Touching the Wire (13 page)

He helped Aaron to his feet:
sulfa had aided Aaron’s recovery, but he was far from strong. The Soviet army
had given Miriam and the other infirmary inmates a life-line: there’d been no
time to carry out the planned massacre of the sick. He checked the drugs were
still safe in his pocket: Miriam and Ilse’s lives could depend on them.

Walt shivered and turned his back on the white flakes
floating past the window. January 1985, another New Year… He pulled his chair
closer to the fire and threw on a log. It responded with a guttering flame, and
fireflies flew up the chimney. He tugged his jacket collar closer. He hated
snow.

In January 1945 there had
been blizzards. Minus 25 centigrade, he’d read afterwards: so far, the coldest
month of the twentieth century. Some seven thousand sick had been abandoned in
the chaos to fend for themselves.

His vision misted and he
shook his head. The March of Death… so many had survived the camps only to die
of exposure and starvation on the long, forced march west through Poland’s
bitter winter. He closed his eyes and let his mind take him to a place he’d
never truly left.

A pall of frozen breath hung
over the endless shuffling column behind and ahead of him. It was one of many
dark millipedes, each with hundreds of pairs of tired legs, crawling across
white desolation in the wretched dawn. His fingers, toes and cheeks were numb:
his socks stuck to his feet inside his boots. Aaron Schaeler stumbled along at
his side, his words of encouragement to others finally stilled as his fight for
his own survival demanded all his effort. SS officers watched the stragglers:
any too slow or caught trying to escape the column, be they German or internee,
were shot dead.

Three days they’d ground
their way west towards Wodzislaw Śląski, near the German/Polish
border, where the survivors were to be loaded into open boxcars and taken to
Germany: an attempt to hide the scale of the atrocity? Forced labour? Hostages?
The rate of attrition would be appalling.

Three days, or was it four?
Every morning fewer souls struggled to their feet than had laid their heads to
rest the night before. Miriam, too, could be dying and every step took him
further from her. Aaron’s strength was failing rapidly, and the rabbi knew it.
He slowed his pace to the rabbi’s, trying to keep him from lagging behind too
much. An SS officer jabbed a stumbling German soldier in the kidneys with the
butt of his semi-automatic rifle, and then raised the weapon, swinging it as he
aimed.

He threw himself into a
drift at the side of the road as staccato cracks shattered the frozen air. The
tin box hidden beneath his coat dug into his stomach and knocked the breath
from his lungs. The weight of a body landing on top of him took the next
breath. He gasped and inhaled a mouthful of snow; icy air caught at his throat
but he lay motionless, the slow tramp thudding in his ears.

He couldn’t feel the snow on
his face. He fought to keep his breaths shallow, his limbs limp, his hands
still, as the weight of the dead body crushed him. He strained to hear the
slightest sound: the muffled squeak of feet on compacted snow, the creak of
boots, the swish of fabric, the laboured breaths and curses. No-one paid him
any heed hidden beneath a corpse: one more for the snow to cover with its
virginal caress, fallen by the way and silenced. If they knew what he’d stolen…

He didn’t move until long
after the millipede’s feet fell silent. He pushed the body away with an effort
and raised himself on one elbow. In both directions the dark shapes of
prisoners and guards, too sick or exhausted to keep up, littered the bruised
ground. Hunger gnawed at his belly, his hands and feet were numb, his head
spun. 

A guard dying at his feet
had a thick coat that would fit over his own. If he took it he might be shot as
a German: a warmer death, but he had a promise to keep and Miriam would be
waiting. He had to think that. She would be waiting.

He swallowed a mouthful of
snow that failed to quench his thirst and turned the guard over. He knew his
face, despite the bullet hole that showed mutilated brain; he’d been at the
last Zählappell, cold and callous as ever, and had fallen behind on the march. His
rifle had been taken, but he had a revolver and ammunition, and fur-lined
leather gloves.

A prisoner lay on his back,
only yards away, eyes staring to a godless sky. The man had a scarf. His coat
was thinner than the guard’s, but he’d been a big fellow once and it was safer
than wearing the German officer’s coat. He wrenched unyielding arms from the
fabric before it froze solid. It was about survival now; he had no compassion
left to waste on the dead.

His war had always been
about survival, but at what cost? He shrugged the filthy coat over his own, and
numb fingers fumbled with buttons. He took in the scene around him: he needed
to get his bearings.

God, no…

‘Aaron.
Aaron
…’ He
slumped to the ground beside his friend, and felt beneath his beard for a pulse.
A red stain bordered the dark hole in Aaron’s chest: the bullet Aaron had taken
for him. In death Aaron’s body had hidden him, helped him as he’d helped him
steadfastly in life. He raised a fist to heaven and yelled his anger to Aaron’s
god. ‘God of Moses and Israel… Damn you…
Why
?’ He laid his friend by the
side of the road and covered his body with snow. Aaron Schaeler had found his
good day to die; he would make sure his sacrifice was not for nothing.

The low sun in the east
brought no warmth. He faced into the wind. How far west had they come? How far
to the port of Gdansk and freedom? Could he and Miriam make it?

They could if he could get
back to her with the sulfa, if the Soviets and Germans hadn’t stripped the land
bare of food, if they could avoid the Soviet invasion front, their transit and
work camps: if they didn’t freeze to death. Gdansk, Scandinavia, England and,
with luck, the only passports they’d need were the six-figure numbers tattooed
on their left forearms.

Gunfire sounded away to the
south and an explosion lit the sky. To the north a pall of smoke hung in the
cold air. He had sulfa and the box of documents: that was all he had strength
left to carry. He huddled into his new coat and squinted into the sun as he
trudged east towards Krakow and the camp. A flurry of fresh snow brushed his
lips: clean, not like ash with the taste of the dead. His breath froze in
icicles on his eyebrows, as tears froze on his cheeks. He pulled the dead man’s
scarf over his head and face and stumbled on, hour after painful hour.

The distant sound of trucks
forced him from the road. A farm ghosted through trees. Exhausted, he watched
and waited. As darkness fell he shouldered open a barn door and ate grain
stolen from chickens. The foot-thick chicken manure kept him warm as vehicles
ground past in the sleepless night.

Cock-crow: fitful light
shone on beady eyes and fluffing feathers. He removed a warm egg from beneath a
hen, broke it into his mouth and swallowed, and then felt beneath another. She
clucked noisily and he withdrew his hand. He stole two more eggs and wiped a
coat sleeve across his mouth: it stank.

He peered through a
knot-hole. The farmhouse windows shone with yellow light: time to go.  The
blizzard stung his face, and buried the footprints of the millipede now striped
with the frozen ruts of heavy vehicles. He tramped on, death behind him and
death before him. The cold slowed his mind and dragged at his legs; too late,
he heard the snow-muted tread of boots. There was no hiding place and he hadn’t
strength left to run. He sank to the snow to wait. Dark uniforms morphed out of
the blizzard and a bristle of rifles hedge-hogged around him. He tugged at his
sleeve tiredly and pointed to his tattoo. ‘Prisoner of war…’

The rifles lowered. A soldier
spat on the snow, reached in his greatcoat pocket, drew out a packet of Russian
cigarettes and offered him one. The soldier lit it for him and nodded. ‘Ya.’ He
motioned west and jabbered in Russian.

He shook his head, not
understanding, and pointed to where he thought Krakow lay. If they forced him
to march with them, Miriam was lost. The officer shrugged, shouted a command to
his men and hurried them on.

He drew on the rank tobacco,
the smoke warming his lungs as the column of Red Army soldiers marched past. He
hunched onwards, no longer sure if he headed east. A road sign pointed
drunkenly to the right, towards a vast expanse of white: the name of the town
was scrawled in Russian.

He stumbled on in the
direction it pointed, sure he’d wandered too far to the north. Towns had
people; someone would point him in the direction of the camp. Snow-crowned
tree-stumps bore mute witness to the ravages of the Nazi war-machine but
gradually the forest thickened and oak and birch, rimed with frost, cut the
wind.

Head-down he placed one foot
in front of the other: Miriam needed him. Suppose the Soviets had already
liberated the camp. She’d get treatment and food, surely, but suppose they moved
the sick east by train? How would he ever find her again? His feet dragged too
slowly. Left, right, move or die, left, right, move or die, left...

The snow in front of him was
smeared and spattered with blood, and confused by prints. He followed the
trail; there were other than human predators in the forest and it could be a
still-warm kill he could scavenge. Black wings flapped in his face: carrion
crows, rising towards the tree tops. What remained of the body, by the clothing
a woman, had its guts spilt across the snow. Not far off a wolf howled and was
joined by others. A grey shape rose in front of him, shaking off its white
shroud. He pulled the pistol and aimed, trigger-finger squeezing.

‘Don’t shoot.’ The man
raised his hands. ‘British. Albert… Albert Carr.’ He waved a hand in what he’d
guessed was the rough direction of the camp. ‘Prisoner of war… Buna-Monowitz.’

He lowered the weapon with a
sigh and held out a hand in greeting, his cheeks cracking a frozen smile.
‘British.’ His mother’s green eyes smiled in his mind as she spat on her
hankie.
Come here, chuck, and let me rub the grime off those knees.
Miriam’s
generous mouth formed a brief kiss as she pronounced his pet name with her
Hungarian accent.
‘Call me Chuck.’ It was who he was now.

In the distance came the
rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire. Smoke hung above the horizon and the sun glistened on
the frozen surface of a lake.

Brown eyes peered into his.
‘You got food, Chuck? I ain’t eaten in four days. Nothing but snow…’

‘I’ve nothing.’

Albert squinted into the sun
and twisted back. ‘Something’s burning.’

‘Where are you headed?’

Albert shrugged, coughing.
‘Anywhere but here… England. You?’

‘England, via Gdansk, but
first I’m going back to the camp.’

‘Back? Why for God’s sake?’

‘My wife, Miriam. She’s
still there, ill with scarlet fever. I have to get back to her.’

‘So you can starve with her?
The Nazis took everything.’

‘England’s hundreds of
miles. You’ll never make it alone. We’d stand a chance travelling together,
helping each other, but I’m not leaving without Miriam.’

‘You don’t even know she’s
alive.’

She had to be. ‘In a week or
two, when she’s stronger, the weather may be better. I have sulfa… There’s
enough for you, too, if that cough gets worse. Come with me. At least we’ll
have shelter… blankets.’

‘It’s food we need.’

‘I found eggs this morning.
We’ll find more. We can head north later, all of us.’

‘And risk ending up in a
Russian labour camp for the rest of the war? I’ll take my chances.’

‘At least let’s travel
together while we’re going the same way.’

They fought towards the
smoke, skirting the lake and avoiding columns of Soviet soldiers by taking to
forest tracks. He held out his hand and steadied Albert when he stumbled.

Albert didn’t fail to notice
the strength of his grip. ‘You weren’t a POW long, then?’

‘I…’ He couldn’t meet
Albert’s hollow stare.

‘What? You were a Kapo?’

‘Kapo?’ He spat his disgust
onto the bone-hard ground between the trees. ‘I’m a doctor. I survived. Most of
my patients didn’t. Isn’t that bad enough?’

Albert shook his head and
walked on. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself for surviving. Normal rules don’t
apply in that place. I did what I had to. Stole bread from a starving man, to
stay alive… to get back to my family. At least they’re home, safe last I heard.’
He stopped and faced him. ‘You lose someone, Chuck?’

‘Too many good people.’ A
low drone grew louder, filling the sky: German or Allied?  He hurried
Albert deeper beneath the forest canopy.

Smoke wisped from the
chimney of a cottage that was surrounded by a patch of hedged garden. Two
children, muffled in scarves, played with a dog. A woman jabbed at the frozen
earth with a pick while chickens pecked with little more success. Somehow the
Germans and Soviets had missed these.

‘Maybe she’ll give us food.’

He waved Albert to a halt,
pressed a finger to his lips and his mouth close to Albert’s ear. ‘I can’t risk
it. I have something that mustn’t fall into the wrong hands. You have to trust
me.’

‘I’ll eat the bloody dog if
I can get it to come near enough.’

‘They must have food or
they’d have eaten it themselves by now.’ Using the trees for cover he moved
stealthily forward. He felt in his pocket and scraped together a few grains of
corn left from his night in the chicken shed. He fell to his knees, made a small
gap in the hedge and threw the grain towards the chickens. One moved closer,
clucking quietly. A little closer… peck, closer, closer… He silenced the squawk
with a swift twist of its neck, moved branches to close the gap and retreated.