Z is for Zyklon B

This eight chapter story began life as part of the Alphabet Challenge over on the Numb3rs Forum.

Author: - Lisa Paris

Disclaimer: I own no fractions, atoms or particles of Numb3rs. I still really wish I owned Don.

Summary: - Some wounds will never heal - some evils are never vanquished. Based around the episode 'Provenance' using characters and issues it explored.


Z is for Zyklon B

O, Earth, cover not thou my blood,

And let my cry have no resting place.

Job 16:18


Part One

It was late afternoon in Pasadena and the sun still shone in at the window. Leaf patterns made shifting shadows and dust motes danced on the air. The house smelled of old wood and layers of polish, a sharp hint of lavender and beeswax. It was all so beloved, so familiar to him. So redolent with recollections and memories.

Don stared at his open laptop with a sigh, and leaned his shoulders back against the chair.

It must have been the same for these people. The smiling faces in the black and white photographs. Their images frozen forever in time on small pieces of celluloid. Somehow, it made it more devastating, looking at all the lost faces. They were people with lives and loved ones – with all the petty accruals of existence.

Real, they had been real.

People like him.

People like his family and friends, no longer just statistics on a page. They'd all had homes filled with memories; and personal histories, both good and bad. They'd had suitcases full of clothes and belongings, and pictures and treasured photographs. Their homes had been rich with all the trappings of life, and the pervasive and familiar scent of polish.

This was the whole intention, of course, and as a ploy it was highly effective. To inject some humanity into the statistics, and make the grimly fantastical, seem more valid.

As a number, six million was mind-boggling.

Too large to comprehend, too vast.

When he'd clicked on the database for Shoah victims names, he hadn't expected the photographs. Or the pages of testimonials from bereaved family and friends. Most were brief, all were heartbreaking. Too many were barren of detail.

Murdered at Auschwitz . . . died in the Warsaw ghetto . . . deported to the East and never returned . . .

And too often, simply, fate unknown.

For once, Don had taken the afternoon off. Or, more specifically, he'd seized an opportunity. He'd been in court most of the morning and things had finished sooner than he'd thought. Everything was reasonably quiet downtown, so he'd decided to make the most of it. He had something personal to go over. Some promises he needed to keep.

He was beginning to wish he hadn't bothered. That he'd caught up with a load of paperwork instead. It was all so – so disturbing - like the strands of a great spider's web; the horror of it slowly unravelling, with threads shooting off, left, right and centre. The sheer enormity of involvement challenged everything he'd thought about his country. The complicity, the downright collusion – dear God, it made him feel sick. None of it had made for comfortable reading, and by now, he felt splintered with emotion. The more he researched the subject matter, the more distorted and corrupt it became.

He read through the list of corporations again. Nearly all of them were well-known and familiar. Most of them were still trading today - household names, industrial giants. It was sickening - no, better make that truly frightening - the way they had built up their assets. That those blood-stained, so-called tainted companies, were multi-million dollar concerns today.

He'd never known, never realised . . .

Don felt a sudden surge of revulsion. Why hadn't they been brought to justice? Surely, when the war had ended, something ought to have been done about it?

Someone should have been held to account. Someone should have been forced to pay.

He'd put some specific music on earlier, hoping it would put him in the mood. The tempo evened out and softened, and a woman began to sing in a low voice. It was a heartbreaking combination of grief and sorrow. A Hebrew lament for the dead. Don closed his eyes for a second and let the poignant notes wash over him.

She sounded like blood and sadness.

She sounded like loss and regret.

"What's this?"

Don opened his eyes, and sat up a little straighter, as Alan entered the room. He'd been so wrapped up in melancholy, he hadn't even heard the front door. He forced himself back to the present, and gestured towards the computer. For some reason, he felt vaguely embarrassed, to be caught red-handed, wallowing like this.

"It's the soundtrack from Spielberg's Munich. Remember, we rented it last year? The massacre of the Israeli Olympic Team in 72, and how a gang of Mossad agents hunted down the perpetrators."

"I remember, it's beautiful. In Hebrew, isn't it? So very haunting and sad."

"Yeah." Don lifted the remote and switched the music off. "So sad, it's almost unbearable. I wanted to do a little research, and I thought it might help put me in the right frame of mind."

"Research?" Alan put down his bag of groceries, and came to peer over Don's shoulder. "Not that it isn't good to see you, my son, but I thought you were in court all day?"

"It was all over by lunchtime so I took the afternoon off. Thought I'd make the most of the peace and quiet, and do some work while the house was still empty."

Alan gave a kind of harrumph, but ignored any probable implication. "This research, can I ask what it's concerning, or is that some dark federal secret? And shorter and far more to the point, why do you need a Hebrew lament to put you in the right mood?"

Don sighed. "Last night, I had a call from Erika Hellman, you recall the stolen Pissarro case? She invited me around for supper, and I'm going over there later this evening. It kind of reminded me I made a few promises, promises I haven't had time to honour, and today seemed like the perfect opportunity to start putting the record straight."

"You've been back to see her several times since then. She must be one hell of a lady?"

Don swivelled sideways, and gave Alan a smile. "Right. She is. She most certainly is. Ever since we returned the Pissarro, she and I have become sort of friends. She went through so much, I respect her a lot. She has this kind of inner strength and dignity. Her grandson Joel's been in Europe on business, so I took her out to dinner once or twice."

"So," Alan gave a nod of perception. "This research you're doing – it's about the war, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Don paused. "You know, there's so much I didn't realise about allied corporate and government involvement. Good old Henry Ford, for example, both him and his son Edsel. Did you know they merged their assets with I G Farben, the German chemical company which manufactured Zyklon B? And good old Edsel remained on the board of directors even after the war had begun?"

"Zyklon B?"

"A cyanide based insecticide, or Prussic acid for short. When it's exposed to the air, the substrates evolve into gaseous hydrogen cyanide. As Zyklon B, it was made into pellets and packed into airtight cans. It was used to kill over one million people in the gas chambers of Auschwitz and Maidanek."

Alan gave a thoughtful inclination of his head. "Henry Ford was a well-known anti-Semite. Why do you think I always drove a Volvo? Now, your mother, she was passionate about it. She hated that 52 pick-up truck I inherited from my old site manager - used to call it that 'goddamned fascist machine.' Even though the war had been over for years, she was dead set against us owning a Ford. But it was back when you boys were pretty small; it was all we could afford at the time."

"Well, I hate to break it to you," Don's voice was wry. "But it wasn't just about the Ford. That V-dub, purple passion-bus, you guys used to own? Do you know how much enforced slave labour Volkswagen used during the war? Or that the company helped to make the V1 rocket bombs which went on to kill thousands of Londoners?"

Alan gave a heavy sigh. "Our purple passion-bus, as you so aptly call it? It does have a sole redeeming feature. You'd better thank your lucky stars we owned it – if we didn't, you wouldn't be here."

"Too many details," Don shuddered, theatrically. "I was conceived in the back of a hippy bus? It's kind of funny-ironic, when you consider how I turned out."

"Yes," Alan rolled his eyes, but softened the blow, by patting Don fondly on the head. "Back then, who would have known it? Two free-thinking, anti-establishmentarians – and we produced our very own little Fed." His smile faded, and he studied Don more soberly. "Don't allow yourself to get too bogged down in this, son; the truth of it will only hurt you. Something was different, back in those days. There was real evil abroad in the world. Nothing can undo all the wickedness, and it's too late to change what happened. Just thank God, it's all over. That the good guys won in the end."

"Did they?" Don shook his head a little. He still felt rather depressed. "I hope so, I really hope so, dad, but when I read through today's statistics, I'm not too convinced about that. Attacks on Jews and Jewish properties have been hitting record numbers again - not just here, but all over the world. It seems like anti-Semitism is an evil that'll never go away." He sighed. "Anyway - I sent off a couple of emails to a friend of mine over in Israel. He has contacts who can access the Yad Vashem Archive Division – you know, the Holocaust Memorial in Jerusalem. If there's any information about your mom's cousin's family, then it's likely to be in the Hall of Names records there. I feel kinda guilty I haven't done it before. I'm sorry I didn't get around to it."

Alan cleared his throat hurriedly and put a hand on Don's shoulder. "I know how busy you've been lately, Charlie and I rarely get to see you. This thing, well, it's already waited more than sixty years, I don't want you to feel under any duress."

"Hey, no duress," Don half-swivelled around in the chair, and gave Alan a smile of gratitude. "This thing - it's all about family. You know, ever since the Pissarro case, I can't forget something Erika said to me. She said; 'family is our anchor to life – we lose it and we're adrift.' And this from a woman who lost both her parents, to say nothing of six brothers and sisters. I haven't asked about her extended family, but I'm pretty sure of the answer." Don lowered his eyes with a hint of discomfiture. He hoped Alan would understand. "What she said, especially coming from her, I guess it kinda struck a chord with me."

Alan was silent for a moment and then he surprised the both of them. He tightened his grip on Don's shoulder and bent over and gave him a hug. Although they'd always hugged from time to time, they weren't exactly a touchy-feely family. It made these moments all the more precious when they actually did occur.

"It makes me so happy to hear you say this," Alan pulled away slowly. "There was a time, back before your mother got sick, when I wondered if we'd lost you for good."

"Nah," Don grinned, but his voice was husky. "Who, little old, bad penny, me? All you have to do to reel me in, is pop open a couple of cold ones. Throw a big juicy rib-eye onto the grill, and you've got me, hook, line and sinker."

"I think your brother would agree with you. In fact, he's worked out an algorithm for it. The increased probability you'll walk in through the door whenever we have steak for supper."

"Years of instinct and training," Don was glad things were getting back to normal. "And finely honed field abilities which allow me to detect you're having steak."

"Talking of which," Alan left the sentence hanging and waved his hand at the bulging grocery bag. "I'd better go put this meat in the refrigerator. And as for those abilities, finely honed, they may be . . . but as you're off to eat at Mrs Hellman's; tonight, you missed out on the steak."

TBC


NB – The Yad Vashem webpage's are inspiring and heartbreaking to read. Especially the 'Central Database of Shoah Victims' Names,' which has photographs (click on the photo for the person's history) and gives brief testimonials.

There is a mass of widely available information about Henry Ford and I G Farben. And of course, all of the other so-called 'tainted companies' (many of them chemical and pharmaceutical) still making vast profits today. I don't purport to sit in any kind of judgement here – I'm merely stating some perhaps lesser known details. I do uphold the belief that all of the truths about the Holocaust – however dark and uncomfortable they may be – should never be diminished or forgotten.

The 'Munich' soundtrack is stunning. Lisa Gerrard (of Gladiator soundtrack fame) sings a couple of laments on it which literally, make your hair stand on end.

Thanks for reading,

Lisa.