James Herbert

by Sepulchre

  Then one day, Janusz and two dozen or so others were marched from the camp to a hillside that was used for mass executions. They were instructed to wait beside several open pits.

  The number of Unerwunschte-undesirables' as the Nazis referred to Jews—was too many to count (years after the nightmare Janusz could not remember if there had been hundreds or if there had been thousands) as they were lined up before the pits in groups. There they were machine-gunned, most of the bodies toppling into the open graves. It was the task of the working party to throw in those who had fallen the wrong way, then arrange the bodies so that the next batch could be heaped in on top. When the pile reached a certain level, they were to cover the pit with lime and soil. Before that was done though, there was a special job to perform for a chosen few. Janusz was one of the chosen.

  An SS captain provided Janusz and three companions with pliers and short blunted knives; their orders were to pull any gold teeth they could find among the corpses and to cut off any rings that had not already been confiscated.

  This was no shock for Janusz, because his mind had long since decided to protect him from such traumas. He crawled among the still warm corpses, giving them no more regard than if they were freshly slaughtered livestock. Dead meat. That's all this great tumble of arms and legs was. White carcasses.

  Some still pink-coloured. Like the little pig . . .

  No one was watching as he lifted the hand of the plump woman, the flesh of her finger swollen over the rim of her gold ring. The Gestapo had been merciful: they hadn't cut the jewellery from her while she was still alive. He sawed at the finger. No one was paying any attention. He slid the ring off. And drew meat from the fingerbone with his teeth. He swallowed. The woman's eyes opened. She looked at him and he fought to keep the bloodied morsel down. It lodged in his throat as life went from the woman's eyes. He swallowed again, once, twice. The meat was accepted.

  That was the real beginning of Janusz Palusinski's survival. He had found a food supply. He was filled neither with joy nor shame, merely relief that he had a means to exist.

  Exist he did, even though he was violently ill for days after that first eating of human flesh; his stomach was not accustomed to such richness. He was lucky to recover, for his general weakness might have allowed permanent damage. But Janusz was resilient, if nothing else. From then on he was more cautious about how much he cut from the piled corpses, often concealing small segments in his loose clothing to be consumed late at night beneath his thin blanket. The amount he was able to eat was never enough to have any marked effect on his physique, and that was fortunate, for such a change would have been easily noticed amidst the walking skeletons of the Majdanek concentration camp. But it was sufficient to strengthen him and thus renew his desire to survive.

  Disaster, for him, came months later when for no apparent reason he was taken off the burial detail.

  Perhaps the German soldiers themselves had grown sick of his eagerness to crawl among the dead, or perhaps they felt he had become too privileged. Whatever the reason, Janusz's specialist services were no longer required. His condition deteriorated rapidly with no regular sustenance.

  He became as the others of the camp, a shuffling corpse, eyes enlarged as his skin shrivelled, his bones jutting with deep hollows between. He began to have fits of coughing that drained him of any strength he had left, and bloodspots speckled his palm when he took his hand away from his mouth. Delirium soon followed. Finally he was moved to a but where those who were dying were left without food or care, their passing hastened by lack of both.

  He had no idea of how long he had lain there, it could have been days, it might only have been hours.

  But something had drawn his senses towards one focal point. It was a smell. Familiar. From the past. He stared into the greyness above and his tongue ran across dry, cracked lips, failing to moisten them. He drew up his knees as hunger cramped his stomach and his head lolled listlessly when the pain passed.

  That faint smell, what was it? So familiar. He was a boy again, and he stood in the centre of the room watching a door. Mamusia and Tatus had shut him out. They always did when they did things to each other, unless they thought he was sleeping. He could hear them laughing, and then he could hear them moaning as if they were hurting one another. But one night, when they thought he was asleep, he had watched them across the bedroom . . . and hadn't liked what he saw . . . but had wanted to be part of it

  . . . to enjoy the game with them, to be hurt in the same way . . . but he knew it was forbidden . . . The faint smell. The boy looked towards the table, towards the source. The meat was dark red, blood seeping onto the rough wooden surface. He moved closer.

  Janusz recognised the odour of raw liver. But it wasn't possible. He was no longer a child and this place was not his home. No, this was the death hut. The smell though. It was here. There was raw liver somewhere nearby. His smile made his lips bleed.

  For the first time he heard the dull moans and they were around him, not from behind a closed door.

  And the smell was with the moans.

  He let his head fall to one side and in the pre-dawn light saw the shapeless bundle next to him. There was hardly anything left of the man, and he barely moved. But the smell was from him and it was mouth-watering. Janusz's arm trembled when he reached towards the figure.

  The man was not sleeping, nor was he really conscious. He was near death and that proximity was comforting for him. Most of the pain had gone to some distant point, so far away it could scarcely be felt.

  He sunk further within himself and realised that the journey inwards was the way to final peace. Yet something was moving him, interrupting his floating descent. Something was caressing his stomach. Pain was coming close once more, and the man did not want that. He tried to protest, but a murmur that was only a sigh was all the sound he managed. Sharp agony now. And something hard covering his mouth and nose, stopping any more sighs, any more breathing. The agony increased as something gnawed into his belly and he was too feeble to protest further. But the pain was becoming dulled, bliss was washing through him, for his senses were leaving and he, at long last, was leaving with them and it was good, so ultimately good.

  No one went near the but that day, nor the next. No corpses were taken away, no more of the dying were dumped inside. It was to be five days before the door of the Majdanek death but was opened again, and then by Russian soldiers, for this was the summer of 1944 and the German invaders were being driven from Poland.

  The Russians, already hardened by their own suffering in the terrible war, and by the atrocities they had witnessed during the march across their neighbouring country, were sickened by what they found inside the hut. Only one man was still alive and he, understandably, was demented by what had happened around him. He lay on a floor that was filled with corpses. Many had been mutilated, for it seemed rats had found their way inside and fed off his dead and dying compatriots.

  Unfortunately for the Polish people, once the Russians had occupied their country they felt no compunction to leave. Poland came under Communist control, and oppression, although never as severe as under Nazi rule, remained the norm. Again farmers and factory workers found themselves working for the State rather than for themselves, with the government dictating at what rates produce should be sold.

  Janusz Palusinski, who bore the indelible mark of German brutality on his wrist and never failed to let the tattoo show on any occasion that sympathy might help better his cause, came to thrive under the system, for scrounging and self-interest was the ideal apprenticeship for a black-marketeer. It took him a full year to recover from his treatment by the Nazis (although a whole lifetime would never erase the damage to his psyche) but his will to survive at all costs had been enhanced rather than depleted. He did not return to his father's farm for two reasons: he was not sure of the reception he would get from the villagers who must have known that it was he who had betrayed the partisans and those who helped them; he had no desire to bec
ome a farmer once more. During the year of recuperation, most of which took place in a small hospital just outside Lukow, he read through the published crimes of the Nazi regime, always searching for mention of his own village, and one day he came across what he had been looking for.

  Listed were the names of locals and villagers who had been shot for giving aid to the underground movement. A hundred and thirty-two people were on that list, his parents among them. Even now, when concern for his own wellbeing was no longer acute, he felt no remorse, not even for the fate of his own mother. Such emotion, never strong within him anyway, had been entirely eradicated over the last few years.

  As time passed, life began to flourish for Janusz, who took to the illegal trade he dealt in as if born to it.

  He supplied goods-hungry farmers and food-hungry manufacturers with wh they desired, trade between the two factions being lucrative to the middle-man. But he always operated in a small way in those early years, never wishing to rise in fortune so much that became visible to the authorities.

  Janusz could have survived very comfortably under the Communist system, except that the older he grew the more he ppered and the more he prospered, the greedier he became.

  He bought a four-storey house in the suburbs of Lodz and, as front which legitimately enabled him to visit farmers arou the country, he maintained a small farm equipment spare-part workshop. Middle-age had softened his caution though, and went against his own basic rule. He had gained too much and was no longer invisible.

  The authorities began to take an interest in the activities Janusz Palusinski. His spare-parts business was discreetly roves gated and it was found that the profits derived from it by no means accounted for the relative luxury the owner appeared to be living in. His movements were watched. Party officials came to his house to question him. His answers were not entirely satisfactory. Th took away all documents found in his home, warning him th would return as soon as the papers had been thoroughly studied and that he was to keep himself available until such time. Janus stole away that same night, taking with him what little cash he had and leaving behind his automobile, knowing how easy it was for the authorities to trace any vehicle on the roads of Poland. He left the city on foot, sleeping in cheap lodging houses at night, travelling by bus during the day, too afraid even to take trains. His journey led him towards the north, in the direction of the great forests. He had no idea why, panic and self-preservation driving him onwards without calculation, only instinct telling him that the dark forests were a place to lose oneself and to be lost to others. He was aware of the severe punishment dealt to those caught trading on the black market and was sure that his mind would never stand another term of imprisonment—too many dreadful memories would have been rekindled. There was no grand plan to his escape, no considered scheme for invisibility once more. Janusz fled merely because he had no other choice.

  Because of the furtive manner in which his journey progressed, it took him several weeks to reach the mediaeval town of Grudziadz, and by then his money had nearly run out. A basic plan had formed though an idea that took no details into account. He would make for the Baltic seaport of Gdynia, avoiding nearby Gdansk where too many merchants knew him. There he would bribe his way onto a boat. He didn't care where his passage took him, just so long as it was far away from this accursed country and its oppressively authoritarian government which constantly hindered entrepreneurs such as he. The problem now was money. lie had barely fifty zlotys left and such a secret voyage would prove expensive.

  Late at night Janusz went to the home of Wiktor Svandova, in Grudziadz, a particular businessman with whom he'd had many dealings in the past.

  But Janusz had not reckoned on Svandova's respect for (or fear of) the State. The business associate ordered Janusz from his home, threatening to call in the police if he didn't leave at once. The fugitive reasoned with Svandova, cajoled, pleaded, even wept before him; he only produced the short metal bar he carried inside his greatcoat when Svandova strode to his desk and reached for the telephone. The first blow struck the businessman across the left temple, but amazingly he was able to stagger to the door, with Janusz following and beating at the back of his head and shoulders as he went. He threw open the door and even managed to scream out his wife's name before collapsing to his knees while his assailant continued to rain blows on him. At last, and to Janusz's great relief, Svandova pitched forward onto his face, blood from his broken head instantly flooding the hallway. Janusz ran from the house when the dead man's wife began screeching from the top of the stairway. He knew she had recognised him and he had it in mind to climb the stairs and silence her forever too; but other figures had appeared behind her, presumably Svandova's sons, and Janusz had no desire to battle it out with them.

  He left the city, heading north once again, cursing his bad luck and his business associate's foolishness.

  He was now a fugitive from a far more serious crime and every endeavour would be made by the police to capture him.

  For nearly three months Janusz eluded them, the northern forests swallowing him up completely, bestowing upon him the invisibility he craved. But autumn was turning to winter and even the extra clothing he had stolen to wear under his greatcoat could not prevent the chill reaching his bones.

  Food—the roots and nuts he found, the turnips and beetroots, and potatoes he dug from farmers' fields late at night, the small animals he occasionally was able to trap and kill—already scarce was becoming even more so. Yet again Janusz became intimately acquainted with terribl hunger. When stealing from farms—odd items of clothing cam from outside washing lines—he yearned to come across a pig pen dreamt of reaching in and pulling out a piglet, just as his fath had all those years ago. When he slept he dreamed of his family' feast, when he had watched the roasting pig, making sure t meat wasn't burned black. He awoke many times with the d licious smell still in his nostrils and before reality edged it away a more subtle aroma would become dominant . .

  His heavy beard was matted and dirty and Janusz may ha appeared plump, but only layers of clothing created the illusio for beneath them his flesh was hollowed between the bones, j as it had been in the years when Germans had occupied hi country. He had plodded for two days through the snow-lade forest, sheltering where he could, cramming any foliage he cool find into his mouth and chomping until it was mulched enoug for him to digest. He even pulled pieces of bark from trees to gnaw on.

  The policjareci had been waiting for him at the last farmhous he had attempted to rob; he had remained in one area for too long, the stealing becoming more than just an annoyance to th locals. A trap had been set for him and only blind panic had le him the strength to outrun his pursuers. Now it was only stomac pains that drove him on.

  Janusz saw the column of smoke rising above the treetop and stumbled off in that direction. He came upon a small, log house in a clearing. His weary legs barely got him to the frontdoor. Isis fist made the faintest of sounds when he pounded on the wood.

  The woodsman caught him as he tell inside and dragged him over to the fire. He called for his wife to warm some sok and bring it to the half-frozen man while he loosened the unfortunate's clothing. They were kind to this wretched wayfarer, even though suspicious, and they did their utmost to revive him.

  After a while, when he was able to sit at the table and sip more of the warm brew, they tried to question him, but his replies were incoherent, his voice rambling. They soon realised the man was crazed with hunger and exhaustion. And the wife was uneasy at the way he kept staring at their twelve-year-old daughter who sat quietly in the corner watching everything with a wide-eyed expression on her plump little face, her skin pink and unblemished in the glow from the fire.

  Janusz repaid their kindness by killing them all. He used his trusty metal bar to batter the man unconscious as he stooped to put another log on the fire, and a breadknife quickly grabbed from the table to cut all their throats.

  When the two policjanci who had been following his tracks
through the forest burst in less than an hour later, he had already started to eat the woodsman's daughter.

  In one respect Janusz was lucky. The officers were fresh enough in their careers not yet to have witnessed the worst of criminal brutality and nor were they old enough to comprehend the true barbarism of the Nazi occupation during the last World War. When they saw what had become of the woodsman and his wife, when they realised that what their quarry was stuffing into his mouth was from the child's open belly, they were too shocked—too revolted—to move.

  The madness in Janusz, further incited by the excitement of his deed, overcame the fatigue that was still with him; he threw the breadknife at one uniformed intruder and rushed screaming at the other. The vision of this wildman, his body puffed up by the layers of clothing he wore, mouth and beard daubed with blood, eyes huge and crazed, would have frozen the bravest of men, and the two policjanci had thus far won no service awards for gallantry. Neither of them could help but cringe away.

  One was pushed back against the wall while the other scrambled to retrieve his rifle, dropped when he had dodged the thrown knife. The thief they had tracked so many miles was through the door and out in the snow again, scurrying back into the trees as a single shot was fired at him. The bullet chipped the top of his right collarbone but, despite the agonising ,jolt, he did not stop running. Nightfall helped cloak his escape.

  Soon the gunshots behind him grew fainter and Janusz was both laughing and weeping as he scrambled up a slope. He toppled over the ridge and rolled down the other side, giggling and crying out as he went.