The Shadowboxer (24 page)

The train moved steadily through the night. The rails had been destroyed beyond Ulzburg, so the “express” was shunted west to Elmshorn and then southeast through Pinneburg.

Spangler's headache spasmed from time to time. The pain in his left shoulder was easing but noticeable.

The Elbe was sighted by dawn. The outskirts of Hamburg appeared a few minutes later.

Spangler stared out at the ruins of the Hanseatic city. Two seared cranes were all that remained standing of Europe's largest shipyards. The train reduced speed and wound among gutted oil tanks, razed refineries and twisted machinery. They moved along an elevated track and entered Hamburg proper. Hardly a building remained standing. Block after block of dust-covered debris and neatly piled brick passed the window.

The elderly woman sitting opposite Spangler gasped in disbelief at the vast destruction.

“Don't be so concerned,” her husband said, patting her on the knee. “Just think what we are doing to London.”

Whistles blew. The train slowed and pulled into the roofless terminal.

The bus was late. Spangler arrived at Lueneburg in early afternoon. He paused outside the post office while he had a mild attack of asthma, then he entered and presented his receipt.

“The parcel arrived five months ago?” the clerk asked curtly.

“I have been on a work battalion. We were kept longer than anyone expected.”

“Even so, we are not a storehouse.”

“I would have been longer,” Spangler tried again, “but I lost my brother. He was with the Reich Division. They let me attend the funeral. He had won four Iron Crosses.”

“Four?”

“Four.”

“You will still have to wait. The parcel is in ‘no claims,' if it hasn't been returned. I don't have time to look for it now.”

It was midafternoon before the suitcase was located in the cellar storage room. It was addressed “Hans Kieland, care of General Delivery.” The sender was listed as Hafdan Kieland, SS Division Das Reich.

“The one with the four Iron Crosses?” the clerk asked, reaching for Spangler's passport and identity papers.

“Only two. This is my other brother. We think he's still alive.”

The postal form was quickly signed, stamped and recorded. The suitcase was released.

Spangler caught the evening bus to Dannenberg. He arrived slightly after eleven and limped to the woods beyond the town limits. He stripped off his clothes, opened the suitcase, took out an SS major's uniform, boots, cap and overcoat and put them on. He oiled the Luger, checked the clip, and pushed it into his holster. The wallet contained five thousand Reichsmarks. The passport and papers were in the name of Richard Wendorff,
Obersturmbannfuehrer
SS, R. S. H. A. Spangler opened a packet of cigarettes he had brought with him, peeled off the inner layer of paper, slid out a photograph of himself and pasted it in the passport. He transferred his Danish clothing to the suitcase, folded the carton inside and started back to Dannenberg.

The inn was full. The proprietor could find no other room in the city. Spangler demanded to see the local Kripo representative. The officer was called to the inn. When he arrived Spangler presented his credentials and ordered him to find immediate sleeping quarters or else arrange transportation to Wittenberge. The Kripo man ran back home and returned with his car. Little was said during the drive. Even after he had deposited Spangler at the Wittenberge hotel, the officer never thought of asking how he had managed to get stranded in Dannenberg in the first place.

Spangler slept late, breakfasted in the hotel dining room, sat for a haircut and shave, and stole a car. That night he slept in Berlin.

He was at the post office by eleven the next morning. The cardboard carton with his Danish clothes and papers was mailed to Major R. Wendorff, General Delivery, Luebeck. The rest of the day he spent leisurely touring Berlin.

After a mediocre dinner he took a walk. What he had hoped for happened: air-raid sirens began to wail. By the time the first bombs hit, Spangler had broken into the offices of Amt IV-B-4, Department of Jewish Affairs, R. S. H. A., and was studying the transportation files. He moved on to the storeroom of the Documents Division, located the blue forms, filled one out and returned to the outer office for the stamp.

After the all clear, Spangler stole another car and started driving east. Despite his chills, he stopped only for gas until he reached Budapest. There was no time for sleeping. He ate breakfast at 7
A
.
M
. The shop opened at eight.

“I would like something for my nephew,” he told the clerk. “He's just about my size.”

“Work clothes or dress?”

“Something in between,” Spangler answered, placing the ration book on the counter.

39

The blue signs had been posted in Szogor for a week. They were printed in both Hungarian and Yiddish.

The auxiliary police moved in at dawn. The local Jews were already queued up to show their blue papers and receive embarkation numbers. Columns of Jews from nearby towns began marching in for processing. The checkoff system was flexible. Certain persons were missing. They were searched for. Others carried blue cards, but their names did not appear on the lists; their names were added.

The Hungarian auxiliaries crowded the Jews into the seven side streets north of the main thoroughfare. All were ordered to sit or squat. Those who responded slowly were kicked or beaten. Speaking was forbidden.

Ragged columns of exhausted Russian war prisoners trudged into Szogor from the east and filled the side streets south of the main road. They were forced to lie flat on their faces. Infractions were dealt with harshly. One young boy was pummeled to death. Two prisoners were shot.

German SS officers arrived. The Hungarian auxiliaries guarding the Jews were curtly ordered to put their machine pistols back into their leg holsters. The SS moved among the terrified civilians apologizing for the Hungarians' stupidity. The Hungarians, they told them, treated everyone like war prisoners, like Communists. But the Jews were emigrants, not prisoners, the SS said, and Jews were free to stand or sit or do whatever they liked as long as they remained on the side streets. The SS officers began mingling openly with the yellow-starred civilians. They held friendly chats, offered sweets to the children, cigarettes to the adults. An old woman was escorted back to her house to retrieve the pet canary the Hungarians had so rudely forced her to abandon.

The tension eased. The SS officers continued their fraternization. They reiterated that the Reich had nothing against Hungarian Jews, or even the few Italian and Greek Jews among them. It was the Polish Jews who had forced them to apply restrictive laws; they had all suffered because of the Poles. But at last something could be done to ease the situation. The Reich was short of labor; the Hungarian and Italian and Greek Jews could prove their loyalty by working for Germany. It was a rare opportunity. They must do their utmost for the Reich wherever they were sent.

Picture postcards were distributed, depicting pastoral bliss, neat resort cottages beside tranquil lakes or verdant hillsides. The messages on the back were even more serene.

At the first sound of the locomotive a band began to play. No one knew it had been there. Now they could see the military musicians strut down the main street. The first selection was from Mendelssohn. The Jews filed out and fell in behind the music. The SS encouraged both spectators and marchers to wave to one another.

A festive mood began to germinate. The venerable village doctor ambled from the sidewalk to embrace his young neighbor, to give him his scarf and what little money he had in his pocket as a memento. An SS officer looked on smiling and even slowed the march so that the aged doctor could keep pace. The Germans commented audibly, and in impeccable Hungarian, on the beauty of friendship. Others from the village now dared call to their departing friends. The marchers responded with growing good humor. Laughter was heard, the paraders began marching in step. The Russian prisoners remained behind, lying face down on the side streets.

The Jews were marshaled into the stock pens at the railroad yard. The band continued to play. Neighbors and friends hung on the surrounding fences, calling out good wishes. The Hungarian guards looked on in confusion, the SS officers in satisfaction. Assigned numbers were called off. The emigrants were divided into groups of a hundred and ten, and moved into smaller pens. An officer passed among them with a large white sack. Blue transit slips were dropped in.

A gate opened and the first group of emigrants, clutching their belongings, hurried out over the tracks and clambered into the windowless boxcar. The door slipped shut and was sealed.

Spangler found himself a corner, squatted down and waited for the trip to begin. His headache had subsided somewhat. The pain in his shoulder remained.

40

The train slowed, then stopped. The spotters at the peepholes reported that dawn was a half hour off, that the countryside was covered with deep snow, the thick hilly forests could be distinguished in the distance.

The cold was bitter; the emigrants huddled against one another for warmth. The two-day supply of food had long disappeared. So had conversation. Now they waited in darkness, chill and silence.

The train crept forward. The spotters announced that they were passing under a large wooden arch, passing through metal gates, that lights could be seen ahead, that the tracks had spread into three spurs, that the ground was frozen and littered with debris, that double lines of barbed-wire fences could be seen on either side, that barracks stretched endlessly beyond. The car bumped to a stop. Shouting was heard outside. The door slid open. The light was blinding.

“All out, good friends, all out,” ordered the smiling man in striped cap and overcoat. “Welcome, and bring your possessions with you. Deposit them at the other side of the ramp. Claim them later. All out quickly, and form nice lines, five abreast. Do what you're told. Nothing to worry about if you obey quickly. Treat you better than you think here. Plenty to eat,” he assured, patting his double chin.

The passengers poured out under the glaring shielded white and red bulbs strung over the long platform. Baggage and possessions were quickly deposited in front of a detachment of prisoners in striped uniforms.

“Achtung! Achtung!”
a voice called through a megaphone as the new arrivals hurried to form in lines. “We must have silence. You will obey immediately on command. You have arrived at Concentration Camp Birkenau. The motto of Concentration Camp Birkenau is ‘Work frees you.'”

Columns of prisoners in striped overcoats marched, arms swinging rigidly in unison, between the scurrying new arrivals and the empty carriages. SS men sauntered nonchalantly along, hands behind their backs, observing the proceedings, barking an order every now and then.

“If you work hard, there is little to fear,” the voice from the megaphone continued. “Hard work and obedience are rewarded. Food and lodgings are abundant.”

The prisoners in striped overcoats stopped, did a sharp right turn and walked briskly forward to begin searching the empty cars. The line of new arrivals already stretched well beyond the length of the train.

“A hot meal is waiting. You will fall into two columns to speed things. If your name is called, move to the left of the ramp. No talking in ranks. Eyes straight ahead.”

The line to the right was still lengthening when the first seventeen names were read. Only sixteen men moved across the ramp. The missing name was repeated. Someone announced that the man had died in transit.

“All doctors, dentists and veterinarians move to the left.”

Screaming was heard. The prisoners in striped overcoats were pulling a woman from a forward car by her feet. She clutched an infant close to her. Other striped prisoners moved around in a wall. The screaming stopped.

“All electricians, carpenters, mechanics, plumbers, masons, move to the left.”

Spangler moved across the ramp and took his place in the new line.

Nine more categories were shouted through the megaphone. SS officers strolled up and down, picking people almost casually to go to the left.

Two more categories were called. The megaphone was laid aside. The line to the left was counted.

Spangler focused his attention at the head of the ramp. Two officers were conferring over a clipboard. The one with the riding crop stepped back and motioned over his shoulder. Then Spangler realized that the second officer was a brawny prisoner, whose striped uniform had been cut in a replica of the SS tunic and breeches. The face was too distant to be distinguished. The bright-yellow scarf at his neck and the SS boots were distinct.

The yellow-scarfed prisoner waved as he stepped forward. Other prisoners with SS cut uniforms followed him onto the ramp. Spangler counted eight in all. Jackboots clicking, the men strutted down the corridor between the two lines. As they neared, Spangler could see that all were massive and powerful. Their wrists were wrapped in white tape. Their huge faces bore scars and bruises. Most of them had broken noses.

The man directly behind the leader drew Spangler's attention. His hair was silver-blue and cut close to the square skull. The nose was wide. The deep-set eyes were crowded by thick bushy brows. The jaw was tight and slightly protruding. He stood a hulking six-foot-five, not as large as the leader, but bigger then the rest. He strode with fists clenched. Rings glistened on the fingers of both his hands. Spangler knew it was Friedrich Tolan.