The Barbed Crown

by Rick Jones

  Dror and Ephraim looked at each other. They had been the Sonderkommandos of Crematorium I since they arrived with Aaron, the three of them inseparable as they burned those they had loved and those that had become their acquaintances. Now Chapiro tells them that their lives have become expendable, the Nazi machine of systematic slaying coming to claim its stake.

  “I’m sorry,” Chapiro told them. “I’m not sure what you can do, if anything. But your time as Sonderkommando is coming to an end. I can only pray for you.”

  While Dror stared at Chapiro with a neutral appearance, Ephraim was staring at the floorboards.

  Then Dror sighed. “Thank you, Moshe,” he said. “The information was well worth the price of the cups.”

  Moshe Chapiro bowed his head, a sign of respect and one of sorrow. Then he left the two alone, with Chapiro returning to his bunk along with his prized possession of a dented tin cup.

  “A month,” was all Ephraim could say under his breath.

  “Ephraim, I once told you that we could either die one of two ways: either standing up or on our knees. Every Sonderkommando is about to fall victim, which gives us an advantage.”

  Ephraim turned to him. “Advantage?”

  “We have to act. And we have to do this by building forces. We’ve nothing to lose at this point, do you agree?”

  Ephraim nodded. When Dror first approached him with the subject of an insurrection, he was on the fence about this, vacillating between action and inaction. Now there wasn’t a consideration at all, no fences to sit upon. The decision had been made for him. “So what are you proposing?” he asked Dror.

  “We notify the other Sonderkommandos. Let them know what’s about to happen. Then from there we implement a plan of operation.”

  “It’ll have to be quick.”

  “It will be.”

  Then Ephraim looked at Chapiro, who was laying on his bunk. “Do you believe him?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “We both know that Chapiro would sell his mother to the Nazis for a tin filled with sardines. Maybe he wanted our rations.”

  “There’s one way to know for sure,” Dror said. “At the end of the week a train filled with Hungarians is supposed to arrive. If this is true and they aren’t processed and sent to the chambers as Chapiro claims, he’s telling us the truth.”

  “It’s a horrible barometer to consider,” said Ephraim.

  “But one we must wait for. Nevertheless, we need to act.”

  “You have something in mind?”

  Dror nodded. “Been thinking about a lot of things since we first brought this up.”

  “Such as?”

  “Access to the armory outside the women’s compound. The women there work the munitions factory. And there’s a work detail that works there daily. We can have them send messages to the women, perhaps to smuggle gunpowder.”

  “Gunpowder? For what? The weapons are inside the armory, which, by the way, is heavily guarded not only by the SS, but with canines as well.”

  “The gunpowder is to serve as a distraction.”

  “How so?”

  “A massive explosion,” Dror answered. “One that will pull some of the guards away from the armory. The work detail will be handed shivs, to be hidden in the lining of their garments. When the German line has thinned, while most race toward the distraction, the detail can go up against the remaining forces and overpower them. From there, the armory.”

  “There’s so much to work out,” said Ephraim. “Such as who to trust and who’s willing to get involved.”

  “And that’s why we need to act now. Tomorrow we start with the other Sonderkommandos. Then we contact the work detail and have them set up a communications’ network between the two camps. We establish a means to transport the gunpowder, and then we develop a plan in which men and women are to act in unison. Only as a collective will we be able to pull this off.”

  “This sounds too complicated, Dror. I know you mean well—”

  “It can be done, Ephraim. Channels can be easily established when people know they’re to be executed. I just wish you had a little more faith.”

  Ephraim nodded. “Like you said, there’s a solution for everything.”

  “That’s right. And I need your help, Ephraim. This is something I can’t do alone. And this is something we need to do quickly.”

  “And if we’re able to pull this off—the diversion?”

  Dror kept his eyes steady to a point outside the window. “I have the perfect site in mind,” he told him.

  He was looking at the chimney stacks in the distance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That evening the alarms went off inside the German barrack, which galvanized a platoon of soldiers to grab their weapons and helmets, and then exit the quarters into the compound where a canopied military truck was waiting. One by one this unit jumped into the truck’s bay along with German shepherds, the trackers, telling Frederic Becher that a hunt was about to commence, since it appeared that Jews had somehow escaped the perimeter.

  “I thought it was impossible,” Becher commented loudly. Sitting around a bunk with playing cards and cigarettes laying on top of the blankets as the money pot, sat four soldiers. Though they continued to wear gray pants, they had stripped themselves of their heavy coats and wore nothing but t-shirts and suspenders.

  A man by the name of Dieter, the unit’s corporal, who winked an eye against the curl of smoke from a smoldering cigarette at the corner of his mouth, asked, “You thought what was impossible?”

  “Camp security,” answered Becher, watching the troops gather in the courtyard from the barrack’s window. “I thought it was impossible, due to the fences and the landmines.”

  Dieter tossed a card onto the blanket and grabbed another. “Unless you know how to get around them,” he answered. Then he turned to Frederic who appeared fascinated by what was going on outside. “Come on, Becher, are you in or out?”

  Becher waved him off. “I’m out.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Becher watched as the truck exited the compound, the guards opening the two sets of gates.

  When the trucks were gone, Becher returned to the game just in time to see Dieter fold. “Tell me,” said Becher, “when they catch the Jews, will they make an example of them to the others?”

  Dieter started to deal the hands for the next game, the pool of cigarettes growing as the buy-in on the blanket. “What makes you think they’re going after Jews?” he asked.

  Becher cocked his head like a baffled dog. “What do you mean?”

  “Jews know better,” he told him. “They know their place is here, inside the camp.” Then Dieter stopped dealing for a moment to point to an imaginary spot outside the window. “They’re not after Jews,” he told him. “You’d see more than one truck for that.” Then Dieter went back to dealing. “They’re going after AWOLs.”

  “AWOLs?”

  Dieter nodded.

  But it was Ernest Wagner who spoke. Unlike the others who were lean, Wagner was massively built and a man who was more muscle than brain. “AWOLs,” he said as if it was common knowledge. “You know, those who disappear from their posts.”

  Becher appeared more quizzical than before. “SS guards?”

  Wagner nodded as he dropped two cards and picked up two others from the deck. “Happens all the time. More now than ever.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Dieter looked at him, his eye remaining closed against the curl of smoke that drifted toward it. “Because they’re gutless cowards, that’s why.” Then he returned to the game. “Some say they’re running because the Red Army is advancing, which I think is a crock to begin with. But the truth, Herr Becher, is they’re weak. They can’t stomach what goes on inside the camp—that’s what I believe. They feel for the Jews as if they meant something or held any value, which they don’t. So instead of taking a truncheon to them as they’re required to do, they run instead. It has nothing to
do with the Russians, since we’re beating the Red Army on all fronts.”

  Becher had heard all kinds of stories regarding the Russians—such as the Red Army was approaching Berlin and claiming new territory; whereas another report had them on the run with the Nazi forces making gains toward Moscow, and that Stalin was on the verge of surrender. But to hear that SS guards were running as an act of betrayal because they felt for the welfare of Jews rather than destroy them, was something he was beginning to relate to since he crossed paths with Ayana. She was an innocent youth, like the girl who continued to swing in lazy circles while putrefying at the end of a piano wire at the gallows, something he long regretted. And the old man he shot from impulse during his walk toward the gas chambers, a carryover response from his teachings in the Jungvolk and Hitler’s Youth, another deep regret.

  Becher looked out the window, the night dark and the fields even darker, as pinprick lights lit up the sky like a cache of diamonds spread over black velvet.

  I understand, he thought.

  “And what will they do to them if they’re caught?” he asked in general.

  “What do you think they do to traitors?” asked Wagner. “To cowards.”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  Wagner shot Becher a dullard’s look, one that said ‘I’m not very bright, but I know enough to get by.’ “Like all cowards,” he said, “they’re executed.”

  Dieter nodded. “Just like Jews,” he added, “they’re made examples of to those within the ranks who might be considering to do the same. Unless told otherwise, we stay and do our jobs. If not, then it’s off to the Russian Front. It’s one or the other. There is no in-between. And running is not the in-between these AWOLs believe it to be. No such place exists.”

  “But what if they make it?” asked Becher.

  Dieter nodded as if this was a stupid question. “No one ever has,” he said. “And no one ever will. In fact, the truck will be back by morning. And for those who’re still alive, if any, they will be made example of before others.”

  Becher continued to stare out the window as the game continued on behind him.

  Once again he looked at the stars, at the glimmering beauty, and somehow saw the magnificent face of Ayana within the constellations.

  I understand why they do what they do, he thought. Why they ran.

  I understand.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dieter was correct about one thing: the trucks were back before dawn, the vehicles parked in the motor-pool within the fenced-in area by the gates. The morning was calm, however, quiet. Only the stacks in the distance showed any signs of life as columns of smoke rose heavenward and then dissipated, the ashes adding to an already overcast sky that had blotted out the sun.

  “Did you even sleep, Herr Becher?” It was Dieter, who propped himself up onto his elbows while lying on his mattress.

  “The trucks are back,” Becher said flatly, as he stood by the window fully clothed for formation.

  “I said they would be, yes? Did I not tell you so last night? You can run for only so long before the dogs catch you.” And then: “You can never outrun the dogs.” Dieter then pointed to Becher’s full dress. “You must be motivated, yes? To take your truncheon to a head or two?”

  Becher remained silent as he stared at the distant stacks and the gray plumes that were continuously ejected by them. Then he closed his eyes, seeing Ayana clearly like a burning afterimage beneath his eyelids, the moment raising a marginal smile at the corners of his lips.

  “Yeah, I thought so,” said Dieter, swinging his feet from the bunk and placing his soles firmly against the floor. He had misinterpreted Becher’s smile. “There’s nothing like beating down a Jew to get the day started.”

  Becher dismissed Dieter and shoved his words away so that they sounded hollow and distant, and certainly without any weight to them.

  When the alarm sounded off to begin the day, the SS guards took to the quad that was centered between four barracks. Situated in the middle of the courtyard was a brick wall that was pockmarked from previous gunfire, with some of the pits the size of a man’s fist. Blood appeared to have been embedded within the pores, the bricks having imbibed the blood of men. And the gravel beneath the wall was in colorful hues of burgundy and dark brown, the stains of aged and dried blood.

  The Lagerkommandant entered the quad on his chestnut-brown steed wearing his patented masklike detachment, along with his flawlessly pressed uniform that was completely festooned with a display of medallions. After a brusque gesture of the Lagerkommandant’s hand, four SS guards went to a small shelter made of fieldstone and unlocked the metal door, with the guards demanding compliance from everyone inside the stone lodge to vacate it immediately.

  As the occupants exited the building under the rough urging of SS guards, Becher could see they weren’t Jews at all as Dieter had said, but German soldiers. Three of them. One in particular was Hans, though Becher never knew his last name and perhaps spoke less than a hundred words to him, with the two often communicating to each other by way of a perfunctory wave, while performing their rounds.

  “Cowards,” Dieter commented. He was standing behind Becher and to his right, the words strong enough to carry even though they had been whispered.

  Becher watched as the three men were escorted to the wall. Hans, however, limped badly, the uniform of his right leg torn and bloodied, most likely from the dogs. Yet he appeared with his chin held high and his jaw firmly set.

  The first man was ushered before the wall and placed before an assembled squad of six men carrying carbines. After rubbing a hand over the front of his uniform to smooth it out as if to appear proper, the soldier then placed his hands behind the small of his back, raised his chin as a show of fortitude, then gave a faint nod, telling the kill squad that he was ready.

  The SS sergeant looked at the Lagerkommandant and waited for his orders, which came swiftly with another terse wave of his hand. With a nod from the ape-like sergeant, he turned to the firing squad and ordered them through their procedures, until all six carbines went off in unison, the rounds perforating the body as it fell to the gravel as a boneless heap.

  And then the second absconder was escorted to the wall, though it wasn’t Hans, but someone who appeared not too far removed from serving in the Jungvolk, whose maximum age was fourteen. But unlike his predecessor who put on an air of courage, this deserter embraced himself and began to sob, his eyes cast to the gravel below his feet, and waited.

  More orders were issued by the SS sergeant, strong and forceful. Guns were raised and directed to the target site. The man who appeared more like a child began to cry and plead, saying that he would ‘never do it again.’ And then the loud report of gunfire as every bullet found their mark and punched their way through center mass, dropping the body.

  Becher closed his eyes. Though Hans was not a close friend by any means, he was the first one to break the ice with conversation, a way in which Becher saw as someone extending a kind hand in greeting in a place that was truly Perdition. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Hans was standing against the wall with his chest puffed out, his chin held high, and his back as straight as a steel beam. A moment later Hans was laying on the gravel with the others, their blood comingling with the dried blood of Jews.

  And just like that it was over—the absconders had been tracked down and executed.

  Just like Dieter said they would.

  You can never escape the dogs, he recalled Dieter telling him.

  After the Lagerkommandant directed his horse back to the main quarters, the units were dismissed once the message had been made clear: anyone who absconded from service would meet a similar fate without judicial review of their actions. And the entertainment of open execution would always be the final resolution to those who thought they could outrun the system.

  So Frederic Becher believed that he had no other choice, no alternative; you either become a part of the system or brutalized
by it.

  There’s no in-between, he thought. There’s no salvation.

  Above him, the sky continued to darken as pillars of smoke rose from the chimney stacks. Below his feet, upon the growing gray mantle of the compound’s surface, he left behind the imprints of his footsteps upon the ashes of the dead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It didn’t take long for the first pushcarts from the women’s camp to arrive at the crematorium. There were four carts in all with no less than six or seven women in each one, their bodies so emaciated that racks of ribs and hip blades could be clearly seen.

  Dror looked toward the east, where the sun was beginning to show lighted effort. Already the dead are piling up at my doorstep, he thought. And the day was just beginning. Behind him, the ovens were lit, the flames bright and hot, waiting.

  When the bodies were removed from the carts and piled on top of each other like bundles of wood, Dror was able to corral two of the workers aside and out of view of the kapo. And he told them as much as he could, giving them a condensed synopsis about the command from the Lagerkommandant to raise the death quota, beginning with the arrival of a train from Hungary with everyone onboard to be sent to the gas chambers without processing.

  “Are you sure about this?” asked a man by the name of Weiner, whose features had a serious sharpness to them and was starving down to skeletal matter.

  Dror nodded. “They’re planning to terminate the Sonderkammandos as well. And maybe people like you. Those who push the carts and collect the bodies. The Lagerkommandant believes we’re becoming too slow in our duties; therefore, in order to keep up with the demand of the new quota, he wants to replace us with recent arrivals, those who are capable of working faster.”

  “And you’re positive about this?” asked a man by the name of Avraham.

  Dror believed so and put his faith entirely as to what Chapiro had told him. “In a few days when the train arrives filled with Hungarians as I was told, should every last man, women and child be sent to the chambers without processing, then we’ll have our answer.”