Ashes (12 page)

More women, children, and the ambulatory
older men were gathered in the square. Wolfram guessed there were
maybe a thousand. A dozen reservists from the Third platoon each
selected a single person from the assemblage. They urged the Jews
toward the forest, one of the policemen sticking a bayonet tip into
the back of his charge.

Lieutenant Von Offhen, leader of the Third
platoon, flagged down Wolfram. “This is going too slowly.”

“
How far into the woods are
they taking them?”

“
A half
kilometer.”

A fusillade of shots sounded in the distance.
Wails arose from a few of the women, causing the infants to renew
their cries. The Jews’ composure of the early morning was fading as
the July heat settled in and realization unvelveted its claws.

“
You have a guard for each
Jew,” Wolfram said. “But none are attempting to flee.”

“
It gives the men a chance
to rest. The shooting is—mentally exhausting.”

“
They’ll be more exhausted
if we have to continue this into the night, working by the
headlights of trucks.”

“
There’s another problem.
The forest trail is already becoming cluttered with bodies.
Maneuvers are difficult.”

“
Try this. Use only two
guards to escort each group of Jews. The others can reload and be
ready when the group arrives. Start at the farthest end of the
trail so that each succeeding trip is shorter.”

Von Offhen’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure the
men will like it. Especially those doing the shooting.”

Wolfram thought of Scherr’s pink, joyful
face. “Let anyone who wants to be relieved come down and watch the
square. I’ve no doubt there will be plenty who will take their
places.”

Though they were of equal rank, Von Offhen
saluted and went to implement the suggestions. Efficiency, Wolfram
thought. It all comes down to a question of efficiency.

The day wore on, in an endless parade of Jews
and a cavalcade of rifle shots. Wolfram went from the square to the
train station, where Drukker and Wassen shared a canteen. When
Wolfram got close, he smelled the alcohol.

“
Cognac,” Drukker said,
offering the canteen. “A gift from the Polish Catholic
priest.”

Wolfram declined the drink. “See if the Poles
have enough for all the men on duty. A cheap price for having their
dirty work done.”

Drukker hurried off, a bit wobbly.

Wolfram lit a cigarette. “What will you write
to your family tonight, Private Wassen?”

“
I think I’ll write fiction
tonight.”

Wolfram’s laugh turned into a smoke-induced
hack. “I think we all will. And I pity us for the dreams we’ll
suffer.”

Wassen appeared uncomfortable, hearing such
things from an officer. Wolfram wondered if any of the men would
report him for erratic behavior. Besides Scherr, none of them had a
chance of promotion if Wolfram were declared unfit for duty. He
saluted the poet and said, “It’s a question of efficiency.”

Wolfram took a circuitous route through the
forest. He came upon the first bodies several hundred feet from
where the firing squads were now at work. They all lay face down,
most bearing a single bullet wound to the top of the neck. Some, no
doubt the victims of reluctant or inattentive shooters, had the
tops of their skulls blown off, and bits of blood, bone, and brain
pocked the carpet of leaves.

It was evening, and he knew he should make an
appearance for the benefit of morale. He followed the trail, bodies
girding its length on both sides where the Jews had willingly and
tacitly participated in their own deaths. In some ways, the Jews
were even more efficient than their killers, as if they were in a
hurry to help.

The nearest group of shooters was comprised
of members of Wolfram’s platoon. Kleinschmidt recognized him and
lifted a tired arm in greeting. He appeared drunk. The priest must
have had a good supply of cognac.

“
Herr
Oberleutnant
,” the corporal shouted, nearly
as jolly as Scherr had been earlier. “We are doing good work
now.”

“
There are only eight in
your squad,” Wolfram said.

“
Some of the men became sick
after only a couple of rounds. Scherr relieved them.”

As Wolfram watched, another group of Jews was
led along the trail. Von Offhen had bettered Wolfram’s suggestion
and now used only one guard to march each group to the woods.
“Down,” Kleinschmidt bellowed. “Filthy Jew pigs.”

The ten Jews, all but two of them women, fell
onto their hands and knees, then prone onto their stomachs. Some of
them held hands with the persons beside them. Wolfram noticed that
when the echo of the shots died away, the forest was eerily
quiet.

“
Aim,” Kleinschmidt ordered,
and the squad placed the tips of their bayonets at the bases of the
skulls of the Jews in front of them. “Fire.”

The two Jews on the end, one a boy of about
four, the other a gray-haired woman wearing a cowl, had to wait for
two policemen to reload. The boy wore a small Dutch cap similar to
the one Wolfram had given his son Karl for Christmas. The boy
whimpered while the old woman tried to calm him with what Wolfram
believed must be some kind of prayer. Whether her words asked God
for mercy or for a swift death, he couldn’t tell. Hebrew was a
crude, inferior language and any god worth knowing wouldn’t abide
such a tongue.

The nearest two shooters touched the tips of
their bayonets to the assigned victims. The boy’s cap was blown off
as the bullet demolished his skull. The old woman’s shot wasn’t
immediately fatal, and she flopped on the ground for a moment as if
suffering a severe electrical shock.

“
Inefficient,” Wolfram said,
though he kept his own Luger holstered. A stream of guttural Hebrew
spilled from her throat, a demonic, animal howl. Finally she lay
still.

Scherr came along with the next group of
Jews. He had apparently assigned himself to guard duty rather than
participate in further shooting. His hands shook and his eyes were
wide and bloodshot.

“
How many more in the
village square?” Wolfram asked

“
Fewer than fifty,” Scherr
said.

“
We’ll be done before dark.
Hermannsbiel will be pleased.”

“
Good,” Scherr said. “I
don’t want to be here at night.”

“
The night is an ally,”
Wolfram said. “In the darkness, all things are hidden.”

Scherr gave an uneasy glance into the growing
gloom, then trotted back to the village. Wolfram paced the trail,
encouraging the men, reminding them of the rations waiting back at
the barracks after their duty was finished. The priest had plenty
more to drink, he told them.

By now, nearly the full
length of the trail was lined with dead Jews. The bodies were no
longer bodies
;
they
were merely dark shapes on the shadowy forest floor. Occasionally
one of the shapes would moan and lift a limb, but among the trees,
who could tell flesh from wood?

Once the marketplace was empty and the Jewish
quarters were quiet, a few Poles ventured into the streets. Wolfram
appointed a detail to stand guard in case any stray Jews had been
hiding and attempted to flee in the night, then ordered the rest of
the platoon back to the station. He took a final walk along the
twilit forest trail. He needed to own this memory, though he knew
the reservists would speak little of it. A day’s work well
done.

He came upon a figure standing on the trail,
a darker silhouette against the sunset-dappled forest. It was a boy
wearing a small Dutch cap.

“
Juden
?” Wolfram asked.

“
Ja
,” the boy said, and for a moment, the voice sounded like his
son Karl’s, who was probably now asleep, nestled against his
mother’s nightgown in a soft bed back in Hamburg.

Wolfram fumbled for his Luger, swallowing,
the air thick with the wet-fur smell of blood and loam.
Hermannsbiel had been quite clear. No survivors.

He drew the pistol, though it was heavy in
his hand. A leader should never ask his men to do what he was
unwilling to do himself.

He pointed the Luger at the boy, who still
hadn’t moved.

If only the boy would run, Wolfram could
finish it.

But the boy didn’t run. Instead, he moved
toward Wolfram, feet making no sound in the leaves. Wolfram stood
aside as the boy passed, accompanied by a cool breeze from the wind
that rattled dead leaves. A last stray beam of sunlight pierced the
canopy and shone on the boy’s cap, revealing a single bullet hole
in the wool.

Wolfram holstered his weapon as the boy
merged with the gathering darkness.

Later, at the barracks, he availed himself of
the priest’s cognac. He sat down at a small table and in the
midnight glow of a candle, he filed his full report for the
day:

July 12, 1942. Jozefow, Poland

Third Company, Reserve Police Battalion 101,
was given cold rations of sausage, bread, marmalade, and butter. In
the future, please note that cold rations do not hold up well in
the summer heat. Jewish resettlement actions continued. No special
incidents occurred.

Wolfram lit a Turkish cigarette and watched
the smoke rise from the glowing red tip toward the flickering
ceiling of the barracks, then out into the deepest and blackest
places of the world.

###

WORK IN PROGRESS

The cutting was the most demanding.

During his career as an artist, John Manning
had sliced glass, trimmed paper, chipped granite, chiseled wood,
shaved ice, and torched steel. Those materials were nothing
compared to flesh. Flesh didn't always behave beneath the tool.

And bone might has well have been marble, for
all its delicacy and stubbornness. Bone refused shaping. Bone
wanted to splinter and curl, no matter how light John's touch on
the hammer.

How did you build yourself alive?

Bit by bit.

Karen on the wall was a testament to that.
Because Karen never lied.

And was never finished, an endless work in
progress.

So building himself had become a mission from
God. John knew from his time at college that art required
suffering. He'd suffered plenty, from no job to canceled grants to
broken fingers to Karen's last letter. His art had not improved,
though he'd faithfully moved among the various media until his
studio was as cluttered as a crow's nest.

He crushed out his cigarette and studied the
portrait. Much of it had been done from memory. The painting had
grown so large and oppressive in his mind that it assumed capital
letters and became The Painting.

When he'd started it three years ago, the
memory had flesh and was in the same room with him. Now he had to
stagger through the caves of his brain to find her and demand she
undress and model. And she had been so elusive lately.

Karen.

Her letter lay in a slot of his sorting
shelf, just above a cluster of glass grapes. The paper had gone
yellow, and rock dust was thick across its surface. If he opened
the letter and read it, maybe she would come out of the smoky caves
inside his skull. Except then he'd have to finish The Painting.

Looking out the window was easier, and had a
shorter clean-up period. Painting had been foolish anyway. Every
stroke was wrong. When he needed a light touch, he cut a fat swath.
When he needed bold colors, he bled to mud.

He was born to sculpt, anyway. And now that
he had the perfect subject, his frustrations could fall away. The
anger and passion and sickness and hatred could go into the new
work in progress and not poison his brain any longer. No more
dallying with oil and charcoal, no more dancing with acrylics. That
was a dilettante's daydream, and the dream was over.

Because this was real.

This was the most important moment in the
history of art.

This was The Living Painting.

Except the materials didn't cooperate. Not
Cynthia nor Anna and not Sharon in the trunk of his Toyota.

Life was a work in progress. Nothing was
sacred. Art was a work in progress. Nothing was sacred.

If you rearranged the letters of "sacred,"
you got "scared."

John had not been scared when he asked
Cynthia to be his material. Cynthia was a work in progress. Cynthia
was an artist. Cynthia was art.

The body beneath the canvas in the corner of
John's studio dripped.

John wondered if the blood would seep between
the cracks in the floor and then through the ceiling of the used
bookstore below. Even if it did, no one would notice for months.
His studio was above the Classics, a section almost as long-dead as
the authors themselves. Proof that even when you created something
for the ages, the ages could care less.

So all that was left was pleasing himself.
Envisioning perfection, and striving for it. Pushing his hands and
heart to match his mind's strange hope.

He lifted the razor and was about to absolve
himself of failure forever when the knock came at the door.

The studio was a shared space. John loathed
other human beings, and other artists in particular, but his lack
of steady income had forced him to join five others in renting the
makeshift gallery. They were drawn together by the same fatalistic
certainty of all other dying breeds.

Knock, knock.

And the knock came again. Some people didn't
take "no answer" for an answer.

One of the five must have knocked. Probably
wanted to chat about art. Not like they had anything better to do.
John threw a spattered sheet of canvas over the corner of the room
and went to the door.