The Shadowboxer

by Behn, Noel;

  Kuprov blinked and tried to focus on Spangler. His eyes were beginning to cross. “Stupid bastard.… Do me a favor sometime—pay little Schleebund back for me.”

  Spangler stood up and glanced to the east. Dawn was near. The black out would soon be ending. Electricity would be restored. He considered momentarily and then moved to shield Kuprov with his body so the others in the distance could not see. His fist shot out. Only the head fell unconscious to the side. Kuprov’s massive torso remained sitting upright against the wire.

  54

  Spangler replaced Anvil in the bunker for the afternoon shift. He set the alarm clock and went to Kuprov’s locker. A small cubicle had been dug behind it and in it were an SS uniform, a Luger and a long roll of paper tied in red string. Spangler brought out the paper, slid off the binding, and spread out the sheets on the table. He knew at a glance that Kuprov had somehow come across official maps of Auschwitz, Birkenau, the Buno camp five miles away and seven smaller subcamps, as well as a chart of the exterior defense lines.

  Spangler began studying the Birkenau map. The sheet showed the official guard deployment and schedule for day and night assignments. Kuprov had already begun marking the disparities. Spangler was quick to realize the rest. Almost nothing he had seen in guard numbers and positons since his arrival at Birkenau corresponded to the official arrangement. In the six weeks since this map had been issued, camp security had been reduced by almost a half and the area assignments completely altered. In and around their own compound the guards had been cut to one-fourth the official number.

  The alarm clock rang.

  “… after a thirty-six-hour battle,” the voice from Prague boomed out, “the German surrender was total and unconditional. Russian officers have already guaranteed that we may continue broadcasting to all of you just as before. We can come out into the sunlight. We are free. Prague is free! Long live Prague!

  “On other fronts the Russian advances …”

  Music began to rise above the announcer’s voice. Again the lyrics were in English.

  “… night is clear,

  And the bombardier

  Drops a bomb that’s wired for sound,

  How I yearn

  To return

  With my head in the clouds

  To the girl I left on the ground.”

  Spangler quickly switched to the Cracow band.

  “Hey there, Tex,” a voice said in English, “did you notice anything unusual about that stranger that’s been in town the last week or so?”

  “Which one?” a second voice asked.

  “You know, the fellow with the big white horse? Notice anything queer about him?”

  “Nope. Can’t say that I did. What’s there to notice?”

  “Well, he was wearing a mask, that’s what.”

  “Say, you know something? Now that you mention it, he was!”

  The hoofbeats of a galloping horse were heard in the background. So were strains from the William Tell Overture. The hoofbeats grew softer.

  “Come on, Silver,” someone in the obvious distance called out with stentorian confidence. “Let’s go, big fellow. Hi-ho, Silver! Away!”

  The William Tell Overture rose to a finale as Spangler switched back to Prague.

  “… then add the beetroots and let the mixture come to a boil,” a familiar woman’s voice was saying in German. “If you prefer a darker shade, a teaspoonful of soot can be added. Once the garment is immersed …”

  Spangler again tried Cracow. Instead he heard:

  “Who’s that little chatterbox?

  The one with curly auburn locks?

  Whom do you see?

  It’s Little Orphan Annie!

  She and Sandy make a …”

  The volume decreased as Spangler heard the noise overhead. He scooped up the maps, returned them to their hiding place and pushed the locker back just as the feet started down the ladder.

  “What’s the news?” Tolan asked, reaching the floor.

  “The Russians have taken Prague.”

  “What about Cracow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can’t you get Cracow?”

  “I get the wavelength, but something keeps drifting in on it. On Prague as well.”

  “We have to find out about Cracow,” Tolan insisted. “The whole escape depends on that. We plan to go out tomorrow night if the Russians keep their present position or move forward. If they retreat we must go tonight.”

  “Are we ready to go tonight?”

  “Not really. But if the Russians are thrown back we’ll have to. The nearer they are to us the better our chances of reaching them.”

  Tolan fiddled with the radio and turned up the volume. Cracow was off the air. The dial turned to Prague. Prague also was not sending.

  “They’ll be on again in fifteen minutes,” Spangler offered.

  “Where were the Russians the last you heard?”

  “Anvil said the battle was still raging fifteen miles beyond Cracow, and that’s all anyone knew.”

  Tolan thought. “We can’t take chances,” he finally concluded. He handed a list to Spangler. “These people will have to be silenced before we leave. Each of us will have to finish five of them. Take your pick.”

  Spangler read the names. All the Habes were included. So were three apprentice cooks.

  “Why?”

  “We can take out only a hundred and twenty among all the groups. That means eliminating some of our own. Now pick your five.”

  “Why am I going out rather than the others?”

  “I like you.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “Then put it in these terms: if you hadn’t beaten Vassili, he would be in charge—and making up that list you’re holding. In that case, my name would have been first. So I’m meeting a good turn with a good turn. Pick your five.”

  “I won’t kill anyone.”

  “We must each pick five. That’s an order.”

  “I took care of Vassili and that’s it, order or no order.”

  Tolan hesitated, then turned and climbed the ladder.

  Spangler brought out Kuprov’s Birkenau map. He studied the official deployment and schedules of the guards at the railroad sidings and marked in the positions and numbers he had personally witnessed in the last few days. The force he had seen was one-third the indicated requirement. Their stations and patrol routes were nothing like those on the map. Had official specifications been met, escape along the track could not have even been considered. Under present conditions it was the most logical route.

  He unrolled the chart of the outer-guard defense positions around Auschwitz-Birkenau as the alarm clock rang.

  Spangler switched on the set. Prague was not sending. He moved to the Cracow band.

  “… a third column is believed to have moved up from Nowy Sacz to complete the pincer,” the voice said in Polish as heavy fire thundered in the background. “If this should be the case the Russians would find themselves trapped outside Cracow. German reinforcements and material are moving up quickly for this decisive battle. Whether the Russians will hold their ground and fight or whether they will begin their retreat is still not known.…”

  55

  All through the late afternoon and early evening squadron after squadron of Luftwaffe fighter-bombers roared over Birkenau toward the northeast. The blue dimout was in effect as of sundown. Reports from the radio bunker described the battle of Cracow. German losses were staggering, the destruction was devastating.

  Two air alarms were sounded at Birkenau within an hour’s time span. On both occasions the camp was pitched into total darkness.

  The Bourse began operation at 9 P.M. Forty-five minutes later a subcook burst in from his post at the radio. The German retreat from Cracow had begun.

  Kapos began drifting out of the barracks. Tolan ordered the cook back to the radio room and then began organizing his own men. The three apprentice cooks whose names Spangler had seen on the list were tol
d to assemble the Habes in the kitchen. The remaining cooks and the compound Kapos were assigned times to leave for the rendezvous. The subcooks picked up knives, clubs and garroting wire and headed for the kitchen.

  Spangler went out alone through the compound gate. The guard stopped him. He had forgotten to wear his armband. He returned to the barracks, tied the white cloth to his upper arm and started out again. He crossed the road, showed his pass at the Canada gate, was passed through and made his way toward the Finishing School.

  A line had already formed along a row of tables. Escape uniforms and provisions were being issued. A special table was set aside for the escaping SS. Arms were stretched across and a red-hot iron smoked into the flesh to burn off the double-lightning SS tattoo. Both the Kapos and the SS were changing into escape uniforms. Personal identification papers were thrown into a pile, doused with kerosene and lighted.

  Tolan and the subcooks were among the last to arrive. They were processed and changed quickly.

  Klempf arrived, and all turned to listen to him.

  “In approximately forty-five minutes this building will be raided by members of my Secret Security detachment,” he told his audience. “You will be summarily tried, within a matter of minutes, for your various mistreatments of two prisoners, and then marched directly to Crematorium Two.”

  There was slight murmuring.

  “As you all know,” Klempf continued, unconcerned, “Crematorium Two is rather defective and is usually breaking down. I made certain that such a breakdown occurred earlier today. The trouble happens to be in the rear of the building—beside the fence. Trucks and repairmen are already there. A great many trucks. This is only natural, since the shipments have been so sharply increased and the crematorium must be repaired as quickly as possible. We have torn down the fence directly behind it so that the trucks can get in. We have even torn a hole in the rear wall inside the gas chamber itself to get to the trouble.

  “So you can see, that is our plan. You line up in front of Crematorium Two like any other group of prisoners. You go right in—and then out through the back and onto the trucks. The wall will be quickly repaired, and the next group of prisoners—bona-fide prisoners—will be processed as usual, without anyone realizing what has happened. The trouble will have been corrected and the repair trucks will drive off.”

  Klempf ordered Spangler and four others to the side.

  “To minimize the chance of interference with our schedule,” he told the small gathering, “diversionary tactics must be employed. The air alarm system is our most obvious target. When the sirens sound, the blue lights automatically go off. Processing at the gas chamber, as you know, does not stop. Processing never stops, no matter what the circumstances. Therefore,” Klempf concluded, “the escape will take place in darkness.

  “The air alarm system is comprised of two separate systems, manual and automatic. Manual alerts are controlled from observation points beyond the camp perimeter. The automatic network is set up within the camp and is by far the largest. It works on the premise of interrupted circuits: once a circuit is broken, the alarm sounds.”

  Each man was given a diversionary assignment. Spangler was given a handwritten chart. He was to strangle the guard at the railroad fence, Klempf instructed—the guard he had become friendly with—then move down the fence and cut the wire leading to alarm sirens in the ramp area. He was to return through the compound to the main road, where he would be “arrested” and brought to the gas chamber.

  “How do I get through the electrified wire?” Spangler asked.

  “You already know it isn’t electrified during a semi-blackout,” Klempf replied softly. “Or have you forgotten Vassili—and passing milk to the sentry? But that isn’t my main concern. The important question is: Will you kill the guard?”

  “If you’re not certain, send someone else.”

  “I’m only asking. After all, you refused to get rid of the Habes in your compound.”

  “They were fellow prisoners, not guards.”

  “Then you’ll take the assignment?”

  “Why not?”

  Spangler left the building as the SS of the Secret Security unit began leisurely getting off their trucks and strolling inside for the raid.

  56

  Spangler showed his pass, and the Ukrainian guard opened the gate. No one was left in the cooks’ barracks. He crossed behind the kitchen, entered the potato shed and climbed down the ladder. He pulled Vassili’s locker from the wall and stared at the SS uniform, the maps and the Luger. The uniform was slightly too large, but wearable. Kuprov had obviously stolen it for himself, only to find it too small. Spangler took out the gun, replaced the uniform, pushed back the locker and climbed out of the room.

  He waited at the back fence, smoking. Another train was being unloaded in the pale-blue light. The two metal passenger cars stood in the darkness down the nearest spur. Spangler studied them carefully as the guard approached.

  “What are the rumors?” he asked the boy.

  “The Russians have been stopped outside Cracow,” the guard said with relief.

  “What about the Gestapo and SD?”

  “They’re still everywhere, but we think they’re moving out soon.”

  “Why?”

  “My sergeant says that once the German counteroffensive pushes back the Russians, there’s no need for them.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “See those SD command cars down there?” The boy indicated the pair of metal passenger cars. “Well, an engine is already waiting outside the gate to take them out.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. My bunkmate is on the detail watching the locomotive. The cars go out later tonight.”

  “I brought you something,” Spangler said, holding out his hand.

  “What?”

  “Look for yourself.”

  Spangler moved to the fence. The boy stepped closer on his side.

  “I can’t see anything.”

  “Look closer,” Spangler suggested, lowering his hand slightly. “It’s very small.”

  The boy leaned down, and Spangler’s Luger pressed against his forehead. “Stay exactly as you are and do what I say—and nothing will happen to you, understand?”

  The young guard tried to say yes.

  “Now ease up the bottom wire with your rifle butt—and remember, my pistol is on you.”

  The strand was propped up and Spangler slid under on his back.

  “Now come here.”

  The boy stepped forward, trembling.

  Spangler put a hand on his neck. “Now hold your breath and count to fifty. When you gain consciousness lie as you are for at least half an hour, don’t move for half an hour, or I’ll come back and kill you. Trust me. I could kill you now, but I’m not going to,” he said as two of his fingers began pinching the boy’s windpipe. “Start counting, and remember what I told you.”

  The boy’s legs buckled and he fell forward unconscious into Spangler’s arms. Spangler laid him on his back and knelt down. The breathing was easy. No damage had been done. The youth would come around shortly.

  Spangler moved up the fence, found the lead wire, took out his knife and cut it with one stroke. Sirens began to moan. The yard was plunged into darkness.

  He moved back to where the boy lay, started back under the fence, suddenly changed his mind and made for the near railway spur in a crouched run. He reached the first of the two metal railroad cars. A low constant hum was heard from within. The faint odor of burnt rubber was obvious. Spangler moved along to the second car. Like the first, the windows were blacked out. Unlike the first, a strand of telephone cable stretched from its roof to a nearby connection terminal.

  There was an explosion in a distant part of the camp, then another. More sirens began wailing. Emergency SS patrols could be seen running along the outer roads. Three more explosions reverberated from distant points. Birkenau was in to
tal darkness.

  Spangler moved forward, crossed the tracks, moved between the boxcars and slid under the ramp. He inched forward under the walkway until he had a view of Crematorium Two. A group of new arrivals waited in the darkness at one end. Other new arrivals lined the road leading to the gate.

  Tramping was heard and then commands. The column of captured Finishing School Kapos marched up the road under heavy guard and turned into the crematorium compound. He looked for Tolan, but in the darkness it was impossible to single out anyone. He counted the white armbands of the “escapees.” Some were missing. Spangler squinted at his watch. They were five minutes ahead of schedule.

  An order was shouted. The Kapos, Klempf’s SS aides, the guards, the cooks and all the other leaders of the camp’s illicit activities formed into two lines.

  Spangler knew that the low building along the fence housed the gas chambers and that the large lateral building with the chimney was the crematorium.

  Klempf called an order. The four lines merged into one. The single column moved until it was directly in front of the gas chamber. The door was thrown open. On command, the line pressed forward in double time. The column was two-thirds in before the shouting and screaming broke out. The bogus prisoners surged back out of the building; those still outside turned to flee. A wave of hidden SS rushed out from behind the two waiting lines of new arrivals. The flanks of SS merged, formed an arc and slowly and bloodily began forcing the battling men of the illegal industries back into the gas chamber. The arc grew smaller, the number of visible white armbands fewer. The SS gave a final surge and pushed in behind them, kicking and clubbing. A few minutes later the SS came out alone. Then two officers climbed the outside ladder, carrying a canister. They crossed to the center of the roof, pulled up the hatch and carefully poured the Zyklon-B pellets through. There was no hole in the rear of the building, no gap in the fence.

  Spangler ripped the white cloth from his sleeve, stuffed it into his pocket and quickly cut back across the railroad yard. He stopped behind the metal passenger cars. A phone was ringing inside as he surveyed the terrain. Lines of SS guards began forming in the area he had just fled. They linked arms and started slowly forward in their search.