’ arm.
“Now, let’s go, before anyone else comes in,” Yves said firmly.
Yves supported Georges as he walked toward the door and out of the theater. Marc walked with Jacques, holding his shoulder as they followed Yves. Outside, Yves looked for any sign of other guards. At the gate between the small camp and the large camp, the keeper said, “Who are they?”
“Friends,” Yves said, stuffing camp script into his hand.
“French?”
“Oui.”
“Wait here,” the gatekeeper said as he walked toward a man standing against the wall of a blockhouse. After a few moments, he returned to the gate.
“Jacques’ block first, then after roll call, take them to block twenty-seven. Make sure to get the armbands back to us once they are in for the night.”
While at Jacques’ block waiting for evening roll call to finish, Jacques asked Georges about Jean.
“Yes, I did see him. He got away,” Georges said to him. “He escaped, Jacques, he escaped!”
Jacques could hear the lie. It was such a sweet way for Georges to tell him. So sweet of him to lie that Jacques could not bear to let him know that he knew it was a lie.
“He escaped,” Georges said a second time. Jacques not only knew it was a lie, but that Georges actually believed it to be true.
“Marc, is that so?” Jacques said, reaching out his hand for Marc’s. Marc took his hand to his face and shook his head from side to side.
“He got out of the train, I saw him. He walked away into the woods, but the guards did not follow. He escaped,” Georges said in a euphoric voice.
“I am so glad he got away,” Jacques lied back. “It will not be long. We need to have courage. In a just a few moments, we are going over to a new block. Good French—they will watch after you. You need to eat some more, Georges, please. Another piece of bread.”
“He escaped, Jacques. He got away,” Georges repeated again.
“I know, Georges, I know,” Jacques said softly. “I will see if I can get you any more rations. You need strength.”
Each day there was roll call before the men would march out to work. Georges fell sick again and could not make roll call. Then, even work in the quarries came to a stop. The guards only showed up for roll call.
Georges burned inside and begged for water from Marc. “Eat. You need to eat some soup,” Marc begged him. He got extra bread
from Jacques. But he just grew weaker with each passing day.
A prisoner doctor came into the barracks to see Georges, and Marc pleaded with him to do something. “There is nothing. Stop giving him your food. You need it for yourself.”
Marc stirred awake in the middle of the night. Georges said over and over again to the top slats of the bunk, “Three months and you can survive the war, three months they said, three months.” His voice became softer until Marc fell back asleep.
The rule was if someone should die during the night, the others still needed to carry the body to roll call to be counted in the morning.
“Georges, Georges, wake up,” Marc pleaded. “Please, Georges, wake up,” but he was gone. Everyone in the blockhouse had already left for the roll call. Marc tugged at Georges’ body and pulled it to the edge of the bunk. He then gave a great heave of strength, and then collapsed onto the floor with Georges’ body on top of him.
The door flew open and Yves stood in the doorway. “Marc, you need to get out to roll call, now.”
“I need help. He is too heavy for me to carry,” Marc cried as he struggled to get out from under Georges.
“Is he dead?” Yves asked.
“Yes. I have to get him out of here. I cannot let Jacques find him,” Marc pleaded. Yves then helped carry Georges out of the blockhouse to the main assembly area.
Afterward, he helped Marc put Georges on one of the flatbed trailers, hidden and away from clear view of the rest of the camp.
“They took him to Dora, you understand me?” Marc said to Yves. “No matter what, when Jacques asks, they took him to Dora,” Marc cried as he walked away from the flatbed filled with bodies.
“Marc, he will know. They are not even making selections for Dora. Why?” Yves said.
“Please, tell Jacques he got better and they took him to the other work camp,” Marc shouted at Yves.
“Marc, I will, but he will also ask you,” Yves said with a hushed tone.
“I know. I know.”
“Don’t you think it would be best to …”
“They took him to the Mittelwerk-Dora camp. He got well and they put him to work. I will it to be so,” Marc shouted at Yves, shaking.
“I understand,” Yves said, walking back with Marc to the block.
Inside, Jacques sat waiting after roll call.
“Where is Georges?” Jacques asked Marc, holding the extra soup and bread. “Did they take him to the infirmary?”
“He got better. He got better, Jacques, but they selected him for work at Dora,” Marc started to cry and sob. “At roll call, they took the strong ones off to Dora.”
Jacques sat and listened to Marc’s cracking voice. He could tell by his tone that Marc was lying to him, but at the same time willing himself to believe the lie first. The voice frightened Jacques, for it did not seem like it was human any longer, but the voice of a tree struck by lightning.
“Marc, it will not be long. We can hear them now. We will get Georges out of Dora. Don’t worry, he will make it, and so will you, just a few more days, Marc. We know. It is true this time,” Jacques said carefully to Marc. It is true, but does he believe it? The voices of this place are unlike any I have heard before, Jacques heard from within himself.
“I have some bread for you, Marc, a little extra. Please, you need it,” Jacques said. Marc broke off a small piece and put it into his pocket, and then ate the rest quickly.
Chapter 43
April, 1945
Buchenwald, Germany
“I just cannot forgive myself. How could I have been so blind?” Marc said to Jacques as they sat outside the blockhouse after morning roll call.
“Marc, I am blind. I was trusted by all of the men of the Sons of Liberty and the Defense of France with the job of making sure that no one joined who could not be trusted. And I was given that job by the others due to the fact that I am blind.” He raised his voice like a prophet from a mountaintop. “I see not with my eyes, but with my ears and mind. I see things with my ears that eyes cannot see, and this was my job.
“I should have been more forceful. I should have been more emphatic,” Jacques said. “I should have insisted that he not be allowed in,” and then Jacques’ voice lowered a bit, “but I was told that I was too cautious and that he had good references. So, I relented, and Elio became a part of the Sons of Liberty and, ultimately, our betrayer.
“Instead of listening to my gift, I listened to my friends who were gifts to me in life, and now, I am here with you in this place. I have lost now those friends because they trusted me,” Jacques pressed the words into Marc’s ears, still uncertain if Marc continued to believe his own lies or had accepted that Georges and Jean were now dead.
“Marc, I am able to discern trustworthiness by voice alone, and yet I made a terrible mistake, so how is it that you are holding yourself to an even higher standard of omniscience?” Jacques said, wondering if any of it had gotten through to Marc. He listened for any indication that Marc was indeed receiving his words, as they basked in the warmth of the early morning sunlight.
“We all knew and accepted the risks, and it was foolish to think we were going to cheat our way out of paying the price. You and your friends did the same,” Jacques went on, trying to bring Marc around.
“I trusted her, Jacques. I trusted Marie, and then I was blind to what she was doing until it was too late. Because I was blind, an entire family was arrested. I saw them in prison.” He turned into Jacques’ face.
“I so much wanted to tell Dr. Jackson about what had happened, but I couldn’t. First, I couldn’t bear to tell him that it was my girlfriend, a French Catholic woman, who had betrayed and denounced us.” Marc stared into the yard as ghostly men passed by, moving in every direction through the camp. “And I couldn’t tell him because we had agreed beforehand, if we ever were caught, we would not talk about it if we should see each other. I trusted her, and because of that, they paid,” Marc’s voice trailed off.
“Marc, I trusted far more than you did, and far more have now paid. We cannot know everything nor see the future. Remember, I am better at seeing blind a person’s heart than you are able to see with sight. Yet, my luck ran out,” Jacques said, feeling a sense of healing inside of himself with those words. Perhaps I needed to hear myself speak those words, even more than Marc, he thought.
“Even though we knew the risk, I did not think we would end up like the others. I somehow believed we were special, that we would somehow prevail,” Marc said.
“We all did, Marc. We all believed we would walk on water. We sank, but it is not because we lacked faith. We sank because we had the faith to get up out of the boat and take the step. You did not fail your friends. You did not get them arrested. You just had faith, Marc. That is all. I had faith. Jean, Georges, and all the others had faith. Everyone you see here had some faith. You had faith in Marie, and you gave her your trust. She betrayed that trust and now you are here. Faith is not a sin, Marc. Giving your trust is not losing your soul,” Jacques said, his face tilted toward Marc. “Losing the ability to trust and have faith is losing your soul.” Jacques realized that he could open the cell door, and even point the way, but only Marc could take the step and walk out of it. He put his hand on Marc’s shoulder and, then took a deep breath. Jacques almost started to add to his words, but then stopped. Maybe I have said enough, and it will just take time for him to hear the words, he thought. He decided to just enjoy the warmth of the sun.
April 11, 1945
Buchenwald, Germany
Marc and Yves guided Jacques as he went from blockhouse to blockhouse.
“Do not go, stay. Do not go with them, no matter what they say,” Jacques said.
Rumors ran rampant through the camp, but the guards were gathering up inmates to march out. They told the men that if they stayed, it meant death.
The following morning, there was no roll call and the guard towers stood empty. A group of inmates had managed to get a radio communication out to the
nearby advancing Third American Army.
Marc felt self-conscious as he saw the first of the American soldiers come through the camp. The men were healthy and appeared strong. They walk without any fear, Marc thought. But it was not long before Marc noticed a different kind of fear in their faces, as they saw the bodies waiting to be cremated, men covered with head lice, and the walking dead appear in the doorways of the blockhouses.
Men cried when they saw the soldiers. Many of the soldiers gave over all their rations to the prisoners. They would eat with a certain uncontrolled hunger until they’d stop, unable to eat any more. The prisoners became sick, and a few died from gorging on the food.
A group of mäusle men, or walking dead, came out from a blockhouse to see the soldiers, and then they walked back down the row of buildings to wherever it was they’d come from.
Marc said to Jacques, “God is not three persons in one. That is a lie. God is five persons and walks in the same direction.”
“What do you mean by this, Marc?”
“They have come out to see, the mäusle ones, the ones without anything but bones and skin, and they are walking away from us down toward their blockhouse. I have no idea what holds them up, or drives them forward except that they are gods. They must be gods, Jacques. But not three in one, up in the sky, like the priest says, in church. No. God is five—no, wait, six. I did not see the one behind the others. At least six, and separate, walking in the same direction, here on Earth, not in the sky like the priests lie about in church,” Marc said, his voice quivering.
“Yves, what do you think of Marc’s new sight of God?” Jacques asked.
“I see the same, but a different number. There must be more than six gods walking. Maybe seven, eight, or more,” Yves said.
“What makes you say that?” Jacques asked.
“Marc, and yourself. You may not be as thin, but that is only due to lack of time. If those are gods, we can see that because everything else has burned away,” Yves said.