Death in Twilight

by Jason Fields

  The “wall” around the ghetto wasn’t even a wall in many places — it was made from wooden fences running down the middle of a street; a row of homes turned into a palisade; newly built concrete barriers that filled gaps that had been alleys, and checkpoints that had taken the place of traffic signs.

  And because of the miracle of human cognitive dissonance, it was possible to live cheek-by-jowl with those less fortunate and still concentrate on one’s own affairs. How many times had Aaron walked past a beggar before the war and not thought for a second about whether the man would be eating that night? Instead, he’d probably been wondering if he had time to stop off for a pastry on the way home. If he was truthful with himself, he had to acknowledge that the beggar hadn’t hurt his appetite.

  And when people on the “Aryan” side heard gunshots coming over the wall, did they flinch and think about whom the bullets were killing? Perhaps a quick shiver, a second’s prayer, and it was over.

  He was sure people sometimes remembered a dear friend who was now locked behind the wall, or maybe thought fondly of some store that had been run by a Jewish family and a treat they could no longer get. But more than that? Well, people had their own worries. And under German occupation there were plenty of worries for everyone. The secret police didn’t focus on Jews alone.

  And how much more guilty of indifference was Aaron? He’d heard stories of what was happening to the Jews of Germany, his cousins, for years before the war. He’d done nothing about it, not even sending a few zloty to help build a state of Israel in what was now Palestine.

  He was unimpressed with his own compassion.

  He gave his face one more splash, glad there was no mirror above the sink. It was time to go downstairs.

  The cellar was filled to over-capacity with smoke again. As he descended he was grateful that the lanterns at least gave his feet a target.

  “Come sit, have a drink,” Boris called.

  Aaron pulled up a crate at the makeshift table and took a cigarette from his jacket. Dov offered him the lit end of his own cigarette to save matches. Aaron drew deep and then exhaled like a snuffed-out dragon.

  “I hate the waiting,” Dov said.

  “That’s funny, because I have to say, it’s my favorite part,” Teitel said. “Have some more brandy.”

  The bottle was passed, and when Dov was filled to the brim, Aaron took the bottle for himself. There wasn’t much left. He must have slept longer than he’d thought. Or the others were as nervous as he was. Probably the latter.

  Cards were dealt again, but no one played with much interest. A few times, Aaron failed to notice when he had a winning hand.

  “Are they late?” Boris asked.

  “Not yet,” Aaron said after looking at his watch again. He was surprised that his eyes hadn’t burned a hole in its face.

  How late had it been when Berson had died? Surely later than this, or his body would have been spotted sooner by some patrol or other. What had the young policeman been doing two nights before at this time? Had he already parted company with his partner? Was he patrolling on his own? Taking refuge from the cold somewhere out of sight?

  Was he talking with the person who would soon become his killer? Maybe running from him?

  Aaron realized he was ignoring his cards and made a play.

  Why had Berson been carrying that note? Who was he betraying — his fellow Jews, or the man who had given him the note?

  And the torn note itself, on expensive paper? There’d been no notebook among Berson’s possessions. Yet it seemed to Aaron that he’d seen something similar recently. He sighed in frustration, unable to tease meaning from his thoughts.

  He looked down at his cards again, but it seemed he was having as much luck there as in his investigation.

  “Forget it,” he said. “I’m out.”

  He stood and stretched his shoulders and back, his hands on his hips. But the tightness that wasn’t so easily exorcised. He thought for a second and realized he’d been feeling it since the war began.

  He was about to half-heartedly start some calisthenics when he heard a scraping sound that froze him. It came from the hole in the wall. Yelena was coming and, if anything, she was a few minutes early. He felt immense relief.

  Still, Boris and Dov were more cautious, perhaps smarter. They picked up two of the rusty rifles that had been delivered the night before and stood in front of the hole. Aaron and Lech Teitel stood further back, both unarmed.

  Teitel called out a challenge in Polish that was answered in the same language, but with an accent that didn’t quite ring true. As Aaron and Teitel looked at each other to see if both had heard the same thing, a crash from above caused them both to spin around and look up.

  “Drop those fucking guns!” a voice shouted from the dark at the top of the stairs.

  The words were in German, but Aaron had no trouble understanding them. He was so startled that he let go of a weapon he wasn’t even holding.

  Dov had a different idea. He fired one bullet toward the voice. Or rather he tried to. He failed because the rifle was as corroded at its core as it looked from the outside. When the gunpowder was struck, the barrel exploded in his face, leaving him a mass of pulp and blood that slid to the ground.

  However Boris might have been inclined — to fire or to drop his gun — he didn’t have time choose. His head exploded, too. A bullet had struck it from very close range.

  SS men had manifested in the cellar through the hole in the wall. The sound Aaron had heard had never been Yelena.

  As the German who had first spoken made his way down the stairs, Aaron realized he and Teitel both had their hands raised over their heads without having been told to put them there.

  There was no question of fighting. Aaron had no impulse to do so. Fatalism and perhaps relief overwhelmed him. There was no more fear of being caught because he had been. It was over. The tension in his back ebbed.

  Aaron felt no surprise at all when he recognized the Nazi who came down the stairs. The man wore the same black leather coat at the massacre in front of Breslaw Hospital. The same silver death’s head was pinned to its lapel.

  The man had no trouble recognizing Aaron, either.

  “I told you I’d see you again,” he said.

  Aaron could only nod. No smart remarks came to mind. He was terrified of this man who stood a full head above him and had the shoulders to back up his height. Even when Aaron had eaten better and more regularly, he would hardly have been two-thirds of the man’s width.

  “Hermann Clausewitz, Section IV,” the German said, now speaking Polish. He stuck out his hand as if to shake Aaron’s, and when Aaron instinctively moved to reciprocate the gesture, Clausewitz twitched at the speed of lightning and smacked him with his open hand. It felt and sounded like thunder, and Aaron fell to the ground.

  He had only a second to realize the man who had hit him was the man addressed in the note he’d found on Berson’s body.

  Someone brought Aaron roughly back to his feet. Clausewitz struck him again, and this time his hand was closed.

  Aaron’s eyes opened again as his feet bumped up the stairs, his shins catching painfully more than once. He tried to see around him, but all he could do was peer down between his own legs. From that view, he caught a glance of Teitel being carried up behind him. The blood that was dripping from Teitel’s body showed that Aaron’s friend hadn’t benefited from any kind of favoritism.

  Aaron tried to move a little and that was how he discovered that his hands were cuffed behind him. He tried to get his feet under him, if for nothing else than dignity’s sake, but kept tripping. He had no choice to but allow himself to be muscled through the main hall and out onto the darkened street. There were three black Gestapo cars waiting with their lights on and engines running.

  Clausewitz was illuminated by one of the beams and Aaron caught a glimpse the man talking to someone who barely came up to his waist. When Aaron saw the tiny figure was haphazardly wrapped in brown
cloth, he knew immediately who it was.

  Clausewitz handed the girl something and even patted her on the head, though his palm could have swallowed it entirely. She took what she was given and ran off as fast as Aaron had ever seen her go.

  “I was right to call you Sparrow,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Look at how you sing.”

  Aaron was thrown into the back of one of the cars and Teitel was loaded into another. Clausewitz climbed into the front passenger seat of the vehicle in the lead and the small convoy rolled forward.

  Aaron’s head was swimming. Gestapo men bracketed him on either side, his hands were pinned behind him and reality was beginning to break through the shock.

  He began to fear for what would happen to him, the torture he could expect and then death.

  And he thought of Yelena, the broken rendezvous and where she might be. He guessed she was in a position much like his or dead already, summarily executed. But the stupidest part of his mind wouldn’t let go of the hope that she had been warned somehow and had fled.

  A checkpoint was coming up. Aaron first saw it through a blur. As they drew close, he realized the blur was snow. It had just begun to fall. A brief stop at the guard hut, some conversation between Clausewitz and the men on duty, a little curiosity on the faces of the Jewish policemen on guard and it was done.

  The barrier lifted, the cars picked up speed and, for the first time in months, Aaron left the Miasto ghetto.

  Chapter 14

  The first thing that Aaron noticed on arriving at the prison/ headquarters of the Gestapo was the friendly smile on the face of the officer at the desk who welcomed him. He seemed genuinely pleased that Aaron had been able to spare the time to become a prisoner of the Reich.

  It was clear that the man had a sense of humor, as well.

  “The name on the reservation?” he asked.

  “Goering, Hermann,” Aaron replied, hoping his own humor would be appreciated.

  “Ahh! Reichsmarschall! I can’t say we’ve been expecting you, but a pleasure, nonetheless.”

  “Cut the shit, Himmelfarb,” Clausewitz, the Gestapo officer who had captured Aaron, said. “Just get the fucking paperwork filled out and get him in a cell. We can all have our fun, later.”

  “Ja vol,” Himmelfarb replied, the smile still on his face, though not quite as bright.

  Aaron handed over his papers and the ritual began. All the various boxes had to be ticked. Even if Aaron were going to disappear, the event would need to be properly recorded.

  Seeing the process was well in hand, Clausewitz shrugged his massive shoulders, rubbed the top of his bald head for a second and announced he was leaving.

  “But don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be back to speak with you much sooner than you’d like.”

  He didn’t laugh like a villain in the movies as he walked off. Aaron had half expected it, but supposed the gesture would have been gratuitous.

  Shortly thereafter, the proper forms were filled out, Aaron’s identity papers were filed away somewhere — forever more out of his reach — and there was nothing to keep Aaron from becoming one more wretch trapped in the stone hell around him.

  The door that opened to Aaron’s right had always led to the cells, as far as Aaron knew. The complex hadn’t been built by the Germans, but rather taken over by them. It had been a place of fear long before they came. Common criminals, thieves and murderers had been kept here by the Poles, as had political prisoners, including some of note over the past century. Aaron felt their collective fear radiating off the walls. He could smell it wafting down a stone-lined corridor with few lights. He could hear it coming from cells downstairs.

  A young, blond, blue-eyed example of perfection followed behind him. The man’s face was sweet, one that invited trust, but the gun he held at the ready showed no remorse for its role in the prison’s brutality.

  As the two walked forward, the door closed softly behind them. The final muffled snick of the catch was definitive. It wouldn’t open again, even if Aaron asked nicely.

  Doors on either side of the passage looked heavy, but the third one they passed on the right did little to block out the sounds of the woman being tortured inside. She was chanting a prayer in Yiddish in between screams. The same few words were offered up to God over and over again, even as Aaron heard the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. From the rhythm of her broken voice, he was sure she was being raped. His heart shrank in his chest. He lowered his head and must have slowed until a shove reminded him of the expected pace.

  A little further, Aaron saw a broken old man with a mop, working vigorously. There was a scrap of black cloth on his head in a vaguely circular shape and a white band with a blue Star of David on his sleeve. The man leaned heavily on the mop as he dragged it back and forth, staring blankly. Aaron turned his head just enough to look the man in the face and realized he’d been mistaken. The man wasn’t very old at all. His mouth was puckered and misshapen because he had no teeth. His gaze was blank because one eye was swollen nearly shut. Where the other should have been, there was nothing.

  Aaron doubted the poor soul was there to clean, but rather as an abject lesson for new arrivals.

  Aaron turned to see how this sight affected the beautiful young man who was his Virgil through the Inferno. The guard’s face gave away nothing at all. He might as well have been a clockwork figure.

  Aaron shivered — as well he might. His coat, sweaters and shoes had been taken from him before his registration at the prison. He’s seen no record being made that would link him to his clothes. It seemed unlikely he would ever wear them again. The floor of the corridor, and now the steps down below the ground, were colder than ice, though his breath didn’t fog.

  The lighting on the stairs came from a single round fixture. It illuminated hardly anything at all. Aaron’s numb feet soon missed a step and he was heading toward the ground when a hand shot out and pulled him back. Aaron again turned to look at his escort, but found no new sign of fellow feeling. It seemed that Aaron’s breaking his neck wasn’t part of the plan at the moment.

  The staircase ended at another stone corridor that felt so solid, it could only have been underground. Two guards flanked the entrance, a third man, who stank of boredom, sat at desk. Aaron’s escort gave his prisoner’s name and status and was given a cell number in return.

  The cells lined both sides of the hall, and each one was filled to the point where every man was pressed against his neighbors. Prisoners didn’t have to stand, the pressure of each other’s bodies kept them upright. Aaron saw an arm sticking out beyond the bars of one cell. The skin had a bluish tinge. It wasn’t moving.

  There seemed no way Aaron could be squeezed inside any of the cells, but the young German didn’t try. Instead, eventually, they came to a cell with no one in it at all and no furniture of any kind. Aaron was invited in and landed on his face.

  The bars closed behind him.

  The smell of piss and shit and vomit enwrapped him. The cold nuzzled his cheeks, his chest, his legs, his feet. Aaron lay down and curled his body into as small a space as was possible, hoping to use his own body’s warmth for comfort. He built a wall between himself and the mumbling and shrieking of the men in the other cells.

  He sensed Death waiting patiently outside.

  They came for Aaron after an indefinite, gray time. It wasn’t that he’d slept, exactly, but for a time his conscious mind had left his body. His gauziness was aided by the blows his head had already taken. Reality, dreams and visions were sometimes hard to tell apart as he waited for his torturers.

  He was sure that torture would be the next step. There would be questions about his partners, his operations, his intentions, and Aaron would volunteer none of the answers.

  But how long could he hold out? Forever? For Yelena’s sake, he hoped so, but Aaron was in no mood to kid himself. If even half of what he’d heard about the creativity of Nazi interrogators was true, he figured it would be a matter of a few days if
he were lucky, hours if he wasn’t.

  The blond guard was elsewhere when the cage opened. Instead, two SS privates screamed at him to get on his feet.

  “Raus, Juden!”

  He wasn’t a man with a name in this place. He was a Jew and nothing else.

  When Aaron climbed too slowly to his feet, one of the soldiers stepped forward and grabbed him under the arm. Aaron was jerked up and incidentally slammed heavily into the wall. The breath went out of him, but he didn’t dare fall.

  As this was happening, the other man in gray kept his machine gun pointed into the cell. If Aaron had planned to feign weakness and tackle the guard, he wouldn’t have made it a single step.

  Finally allowed to stand on his own, Aaron began the march back up the corridor, past the other cells and toward the stairs. The body of the man who had died was still pressed against the bars. The odor coming from the cages was hardly to be believed. Aaron thought he would have gotten used to the stench after however may hours he’d lain in it, but passing this close to its source, he retched. His stomach was empty. A thin stream of clear fluid came up.

  “Stop that!” one of the guards shouted. “I’m not cleaning up after a fucking Jew.”

  Aaron thought of the man with one eye and the mop, shuddered and worked hard to keep his stomach in place.

  The three marched down a flight of stairs that Aaron hadn’t noticed on his way in, down a corridor that didn’t smell like much at all, and finally into a small room with a metal chair at its center. The guards made it clear that he was supposed to sit in the chair by pushing him down into it and tying him there. Then they left.

  There were bright lights shining in Aaron’s eyes. Sounds of torture filtered through the heavy door and softened Aaron for what was coming next.