Death in Twilight

by Jason Fields

  The labor crew that he had done murder to leave filed its way out the gate, with Aaron last in line.

  Aaron had no idea he was marching, that he was carrying anything, that he waited or that the gate was opened. He had no awareness of breaking rocks, carrying rocks, shoveling rocks or clearing rocks. His conscious mind had completely deserted him. There was no room for it in his body.

  He had killed a man who had shown him kindness for nothing but false hope. For something that he thought he knew, but knew nothing about. There was no way for Aaron to keep both who he knew himself to be and the knowledge of what he’d done in the same skull.

  So he went away.

  And worked.

  And men suffered.

  And men drank.

  And men sang.

  And men were beaten.

  And men died.

  And the day passed.

  The march “home” — what else to call it? — began. Aaron’s body got into line and fell in step with the rest.

  When there was less than a third of a kilometer to go, Aaron’s feet tangled themselves, his legs buckled and his face hit the ground. A guard was on him almost instantly, shouting and brandishing a club. There was no one to hear the threats.

  The club swung down and blood spurted from a gash near the crown of Aaron’s head.

  A hand reached out and gently restrained the arm holding the club.

  “Ah, let him live. This one’s going home tomorrow.”

  “That’s hardly like you, Johann. Such sentiment!”

  “I’m feeling sentimental. It’s my anniversary today, and Gretchen is so far from here,” Johann Weber said. “Maybe this guy has a wife, too.”

  “And he’s not a Jew.”

  “Exactly.”

  Aaron heard none of this. The blow to his head had brought back his wandering mind and extinguished it. Two Jews, newly arrived, were forced to carry him the rest of the way back to the camp, where he was put in a bunk and given no further attention.

  No one tried to wake him, so he missed his dinner. No ghosts visited him during the night. The shouts of the guards and the shaking of the bunks finally brought him back to earth. Another morning had begun before sunup.

  Aaron’s mind and body occupied the same bunk, though neither was happy about it. Remorse filled every fissure in his soul. And as he got up and felt the pain that the guard had left him from the day before, he resolved that he would die before he left the camp for the quarry. He was done and the only marching he would do today would be straight to Hell.

  Still, he got up. He took a leak. He ached and found his place in the parade. And then he stood, working up his courage for a leap at one of the guards — Weber if he was lucky. He would take Weber with him, either killing him with his hands, as he had Kaczynski, or placing the guard between himself and the bullets that would come.

  He waited.

  No Weber. No announcements, either. Aaron decided he might as well have breakfast before committing suicide, so he joined the queue, drank his coffee, pulled at the hard bread and tried to grind it into pieces small enough to swallow.

  Men were grabbing heavy tools and Aaron decided taking out a guard or two would be much easier if he had a weapon in his hands. He waited his turn and was able to secure a pick. He followed the others and joined the line as if to head for the quarry.

  He could make out Weber coming down the line.

  Wait, wait, he told himself. Be sure. Let him come close.

  As casually as he could, Aaron lifted the pick from his shoulder, readying to swing. A few more steps. And now the column was moving forward.

  Ready, ready …

  “Kaczynski? Stefan?” Weber called out, looking Aaron in the eye. “Today’s the day!”

  The strength went out of Aaron’s arms. The pick fell and hit him a glancing blow on the shin on the way down. Aaron grabbed his leg and hopped. Weber guffawed.

  “Good news, bad news, I guess!” Weber said. He took Aaron by the shoulder and began pushing him toward the administrative hut. With a limp, Aaron let himself be pushed.

  Once inside, the warmth shocked Aaron. He hadn’t felt the cold when he was swinging his shovel in the quarry, but had felt no other kind of warmth in days. He looked through tear-blurred eyes at the young officer with the death’s head on his collar. The man was poring over some papers, content to let Aaron stand.

  A dismissive hand flicked out, Weber clicked his heels and removed himself. There were other guards in the room.

  “Stefan Kaczynski, Lucknow, Poland, correct?” the officer asked, still staring at his forms and files.

  “Yes, sir,” Aaron said.

  The officer finally looked up, his gaze flat.

  “I assume you’ve learned your lesson?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Reich will not tolerate drunken displays from our new citizens!”

  The officer warmed to his work.

  “In the future, you will show the proper respect to your superiors. And we are all your superiors.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “If someone tells you to toast the Fuhrer’s health, that is what you will do!” the officer ordered.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Now get the fuck out of here! If I see you again — ever — you are a dead man.”

  Aaron knew that to be true. He glanced down at the officer’s desk and saw Kaczynski’s papers, including the photo. It had been taken in better times but, as Aaron had bet his life on, he looked enough like Kaczynski’s desiccated, bearded corpse to pass. He’d also gotten lucky — the photo was awful and the paper it was printed on had been folded and crumpled so many times that the face was obscured by creases and streaks.

  The officer folded up the identity papers and handed them to a guard.

  “You’ll get these when you are released in Krasno. You can make your own way home from there.”

  Aaron was marched out of the office and onto the back of a truck where he was joined by three men and two women who also had red flashes on their lapels. Two guards climbed up after them. None of the people who were being released seemed to have had an easy time of it, and Aaron looked as bad as any of them. The others may have spent more time in the camp, but none of them had started off as beaten, malnourished or exhausted as Aaron.

  The gate opened and the truck shuddered as it searched for its lowest gear. A woman smiled tentatively at Aaron, but there was no way he could answer it. Seeing how grim he was, she looked away.

  Aaron tried to see his cohort as it marched toward the quarry, but they were already beyond the horizon.

  Chapter 18

  The town of Krasno might never have drawn many tourists, but under Nazi occupation it appeared completely drained of life. If Aaron hadn’t seen window curtains twitch as the truck bulled through the medieval streets, he would have guessed it had been evacuated.

  Thick fog rose from the mouths of everyone on the vehicle’s back. Nazis and their prisoners alike worked hard to warm their hands and feet; stamping and slapping at themselves, even jumping up and down as the truck swayed violently on the unevenly paved streets.

  Aaron almost made himself laugh by thinking how all the rocks he’d broken as a slave could have been used ease his trip to freedom. But thoughts of the quarry meant thoughts of Kaczynski. He shook his head violently to rid it of the connection. To continue to dwell on what he’d done could only lead to moral madness. In less than fifteen minutes, he would be free — if being outside of a jail in German-occupied Poland could be called that — and Aaron had to believe that was worth any price.

  His priorities needed to remain clear.

  First, he would find Yelena. He didn’t know if she was in German custody, dead or in hiding, but he needed to go back to Miasto and find answers.

  Second was revenge on the man who was responsible for both Lev Berson’s death and Aaron’s imprisonment. Aaron was now ninety-five percent certain the men were one and the same. Aaron swore to hims
elf that no one else would suffer as he had because of the alliance between a Jewish traitor and the Gestapo.

  If, impossibly, he succeeded in both of his tasks, he would find his way to the resistance and do what damage he could to the Nazis until they killed him.

  Aaron’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the truck grinding down through its gears. It finally came to a stop in front of a building that was perhaps a third bigger than its neighbors, probably the town hall. Like the buildings on either side, it was old without being historic, showing no sign of having played a role in great events.

  No one was on the street, likely due to the Germans and the cold. It didn’t seem like much of a day for walking. Unfortunately, the freed prisoners seemed unlikely to have a choice.

  The truck stopped and once again Aaron heard the familiar sound of German voices shouting, “Raus! Schnell!”

  Aaron rushed to jump down. He was half-convinced the whole episode was a nasty of prank and that he would be taken back to Kronberg to the sound of German laughter.

  Instead, the former prisoners were told to form a line while one of the guards walked in front of them, handing out identification papers to each. They were given nothing else. No food, no money, none of the personal possessions that had been taken from them when they’d been arrested. Everything the Germans stole, they kept.

  With a final, “Heil, Hitler !” which the Poles were forced to ape, the Germans clambered back aboard the transport, returning to their regular jobs of spreading fear and death.

  As the truck drove off, the four men and two women turned to look at each other, their expressions a mix of joy and uncertainty. Where should they go now? And how would they get there? Should they go alone, or stick together?

  “I’m going to Krakow,” the fittest of the men said. “Any of you are welcome to come with me. Truthfully, though, I’m not sure how I’m going to get there.”

  “I think we need food before we can really make any other decisions,” the younger of the two women said.

  The reminder of their shared hunger brought an end to any feeling of euphoria.

  “Shit,” someone said.

  “Does anyone have any money at all?”

  “Where the fuck would I get money from?” asked the first man. “Where would any of us? They took every groczy. Even if I’d shoved a few up my ass for safekeeping, they would have found them.”

  It was soon clear to Aaron that no one in the little group had single idea worth listening to.

  Okay, then, Aaron thought. Every man, woman and child for themselves.

  “We’re going to have to beg,” Aaron said aloud. “What else can we do? And I don’t think we should do it together. Who’s going to open his door to a whole gang of starved, ragged strangers?”

  The others nodded grimly but didn’t seem inclined to separate.

  Aaron wasn’t feeling sentimental and there was little time or energy to waste.

  “Good luck to you all,” he said, then set off down the street alone, looking for a likely door to knock on.

  None opened for him.

  Aaron lay under a bridge thinking of the irony of escaping from the cruelty of the Germans only to die from the indifference of the Poles. He was at least as cold as he’d been in the camp and, having had literally nothing to eat, he was even hungrier.

  Aaron cursed at the coat that had gotten him out of the camp but was now taking his life. It was less than half as thick as the one he’d been given by his friend in the Blue Police.

  Maybe its poor quality was Kaczynski’s revenge, Aaron thought, then giggled. He stopped himself after catching a glimpse of the delusion and hysteria that were building inside. He could let himself go, but knew he wouldn’t come back once he did.

  Aaron began to gather himself for a final push. He would not allow whoever found his body to believe that he was just another vagrant who had died of drink and bad weather. He wanted a better legacy than that.

  He braced himself against the ground with his hands and slowly began to push himself up, first onto his knees and, finally, sweeping his legs beneath him, onto his feet.

  “One foot and then the other,” he said, hoping that the sound of his own voice would give encouragement to the rest of his body. “Let’s move. We have places to go.”

  He felt the wind as if he were a ghost. It passed straight through his skin, freezing his insides directly. Kaczynski’s face visited Aaron again and again. It was sometimes replaced by a shadow that represented the man who had died in his place at the police headquarters in Miasto. Both visions gave him motivation to keep on his feet. He wanted to meet neither spirit in the afterlife.

  Perhaps half a kilometer from the bridge, Aaron reached his end. He had nothing left. He stumbled and fell. Hitting the ground was painful, but lying still was bliss. His eyes closed. He had no expectation that they would open again.

  Light swept the road and fell on Aaron’s closed eyelids. He hoped it would pass on. He could imagine nothing good coming from it.

  But the light persisted and was joined by a rumbling that grew closer until it could only have been a few meters away. Against Aaron’s conscious will, his eyes opened. What they saw was a pickup truck that looked as old as Aaron himself. It seemed to be made almost entirely out of rust, with just enough glass to provide the driver with a peek of the road.

  Aaron wished it away and its driver dead.

  Neither happened.

  Instead, the driver’s door creaked open and a booted foot stepped out, followed by another. The vehicle rocked on its springs as the owner of the boots pulled himself up. He looked at Aaron from where he was standing. Aaron couldn’t make out more than a shadow. He was blinded by the headlights.

  “Are you all right?” the driver asked in Polish.

  Aaron thought it was probably the stupidest question he’d ever been asked, but he was in no position for a snappy reply. What energy he had was entirely invested in his next breath.

  Not getting an answer, the driver came into the light and bent over Aaron. When he finally occluded the headlights, Aaron could make out a look of deep concern on the man’s face. Aaron then felt warm arms wrap around him, carefully lifting him from the frozen ground and the winter’s banked snow. He could feel his raggedly shod heels drag on the ground as he was brought over to the passenger’s side of the truck.

  He was so light that his apparent savior was able to shift him to one arm while he used the other to open the door. The man had no more trouble in sliding Aaron into the seat. He then climbed in from the other side. With both doors closed, Aaron felt himself slowly thawing as the warmth from a small gas heater at his feet spread into the cabin.

  He gasped as if he’d been rescued from drowning.

  “That’s better, eh, my friend?” the stranger said.

  “Whh-ho are you?” Aaron’s teeth began to chatter again. Outside, they’d lost the knack.

  “Here, have some tea first.”

  A warm container was passed over. Aaron took it with shaky hands. He couldn’t get the lid off and, seeing him struggle, the stranger reached over and opened it. He then gently tipped it so that Aaron could get a sip and then another. It was like nothing else Aaron had ever experienced. It was life itself. Warm, not hot. Sweet like the best parts of childhood with a hint of adulthood’s lingering bitterness.

  A little more and Aaron was able to take the container for himself. The warmth it brought to his hands was as welcome as the sirocco that was washing over his body. Another drink and he felt just enough strength return to allow him the luxury of worry.

  “I don’t mean to be rude at all,” Aaron said. “I’m incredibly grateful, obviously. But it’s been a while since someone has done me a good turn for no reason.”

  “We can talk about my motives later, but I’m not planning on hurting you. That I can promise,” the driver said, putting the protesting pickup into gear.

  Aaron had to take man’s answer on faith. Whatever was coming ne
xt, there was no way he was going to climb out of the warm car at anything less than gunpoint.

  “Sit back. I know you’re hungry. There’s no other way to come out of a German camp,” the man said. He reached down next to where Aaron was sitting and pulled out a cloth bag. He put it in Aaron’s lap. “Eat.”

  Aaron wanted to be cautious. He wanted to be careful and shrewd. He didn’t want to put himself so deeply in the debt of a man he didn’t know, but there was so little resistance left. So little left in him at all.

  Still.

  “Your name, at least?” Aaron asked, trying to insist.

  In reality he couldn’t wait anymore. He could smell onions in the sandwich and nothing had ever smelled so good to him in a lifetime of eating. If he’d been able to stop for a second, Aaron might have remembered that he’d never been very fond of onions. After the first bite, though, he would also have sworn that the onions he tasted in the truck and the onions he’d eaten before the war must certainly have been different species.

  The rough brown bread alone, unadulterated by sawdust, talc or any other foreign substance, was a pleasure so overwhelming, Aaron temporarily lost his ability to speak or pay attention to his surroundings.

  If his benefactor had wanted to hide their destination, a blindfold wouldn’t have done any better.

  A few minutes, a few kilometers must have passed before the stranger turned to Aaron and said one word: “Tadeusz.”

  In his ecstasy, Aaron had completely forgotten the question he’d asked, or even that he’d asked one. He was baffled for a minute before he understood the driver was offering his name.

  “Aaron,” he replied, completely forgetting what his identity papers said.

  “A pleasure,” Tadeusz said. “We’ll be there soon.”

  If “there” was the place the sandwiches came from, Aaron was willing to wait for more information.

  “Would you like your tea back?” Aaron asked, desperately hoping the answer would be no.

  “You’re welcome to finish it.” The man then reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask. “And feel free to add a little flavor.”