The Barbed Crown (The Vatican Knights Book 13)

by Rick Jones

  “Anyone else involved in this undertaking I should know about?”

  “No.”

  “Where did they get the materials to create the charges?”

  “From the munitions’ depot,” said Yitzhak. “The workers were smuggling gunpowder to the Sonderkommandos.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. And that’s the truth.”

  “And this man?” asked the guard, swinging his weapon around and pointing it at Benjamin.

  “He was my father.” Yitzhak’s voice began to crack.

  The SS guard redirected his aim back to Yitzhak. “And the others?”

  “His engineering team.”

  “So this Sonderkommando, his name is Dror, yes?”

  Yitzhak nodded.

  “And all this is because of Dror, yes? The death of your father. His team. All the people who ran for the gate but were taken down, also killed. All because of a foolish notion that freedom was just beyond the tree line.” The guard leaned over the boy. “Even if you succeeded,” he told him evenly, “none of you would have survived the day.” Then he stood upright and pointed his weapon at Yitzhak’s center mass. “And none of you shall survive this day.” With that statement, the guard set off a burst of gunfire, the muzzle flashes causing the dim interior of the armory to light up in strobe-light effect.

  * * *

  When the guard exited the armory, he saw that the guards had removed the tubing and gear from the work cart. Inside were five urns, as the boy had stated.

  “Remove them,” the guard ordered, slinging his submachine gun over his shoulder.

  The two guards grabbed the nearest urn and set it along the edge of the cart.

  Like any urn in the camp, it appeared to be filled with ashes. But when the SS guard swept his hand over the surface, he saw the black underneath. Then he took a step back and yanked the urn off the cart, the canister falling and smashing along the brick. Pieces of the broken urn skated across the ground as black powder poured onto the surface. The guard, hunkering down, scooped a measure of the powder into the palm of his hand and brought it to his nose. It was an unmistakable odor. Then he allowed the powder to bleed through the gaps of his fingers to the ground. After shaking his hand to free any granules from his flesh, he stood to his full height.

  “I have been informed that those involved are the Sonderkommandos who man the ovens in the crematorium that exploded, Dror and Ephraim. Put together a detail and find them. But don’t kill them. I’m sure that the Lagerkommandant will want to make an example of them to others.”

  “Yes, Herr Schmidt.”

  Then the guards were off at a reasonably quick pace.

  When SS guard Schmidt scanned the grounds of the compound, bodies were lying everywhere. Those who had made the run to freedom only managed to meet with a quicker death. The uprising had been quashed and neutralized, the scheme a dramatic failure that ended before it even had a chance to gain a foothold.

  Watching the chaos quickly counteracted with the Nazi brand of order, the guard removed a cigarette pack from his pocket, shook out a butt, placed it between his lips, and lit it. After taking a drag and releasing it, his only thought was a snide one: Just another day in Paradise.

  * * *

  The Germans were well-disciplined and unified, marching through the compound to restore order. By the pushcart, Dror had seen his ideas fall as quickly as the bodies that were taken down by the guard towers. The plan was poorly conceived out of desperation, the proposals too weak against a formidable force. But Dror had little regrets by way of hindsight. Their days were numbered, their lives seen as nothing more than expendable toys. Perhaps, he thought, this act will someday give hope for another uprising, one that will be planned down to the finest detail.

  Then Weiner’s hand fell on Dror’s shoulder, the touch gentle. “We gave it a chance,” he told Dror. “At least we tried, yes?”

  “All I did,” Dror began, “was to get us all killed.”

  “No, Dror, what you gave us was hope when there was none.” Weiner proffered him a one-sided smile, even though it was artificial. “We have showed the Nazis that there is a breaking point to everything. And someday, maybe not in our lifetime, others will see this as a lesson to build on and be successful. We were just the beginning… but it will not be the end.”

  Dror gave off his own lazy smile. “It would be a wonderful legacy if that were true,” he said.

  Avraham nodded. “Did you not say to Aaron that it was better to die standing on your feet than on your knees? I believe he told me that you said that to him.”

  Dror nodded. “Yeah. I think I said something like that.”

  “Then as Jews, Dror, we will stand together when our time comes.”

  Dror couldn’t help the sting of tears. He had tried so hard to be their savior and to lead them to a Promised Land where Jews were not persecuted. Instead, he only hastened the promotion of genocide.

  “Thank you,” he told everyone from the pushcart teams. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your support… despite the outcome.”

  “Look,” said Avraham, “we all knew the odds from the beginning. We could have said ‘no’ but we didn’t. So the burden is not yours to carry, Dror. It is what it is.”

  Just as a tear slipped from the corner of Dror’s eye, a team of armed SS guards surrounded the carts and began to yell orders at them to place their hands on their heads, which they did. And then they were escorted to another part of the compound known as the ‘killing field.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  All the women had been shepherded to their barracks by the SS troops. Ayana, along with few others, made it back soundly. Many bunks were empty, the women still trying to find their way back to the confines… or they were dead. Ayana was thinking the latter.

  Surprisingly, Ala was in the barrack, somehow having been displaced from the munition’s factory. So the moment they discovered each other, Ala approached her, the lines on her face appearing harder and deeper, the edges sharper. For a long moment they didn’t say a word to each other as Ala sat on the edge of the bunk beside Ayana, their thighs so close they were almost touching.

  Finally, from Ala, in a voice that was soft and gentle rather than having a rough quality to it, said, “Once the Germans restore order,” she said, “it’ll take them a day or two before they find out what happened. They’ll know who breathed life into the uprising, and they’ll find out about the gunpowder.”

  Ayana continued to stare at the knot of wood that was embedded in the floorboard close to her feet.

  “And when they find out that the gunpowder was smuggled from the factory,” Ala went on, “they’ll execute everyone, whether they were involved in the cause or not.”

  “You don’t know that,” Ayana finally said.

  Ala gave a slight smile, then she reached for Ayana’s hand and held it in a gentle embrace. “I do know so,” she told her. “I pray that they don’t find out how the powder was smuggled. If they do, then your fate will be as equal as mine. But there were only two in the Network who knew of your involvement inside the factory. One was killed during her run to freedom… And I’m the other.”

  Ayana looked at Ala with tears in her eyes.

  Ala’s light smile never wavered as she patted Ayana’s hand. “No matter what, Ayana, I will never betray you or any of my kind. It’ll be something I’ll gladly take to my grave.”

  Ayana leaned into Ala’s shoulder and began to weep. “I’m sorry, Ala. I’m so sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Ayana. We all knew the odds. We all understood what was at stake.” And then she added: “Roza was right about you. She believed that you were good for the cause when I had my doubts. And for that I’m sorry.”

  Ayana’s weeping quickly turned to sobbing. As it did Ala corralled her so closely, so tightly, that in the shadows they appeared as one.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Within two hours order had been restored to the
camp.

  On the third hour, a crucial example would be made before the masses.

  In the central area of the compound, Lagerkommandant Höss was riding his stallion before the makeshift gallows, the magnificent beast prancing about like a show horse under the command of Höss’s reins.

  Prisoners were lined up in columns, men and women, with German SS guards standing sentinel along the rows with their weapons ready.

  Dror was standing on a stool beneath the loop of a wire cord with his hands bound together. His face was pulpy-looking, the flesh battered and swollen with one eye shut. And he leaned to one side as if to ease the pressure of pain due to a pair of broken ribs.

  Lagerkommandant Höss stilled his horse to scan the crowd.

  Then: “Did you really think that a rag-tag team of Jews could go up against the most formidable force in the world?” he stated rhetorically. “We have marched through Europe in a blink of an eye. We have taken new ground without firing a shot. And yet you people think you can find hope where there is none.” He began to pace his horse back and forth in front of the gallows, in front of Dror.

  “Foolish people, all of you! In your attempt six SS guards were killed. And the price for every guard killed will be the cost of ten Jewish lives per guard. These consequences were brought on by yourselves and this man.” He pointed to Dror. “Your savior.” He turned back to the people. “So tell me, was such a foolish effort worth it? The cost of your friends, family and associates?” This was another rhetorical question.

  “Your Savior,” Höss continued, “your King of Jews who promised you deliverance but gave you death, will serve as an example to all of you as to what will happen to those who even think about spearheading an insurrection.”

  The Lagerkommandant rode his steed to the gallows and gestured to SS Sergeant Kaiser to commence the next stage of the event. “The platform now belongs to you, Herr Sergeant. Make it good, yes?”

  In the sergeant’s hand was a black cigar box which had a black lacquer finish to it. When he opened the lid, inside was a coil of wire loaded with fanged barbs, a hideous recreation of the Thorn of Crowns fashioned from barbed wire. Removing the spiked circlet, the sergeant handed the box to an SS guard and held the barbed headband for all to see. “For your Savior!” he cried out. “For the King of the Jews.” He went over to Dror, stood behind him, and carefully fitted the crown on his head, the fanged barbs piercing Dror’s flesh. Blood poured profusely from his punctures as head wounds do, with bold, red lines tracking along his forehead and cheeks.

  “Your Savior!” Kaiser yelled, pointing at Dror, who was nothing more than a macabre exhibition. “Your Deliverer!”

  The show was becoming an awful spectacle as barking sobs elicited from a few in the crowd, the moment having its impact.

  Blood drops hung precariously at the base of Dror’s chin a moment before falling and dripping to the stool-top between his feet. But Dror held his chin up as a show of rebellion and, broken ribs or not, stood tall despite the agonizing pain in his side.

  The Lagerkommandant rode his horse between the masses and the gallows. “I know you’ve heard about Treblinka and Sobibor. What happened there will not happen here, believe me. People who follow those who speak of hope are simply inviting death, because there is no hope. There is no Light. There is only work. And work is what sets you free… Arbeit macht frei!”

  Rudolph Höss gestured to SS Sergeant Kaiser and pulled at his reins, directing his horse to the rear of the gallows. SS Sergeant Kaiser, facing his troops, pointed a finger at Frederic Becher with emphasis. “Herr Becher!”

  Becher took a single step forward and snapped to attention. “Yes, Herr Sergeant!”

  “Take your place behind this newfound Savior.”

  Becher’s mind started to meander in all directions. He knew what was being asked of him. He knew that Kaiser wanted Becher to prove his worth to him as an SS guard who was capable of putting down a Jew without a retaliatory conscience, that he was completely desensitized.

  “Herr Becher!” Then Kaiser pointed to the stage behind the stool, a small patch of gravel. “Take your place.” Then in a softer tone meant only between them, he added, “I will not ask you again.”

  “Yes, Herr Sergeant!” Becher’s heart started to hammer away at the side of his ribcage. Out there in the crowd Ayana was watching. How will she respond to this? he asked himself. Would she forgive me? Would she understand? Every thought began and ended with Ayana Berkowitz.

  When Becher took his position, the SS sergeant walked over to Becher and whispered, “Since you don’t seem to appreciate the use of your truncheon, maybe you can prove to me that you’re not a lover of Jews, as some people claim. Are you a lover of Jews, Herr Becher?”

  “No, Herr Sergeant.”

  Kaiser fell back with an even stare. “We’ll see, yes?”

  Becher didn’t answer but kept his eyes forward, all the time searching for Ayana. And there she was, in the sixth row standing close to the middle. He could see that her eyes were watching his every move, the woman standing in judgment.

  The SS sergeant worked his way around Dror and stood before him. Their eyes met; Kaiser’s were filled with hate and prejudice, whereas Dror’s burned with the intensity of unprecedented courage. The feedback from the other was clear to both of them.

  “So you’re not afraid to die,” the sergeant asked him.

  Dror remained silent.

  “I see,” Kaiser finally said. Then to Becher, he issued a command to wrap the wire noose around the man’s neck.

  Becher took a tentative step forward, could feel Ayana’s eyes move with him as he looped the cord around Dror’s neck.

  After Becher stepped away from the platform, SS Sergeant Kaiser stood before Dror once again with his hands clasped behind the small of his back. “You gave these people hope when there was none to give,” he told him. “And to those who still cling to it, I will take away that hope when I steal away your life.” Kaiser offered Dror a lopsided smile, one that often claimed victory in a final standoff, that of complete satisfaction. Then he stepped away from the stool. “Now, as the Savior who is incapable of saving himself, I would suggest that you tell your people to surrender any foolish notions regarding future uprisings. In the end, it would only present them with a death similar to yours.” Kaiser cocked his head. “Do you wish to tell them what I just told you, since it will have more weight coming from the King of Jews?”

  “Yeah, I got something to say,” said Dror.

  Kaiser nodded. “Good. Very good. You’re not totally foolish after all.” Kaiser stepped back and turned to the crowd. “Your Savior has something to say!” he hollered. “I suggest that you listen and adhere to every word!”

  Kaiser faced Dror and tilted his head, the meaning behind it suggesting that the forum now belonged to Dror.

  Dror looked out over the masses, though the number was still small compared to the numbers in the camp as a whole, and recognized many faces, all sad and worn, the emotional aspects of those who had become broken.

  Dror nodded, then smiled. “It’s all right!” he cried out. And then he did something that was unexpected to Kaiser, or to anyone else in German uniform. He started to speak in Yiddish, his voice loud and proud. “Do not let my passing go without notice!” he cried out. “And remember, it is always better—”

  “Speak German!” Kaiser demanded.

  “—to die standing on your feet—”

  “I said to speak German!”

  “—than to die on your knees!”

  In all of Dror’s life he had never felt so proud. Amongst the faces he saw the rebirth of many sparks and many hopes, all rekindled and revitalized.

  In anger, as his face flushed, Kaiser ordered Becher to kick out the stool.

  When Becher hesitated, Kaiser removed his Luger from his holster but kept the barrel aimed toward the ground. “Becher… now! I won’t ask again!”

  Becher looked at the small firearm in Kaiser�
�s hand.

  Then once more in Yiddish, and in a powerful and booming voice that could be heard over the entirety of the compound, he said: “As a Jew I tell you now, fear nothing. Hold your head high always. Die on your feet and never on your knees when your time comes—”

  “Herr, Becher!” Kaiser’s voice was filled with red anger. “Do it now! Kick the stool!”

  Becher looked at Ayana, who shook her head ‘no.’

  “Becher!” Kaiser started to raise the weapon at Becher.

  Closing his eyes and damning himself, and knowing that Ayana would never forgive him no matter how hard he would plead his case to her, he kicked the stool out from under Dror.

  Dror kicked open space for the purchase of flooring, a natural and instinctive response for self-preservation. His face grew crimson, then purple, the cord biting deep into the flesh of his neck as his tongue protruded. And then he stilled. His body swinging in half circles as the barbed crown became the most obvious feature.

  “There,” said Kaiser, directing his weapon at Dror. “How do you like your Savior now?” Then he fired a round into Dror’s side to mimic the wound where Longinus had speared Christ. Then he turned to the crowd. “Not to worry!” he told them. “You can worship your Savior in the days to come, as he swings from the cord.”

  The Lagerkommandant, who nodded to Kaiser for a job well done, reined his horse back and returned to his quarters.

  Becher, looking at Ayana, noticed that she had her head down in what appeared to be undeniable sorrow.

  “You, Becher, hesitated at my command.” When SS Sergeant Kaiser sidled close to Becher, Becher could smell the sour scent of Kaiser’s breath as he leaned into him. “Who knows what he was saying to them. I hope for your sake it was nothing of great value.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t, Herr Kaiser.” When Becher spoke, the pitch of his voice had little energy to it.

  In the distance, Ayana was walking away with her shoulders hanging in defeat.