by Peter Quinn
Schaefer motioned for them to hurry.
Van Hull waved back. “If he’s who you think he is, why didn’t the SS spring the trap when he picked us up? Why don’t they do it now? Why this elaborate delay?”
“They’ll move at their convenience, not ours. Our ersatz Dr. Schaefer probably thinks he can use us to contact Bari and lure in a far larger party of would-be rescuers.” Dunne grasped his crutch, poked at the solid cone of excrement behind the log, uncovered a yellow capsule, and flicked it loose. “Get that for me, will you, Dick?”
“Wish I were as certain as you.” Van Hull bent down, pinched the capsule between thumb and forefinger, and dropped it in the pocket of Dunne’s jacket. “Bon appétit.”
“‘Shoot the fucker before the fucker shoots you,’ as Yeats put it.”
“Yeats?”
“From his early stuff. An unpublished poem, I think.” Dunne gave the gun to Van Hull. “If it comes to it, fire.”
“How will I know?”
“Remember what Bassante said?”
“He said a lot of things.”
“‘Simplest and most necessary of all: Pay attention.’”
After helping Dunne settle in his seat, Van Hull got in the front.
“The longer we’re on these roads, the more dangerous it is.” Schaefer surveyed the highway in the rearview mirror. “Well, for now, at least, it’s clear.”
“Oh, one thing.” Dunne’s eyes met Schaefer’s in the mirror. “A good friend of yours in Bari said if we made contact, we must say hello.”
“Who’s that?”
“Epione.”
“Epione? I’m not sure I remember such a person. Can you describe him?”
Van Hull bolted to attention in his seat. “Epione’s a she.”
“And she said she knew me?”
“Very well,” Van Hull said. “She’s Asclepius’s daughter.”
“Asclepius’s daughter?” The face in the mirror suddenly blossomed with an awkward, open-mouthed smile of perfectly aligned teeth; eyes skittered right to left, back again. “This is a joke, yes?”
“Epione is the goddess of pain relief. You must remember her from when the dentist twisted the wire to close the gap between your front teeth.”
“So much has happened, it is hard to remember everything and everybody.” The slow, steady tilt of Schaefer’s body was subtle but unmistakable. His hand slipped around the Luger hidden in the pouch on the side of his seat.
Dunne was about to lunge forward when Van Hull shot Schaefer through the neck, percussive roar deafening as an artillery round. Exiting bullet shattered the driver’s window. Smoke and silence filled the car. A thirteenth way to win people to your way of thinking—more direct than anything Dale Carnegie recommended. And more convincing.
They sat motionless in the postblast silence following Van Hull’s shot through the neck of ersatz Dr. Schaefer. His body slumped over the steering wheel. Gun smoke trailed out the window shattered by the same bullet that had splattered blood and spinal fluid across the back of the seat.
Dunne wiped a globule from his lips, licked them clean. Salty, repellent taste slipped down his throat. He lay back. Same gray velour cushioned ceiling as seat. They should be in a hurry. But where? He patted his breast pocket. Here was what was left of luck. He touched Victor’s small, reassuring bulge. Totiusque.
The sky was as gray as the seat and velour ceiling, gray everywhere, up and down, soft as a blanket, noiseless, restful, full of sleep.
Van Hull reached back, bunched Dunne’s collar in his fist, pulled him upright, and struck his cheek, more pat than slap. “Fin, save the nap for later.”
He handed Dunne the gun, hopped out of the car, went to the driver’s side, opened the door, and laid the dead body on the ground. He removed the overcoat and jacket, took his knife, sliced open the left side of the shirt, and lifted up the arm. “His SS blood group is tattooed right where it should be.” He dropped the arm. “We were being set up to get another mission flown in.” He picked up the overcoat and put it on.
The interior of the car grew cold. Dunne gulped the freezing air. It didn’t diminish the accumulated sense of exhaustion he felt. A clatter from behind startled him. Van Hull had the trunk opened. He held aloft a metal disk and tore off the wires attached. He hurled it toward the road and hurried around to the driver’s seat. “They’re tracking us. At least they were.”
He put the car in gear. “They say the Tatra 77 is one of the best cars on the road. Now we’ll see how it does off the road.” He drove into the woods. Branches whipped the windows. They jolted and bounced over uneven terrain, plunged into a shallow ditch, shot up a hillock that lofted them over a rift. The car shuddered violently when it landed. The bolt of pain in Dunne’s ankle made him cry out: “Where the hell are you going?”
The car zigzagged around trees, veered and swerved through a clearing, and fishtailed across a patch of ice. It barreled through a narrow defile and sideswiped an outcropping of rock that made the fender grind against the front right tire. Van Hull got out and pried the fender back into position.
Dunne tapped him on the shoulder when he retook the driver’s seat. “We’ve got nowhere to go, but it seems like we’re in a hell of a hurry to get there.”
“We’ve got a train to catch.”
“A train?”
“That village we passed. There were four boxcars. It’s a switching station. North-south tracks cross east-west tracks. We’ll drive far as we can and walk if we have to.”
“They aren’t going anywhere without an engine.”
“Sooner or later, one will show.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can’t. But it’s the only shot we’ve got.” Van Hull drove for several minutes before the thickness of the woods and a steep ridge made it impossible to proceed. “I’m going to do some scouting. You have to try to stay awake.” He returned so quickly Dunne didn’t have a chance to nod off. “There’s no way to drive any farther,” he said. “Terrain’s too rough. It’s back to shank’s mare.”
Dunne wasn’t sure he’d be able to last longer than a few minutes, but exhaustion served as analgesia, numbing counterweight to ache in ankle and discomfort of crutch rubbing against armpit. At times, he wasn’t sure he was even awake. Van Hull’s support and strength propelled them forward.
They reached an icy, half-frozen but flowing stream. Van Hull carried Dunne on his back across knee-high rapids. They rested on the far bank. Van Hull examined a cluster of birch trees, sliced off several mushroom-like growths, and pocketed them.
Dunne got on his hands and knees, removed his woolen cap, and plunged his head beneath the frigid, crystal-colored rush. He kept it there till he couldn’t stand the stinging, unsparing cold. He rolled on his back, gasping.
Supported by his elbows, Van Hull lay back, watching. “I was afraid you were trying to drown yourself.”
“I was. But I was afraid I’d freeze to death first. Give me a hand.”
“I wanted to go alone. I told the general that.”
“We do what we’re told, like all soldiers.” Dunne dried his head with his jacket and put his cap back on. He felt awake and alert. “We better get someplace warm or we’ll both get pneumonia.”
“The SS has had Mike Jahn and his men all the time.”
“No money-back guarantees. We knew that when we signed on.” Dunne slung his arm around Van Hull’s shoulder. He wanted to ask about Jahn but didn’t. Maybe it was different with other agents. In fact, he knew it was. But he also knew that Van Hull and he operated according to the same unwritten code of conduct: Rely on each other for everything, yet know very little outside the mutual, immediate, primitive dependence required to stay alive. Knowing anything more was unnecessary, could only be confusing. When it was over—if you got out alive—you resume different lives, forever grateful to each other but gone your separate ways.
They reached the village in late afternoon. It was as quiet and unpopulated as
when they’d driven past. Maybe all the inhabitants had fled, or maybe the SS or Hlinka Guard was hunkered down waiting to pounce on the partisans. They decided to wait until night and look for lights to appear before they approached any closer.
Night fell, but no lights came on. They skirted the market square. The train station was deserted. Dunne sat on a bench beneath the eave as Van Hull approached the first of the four boxcars. He slid the door open and clambered aboard. He struck a match, held it up, and moved into the car. The match went out. Dunne hobbled to the door and peered into the dark. “Dick,” he said in a half-whisper, “you okay?”
Van Hull lit another match. Beneath the prick of vacillating light, the floor was littered with piles of rags. The match went out.
“What’s in there?” Dunne asked.
Van Hull climbed down. “Better get in.” He used his hands to form a stirrup. “Put your good leg here, take hold of the door latch, and swing yourself up.”
With Van Hull’s support, Dunne lifted himself to the boxcar floor and stretched out his legs. His left foot hit one of the rag piles. There was a soft moan.
“Wer sind sie?” The voice came from the back of the car. Dunne’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. He made out a form propped against the rear wall.
Van Hull lit another match. Several of the rag piles stirred. He moved forward, careful not to step on any.
There was another moan, louder than the previous one.
The voice from the back spoke again: “Sie sind nicht Deutsch, sind sie?”
“Nein.” Van Hull stood in the middle of the car. “Wir sind Amerikaner.”
“Amerikaner! Sie sind ein langer weg von zu hause!”
The tone sounded to Dunne somewhere between surprise and sarcasm. “What’s he saying?” He fingered the pile next to him, took hold of what felt like a stick.
“He says we’re a long way from home.” Van Hull’s match went out.
Dunne ran his hand over a sharp prominence, leaned close, and tried to see what he held. A hollow-eyed, shrunken face—skull-like, fleshless almost—rose from the rag pile. The mouth came so close, the labored, foul breath made him recoil. Tightening his grip, he realized he had hold of a shoulder. He let go, rolled toward the door, and took several deep breaths. The stench lingered in his nose and mouth. “Who are these people?”
Van Hull moved toward him. “You have any cigarettes left?”
Dunne groped in his pocket, retrieved a half-smoked butt and a pack with two bent smokes. He handed the pack to Van Hull.
“This’ll do.” Van Hull lit a match and cautiously retraced his steps toward the rear of the car. He conversed softly in German with the figure in the back.
Dunne crawled into a corner. Several of the piles stirred. The moans spread and grew louder—a chorus interspersed with coughing—then ebbed into silence. The rags, he realized, were inhabited. He touched what felt like a rolled-up blanket; fingered it gingerly, afraid to wake another skeleton. It turned out to be what it seemed: a blanket.
He wrapped himself in it as tightly as could. A wave of exhaustion swept him into the temporary closure of sleep. A foot pushed against his bruised tailbone. He sat up with a start. He half expected the darkened figure hovering above to be an SS trooper.
“Fin, get up.” Van Hull handed Dunne his crutch and helped him out of the boxcar into the stationmaster’s office.
Dunne lay facing a cold, unlit potbellied stove. Van Hull went into the back room and returned with an armful of excelsior. He pushed the material into the stove, took the growths he’d cut from the birch trees, and put them on top. He brought over a shuttle filled with coal, stuck the blade of his knife against the iron grate, rubbed it back and forth, sending a sprinkle of sparks that ignited the excelsior.
Dunne raised himself to a sitting position, his back against the wall. “You’re not a Boy Scout. You’re the Last of the Mohicans.”
“I ran out of matches.” Van placed a few pieces of coal into the stove. “The fungus from the birch will provide enough heat to get the coal started.” He built the coals into a glowing pile.
Groggy, slightly dazed, still wrapped in the blanket, Dunne had no idea how long he’d slept in the boxcar. The molten glow from inside the grate radiated a trembling light on two dozen sleeping bodies spread in a loose circle around it, irregular spokes in a rimless wheel.
Van Hull tossed more coal onto the fire. The heat intensified.
“Did you find out who they are?”
“Jews.” Van Hull threaded his way across the floor and sat beside him on the floor.
“Where are they from?”
“They’re a remnant of the inmates held at Auschwitz.”
“Where’s the one you were talking to?”
“Here he is now.”
A figure wrapped in a brown greatcoat entered from outside. He opened and closed the door as fast as he could. He removed a large earthen flask from inside his coat. He handed it to Van Hull.
Van Hull took a swig. He shook his head from side to side. “Tastes like gin mixed with airplane fuel.” He passed the flask to Dunne.
The liquid burned its way down Dunne’s throat, forced tears from his eyes. He gave it back. “Packs a wallop Joe Louis would be proud of.”
Van Hull swished the liquid around like mouthwash, swallowed. “Fin, this is Dr. Niskolczi. He speaks English and German equally well. I’ve told him our story.” He offered him the flask.
“Be careful. It’s borovicka. Homemade gin. I found it in the shed beside the tracks. Best taken in small doses.” Niskolczi declined the flask, and spread his coat on the floor on the other side of Van Hull, and sat.
Van Hull removed his boots and peeled off his wet socks. “The doctor is from Budapest. He’s been telling me how he and the others arrived here.”
“Perhaps after all I will have some more of that. Just a bit.” Niskolczi put the flask to his lips, sipped. “I don’t know how much longer we’d have survived if you hadn’t come along.” He returned the flask to Van Hull.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, Doctor?”
The steel rims of Niskolczi’s eyeglasses glowed red in the firelight as he bent forward and glanced at Dunne. “What you two need now is sleep.”
“Not yet.” Van Hull drank from the flask. “First the story of how you got here.”
“I’ve already told you some of it.”
One of the figures on the floor groaned.
“Start again. I want my companion to hear as well.”
Niskolczi spoke in a monotone, giving a matter-of-fact account of his career as a physician in Budapest, which led him to the post of assistant chief pathologist at the National Institute for Surgical Research. He was dismissed in 1939 when the Institute was ordered to rid itself of medical personnel of “Jewish blood.”
He and his wife and two young daughters managed to scrape by under the restrictions imposed on Jews until the Germans seized full control of Hungary. In June 1944, as part of the “general resettlement of the Jewish population in the East,” they were ordered to report to the Keleti railway station.
Instructed to bring one suitcase per person and food supplies for “a journey of several days,” they were packed into sealed cattle cars “with barely enough room to sit and no sanitary facilities.” During a week’s journey across Slovakia into occupied Poland, they were sidetracked for periods ranging from several hours to an entire day. The boxcar was stifling. The supply of water ran out. Several old people and infants died. Their bodies were stacked in a corner until the train reached its destination.
“We learned that our destination was Auschwitz. It was still just a word, a place one old woman remembered by its Polish name: Owicim. When we’d entered the gates, the SS guards opened the car doors and barked at us to leave our luggage, which would be returned after being ‘sorted and inspected.’ We were arranged into two lines and marched past an SS officer wearing the insignia of the medical corps.
“Able-bodied wome
n and men were directed right; the aged, crippled, and women with children under fourteen, left. I attempted to stay close to my wife and daughters, but the SS officer in charge noticed the lapel pin I’d been awarded by the Institute for my twenty years of service.
“He pulled me aside. Annoyed to learn I was a physician—when he’d given specific orders that doctors and pharmacists were to be kept separate from other prisoners—he reprimanded the guards. He introduced himself as SS-Hauptsturmführer Eduard Wirths, the camp’s chief doctor, and questioned me about my credentials. He was correct and polite, as if ours were a casual encounter on a village railway platform.
“I inquired about my wife and daughters. He said not to worry. He would see they were taken good care of. Behind him, what looked like a factory chimney stack spewed a thick column of black smoke.” Niskolczi drank from the flask. “Wirths said that while there was already an expert pathologist on staff, he had a colleague doing important research in racial biology who could benefit greatly from the assistance of a German-speaking professional. ‘You will be my gift to him,’ he said.”
Dunne resisted sleep by concentrating on Niskolczi’s description of his first impressions of the camp’s “vastness,” a seemingly endless series of enclosures bounded by electrified wire and interspersed with guard towers mounted with searchlights and machine guns; long rows of tar-papered barracks stretching in every direction; hollow-eyed laborers in faded, ragged striped uniforms moving at a half-trot.
After showering and having his head shaved, Niskolczi was disinfected with a “burning solution” of calcium chloride and issued a “clean but worn uniform obviously used to clothe several prisoners before me.” He reported to the hospital barracks, where he was met by Menachem Gertner, a Polish Jew assigned to be his assistant.
A former medical student at the University of Kraków, Gertner dispelled any lingering illusions Niskolczi might have had about the nature of the camp: “Unlike the larger Auschwitz konzentrationslager,” Gertner explained, “which is dedicated to intimidating and enslaving Poles and other untermenschen, this camp—Birkenau—is a vernichtungslager, an ‘extermination camp,’ one of several in occupied Poland dedicated exclusively to the eradication of Europe’s Jews.