by Guy Rosmarin
“You…interrupting? Never! In fact, I don’t know why you’re not here celebrating Passover with us.”
“Wait...didn’t we do this last night?” For a moment, Andy feared he had lost his ability to distinguish between dream and reality.
“Yes, we did.” Nate dismissed his concerns. “But what’s wrong with doing it again?”
Andy now recalled he had declined an invitation for the second Seder. “Believe me, I’d love to be there, but I have tons of work, and…” He paused abruptly.
“What’s up, bud? Is something wrong, is it that dream again?”
“Well…I just need to talk.”
“Aren’t we on for Tuesday?”
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Andy realized their weekly at Pat’s was only two days away. “Same time same place, then.”
Chapter 11
Andy hung up the phone and stared at the intimidating pile of unmarked papers. He was not even halfway through, but he needed to find out more about Ziegler before he could do anything. He glanced out through his window. The books he needed were in the campus office and the dark overcast sky was discouraging. He scanned his shelves and pulled a few potential hard covers to zip through. An hour quickly passed with no new insight; he let out a long yawn, but knew he could not wait for the morning. He splashed cold kitchen sink water on his face, took a few quick sips of lukewarm coffee from the nearly empty afternoon pot, and stormed out into the evening rain.
It was still pouring when he parked the blue Corolla in the faculty lot. He made a run for it. When he entered the office, he slipped out of his drenched shoes and hung his jacket to dry. The books he was after were right where he thought they would be, both hard covers first editions tainted by old age that rested on the same shelf almost adjacent to one another. That was quick. “Maybe too quick.” He glanced at his wet shoes. He figured a few more minutes would give the rain a chance to die down, and he resumed his search for additional material. He scanned the bookcase and then searched the bottom drawer of his file cabinet, where he kept historical documents and publications in a tidy alphabetical order.
His eyes widened as he pulled a thick binder containing copies of declassified government documents from the 1930s and 1940s. What a treasure. He spread the binder’s contents on his desk, contemplating whether he should stay a little longer and sort out relevant material to avoid schlepping an unnecessary load in the rain, but a quick look at his wristwatch urged him to pack everything and get on his way. He tucked the cargo under his jacket and darted through the light drizzle.
On the way home, a bright yellow M sign drew his attention. He had not eaten anything since breakfast, and the number one combo on the drive-thru menu seemed like a practical way to settle his hunger. It’s really not that bad, he thought while devouring a Big Mac in his parked car. But ten minutes later, amidst the warmth and comfort of his apartment, he realized his mistake. The aftershock created a feeling of mortar mix turned into a block of concrete inside his belly. “What have I done to myself?” he muttered, rubbing his stomach.
A quick, hot shower proved the best cure, though he could still hear a cello concerto coming from his gut as he slipped into his bathrobe. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was half past midnight and the pile of papers was still too big for him to call it quits, but first he had to see if his outing had been worth it. He put on the sweatshirt and slacks he used as pajamas and parked himself on the living room sofa with the heavy binder on his lap. With no index or any table-of-contents-related guidelines, Andy feared it could take him the entire night to find a single relevant paragraph. Much to his relief, the Ziegler file revealed itself rather quickly.
A Top-Secret stamp dating from 1943 marked the top of the first page. That’s a good sign, he thought. The lines that followed were crammed together in tiny print with little space between them. It was a dry collection of raw facts that reminded him of a poorly scripted early radio newscast, but despite its shallow format, the old record portrayed a clear picture of a deranged individual with diabolical tendencies, who quickly climbed up the ranks of the Gestapo and SD by means of his voracious appetite for human suffering.
Andy’s comprehensive knowledge of the era’s atrocities did not immune him to the disturbing graphic details that filled the pages of Ziegler’s gory resume. He had to pause for deep breaths between paragraphs to keep his badly digested dinner from climbing back up his gullet. When he finished reading, he packed the documents back in the binder and pushed it away with disgust. His eyelids grew heavy, but just the thought of sleep terrified him. He walked to his desk and brought back the next paper from the pile. Assuming a supine position on the couch, he began to skim through it. He didn’t make it through the first page.
Chapter 12
Even with his consciousness locked in dark void, Andy tried to gain control over his eyelids to keep himself from falling. He wasn’t ready to go back, not yet, but it was too late. Once he was surrounded by darkness there was no turning back.
He felt the concrete floor under his feet, yet the darkness was still too thick to see through. A strong smell of mildew and urine pierced his nostrils as he groped his way through the stagnant air. His hands felt a damp surface no more than two inches in front of him. He drew back and his shoulders hit the concrete behind him. There was barely enough room to bend his knees, and the sidewalls were only three feet apart. With the darkness refusing to disperse, he thought he was stuck in some transitional phase between reality and dream and there was still a chance he could make it back to the couch in his living room. But his hope retracted when he remembered the underground cell he was locked in before waking up. It made perfect sense.
He was never the claustrophobic type, but under the extreme confinement conditions, he felt like he was buried alive in an ancient tomb. He leaned against the back wall, willing his breathing to slow down and panic to subside. It’s only a dream, he tried to cling to the mantra and find comfort in the thought, but his surging heartbeat denied him the serenity he sought. He remembered how he used to count sheep as a child to fall asleep. Now he tried to use the same technique to wake up.
A faint thud stopped him at eight-hundred and seventy-one. He took it for a stray heartbeat, though it sounded different and off rhythm from the throbbing in his chest. The distraction made him lose his count. He tried hard to recall where he left off and grew frustrated when he couldn’t, as if the sheep count was the only thing he had left, when suddenly a rumble broke the silence, shattering his concentration. A bright light infiltrated the cell through a crack in the wall, stabbing his dilated pupils. He stretched his right palm above his brow, shielding his aching eyes as the crack slowly expanded to a wide opening and two obscure figures appeared in its midst.
“Aus!” an angry shriek struck like a slap in his face. The guard holding the flashlight barked at him to make haste while the other pointed a pistol at him. He caught a glimpse of their eyes and sensed confusion as they scanned him from head to toe. It was clear he was not what they expected to see. He turned back for a quick glance as he stepped out of the cell. It was even smaller than he thought.
Fear of what was yet to come crept in as the guards marched him through the dark underground corridor. A hesitant step made him stumble and unintentionally let out a long belch, a relic from the meal he feasted on a few hours earlier. The guards looked at one another in disbelief. Andy could sense their fury and regretted his reckless conduct. That stuff can literally kill you, he thought, but his attention was immediately drawn to the barrel that was pointed at his face.
“Bewegung! Stinkendes Schwein,” one of the guards swore. Andy felt his heartbeat surge. The guards kept a short distance behind him with their guns drawn, walking him to the end of the corridor and up the stairway. They climbed up five more stories after reaching the ground level. Andy heard a yowling for him to stop as he approached the top landing. He froze on the spot and turned aroun
d. The guards were nowhere in sight, but he could hear them struggling to catch up from below. It made him realize he had just scampered up a strenuous twelve-story climb without breaking a sweat. The two finally managed to close the gap, catching their breaths as they marched him on the polished marbles of the top floor hallway.
“It does not matter how fit you think you are, you have your doctor’s appointment now,” one of the guards uttered between breaths.
“Statistically speaking,” the other added, “all the doctor’s patients are pronounced dead after their first visit.”
Andy knew it was no joke. He had read the facts only an hour earlier and knew he would soon be face to face with the subject of his research.
They stopped in front of a colossal oak door at the far end of the hallway. Andy slowly raised his head until his eyes met a dark bronze emblem of a skull holding a red banner with a swastika in the middle. His heart hammered in his ribcage. The door swung open and he was pushed in.
Chapter 13
A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a dim light on a vast study with bookshelf-covered walls and a long antique dining table in the center. Andy was guided to a bulky chair at the far corner of the table with leather straps dangling from its arms and front legs. The guards tied him to the chair the moment he sat and walked back to assume their position by the door.
The Führer stared at him from a life-size portrait on the opposite wall. He looked away; down to his hands, knees, the floor, anywhere but the cold stare in the painting. He turned his head back as far as it would stretch. There was an extension to the room behind a glass wall on the right corner. He caught a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye. What he saw made him jerk his head back. Even Hitler’s stare was more tolerable than the sight of the “doctor’s clinic.” It looked exactly like the photo from the declassified document. The floor and parts of the wall were covered with white tile and a narrow stretcher with leather straps, similar to the ones that tied his limbs to the chair, stood dead in the center. Butcher knives of various sizes and shapes were suspended from hooks on the wall in perfect order, with traces of bloodstains decorating the white tiles.
The sharp scent of burnt flesh entered his nostrils. Human flesh? The thought petrified him. A door squeak startled him. He heard footsteps coming from the left side of the room opposite to the main door. A tall, skinny servant in a black tuxedo walked in with a large tray in hand. He placed it on the far end of the table and disappeared just as quickly. Not a moment passed and the big oak door swung open with a roar. The guards instantly arched their backs and extended their arm straight up for the perfect Sieg Heil, saluting the officer in the shiny black SD uniform who entered the room. The officer slowly strode alongside the dining table with his back to Andy, his boots clunking against the wood floor in a steady calculated beat. He took off his decorated overcoat and placed it on a hanger along with his cap, and then made his way to the seat at the end of table where his meal was served. He removed the brass lid from the tray, inhaling the essence of a sizzling prime rib with his eyes closed.
The old black-and-white photograph from the file was enough for Andy to confirm Ziegler’s identity, now that he was looking right at him. He kept staring. That face was one of a kind. The perfect Aryan frame, with thick blond hair, smooth radiant skin, wide chin, small audacious nose, bright blue eyes, and a small scar above his lip. No wonder both Himmler and Heydrich saw an iconic figure for the master race in this man.
“Hungry?” The officer uttered in Czech without lifting his eyes from the bloody flesh he was stabbing with his fork.
Andy understood the question, but the unexpected choice of language confused him. “Pardon?” he replied in German.
The officer raised his head and looked at Andy for the first time since he’d entered the room, “Are you hungry?” he cried, this time, in German. Andy’s headshake made the officer twitch his lips. He snapped his fingers at the guards and signaled for them to leave the room. The guards saluted and marched out, closing the door shut behind them.
Ziegler put his plate back on the silver tray and covered it with the brass lid. He got up and walked away from the dining table. Swapping his uniform top with a white lab coat, he slowly approached his prisoner. Andy’s nerves rocketed with each of his steps. He avoided making an eye contact as his mind ran the worst possible scenarios of what awaited him. He only looked up when he no longer heard the heavy stomp to meet the stone-cold glare of deep blue eyes directly in front of him.
The officer took a cigarette from a silver case he pulled out of his lab coat pocket, lit it and offered to put it in his prisoner’s mouth. Andy refused again. “It’s hard to find something that you like,” Ziegler chuckled and shoved the cigarette between his own lips. “But don’t worry,” his face turned grim in an instant, “we’ll find a way to get something out of you.” He pushed himself off the edge of the table, got behind Andy’s chair, and dragged him to the center of the workshop. “You don’t weigh much,” he said, somewhat surprised, as he parked the chair under a large retractable lamp.
Just like a visit to the dentist. Andy tried to fight his fear, though he knew he was about to be subjected to far worse pain any dental work could induce, if that was possible. The officer switched on the light and harsh brightness threw him into turmoil. He kept his eyes shut and tried to force himself to find a way out, but he was so overwhelmed by dread and fear, he could not think straight. He felt like he was inside a barrel dropping from the top of a waterfall, spinning as he plummeted into the abyss. He slowly opened his eyes hoping to be back in his Boston apartment, but he was still strapped to a thick wooden chair, and his eyes were quickly adapting to the bright light.
Ziegler circled the chair slowly, examining his prisoner from every angle. “You fight as a Czech but you do not speak the language,” he said in his articulated German while paying close attention to the jacket Andy wore.
“But I do…”
“Shhh,” the Doctor put an index finger to lips and shook his head. “I don’t remember asking your opinion.” He pulled a scalpel from the chest pocket of his lab coat and positioned himself behind the chair. Andy gasped for air and tightened both fists with a shiver. He could hear his heart pounding through his eardrums with dreadful anticipation. He closed his eyes, but the pain did not arrive. There was only the eerie sound of blade slashing through fabric, going on and on for a long minute until Ziegler walked in front of him with tatters of the over garment he wore. Andy followed him with his eyes, wondering what kept him from cutting into his flesh, but all he could read in the cold blue eyes was confusion and frustration.
“What are you looking at?” Ziegler let out a shriek. He stood silent for a brief moment, biting his lips, then instantly erupted with a second round of slashing, stabbing and swearing with every stroke. Andy found solace in keeping his eyes shut, as if denial was his only escape from the torture. He felt light tingling pricks, but there was no pain. When the outrage ceased, he slowly opened his eyes. Ziegler stood silent, red faced and panting, with more shreds of garments in his hands. He pulled the collar of Andy’s undamaged sweatshirt and rubbed his fingers against it. “This fabric,” he muttered.
“Pardon?”
“It’s indestructible. I find it hard to believe the brainless Czech resistance scum would ever produce something like that!” Ziegler continued to circle around the chair. Andy stretched his neck, trying to keep him in sight. “Where did you get it?”
“My closet?”
“You think this is a joke?” Ziegler lowered his voice, striding back and forth in a tensed motion.
Andy could sense the fury boiling from his skin. “It’s just a sweatshirt,” he mumbled.
Ziegler froze on the spot. A smile cooled off the redness in his face. “Your accent…you’re not from around here are you?” He asked in Czech.
“No, I’m not,” Andy instinctively r
eplied in the same language, exposing his foreign origin.
“Sounds almost English, but…not quite. If I had to take a wild guess, I would say…American?”
There was no response. Andy was too nervous to think of a cover story to conceal his identity, and Ziegler read him like an open book.
“Vell, vell, vell…” the interrogation shifted to English, “looks like I hit zhe target.” A smirk stretched across the Nazi’s face. “I allvayz took Roosevelt for a fool but never expected he vould be stupid enough to send spies.”
“I am no spy…”
“But you are American. Yes?”
“I am, but I…”
“Then what is an American civilian doing killing good German men with filthy maggots from zhe Czech resistance? Playing baseball?”
“I didn’t kill anyone!”
“That confession may allow you to live another day.” Ziegler leaned over the chair, his face nearly touching Andy’s. “Maybe through tomorrow as vell.” He started circling the chair again. “You see, zhere are people in high places, who might vish to use your presence here as an excuse to declare war on your country. So unfortunately for me, I will have no choice but to keep you alive.” He stopped behind the chair and hovered over Andy’s ear, “but I assure you,” he whispered, “as long as you are in my custody, you’ll be vishing you vere never born.” Spit flew out of his mouth and hit Andy’s neck as he spoke. Andy flinched and turned his eyes to the floor. “So it’s time you give me some real answers, Yankee!” Ziegler’s grin morphed into a frown.
Andy looked up. For a moment, he thought it was Karl speaking to him, and a wave of anger broke through the cloud of fear that hovered over his heart and mind.
“Zhere are rumors of black magic flying around among the troops who came from zhe battlefield. A man who’s not harmed by bullets, yes?” The sinister smirk stretched across Ziegler’s face. “I say…you are using some secret technologies that filthy American Jews invented.” His smirk turned into laughter. “It’ll be interesting to see the look on Roosevelt’s face when he finds out zhat all his hard labor ended up serving the master race.”