K Jeter - The Kingdom of Shadows

Pavli’s companion hazarded a mutter under his breath. “Lying son of a bitch…”

“Take them inside.” Ritter handed the tally sheet back to the Scharfuhrer. “I’ll inspect the rest of the males later.”

The guards moved the Lazarenes in two groups, the men still separated from the women and small children. Pavli tramped along in the middle, aware of his brother’s presence ahead of him.

“There is your new home.” One of the guards pointed ahead of the group. “As Herr Doktor Ritter said -” There was a sour note of sarcasm in the guard’s voice. “Welcome.”

Pavli looked past the shoulders of the other Lazarene men, and saw a four-story building, white with green shutters. It looked like a hospital, a tuberculosis sanitarium or perhaps an asylum for the insane. New-looking iron bars had been welded into place over the windows.

His companion, the false gypsy, was unimpressed. “They can make anything look wonderful,” he whispered. “If they want to.”

Inside the building, there was an odor of carbolic acid. Standing in the entrance hallway with the others, Pavli caught glimpses through partly opened doors, of rooms whose walls and floors were covered with the same pale green tiles, with a tarnished brass drain plate set in the center. Other rooms were filled with wicker-backed wheelchairs, piled into rusting mountains with broken gurney carts.

“Move along.” The guards jostled against the rear of the crowd. “Keep going.”

The interior grew dimmer, farther removed from daylight, as they shuffled down a central corridor. Electric lights had been strung along the ceiling, with black cables snaking overhead. The lights flickered and buzzed; somewhere outside, a petrol-fueled generator chugged steadily. In the cavernous spaces, echoing against the tiled walls, came the distant voices of the women and children, taken to a separate wing of the building.

“Stop here.”

The Scharfuhrer had to shout to be heard over the voices of the Lazarene men; they had been put sufficiently at ease by the SS doctor’s assurances to have begun talking among themselves, even joking and laughing.

This room smelled of damp and soap. Along the concrete walls, near the ceiling, were patches of black mold.

“You are to undress,” ordered the Scharfuhrer. “Remove all articles of clothing, fold them neatly, then place them on top of your shoes or boots against the wall. Remember where you place your own things – thievery will not be tolerated…”

He didn’t hear the rest of the words being barked at the group. His attention was distracted by the false gypsy, the man of warnings and whispers. Pavli looked to his side and saw the fellow panting rapidly, face drained white and eyes widened in sudden fear.

“… after washing thoroughly, you will line up here, at this spot, for application of the delousing compound…”

The false gypsy screamed.

“No!” He propelled himself shoulder-first against the man at his other side, scrabbling with a terrified animal’s clawed fingers to find a way through the press of bodies around him. “He’s lying, they’re all lying -” His words were lost in the rising pitch of his cry.

The crowd of Lazarenes parted, each pushing to get away from the contagion of the fellow’s madness. A hubbub of mounting voices battered against the tile and concrete. Pavli tried to grab the fellow’s arm, to pull him back and clap a hand over his mouth, but he had already broken through. He stumbled onto his knees, then scrambled upright, throwing himself toward the room’s open doorway.

The other guards caught him, pinioning his arms and wrestling him clear of the floor. His legs kicked furiously.

“ They’re lying! ” He was no match against the guards, a bear hug squeezing the breath from his lungs. “The showers!” He dug his fingernails into the uniformed sleeves wrapped around his abdomen. “That’s… how they do it! The showers… and the gas…”

Another guard swiped the back of his fist across the fellow’s mouth, silencing him in a spatter of blood. He crumpled to the tiled floor when he was let go.

Pavli was almost knocked from his feet as the crowd of Lazarene men surged toward the doorway. Their voices had risen into shouts, deafening in the enclosed space. The guards scrambled for their rifles, raising them chest high and bracing themselves.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The voice of Herr Doktor Ritter struck the men like a whiplash across their faces. The SS officer pushed his way past the guards, confronting the milling crowd of Lazarenes.

As they clustered tighter against each other, their voices falling to silence, the Scharfuhrer drew Ritter to one side. The guards kept the false gypsy on his knees as the officer listened to the Scharfuhrer ’s whispered explanation. Ritter nodded, glancing at the individual in question.

“So.” Ritter strode before the Lazarene men. “I see that my assurances to you are doubted. You would rather listen to the slanderous rumors spread by cowards and lunatics such as this.” His voice boomed in the tiled hollows. “To doubt the honor of an officer of the SS – that is an un-German thing.” He shook his head, contemplating the grievous insult. “You bring shame upon yourselves, upon the name of your people, by doing so.”

A spattering rain-like noise followed the quick gesture Ritter made to the Scharfuhrer. Clear liquid streamed from one of the washroom’s metal fixtures. Ritter leaned forward, holding his hand beneath the pipes, the sleeve of his uniform darkening in the spray. He drew his arm back, studying his own wet hand for a moment, then touching a finger to his lips.

“This is water, is it not?” He smiled, his voice calm and measured. The water ran down his wrist as he thrust his palm before the nearest of the Lazarene men. “It is not heated, I grant you – the boilers have not yet been returned to service – but surely you can endure that slight discomfort, that small sacrifice for the benefit of all Germany? It’s not too much to ask, is it? And this -” He bent down and picked up a thick grey lump from just inside the raised edge of the shower area; he held it to his nose and sniffed. “It seems to be soap. Not of the finest quality… but your homeland is at war.” The smile disappeared from his face as he squeezed the rough block in his fist; the soap crumbled between his fingers, bits falling to the damp floor. He wiped the mess off with his handkerchief.

Ritter had spoken softly. The sudden change in his voice snapped the Lazarenes awake again.

“I promised that no harm would come to you.” The anger spoke in the officer’s booted stride as well. “But then, that depends upon you, does it not? Upon your cooperation, upon your following orders, upon your trust.” Ritter’s voice dropped to a whisper once more. “You do not know, from what dangers I have already saved you. And this is how you repay me…”

His steps took him to the guards and their kneeling prisoner. Pavli could see the cringing fear in the eyes set in the blood-spattered face.

“There are none of you so valuable,” said Ritter, “that I can tolerate the spreading of falsehoods.” He didn’t turn to address the crowd of Lazarenes. He nodded to the guards, who yanked their prisoner to his feet. “You should learn from this one’s example.”

Herr Doktor Ritter strode out of the room. The guards dragged between them the false gypsy, no longer struggling, another thing of rags.

The Lazarene men didn’t speak among themselves as they stripped off their clothes. They listened even as they lowered their heads beneath the icy sting of the showers.

Pavli heard the distant rifle shot, as did the other men, from out in the forest, beyond the walls of the building. A sound that Ritter and the guards had wanted them to hear.