48

Despite the blackout the Bourse opened on schedule, with Tolan missing. Suppliers brought their goods, bargained somewhat abstractedly and left. The SS buyers did not appear, but the crowd of Kapos for the open trading was extraordinarily large.

Auctioning had barely begun when Anvil motioned Spangler away from the table and into the kitchen. “The underground is meeting in the back,” he whispered as he handed Spangler a Luger. “If any of them makes a move to signal somebody outside the building, shoot.” He opened the door and pushed Spangler through.

The cots and bunks had been pushed back to make more room. Tolan and fifteen Kapos whom Spangler had never seen before were speculating on the air attack. One had heard that the English had invaded Germany through Italy, another that the Russians had captured Berlin, yet another that Germany had made a separate armistice with the United States. One rumor claimed that Hitler was dead; a second that it was Stalin who had died. Intelligence about Birkenau itself seemed more reliable. Agents from the smelters reported that the stockpile of precious metals was being prepared for shipment. A field Kapo revealed that an extensive air alarm system was already being installed. An administration Kapo warned that more secret SS detachments were being deployed in a ring around Auschwitz-Birkenau.

Anvil appeared in the door and cautioned that the auction was nearing its end. The underground hastily agreed that no final action could be plotted until more hard information was available. Constant intercompound communication was agreed upon, and one by one the members began to drift back into the Bourse.

Spangler wandered out into the compound, crossed the roll-call area, strolled between the two rows of dark barracks and stopped at the edge of the death ditch just inside the south fence. He lit a cigarette and gazed out into the railroad yard. The SS had just finished inspecting the empty cars of an incoming shipment. Doors were sealed and the SS walked along as the train began backing up the track. As it moved, the ramp beyond became exposed. Only a fraction of the overhead lights were in use; even so, Spangler could see the last of the right-hand line marching off toward the chimneys. Many little girls wearing silk dresses were among the number.

The remaining ramp lights went off. Spangler moved along the edge of the death ditch, staring up at the fence. His eyes strained to follow the conduit from one concrete post to the next. He finally located the transfer box. He traced the feed line back over two insulators and out onto a telephone pole.

The flashlight beam blinded him.

“What are you doing here?” demanded a voice from the darkness beyond the fence.

“Having a cigarette. Want one?” Spangler replied in German.

“Why aren’t you in your barracks? Everyone is supposed to be in their barracks.”

Spangler could see the rifle nervously pointing at him through the light beam.

“I’m a cook,” he explained. “A senior cook.” The guard hesitated and lowered his rifle.

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“… Yes.”

Spangler tossed the packet over the ditch and through the wire. The guard glanced right and left, stooped and picked it up. A match flared, momentarily illuminating the face under the steel helmet. The boy was seventeen at the most.

“Thank you,” he said, starting to throw back the packet.

“Keep them.”

The arm motion stopped. “Thank you.”

“Are you new? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“I am beginning my sixth night.”

“Is this your first camp?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“… I hope so.”

Spangler lit another cigarette. “Why are the fence lights off?”

“I think they expect another air attack.”

Spangler strolled slowly along the ditch line. The guard kept pace on the other side of the fence. “Do they know who did the bombing earlier tonight?”

“The officers insist it was the Russians.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“… No.”

“Why not?”

“I saw the silhouettes.”

“Didn’t the others?”

“Silhouettes are easy to misread in a dark cloudy sky.”

“But you read them correctly?”

“I used to build models.”

“Whose aircraft do you think they were?”

“Luftwaffe. Junker Eighty-eights. I didn’t know we had any left.”

Spangler reached the end of the compound, turned and started slowly back. The young guard kept abreast.

“Why would the Luftwaffe bomb us?”

“They didn’t. Everything fell half a mile out in the forest.”

“Were they off course?”

“I don’t think so. They were dropping delayed-action bombs. It’s sometimes dangerous to land with them aboard. They were probably returning from an unsuccessful raid and jettisoning extra explosives.”

Spangler stopped. “Can I get you anything?”

“Get me anything?”

“From the Bourse. Do you need any merchandise? I understand your kitchen is short of milk. How would you like some fresh milk?”

“I was only drafted six weeks ago. They haven’t paid me yet.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll work it out. When are you on again?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“I’ll bring you fresh milk tomorrow night.”

“Thank you.”

Early the next morning Spangler took his first shift at the shortwave radio. His instructions were brief. All he had to do was turn on the set every fifteen minutes and dial the two wavelengths, one for Cracow, the other for Prague. He was told that neither station had come on since the previous day. He took this for a good omen—the Russians might already have captured Cracow and Prague. On the other hand, if they had taken Cracow, they could arrive at Birkenau any moment—and that wouldn’t be so good.

Spangler did not intend to rely on the Russians. He stayed at the set for three hours, formulating escape plans for himself and Jean-Claude. Whether Jean-Claude was at the Bugel or elsewhere was of no particular importance. The bordello passes gave Spangler mobility to search through the camp.

He sketched out a map of the areas to be covered and carefully marked the paths of guard patrols and the distances between manned fence towers. He drew up alternate escape routes and outlined them. Whichever he finally decided upon, two things were certain: first, he would have to find civilian clothing to fit Jean-Claude; second, he would not even attempt to bring Tolan along.

When Spangler returned to the barracks Der Gronck and one of the subcooks were bandaging their hands.

“We have to fight again,” Der Gronck told Spangler grimly.

“Just the two of you?” Spangler asked.

“There will be more from other kitchens.”

“Good luck.”

There was no reply.

Spangler entered the sleeping quarters and started to his bunk. Vassili lunged at him. Spangler sidestepped, and the giant crashed onto the floor. He tried to rise to his knees, but collapsed instead with a gurgle.

“The underground is meeting,” Anvil yelled, bursting through the door. “They want you there.”

“Why me?”

“Who cares why when the meeting’s at the Finishing School!”