The Barbed Crown

by Rick Jones

  Höss nodded, somewhat appeased. And then: “From Berlin: there’s some disturbing news.”

  “About the Red Army?”

  Höss nodded. “After the recent uprisings in Treblinka and Sobibor, it’s been decided by Berlin to close down those camps. Whether it’s due to the revolts or the encroachment of the Russians, or perhaps both, I don’t know. What I do know is that they’re being dismantled by the laborers, and then the laborers will be sent here for immediate termination in the gas chambers.”

  SS Sergeant Kaiser held his glass aloft while staring incredulously at Höss. “With all due respect, Herr Lagerkommandant, doesn’t Berlin know that we’re already stretched to capacity? There are more than 150,000 people left inside this camp.”

  Höss patted the air as a means to advise Kaiser to maintain calm. “I know,” he told him. “But it is what it is, Herr Kaiser. We adapt because we must. But I’ve called you here for another matter.”

  “And that would be?”

  “The insurrections in Treblinka and Sobibor have me concerned. Such revolts may present the Jews here in Birkenau with the kind of ideas that there’s hope when, of course, there is none.” Höss took a sip from his glass and then examined his drink, looking at it from different angles in study. “What I want you to do, Herr Kaiser,” he said while examining the crystal, “is to inform the Blockführers to inspect every barrack. I want the dogs involved. Anyone with contraband is to be summarily executed on the spot. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Herr Lagerkommandant.”

  “The Jews aren’t stupid. That much can be said about them. And because they aren’t stupid I don’t trust them.” He then set his glass aside, leaned forward, and propped his elbows on the desk. “If there’s talk of an uprising, Herr Kaiser, I need you and the Blockführers to send a clear message that such ideas will not be tolerated here in Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

  “Yes, Herr Lagerkommandant.”

  “What happened in Treblinka and Sobibor will not happen here.”

  SS Sergeant Kaiser finished his drink. “And I assume you want the teams mobilized as soon as possible?”

  The Lagerkommandant nodded. “Immediately,” he said, easing back into his seat.

  The SS Sergeant returned to his feet quickly, fixed his stare to a point on the far wall, and gave a crisp salute. “Sieg heil.” Turning just as sharply, he walked out of the Lagerkommandant’s office.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Orders descended immediately to all the Blockführers. Dog units were to be mobilized and executions and punishments were to be handed out, no exceptions. SS teams went from barrack to barrack, searching, with an occasional gunshot from inside the barrack that was heard outside. If the SS squad could not find contraband, then they would plant it and pull someone from the line, force them to their knees, then put a bullet in their head.

  They went from barrack to barrack—searching, planting, pulling, and then killing. No building was immune, and no one was safe.

  More gunshots, the report muted behind the walls. And then the squads would leave the body to bleed out on the floor as a reminder to those who thought of raising a hand against the Nazi machine—a message to all who held any considerations of an insurrection, would be dealt with swiftly and violently.

  In the women’s compound, the Blockführer was a heavy-set male who was immaculately dressed. His eyes were set close together, dark and piercing and as cold as marbles. And his face was doughy and bull-doggish in appearance. As soon as he swept the door wide to the women’s barrack, the SS guards and their dogs entered with the canines aggressively snapping their teeth at anyone who was not their handler.

  “Line up on the floor! All of you! Now!” yelled the Blockführer.

  Ala thought of the shiv hidden beneath her bunk, a cause for her execution as she took her place in line along with the others. Roza stood across from her and was just as rigid and straight as they were all conditioned to be upon the entry of a Nazi commander. The spot beside her, however, which belonged to Ayana, was empty, most likely because she was still at the garment factory.

  “Line up! Schnell! Schnell!”

  The dogs continued to bark and sniff, their jaws snapping.

  At the far end of the barrack where the latrine buckets sat, one of the dogs began to paw at the wall. Then she got onto her hind legs and started to bark at a specific board which appeared to wobble a bit after she scratched at it.

  “Here!” yelled one of the guards, pulling the board free.

  Inside was a small bundle, a handkerchief that had been tied up at the four corners. When the soldier removed it, he handed it to the Blockführer, who unwrapped it. Inside was a small jar of olives and three wedges of cheese.

  When the Blockführer bit down hard, the muscles in the back of his jaw worked. Someone had smuggled in food under his watch, which didn’t sit well with him. He turned sharply on his heels and entered the barrack holding out the bundle for all to see.

  “A jar of olives and three wedges of cheese,” he stated severely. “There is a thief amongst us, yes?”

  No answer. And all eyes were cast to the floor.

  “There is a thief amongst us, yes?” he repeated.

  When no one answered, the Blockführer removed his pistol and shot the closest Jew to him, a head shot that sent an arcing rope of blood jettisoning through the air as she fell back. In one hand he held up the bundle in display, and in the other a Luger with its barrel smoking.

  “I can do this all day.” He raised his weapon again. Another shot. This time the victim fell to the floor as a boneless heap.

  Then again, he said calmly, “There is a thief amongst us, yes?”

  Just as he was about to raise his Lugar for another kill, Roza hollered, “There is no thief!”

  The Blockführer lowered his weapon and approached Roza. When they were standing in front of each other, the Blockführer held the bundle out to her. “You know about this, yes?”

  “I do.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “It is,” Roza lied.

  “Then tell me: how did it come into your possession if you did not steal it?”

  “It was given to me.”

  “By whom?”

  “By a kapo,” she answered.

  The Blockführer leaned into her. “A kapo?”

  Roza nodded.

  “A Jew boyfriend, yes?”

  Another nod in confirmation… and another lie to add to the growing list of lies.

  “Does this kapo have a name?”

  She nodded. “He does.”

  “What is it?” he asked, brandishing a wry grin that was as thin as a pencil line.

  “Moshe Chapiro,” she said. “His name is Moshe Chapiro.”

  The Blockführer looked at the brand on the jar. It was the same brand given to the kapos, something cheap. “I believe you,” he told her evenly, still smiling.

  Then he stood back, raised his weapon, and pulled the trigger. After a bullet hole magically appeared against her forehead, Roza fell against the bunks and to the floor, her eyes continuing to flare as if amazed or shocked by the moment.

  After holstering his weapon the Blockführer, with the bundle, exited the building with the SS guards and their canines in tow.

  Ala barked a cry, along with others, and immediately went to Roza. In an act of a woman whose mind was a mix of confusing emotions, she grabbed and pulled Roza close, and tried to stop the flow of blood by placing a hand over Roza’s wound, constantly telling her that ‘it was going to be all right.’

  But it wasn’t. Roza was dead along with two others.

  Ala slowly craned her head towards the ceiling and cried out as loud as her vocal cords would permit.

  And she wailed for a very… long… time.

  * * *

  Moshe Chapiro was sitting at the table feasting on a bread roll and sliced salami meat when the door to the kapo dormitory swung wide and hard. The door opened so quickly that it bounced back into t
he Blockführer after it rebounded off the wall. In his hand was a bundled handkerchief.

  “Kapo Chapiro!” the Blockführer yelled.

  Chapiro quickly got to his feet and removed his cap. “Yes, Blockführer?”

  Three other kapos at the table also stood.

  The Blockführer crossed the room with three SS guards, and laid the bundle on the table; three wedges of cheese and a small bottle of olives. After grabbing the olive jar from the table and placing it next to the contraband bottle, the Blockführer confirmed brands. They were the same.

  The Blockführer pinned Chapiro with a hard stare. “So,” he began, “you’re now stealing the foods we give you to feed your girlfriend?”

  Chapiro gave the Blockführer a disoriented look. “My what?”

  “You heard me, Jew.” He held up the contraband bottle. “The food we give you here is being passed along by you to your girlfriend.”

  “With all due respect, Herr Blockführer, I don’t have a girlfriend. And I certainly did not give away anything. Nothing at all.”

  “Really.” He continued to hold up the bottle. “Then explain to me why this bottle was found inside one of the women’s barracks hidden behind a board. And why the woman who claimed ownership of it admitted that it was given to her by you. And then I want you to tell me how this particular brand, which we only give to the kapos, ends up in her possession.”

  Chapiro shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “You don’t, huh?”

  “No, Herr Blockführer.”

  “Yeah, well, neither do I.” The Blockführer removed his Luger, directed it at Chapiro, and pulled the trigger. The single shot penetrated Moshe’s skull and exited out the back, the round continuing on until it finally punched a hole in the wall where it became lodged.

  Then to the other kapos. “A foolish man,” he said, pointing at Chapiro. “Don’t be as foolish when you have it so well. It’s not worth it.”

  All the kapos spoke in uniform and submissively so. “Yes, Blockführer.”

  “Now clean up the mess and toss Chapiro out for the pushcarts.”

  Another round of yeses.

  As soon as the Blockführer and the SS guards left, the kapos did as they were told. Moshe Chapiro, with little regard or care, was tossed over the railing and to the ground below, his corpse quickly loaded upon a pushcart and wheeled to the ovens.

  What Roza Saperstein had done, what she was able to achieve, was to remove the obstacle from Dror and Ephraim’s life through her own sacrifice. Now the cause could go on with little risk now that Chapiro had been removed from the equation. And with the time they had left before the commencement of the operation, people like Ayana and Ala could continue on with their efforts and move the product.

  As soon as the pushcart pulled up to the crematorium’s doors, Dror and Ephraim couldn’t have been more shocked to see Moshe Chapiro alighting upon the corpses of others, as if he were a king. Ephraim, hardly one to bury any measure of his heated anger, vigorously tore off the orange star from Chapiro’s clothing and tossed it into the flames.

  Moshe Chapiro followed soon thereafter, the man finally ending up at the place he feared most.

  Inside the ovens.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  When Ayana returned to the barrack along with four others from the garment factory, they did so with something heavy hanging in the air that was dark and alive. Everyone was quiet. And three bunks lay empty with a tin on each of them, a gift for the new tenants since the current owners wouldn’t be needing them anymore.

  A dented tin lay at the center of Roza’s sleeping board, the sight causing Ayana’s jaw to drop. And then came a welling of tears and the sudden realization of Roza’s absence. She was gone. And the blood that had soaked into the pores of the floorboards was a testament to that.

  Ayana fell to her knees after she reached for the tin—a small and dented cup whose only value was that it had once belonged to Roza Saperstein—and brought it to her breast, the young woman grieving and crying, the loss almost too painful for Ayana to cope with.

  “Put it back.” It was Ala. “It doesn’t belong to you.”

  Ayana looked at the dented tin, kissed it, and returned it to the bunk. Then she faced Ala and saw the red rawness to her eyes. The woman had been crying as well. But now she was stoic and as hard as a rock.

  “What happened?” Ayana asked her.

  “The SS guards came with their dogs and found food hidden behind the boards. After the Blockführer shot and killed two people, Roza stepped forward and claimed it was hers. But everybody here knows better. Roza would not do such a thing. So she claimed that the food was given to her by a kapo in order to stop the killing.” Ala leaned over her. “But you know different, don’t you?”

  Ayana, sobbing, nodded. “It was given to me by the SS guard who comes to see me,” she said.

  Ala started to work the shiv from the pocket of her smock to her hand. “When?”

  “Weeks ago. Roza knew about it.”

  Ala cocked her head at this, the woman baffled. “She knew about it?”

  “She did. We agreed to leave the food for those who needed it most, those who were really sick. We also decided not to tell anyone else because we were afraid that those who didn’t get anything may go to the guards in order to win favors.”

  “Is this the truth?”

  “If it wasn’t, I would’ve eaten the food long ago. We were saving it for the sick.”

  With the handle of the shiv firmly in Ala’s hand, she placed it secretly back into the pocket of her smock. She would not use the makeshift knife today. “I believe you,” she said. “Only because that was the way that Roza’s heart worked. She would give up food so others in greater need could benefit.”

  As Ayana continued to sob over the loss of Roza, Ala aided Ayana to her feet and sat her on the edge of the bunk. “Roza must have seen great value in you for her to sacrifice her life. Make sure she did not do so in vain.” Ala then got to her feet. And with an air of coldness about her, she walked away.

  Ayana, feeling a great hollowness that not even the thoughts of Frederic Becher could fill, sobbed openly.

  Chapter Forty

  Day of Insurrection

  Over the following two days the barrack inspections continued, as did the summary executions. But if the Nazis expected to use fear as a motivator to quell any ideas of challenges against their authority, they actually managed to bolster it.

  And since Moshe Chapiro no longer posed a threat, Ayana and Ala continued to smuggle whatever they could to Weiner and Avraham, who in turn transported the gunpowder to the Sonderkommandos.

  In the end, there were eight fully-loaded urns.

  As Weiner and Avraham transported the urns hidden amongst the tangle of bodies to Benjamin and his work detail, Benjamin’s crew was able to smuggle the canisters in their carts beyond the checkpoints, since Benjamin received the work order the day before to work on the pump he had sabotaged. The tricky part, however, would be to spread the urns between the two guard towers, the motor-pool, and the gate, five canisters total. But in order to do that they would first have to take out the guards by the armory. So each man—four in all in Benjamin’s detail—had armed themselves with shivs.

  The canisters were ready, all hidden beneath the coils of tubing inside the two carts. Working by the disabled pump, Benjamin and his team, which included his son, were ready. As soon as the crematorium blew, that would be Benjamin’s mark to move against the guards.

  “There’s too many,” Benjamin’s son whispered close to his father’s ear. Then he handed his father a wrench. “There’re nine guards and two dogs.”

  Benjamin, working the tool against the head of a stubborn bolt, also spoke in hushed tones. “It’ll be fine,” he told him. “When the chimney comes down, most of the guards will head towards the crematorium where they’ll be needed most.”

  “And if they don’t head for the crematorium?”

 
Benjamin was able to loosen the bolt. “They will, Yitzhak. You have to have faith.”

  Plans were: as soon as the chimney came down, Benjamin’s team would come up from behind and take out the remaining guards. Two members would then utilize the cart as a means to transport and place the charges, whereas Benjamin and Yitzhak would breach the armory to load the second cart with firearms. Once the charges were placed by the first team…

  …then all Hell would break loose.

  * * *

  Weiner and Avraham had positioned their cart close to the motor-pool, the vehicle partially filled with corpses from their early morning run. They were acting as watches for Dror and Ephraim, and were perfectly positioned to let them know when the transport trucks and liquidation squads left the compound, with the aid of other pushcart teams.

  Almost fifteen minutes after Weiner and Avraham had set their post, SS guards, who were as timely as a Swiss clock, herded Jews into the cargo bays of several trucks with armed guards waving and yelling for them to ‘hurry.’ Once the trucks were fully loaded, they headed for the fields.

  From his location, Weiner waved to a second pushcart team in the distance, one closer to the crematorium. The team at the second pushcart waved to a third team, which was in view of the crematorium’s doors.

  Ephraim proffered a wave in acknowledgment, then returned to Dror’s side. “The trucks have left the motor-pool,” he told him. “And with them many of the guards. We have less than an hour before they come back. So the opportunity is now, Dror. We have to do this now.”

  Dror hesitated, however, as if mulling something over.

  “Dror?”

  “I hear you,” he said, then he turned to face Ephraim. “However this turns out, my friend, good or bad, at least we made an effort. And for that I am proud.”

  Ephraim offered one of his rare smiles. “You should be,” he said. “If we fail, Dror, I’ll see you on the other side. It certainly has to be better than this.”