The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (3 page)

     At the bottom of the slope, around where the train had stopped, twenty or thirty heavy trucks were parked, their beds covered with canvas. Fifty or so men, mere skeletons in striped uniforms, sat numbly in the snow or moved back and forth swinging arms in a vain effort to keep warm while half a dozen guards watched listlessly.

     Prisoners.

     Why would the Germans bring him and the other four men from Auschwitz when they already had prisoners here?

     His question was partially answered when he was hustled out of the Mercedes and into what had been the train station. Instead of benches for waiting passengers, machines hummed, IBM punch-card machines identical to those Solomon had left behind.

     The
Sturmbannführer
was smiling, the first hint of levity Solomon had seen on his face. "Is like home,
nicht whar
?"

     Solomon nodded, still unsure he was really seeing what his eyes told him he was.

     Another man, this one in civilian clothes, came over and whispered to the German before addressing Solomon in unaccented Polish. "I am Sabanski."

     He bowed slightly as he handed Solomon a business card. Watson Business Machines, 24 Murnerstrasee, Krakow.

     Solomon vaguely remembered from before the war that Thomas J. Watson was the president of IBM's Polish subsidiary. He shoved the card into his pocket, wondering if the American company had any idea of how their marvelous machines were being used.

     More darkly, did they care?

     Sabanski continued. "I'm here to help the Germans set up an inventory and catalog the goods being delivered for storage. I am told you understand the use and maintenance of the equipment."

     "I've worked with it," Solomon said tersely.

     Sabanski took him by the shoulder. "Good, good. For all their efficiency, I'm having no luck teaching the Germans here how to use the machines. That's why I asked for you."

     Solomon stopped and faced the Pole. "Asked for me?"

     Sabanski smiled and shook his head. "Not by name. I asked if they had anyone who understood the system enough to help explain it to, to . . ." He looked around making sure no one was listening. "These blockheads. They are all well and fine when doing something they understand or obeying precise orders. But learning something new . . . well, I'd as soon try to teach a dog to dance."

     "But, but, you're helping the German war effort," Solomon spluttered.

     "War effort?" Sabanski shrugged. "What war? It is over for Poland.
Better the Germans than the Russians. There is nothing to do now but make a living."

     Solomon shook his head. "But if the Germans lose?"

     Sabanski put his hand back on Solomon's shoulder. "Best not to speak of such things. Better to work with the Germans than face the alternative like the stupid Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto, eh? But then, the Jews are always causing one problem or another. Poland is better free of them, eh?"

     For the first time, Solomon was self-conscious about
not
having the Star of David on his blouse. Now he understood why he had been allowed a shower, a change of clothes. To make him inoffensive to some Polish bigot. Not that anti-Semitism was rare in Poland; it was not. However, most Poles usually made an effort to keep quiet about it.

     "Now," Sabanski said, leading Solomon to a desk, "here are the codes we will be using . . ."

     Half an hour later, Solomon at least somewhat understood what was going on. The Germans were categorizing and storing four types of inventory, simply coded with an A, B, C, or D. Each specific item bore a number, say, A-16. Once so coded, another code was added denoting location. Each individual unit was to have a card with the information punched into it so that the machine could locate number C-124/zg instantly.

     Exactly what he was making an inventory of was not explained nor did it need to be. Solomon only punched the cards according to the lists he was furnished.

     That night he learned what he was actually doing.

     Solomon, the Gypsy, Rastum, and the other Jew, a Berliner named Rosenblum, shared a small upstairs room in what had been the station-master's cottage. There was no sign of the two Russians. The single large bed was comfortable, actually had a mattress. Though there was no stove, heat from downstairs wafted up along with the smell of the roasted pork that had been supper for them and their German guards. Solomon had no qualms about eating the flesh of pigs; meat was to be consumed on whatever rare occasion it became available, no matter what its source. Rats, for example, had become almost extinct at Auschwitz regardless of the Jewish dietary laws.

     Surely God had more important things to worry about these days.

     Rosenblum's scruples were more inflexible. He had made a meal of the
potatoes and cabbage, leaving his portion of the roast untouched until the Gypsy had helped himself.

     Had the three held any illusions about supper and the comfortable quarters, about any inherent
Gemütlichkeit
, the sound of the lock turning as they entered the room and the footsteps of the pacing guard outside dispelled them. Solomon started to complain of the filthy, ragged, and unwashed state of his bedmates. Then, with revulsion, he realized they were no dirtier nor more lice ridden than he had been only a few days ago.

     He was drifting off to sleep when the man next to him, the Gypsy, asked, "What did you do today?"

     The man had turned so that the cheap wooden cross he always wore around his neck was poking Solomon's shoulder. A mere trinket not worth the Germans' policy of confiscating personal items, he never took it off.

     Solomon was not interested in conversation. Besides, the question was so banal as to not be worth answering.

     "I sorted and appraised jewels, silver and gold," Rastum persisted. "Loose jewels as well as rings, bracelets, necklaces, silver dishes, and eating utensils. Much of the gold was wedding rings; some was gold teeth."

     No doubt where the last two had come from, Solomon though bleakly.

     "Before the war, I was the largest Roma jeweler in Eastern Europe."

     And look where that got you.

     There was movement on the far side of the bed. In the dim light from the cracks around the door, Solomon could see Rosenblum sitting up.

     "I was an art and antiques dealer before the war, Berlin's finest. They had me looking at art today. Rembrandts, Vermeers, Van Eycks, as well as impressionists like Monet, Manet, Renoir, even a single Van Gogh. Millions of reichsmarks' worth."

     "And I thought the Impressionists had been declared 'degenerate' by our beloved Fuhrer," Rastum sneered.

     "Degenerate or not, those paintings are worth a lot," Rosenblum sniffed.

     "Wait a minute." Solomon was also sitting up. "Tell me, did you mark each item with a code, a letter and number?"

     "According to our hosts," the Gypsy snorted, "we
Untermenschen
aren't smart enough for such a difficult task. I did, however, note that after I appraised each item, its value was written down beside a number prefixed by a letter."

     And the information on those lists is what I am translating into punched holes on cards, Solomon thought.

     There had been rumors in the camp, the only news prisoners had, talk of defeat in the East, huge Russian victories. The number of new Russian prisoners had certainly diminished and every guard under forty had been replaced by older men. Gossip also had it that the Allies, the English, Americans, and Canadians, had succeeded in an invasion across the English Channel and were making their way across the occupied countries. Could the Germans be hiding their looted treasure for safekeeping?

     The thought ignited a feeling Solomon did not at first recognize. It had been so long since he had experienced it, he thought it had died long ago. A tiny, flickering and fragile thing called hope.

A Week Later

T
HE SNOW HAD STOPPED THAT MORNING
and a weak sun was spreading pale butter light outside the window next to where Solomon was finishing the last of the cards. He had not seen his two roommates for the last three days and assumed, tasks finished, they had been transferred to some other camp. At least that was what the guard at the bedroom door had said. A Bavarian, the man actually approached being civil in brief conversations, showed Solomon pictures of his chubby wife and fat baby. The man even shared an occasional cigarette from his small ration. A couple of puffs, enough to make Solomon lightheaded as he inhaled tobacco for the first time in years. Gratz, Corporal Wilhelm Gratz. If Solomon survived long enough, he would find
Herr
Corporal Gratz and thank him for showing him the only kindness Solomon had seen since leaving Poland.

     Although Solomon felt a little guilty at having the bed to himself, he could not bring himself to miss the cacophonous snoring or the Gypsy's wry comments that, if overheard, were likely to put an end to the luxury the three of them had shared.

     "All done?" Sabanski was looking over his shoulder.

     Solomon stepped back from the hole-punching machine. "Finally."

     "Now what?"

     It was a question Solomon had avoided even thinking about. For the first time in two—or was it three?—years, he had slept in a warm, soft
bed and had had enough food to keep the gnawing worm of hunger out of his belly.

     The first day here, he had eaten so much he vomited most of it, as his shrunken stomach convulsed with all the pains of hell. Over the next few days, he had managed to control the impulse to cram every crumb he could find into his mouth. By now, he could eat a decent meal without ill effect. He had become accustomed to bedclothes other than the filthy, lice-ridden blanket.

     Going back to the camps would be worse than when he first entered Auschwitz. This time he knew what to expect.

     He leaned back in his chair, looking up the mountain. There was no outer perimeter of wire here, no dead zone, either. At Auschwitz, escape had been impossible. At least in winter. Even if you made it through the wires, the cold would kill you before the dogs hunted you down.

     But now Solomon had a coat.

     And he had seen no dogs here, either, although he had heard barking. At least they were not on constant patrol.

     Solomon stood, stretching. "I've got to go to the WC. Something in that food last night really screwed with my stomach."

     Sabanski nodded sympathetically. "They serve us shit here, food they wouldn't dare put on the table in Krakow."

     Unless you are a Jew.

     The toilet was at the far end of the former train station. Solomon made sure the door closed noisily before opening it again and looking back at Sabanski. The Pole was holding a magnifying glass up to a stack of cards.

     Solomon closed to the door quietly and slipped outside. Other than men working on the mountaintop, no one was to be seen. The distance was too great for him to be recognized from up there.

     Now where?

     Obviously going up to where work was going on was not wise.

     The town?

     No, the little group of houses was so small it would take only minutes to find out if anyone had seen him and he certainly was not going to rely on anyone risking their life for a Jew.

     Downhill. Sooner or later he would find a town or city large enough to hide in. But he would have to move quickly, get away before his absence was noted. Giving the settlement a wide berth, he half slid, half climbed
through snowdrifts that reached his knees. His great coat did nothing to protect his feet in their paper slippers. His toes were soon numb.

     A few toes were a small price to pay to avoid going back to the camps.

     He had been traveling only a few minutes when he came upon what he guessed was a road, although he couldn't be sure because of the snow. A few more minutes and trees began to dot the slopes.

     He was walking carefully, aware a fall could mean a twisted ankle or broken bone, a death sentence here, when he heard a shout echoing down the slope. Had his escape been discovered? Seconds later he heard the growl of an engine. A search party?

     He abandoned the road, track, whatever it was, and slipped into the trees. He had not gone far when he came upon something he did not understand. Black dirt and snow were mixed in a mound almost as tall as his head. He climbed up and looked down into a shallow trench.

     At first he didn't know what he was seeing. Twisted shapes, one melding into another, blurred by a blanket of snow that, in places, was brown rather than white. Then he made out a hand, a human hand stretched upward as though in final supplication to a merciless God. Next to it, the upper torso of a man, his face frozen and unrecognizable in a final shriek of terror.

     There was no mistaking the crude wooden cross hanging around the dead man's neck, however.

     
A mere trinket.

     Solomon had seen a harvest of death in the last few years, more bodies than mounds of potatoes in a peasant's field at harvest time. But this unfinished burial ground put a final period, an end, to any hope of surviving. No worker here was going to return to any camp.

     Including him.

     He was unsure when he started running, aware only of his own ragged breath and the whisper of snow under feet no longer able to feel. The air was so cold it burned his straining lungs. He only knew that survival lay downhill, away from the station at Oberkoenigsburg and its cog railway. At some point he became aware of shouts and the snap of pine branches behind him. He hunched his shoulders in anticipation of the shot that would end the chase. At the same time, he fought the temptation to stop in his tracks, to stand still and end it all here. An unmarked ditch in a quiet Alpine forest was a better resting place than he would get at the camps. At least here the
air was cleansed by the cold and smelled only of pine, instead of the stench of human waste. And without the greasy black soot that, along with an occasional bone, was all the furnaces, the crematories, left of human souls.