The refusal camp, p.21
The Refusal Camp, page 21
He would kill him. For Jerzy and all the others. For his family, murdered by other Richters in this insane world.
The thought comforted him as he adjusted the turbine components and tested the tolerances. He’d undergone his own test today, and deep in his heart, he knew his tolerance for revenge was as precise and sharp as the smooth steel edges at his fingertips.
Anton’s shift was twelve hours. Tins of soup were brought around for the midday meal, and it was his only chance to get off his feet. Some days he dreamed of not getting up. Letting Kunz beat him until he grew tired of the game and killed him. There was always a way to find death at Dora.
Life was harder, but Anton forced himself to stand and get to work on two servomotors, electrical-hydraulic devices that stabilized the flight of the rocket. An easy job, but his legs throbbed with pain as he began his seventh hour standing at the workbench. He let out a sigh and let his elbows rest on the bench for a moment.
He stood straighter and worked intently as he heard voices approaching.
“This will be your section, Ehrlich,” Richter said. “I want a daily report on the repair and retooling of components, do you understand?” “Yes, understood,” Ehrlich said. Anton risked a quick glance as the men drew closer. Ehrlich was the new engineer he’d seen that morning.
“These five halls are devoted to remachining, of components, mainly,” Richter said. “About fifty workbenches, eh, Kunz?”
“Fifty-four, Sturmbannführer,” Kunz said, as the three of them walked behind Anton. “Not too many problems with this lot. A bit slow at times, but we know how to motivate them.”
“Where is this worker?” Ehrlich asked. Anton guessed he was looking at Jerzy’s workbench.
“At the end of a chain,” Kunz said, giving out a sharp, rheumy laugh.
“Requisition a new one,” Richter said to Kunz. “Electrician. I want him in place in the morning. Be quick about it.”
“Sir!” Kunz responded with a snap of his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, Anton saw Kunz scurry off. Another figure moved closer, but in the glare of overhead lights, Anton couldn’t make out who it was.
“How are you, Ehrlich? Finding your way around the place?” It was Arthur Rudolph. Stocky and balding, he had twin tufts of hair that sprouted out from behind his ears. He sounded jovial, like a friendly boss welcoming a new employee.
“Yes, sir,” Ehrlich said. “The Sturmbannführer was showing me my area of responsibility.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Rudolph said. “We’ve been trying to obtain your services for months now. Lucky for us the Heinkel aircraft plant decided to let you go.”
“The plant was one hundred kilometers east of Berlin, sir,” Ehrlich said. “You might want to thank the Russians.”
“No defeatist talk is allowed here,” Richter said, sharply. “Be careful with your tongue.”
“Don’t worry, Gerhard, our wonder weapons will turn the tide soon enough,” Rudolph said. “Ehrlich will be a help. Besides being a scientist, he has developed methods to increase production through quality testing. Let him review the work here and formulate recommendations. Give him anything he needs.”
“Yes, sir,” Richter said.
Anton thought he could read irritation in Richter’s clipped response.
“Your identity papers are in order, I trust?” Rudolph asked. “It wouldn’t do for our friends in the Gestapo to question your old address. Young men your age out of uniform and far from home are being hanged as deserters. You’ve been given living quarters, I trust?”
“Yes, in Hochstedt,” Ehrlich said. “And my papers are in order. My new address has been registered with the police.”
“Good, good. And, Ehrlich, waste no time. We need to launch more V-2s. Many more.” Rudolph left, leaving the two men behind.
“I don’t have time to take you around to fifty-four workbenches,” Richter said. “Do you wish an escort?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. From the looks of these men, they don’t pose much of a threat,” Ehrlich said. “What languages have we here?”
“German, French, and Polish for the most part,” Richter said. “The transport workers are all Russians and Ukrainians, but you have no need to speak to them. I will leave you to it.”
“You,” Ehrlich said, moving next to Anton. “Do you speak German?”
“I am German, sir,” Anton said, keeping his eyes on the servomotor. “If that is permitted to say.”
“I only care about your work, Prisoner 39482. Tell me what kind of mechanisms they bring you.” They fell into a conversation about missile components and the damage done in shipping from subcontractors across Germany. From other camps too, as far as Anton knew. Ehrlich asked a lot of questions, and Anton was able to supply most of the answers.
“You were trained as a machinist?” Ehrlich said when he’d finished writing in his notebook.
“Yes, sir,” Anton said, and told him about his work. As he spoke, he realized he was looking at Ehrlich. Kunz or Richter would have beat him for daring to meet their eyes. He had to be careful with this man. He didn’t know the rules. Anton turned his eyes to his tools, willing Ehrlich to understand and unwilling to say anything directly.
The two men were the same size, except for Anton’s emaciated frame, of course. Perhaps the same age, although Anton knew his time in the camps must have aged him. This successful, well-fed man could be living the life stolen from Anton. Before his firm fired all its Jewish workers, he was in line for a promotion. He would have been a manager. Someone to make something of himself.
“One more thing,” Ehrlich said. “Do you speak any languages? In case I need help translating.”
“Only English, sir. I studied it in school.”
“Well, we won’t need that here, will we?” Ehrlich said, enjoying a chuckle.
Not yet, Anton thought, hoping the wish in his mind had not progressed to his face.
THE BOMBERS CAME the next morning. Air raid sirens wailed as the prisoners were being marched into the tunnels. Anton ran for the entrance, pushing and yelling as the column of marching men dissolved into a frenzied rush to gain safety within the mountain. Kunz and the other guards, desperate to be under solid rock, beat workers who were in their way. The droning of aircraft engines merged with the sound of sirens. Anton glanced upward once more before he entered the tunnel. Bombers, a stream of them clear against the bright blue sky.
Civilians, guards, and prisoners panicked, their screams echoing against the walls. As far as Anton knew, there had never been an air raid drill. No one knew what to do, except for the obvious. Go deeper underground.
Shattering explosions hurled shock waves into the tunnel, knocking men to the ground and increasing the panic. The earth shuddered with each hit, and Anton felt the fear of entombment grab at his gut. He told himself the solid rock couldn’t collapse.
Could it?
He fought through the crowd to reach his workbench where at least he’d be safe from the punishing truncheons. Work. Live. Survive.
He held on to his tools as the bombing continued, the sound of explosions finally moving away.
“Get to work, you lazy swine!” Kunz bellowed, strutting along the tunnel, striking any prisoner who wasn’t busy at his job. Anton’s hands shook as he handled the servomotor, and he gripped the device harder to steady himself. He couldn’t die now. Not from bombs, not from Kunz’s savagery. He was a missile, on a course set for retribution. How, he did not know. But they hadn’t killed him yet, not the Nazis, not the Allies. One day, he would be the killer.
Four hours into his shift, he heard Kunz shouting. This time the guard’s anger wasn’t directed at a prisoner. It was Ehrlich on the receiving end.
“Shut up about the bombing, Ehrlich!” Kunz said. “Unless you want to be hanged as a defeatist traitor.”
“But what is the plan? Are we to wait for the Allies to arrive?” Ehrlich said, his voice shaky with fear. He trailed Kunz farther into the tunnel, their argument fading away.
The Allies. Would the SS let the camp be liberated? Anton doubted it. He needed a way to survive, a way to avoid evacuation. He spent the rest of his shift thinking it through, observing everything going on around him. He delivered the repaired servomotors, walking through the final assembly area where sections of the V-2 were joined together.
The next day, something was wrong. The guards were on edge. When Anton arrived at his workbench, there was only a single servomotor for him to work on. Richter stormed through the tunnel, shouting orders, Kunz in his wake. Transport workers began rolling carts filled with parts toward the entrance. Six prisoners struggled with a tail fin assembly, carrying it by hand, hectored by guards every step of the way.
Desperation was thick in the air.
Ehrlich approached Anton. The engineer’s eyes were wide with fear.
“What is your name?” Ehrlich whispered.
“Prisoner 39482,” Anton replied, keeping his gaze focused on his hands.
“No, your name, damn you. Tell me.”
“Anton Schuster.” It felt strange to say it out loud, as if it were the name of a ghost.
“Anton, you must hide. Within the hour they will evacuate the tunnels. They are taking us to another camp. Bergen-Belsen. Not a good place,” Ehrlich said in a hushed tone.
“Everyone?” Anton said.
“As many prisoners as can be loaded onto boxcars, I’ve heard. So not all. They will leave no one living, of course.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“I will hide as well. When everyone is gone, you and I will go to the Americans. They will want our services, I am sure. You understand English, you can speak for me. I never harmed anyone. You can tell them.”
“This is very dangerous,” Anton said. “Are you trying to trick me?”
“Believe me, Bergen-Belsen is even more dangerous. When they announce the evacuation of the tunnel, hide. When everyone is gone, we will meet back here. I’ll help you get away, and you help me with the Americans, yes?”
“Are they close?” Anton asked.
“Richter said two or three days. No one really knows. Well?”
“Yes,” Anton said. “I will hide. Where will you be?”
“It’s best we don’t discuss it,” Ehrlich said. “Stay hidden at least two hours. I have a feeling Richter will have the tunnels searched. He trusts no one.”
“An excellent idea,” Anton said, eyeing the workers moving parts out of the tunnel. They all looked nervous.
“Here,” Ehrlich said, checking to be sure no one was looking. Anton found a piece of hard cheese in his hand. “Remember, I’ve been good to you.”
The cheese went into his mouth. No one had been that good to him in a long time. Perhaps Ehrlich could be trusted. Anton finished his work on the servomotor and carried it to the assembly area. As soon as he set it on the receiving table, the public address system blared out a message.
Attention. Attention. All prisoners report to the parade ground. All prisoners report immediately to the parade ground. All skilled workers are to bring their tools.
This was it. The evacuation, just as Ehrlich had said.
The announcement created instant confusion, and soon the guards waded in, pushing and shoving the workers toward the entrance. Anton broke out of the flow of prisoners to make his way down the connecting tunnel to his workbench.
“You! This way!” It was Richter. His pistol was drawn.
“Sir, I must get my tools as ordered.” Anton looked at the ground, his hands clasped together as if beseeching Richter.
“Hurry. We’re going to seal these tunnels with explosives. Get your tools on the double!”
“Yes, sir,” Anton said, sounding as obedient as he could manage with his heart thumping against his chest. He stopped as soon as he turned the corner, waiting for the rush of workers to pass by the connecting tunnel. As soon as the crowd went by, he looked down the way he’d come.
From the assembly area.
He ran, hoping there was no rearguard SS patrol. A prisoner rushed out from behind a stack of wooden crates, his eyes darting about for some safe refuge. In a flash, he was gone. Anton kept moving, stopping only to snatch a coiled length of rope from a peg. Then he came to them.
Six V-2 rockets. Minus the warhead and tail fin assembly. Set upright, one next to the other, each nearly ten meters high. Ready for the final inspection before the warhead and tail fin sections were fitted on in the next chamber.
A rolling ladder stood next to the first rocket, reaching two-thirds of the way to the top. Anton maneuvered the ladder and climbed as high as he could, then grabbed for an anchor hook dangling from a winch.
He missed, then tried again. This time he caught it.
Hanging from the hook and refusing to think about how Jerzy had been hanged from one, he pushed off from the ladder. It went skittering backward, wobbled, and fell over with a clatter. He couldn’t think about anyone hearing it. He had to make this work.
With what strength he had, he swung on the cable, aiming for the top of the second rocket. Once, twice, three times he failed.
On the fourth try, he managed to hook one foot over the top rim. He struggled to pull himself forward, reaching out with one hand to grasp the rim and pull himself over. His hand trembled as the steel bit into his foot. He pulled harder, willing his weakened muscles to work.
He grasped the edge, hoisted his leg over, and managed to pull his body into the small space where the missile controls and warhead would go. The joint ring around the rim gave him a small bit of cover, but who would even look up here?
He let the hook go, watching it swing back and forth until its momentum was spent. He curled his back against the steel plate, keeping as much of his body out of sight as possible. Given how thin he’d become, it wasn’t difficult.
He tried to rest, but lying atop a large canister of liquid oxygen and another of alcohol was less than comforting. He listened for footsteps and was rewarded by the click of bootheels on stone within minutes.
“Come out. We know you’re hiding. Come out now! The charges are set, and we will seal the tunnels in thirty minutes! Come out! Save yourselves!” He didn’t recognize the voice. He didn’t believe the voice either.
Two hours, Ehrlich had said. Anton tried to gauge the passage of time, but in the silence of the tunnel it was impossible. When he thought it was safe, he stood and looked in each direction. No movement, no sound.
He tied the rope to a pipe running along the ceiling above him. Then he tossed it over the side, near the wall, hopefully out of sight. He wrapped a rag around each palm and grasped the rope, letting himself slide down. One clog fell off and clattered to the ground. He retrieved it as soon as he descended, straining to listen for approaching footsteps.
Nothing.
He moved carefully through the tunnel, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the wall, hiding behind crates and abandoned equipment. Twenty yards from his workbench, he melted into the darkness behind a storage cabinet. No need to announce his presence. Ehrlich seemed aboveboard, but there was no reason to take chances. No reason to rush.
“Halt!”
It was Kunz.
“Halt, or I’ll shoot, you bastard!”
Anton was in shock. Was Kunz talking to him? How could he know?
“Scharführer, I was returning to my office. I forgot some important papers.” It was Ehrlich. He hadn’t been careful enough, but he was playing the hand he was left with well.
“You haven’t been seen anywhere,” Kunz said. “Richter sent me to root you out. He knew you’d hide and try to escape your duty to the Reich.”
“No, not at all,” Ehrlich said. “I will retrieve the papers and be right back.”
Anton could hear Ehrlich turn, his heels scraping against rough stone.
A shot shattered the air. Ehrlich fell forward, his head hitting the ground next to Anton’s hiding place. Ehrlich’s eyes were open, fixed on Anton. But he saw nothing. Kunz’s bullet had taken him in the back of the head.
Anton stifled a gasp. Violent death was commonplace at Dora, but one Aryan German killing another was unexpected.
Anton was sure his breathing was loud enough to alert Kunz to his presence. He worked to stay in control and keep his breaths coming in a sure and quiet pattern. Then he heard Kunz stalk off. He waited.
He waited even longer, unwilling to make the same mistake Ehrlich had. Which gave him enough time for an idea.
When he was sure no one was around, he dragged Ehrlich’s body behind the storage cabinet. He began to take the man’s clothing off. It was harder than he’d imagined. But not as hard as dressing Ehrlich in his filthy prison garb.
When he was done, Prisoner 39482 was dead.
Anton opened Ehrlich’s wallet. Correction, his wallet.
Gustav Ehrlich. A fine name. Identity card, cash, house key, everything he’d need. He cinched the belt as tight as he could. It wouldn’t do for his pants to fall down if he was stopped for a Gestapo identity check.
Next stop was the infirmary. It was near the engineers’ offices, a place for minor cuts and injuries to be patched up. Anyone seriously injured was simply shot, but it was efficient to take care of a cut finger. Anton found a roll of gauze and wrapped it around his lower face to disguise his emaciated features. He noticed a clean lab coat and switched it with Ehrlich’s, which was decorated on the back with a spray of red and gray matter.
Anton walked out of the tunnel.
The silence was eerie. Strange. He walked toward the main gate, alone. He hadn’t been alone in months, and it unnerved him. But not as much as what he found at the parade ground.
Bodies. Dozens. Hundreds. The prisoners who were left behind, mowed down by machine guns. Spent shell casings glittered in the sun, displayed in arcs marking the firing positions of the killers.
Anton looked away. He had to steel himself, to remember, but not become overwhelmed. He needed strength, the strength of spirit as well as of body. He didn’t have much of either. He walked out of the gate and into the world beyond Dora.
