54
Spangler replaced Anvil in the bunker for the afternoon shift. He set the alarm clock and went to Kuprov’s locker. A small cubicle had been dug behind it and in it were an SS uniform, a Luger and a long roll of paper tied in red string. Spangler brought out the paper, slid off the binding, and spread out the sheets on the table. He knew at a glance that Kuprov had somehow come across official maps of Auschwitz, Birkenau, the Buno camp five miles away and seven smaller subcamps, as well as a chart of the exterior defense lines.
Spangler began studying the Birkenau map. The sheet showed the official guard deployment and schedule for day and night assignments. Kuprov had already begun marking the disparities. Spangler was quick to realize the rest. Almost nothing he had seen in guard numbers and positons since his arrival at Birkenau corresponded to the official arrangement. In the six weeks since this map had been issued, camp security had been reduced by almost a half and the area assignments completely altered. In and around their own compound the guards had been cut to one-fourth the official number.
The alarm clock rang.
“… after a thirty-six-hour battle,” the voice from Prague boomed out, “the German surrender was total and unconditional. Russian officers have already guaranteed that we may continue broadcasting to all of you just as before. We can come out into the sunlight. We are free. Prague is free! Long live Prague!
“On other fronts the Russian advances …”
Music began to rise above the announcer’s voice. Again the lyrics were in English.
“… night is clear,
And the bombardier
Drops a bomb that’s wired for sound,
How I yearn
To return
With my head in the clouds
To the girl I left on the ground.”
Spangler quickly switched to the Cracow band.
“Hey there, Tex,” a voice said in English, “did you notice anything unusual about that stranger that’s been in town the last week or so?”
“Which one?” a second voice asked.
“You know, the fellow with the big white horse? Notice anything queer about him?”
“Nope. Can’t say that I did. What’s there to notice?”
“Well, he was wearing a mask, that’s what.”
“Say, you know something? Now that you mention it, he was!”
The hoofbeats of a galloping horse were heard in the background. So were strains from the William Tell Overture. The hoofbeats grew softer.
“Come on, Silver,” someone in the obvious distance called out with stentorian confidence. “Let’s go, big fellow. Hi-ho, Silver! Away!”
The William Tell Overture rose to a finale as Spangler switched back to Prague.
“… then add the beetroots and let the mixture come to a boil,” a familiar woman’s voice was saying in German. “If you prefer a darker shade, a teaspoonful of soot can be added. Once the garment is immersed …”
Spangler again tried Cracow. Instead he heard:
“Who’s that little chatterbox?
The one with curly auburn locks?
Whom do you see?
It’s Little Orphan Annie!
She and Sandy make a …”
The volume decreased as Spangler heard the noise overhead. He scooped up the maps, returned them to their hiding place and pushed the locker back just as the feet started down the ladder.
“What’s the news?” Tolan asked, reaching the floor.
“The Russians have taken Prague.”
“What about Cracow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can’t you get Cracow?”
“I get the wavelength, but something keeps drifting in on it. On Prague as well.”
“We have to find out about Cracow,” Tolan insisted. “The whole escape depends on that. We plan to go out tomorrow night if the Russians keep their present position or move forward. If they retreat we must go tonight.”
“Are we ready to go tonight?”
“Not really. But if the Russians are thrown back we’ll have to. The nearer they are to us the better our chances of reaching them.”
Tolan fiddled with the radio and turned up the volume. Cracow was off the air. The dial turned to Prague. Prague also was not sending.
“They’ll be on again in fifteen minutes,” Spangler offered.
“Where were the Russians the last you heard?”
“Anvil said the battle was still raging fifteen miles beyond Cracow, and that’s all anyone knew.”
Tolan thought. “We can’t take chances,” he finally concluded. He handed a list to Spangler. “These people will have to be silenced before we leave. Each of us will have to finish five of them. Take your pick.”
Spangler read the names. All the Habes were included. So were three apprentice cooks.
“Why?”
“We can take out only a hundred and twenty among all the groups. That means eliminating some of our own. Now pick your five.”
“Why am I going out rather than the others?”
“I like you.”
“I don’t like you.”
“Then put it in these terms: if you hadn’t beaten Vassili, he would be in charge—and making up that list you’re holding. In that case, my name would have been first. So I’m meeting a good turn with a good turn. Pick your five.”
“I won’t kill anyone.”
“We must each pick five. That’s an order.”
“I took care of Vassili and that’s it, order or no order.”
Tolan hesitated, then turned and climbed the ladder.
Spangler brought out Kuprov’s Birkenau map. He studied the official deployment and schedules of the guards at the railroad sidings and marked in the positions and numbers he had personally witnessed in the last few days. The force he had seen was one-third the indicated requirement. Their stations and patrol routes were nothing like those on the map. Had official specifications been met, escape along the track could not have even been considered. Under present conditions it was the most logical route.
He unrolled the chart of the outer-guard defense positions around Auschwitz-Birkenau as the alarm clock rang.
Spangler switched on the set. Prague was not sending. He moved to the Cracow band.
“… a third column is believed to have moved up from Nowy Sacz to complete the pincer,” the voice said in Polish as heavy fire thundered in the background. “If this should be the case the Russians would find themselves trapped outside Cracow. German reinforcements and material are moving up quickly for this decisive battle. Whether the Russians will hold their ground and fight or whether they will begin their retreat is still not known.…”