50

Der Gronck was not present when the Bourse opened that night. In his place sat a dazed, battered, hulking young man. No one knew the youth’s name or where he was from, since his papers had been lost. No one understood the language he spoke. Even so, the Process had to be observed. He had broken Der Gronck’s neck fair and square; he was now a senior cook.

Trading hit an all-time high. Three unscheduled trains from Hungary contributed to the activity. The Kapos’ cautious purchasing of escape supplies and placing of future orders were also a factor. Goods had never been so plentiful, prices never so right. Spangler’s order for women’s silk clothing was filled within half an hour. He was able to purchase milk fifteen minutes later.

After the trading he went back to the fence. A train was unloading at the ramp under the emergency lights. Shouting from the other side indicated the progress of the selection. Something else caught Spangler’s eye. He looked down at the near spur. Three railroad cars stood in the darkness. They were not freight, but metal passenger cars.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the guard said from beyond the fence, “but they had me over at the ramp.”

“I have the milk.”

“Hand it under the wire. It’s all right to come forward—the tower guard knows about it. I’m giving him some.”

Spangler moved across the death ditch and waited as the young guard propped up the bottom wire with his rifle butt. No sparks flew; the fence’s electricity was either turned off or kept extremely low during blackouts. This could alter his plan of escape, Spangler realized as he passed the container under; it could alter it greatly. He would even be able to go out at night.

“What’s the news?” Spangler asked, stepping back and lighting a cigarette.

“They say the Russians have driven north around Warsaw and are now heading down behind German lines east of Lodz.”

“Do you know this for a fact?”

“No. Only rumor. Everything is rumor. They’ve shut off all our communications. Only a few officers have radios left, and they won’t tell us what’s happening.”

“And what of us? What of the prisoners? Has there been any word on our future?”

“No. They won’t tell us anything. My sergeant did say that it wouldn’t hurt to start befriending prisoners, though.” The guard began walking along to keep up with Spangler. “How do you want me to pay for the milk?”

“See if you can get me some saltpeter.”

“Saltpeter?”

“It’s difficult for me here. My wife was quite healthy and I am still true to her. I have no stomach for the bordellos.”

“I think I understand. But how do I get saltpeter?”

Spangler took a stack of bordello passes from his tunic and tossed them under the fence. “Buy it from the SS cooks, but …”

“Yes?”

“I would appreciate your not telling who it’s for. If word got out the others might laugh at me.”

“I’ll do my best—and thank you for the milk.”

Spangler turned to go. As he did he saw light along the near spur. He gazed down at the metal railroad coaches. A group of six young girls were being loaded onto the last car by the light of storm lanterns. They were all between sixteen and eighteen. All were blond, with their hair done in braids. All wore white sliplike dresses.