Beyond the Shadow of Night

by Ray Kingfisher

  On that second day, Asher was still shocked at what he was doing—shocked, ashamed, guilty, his mind twitching with self-loathing.

  By the third day his mind was numb; it was starting to be just a job.

  On the fourth day there was a change. His team of Totenjuden cut hair and removed clothing just as they had on previous days, but as they were carrying clothing back to the warehouse they heard shots. They all stopped for a second, but then continued as if they’d heard nothing.

  After the clothes had been taken to the warehouse, they started on the bodies again, dragging them out of the gassing building and throwing them onto the pyres. Today, some fluid was splashed over the bodies, and they caught fire more quickly and burned more aggressively. But after the last few bodies were flung on, the guard told the Totenjuden to follow him.

  They went through another barbed-wire corridor and behind some hedging, where they found some bodies lying on the earth.

  Yet more dead bodies. As if Asher hadn’t seen enough. But these were different: they were fully clothed and had bullet holes in their skulls.

  That would explain the shots Asher had heard earlier.

  After the guard spoke, the twenty Totenjuden started taking one corpse each. Asher was one of the first, and duly manhandled his allotted corpse toward the smoldering pyre.

  “Who are they?” he asked one of his fellow Totenjuden.

  The man let out a lazy laugh. “Haven’t you heard? They’re us.”

  Asher frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “These men are us in three or four weeks’ time.”

  It took a moment for Asher to get the message. Then he shook his head slowly. “Dear God, no,” he said.

  “How long do you think we’ll last, being worked like dogs? These are the Totenjuden from three or four weeks ago. Time will move on. In a few weeks we will be the corpses with bullet holes in our heads, and another, fresher set of robots will be here, burying us. A month after that, they will be dead too.”

  And as much as Asher wanted to argue—to say that what he was hearing couldn’t be true—he then saw something that silenced him.

  At first he wasn’t sure. But he scanned the scene of blood, flesh, and soil before him once more. Yes, there was something there. The man’s corpse was tall and stick thin. It had a red birthmark covering one cheek and the side of its neck.

  Its name used to be Oskar. Oskar the pacifist, the protective husband and father-to-be, the man who had been so grateful to the Kogans.

  The more Asher stared, the weaker his body became. He was relieved when the body was thrown onto the heap, where he could no longer see it.

  The next few days were ones of relentless drudgery—hour after hour of body-breaking physical work combined with sights and sounds that lodged like sharp splinters in Asher’s mind.

  But he had to ignore his feelings. That was the program. Use the body as a tool, don’t think beyond the physical. Never think. Never try to remember. Just do. Get with the program or die.

  The throb of that big bad engine, the smell of charred flesh.

  Do.

  Ignore.

  Repeat.

  Just like the rest.

  Chapter 22

  Treblinka, Poland, 1943

  In his first few days at Treblinka, Asher had kept in the back of his mind the hope that somehow, possibly, some of his family were still alive.

  That thought had long since perished, along with his humanity. Now he spent his time dealing with meat—ignoring the faces contorted in pain and the limbs twisted at unnatural angles, dragging them to the pyre, throwing them on the heap, splashing gasoline on the mass of flesh, watching the skin pop and the flesh cook. All of this was merely his job, and these bodies were never people with their own loves, interests, opinions, and beliefs. Self-preservation was all that mattered, and any thoughts that threatened that were banished.

  Self-sacrifice was for others, and it happened regularly. Waking up to a body swinging from the rafters no longer startled Asher. A fellow prisoner in a deranged fit charging at a guard and being gunned down was no longer worth watching.

  Do.

  Ignore.

  Repeat.

  By the summer of 1943 a few shards of hope appeared for those men who had managed to blank out the horror and keep their bodies—if not their minds—alive.

  In his first few hours at the camp Asher had been frightened to move or speak unless ordered to. Like the rest, he’d been petrified of the consequences of doing otherwise.

  But now the camp was starting to wind down. Fewer trains arrived, and those that did were half full and often contained more Roma gypsies than Jews. The Totenjuden were given more freedom to move around the camp and to talk.

  The talk was of another camp about a mile away—not an extermination camp like here, but a forced labor settlement for Jews. The workers from there occasionally visited and exchanged information in secret. The news was encouraging: not only had the German war machine lost the crucial battle for Stalingrad, but there had also been major German losses in North Africa.

  That meant the Nazi powers and their collaborators were not invincible after all. They were human and could be beaten. This idea—which had seemed unlikely for so long—galvanized the prisoners. But for a long time it was merely rumor with no substance, until late one night in July, when Asher was shaken awake and by the light of a candle saw the face of Stefan, a fellow Totenjude.

  “Shh!” he whispered. “Get out of your bunk. Go to the far end.”

  In the dimness, Asher saw a few men carrying their wrecked bodies over there, and Stefan moving on to wake up the others. When they had all gathered, Stefan started speaking in hushed tones.

  “This meeting is also happening in other cabins. There is an escape plan. And we know the risks. Do we all know what happens when an escape fails?”

  “Not really,” one man said.

  “Perhaps you aren’t aware,” Stefan said. “There have been escape attempts before—two men going through the fence, a few tunneling under it. For every prisoner who tried to escape, ten were executed in reprisal. And that is why this is different. We are planning a total revolt against the camp authorities. I would ask anyone who doesn’t want to be a party to this to go back to bed now.”

  He waited. Nobody moved.

  “Good. I expected nothing less, but it’s good. I’ve had meetings with the committee members. As you are aware, there has been a strong and steady supply of Jews coming here from Polish towns and cities, with a few Roma from elsewhere in Europe. And we all know why we are here: our job is to, shall we say, process them. But there are now very few Jews left in Poland. We have to ask ourselves what will happen to us, the Totenjuden, when that supply has run completely dry.”

  “We’ll be shot,” someone said.

  “Of that,” Stefan replied, “we can be absolutely certain. But it would also be reasonable to assume that the authorities have guessed we have worked this out and will act accordingly. And because of that, the escape must happen soon.”

  “I agree,” another Totenjude said. “If we wait much longer there won’t be enough of us left to revolt.”

  “Exactly,” Stefan said. “To that end, a date has been set.”

  “Which is?”

  They held their breath, but Stefan shook his head slowly. “I can’t tell you,” he said.

  “What?”

  Asher heard groans and saw faces of confusion in the dim light.

  “Shh!” Stefan hissed. “Please listen. This is crucial. Remember that we’ll get only one chance at this. If it fails, then realistically we’ll all be shot. This has been planned at a higher level, and that’s why I don’t even know the date myself. Everyone will be told on the day or the night before. I would ask you to remember that secrecy is our main weapon. The more people know the date, the greater the chance that the authorities will find out. And I repeat, if we fail, each and every one of us dies.”

  Stefan swung his
head left and right to meet the faces of all the men. When his glare settled on Asher, the iron resolve in the man’s eyes was clear.

  “I’m completely with you,” someone said.

  “Me too,” another said. “You’re right, Stefan; it’s for the best.”

  Seconds later, every man had agreed.

  “A question,” one said. “You say secrecy is our main weapon. But surely we need more powerful weapons?”

  “We do,” Stefan said. “And I promise you shall have some. Not necessarily a gun each, but something. Please remember that this revolt is being planned with precision, and that our plan is to destroy the camp and get every prisoner out of this wretched hellhole. Every last man. Any more questions?”

  “What do we do in the meantime?” someone asked.

  “I’ll tell you what you do. You go back to bed. You were never awake. I never spoke to you. You know nothing of any plan. You do what the guards tell you to do. Everything is normal.”

  The men all nodded and returned to their bunks.

  For days there had been a calm atmosphere—unnervingly calm, with even the guards appearing more relaxed. Deliveries of new prisoners had all but stopped, and the Totenjuden had been gathered together and told there would follow an exercise to dismantle the site.

  They’ve finally done it, Asher thought. They’ve bled Europe dry of Jews, bar the odd few specks such as the Totenjuden. And what will happen when those specks have served their purpose?

  It was no idle thought. Asher knew—they all did—that their lives were more at risk now than ever before. Was the dismantling plan merely a ruse? Would they all simply be led to a ditch and disposed of?

  And then there was the revolt plan—the plan nobody talked of, but also one that was in everyone’s thoughts all day, if Asher’s own mind was anything to go by. They all waited and expected. Asher knew that the longer he stayed at the camp, the more likely he was to be killed. If he escaped, either he would be captured and killed, or he would evade capture and need to find his way to a safe country.

  Between the site-dismantling plan and the revolt plan, it was clear that his life was on a knife edge.

  In deference to Stefan’s request there were no furtive speculations as to when the plan might be put into action, no whispered guesses in quiet corners. Few words at all were spoken in the cabin. The days were hot, the mood calm, the undercurrent tense. The end of July came, and still there was no word from Stefan.

  And then, late one night, Asher was woken up again for another meeting.

  “It’s set for tomorrow,” Stefan told the gathered men. “I know you’ve been ready for a long time, and I’m sorry, but now it looks good. As far as we can tell, the authorities don’t suspect a thing. It’s set for late in the afternoon, so we have the maximum time of darkness on our side when we escape.”

  “What about guns?” a man said.

  “All planned. In the afternoon we’ll distribute money, guns, and grenades to various people. You’ll be told individually where yours are—perhaps in a bucket, in a sack, or under a pile of potatoes. You’ll be allocated areas to go to, where you’ll pick the guards off in ones and twos, however you can, but as quietly as you can. When you hear the explosion, that’s the signal to storm the gates. Is everybody clear on this?”

  They all nodded.

  “So sleep well,” Stefan said. “Sleep well in the knowledge that, one way or another, this will be your final night in this cabin.”

  All the men shook hands with one another, wished each other good luck, and said they would miss each other’s company, but nothing else.

  Asher slept well.

  Asher tried his best to treat the next day like any other. When he started chopping wood soon after dawn, it seemed that the morning would last a lifetime. He kept looking beyond the fence, dreaming, imagining himself sprinting through the forest, effortlessly evading the gunfire from the watchtowers.

  At one point he noticed a guard looking in his direction. The guard walked over, stood a few yards from Asher, and peered through the forest to where Asher had been looking.

  Asher promised himself he would not look again. What would happen would happen. He would deal with it at the time.

  And the morning flew by.

  Bread and cheese were brought out for the midday meal, and they were told to stop chopping. There was other work to do, and Asher found himself sweeping storage cabins clean.

  It was only early afternoon, but there were no clocks, and he could do no more than wait, his senses heightened to hang on to every voice and every set of footsteps.

  A guard sauntered along in front of him. He glanced at the area Asher had swept and nodded approvingly. Then Asher gulped. Behind the guard, in the far doorway, he saw Stefan. Stefan was agitated, eyes darting left and right. When the guard sauntered away, Stefan ran in.

  “It’s now,” he said. “Follow me.”

  Asher followed without speaking, and a short dash later they entered their cabin, where four other men came out of hiding from behind the farthest bed. “What’s happening?” one of them said. “You said late afternoon.”

  Stefan shook his head. “There’s been a change. The guards found money on one of the men. They’re talking to him.”

  “Talking?”

  “You can guess. But it ruins everything if they find out at this late stage. So we go now. The others have been told too, and also told where their weapons are. I’ll get yours now.”

  He climbed onto the top bunk, reached up to a beam, and pulled himself up. After the last few weeks the feat seemed superhuman to Asher, but as he watched, he could feel adrenaline imbuing his own body with more strength. From the top of the beam Stefan dropped two knives and four guns onto the bed. Then he came down.

  “You two, the kitchen block. You two, the clothing warehouse. Asher, you’re with me. Remember what you’ve been told. Only kill guards out of sight of other guards. And quietly too. If you can use a knife instead of a gun, much better. Then drag them out of sight. When you hear the first grenade explosion, head for the main gate and kill any guards you see.”

  He handed out the weapons, hiding one of the guns in the back of his pants under his belt, giving another to Asher. “Take care. The guns are loaded. Let’s go.”

  A few minutes later, Asher and Stefan had reached one of the buildings used to store sacks of hair and glasses. They hid around a corner, Stefan peeking out occasionally.

  “We’ll wait here until the guards come in,” he said. “But have your gun ready.”

  Asher plucked out his gun and weighed it in his hand. “Where have the arms come from?”

  Stefan cracked a rare smile. “From the camp’s own stores, so I’m told. Someone said children were used to get them, but who cares? Let’s be quiet and be ready.”

  Asher said no more, just tried to judge the number of spare bullets in his pocket.

  “Right,” Stefan said a few minutes later. “Follow me. Put your hands behind your back. Relax. Be normal.”

  They stepped out and called over to a pair of guards, who strolled over. They were both fresh-faced, Asher thought, perhaps only seventeen or eighteen.

  “What are you doing out of barracks?” one of them said.

  Stefan pointed a thumb at Asher. “My friend here wants a pair of these spectacles. Is that okay?”

  The guards both laughed.

  “But he can’t see without them,” Stefan protested. “Perhaps some nice silver-framed ones, yes?”

  Now one guard stopped laughing and gave Asher and Stefan a sideways glance. Soon the other also realized something wasn’t quite right and pulled his face straight.

  Both guards reached for their rifles, but as they did so each instantly had a pistol pressed firmly against his chest, just below the rib cage. As the ends of the pistols pushed deep into flesh, the triggers were pulled, the close range deadening the sound as efficiently as it deadened the guards.

  “Quick!” Stefan hissed. They dragged t
he bodies to the back of the room, behind some sacks. “Now we just do the same again,” he added. “Until we hear the grenade.”

  They stood in position again, but only had to wait a couple of minutes before they heard the dull boom of a grenade. “That’s it,” Stefan said. “Good luck, my friend.”

  “Perhaps one day we’ll celebrate this,” Asher said, and gave Stefan a slap on the back.

  “I hope so,” he replied. “But first we need to get out of this cesspit.”

  As they left the building, the sound of another grenade exploding jolted them, but they managed to break into a run, both firing as they ran between the cover of buildings.

  They made their way toward the camp gates, Asher’s mind sharp with fear and determination. Another explosion—a bigger one—knocked both men off their feet. One side of Asher’s face felt painfully hot and he could smell his singed hair. It was the camp fuel tank, once used to hold gasoline for the pyres, but now hidden in a rage of yellow fire and dark smoke. It made Asher grin—not smile, but grin. If he died now, a part of him would die happy.

  Asher scrabbled around for his gun, lost in the fall, but Stefan pulled him away and onto his feet.

  “No time!” Stefan shouted. “To the gates!”

  Asher noticed other buildings were on fire too, and the air was alive with bullets. They ran on, dodging fireballs and gunshots until they reached the gates.

  “Someone’s already gone over!” Asher shouted, pointing up at the top of the fence, where a section of heavy cloth had been slung over the top, covering the barbed wire.

  Both men started climbing. Asher reached the top first and swung both legs over. He heard a shout of pain from Stefan and looked down. There was a mass of blood and flesh where Stefan’s elbow should have been. Asher could see a sharp section of bone poking out of his jacket.

  Asher looked up to the nearest watchtower, where a machine gun was flashing with gunfire. For a second, helpless across the top of the gate, he forgot about Stefan and prayed the guard up there would spare him.

  “Help me!” Stefan shouted, bringing Asher back to his senses.