Chapter Twelve: Final Destination
July 4, 1940
"Where do you think we are now," asked Louis.
Peter looked down on his right, where Louis had fallen asleep against him. It was early in the morning, but everyone had lost track of time. Peter shrugged. "Dunno. We could be anywhere. It looks all the same to me."
"'Ave you been awake long," asked Louis.
"About an 'our," answered Peter. "The sun will be risin' in a few more or less."
"I 'ope not," said Louis. "The night is better in this car. It is not as 'ot."
"Oui, oui to that," replied Peter with a scoff.
Louis smiled and straightened up, so that he leaned against the wall beside Peter. "Are you okay?"
Peter looked at the Frenchman. "I'm fine. Well other than bein' a prisoner o' war an' bein' shipped around like a ruddy cow, I'm doin' fine. Why?"
"You just look sad," observed Louis.
"Well, I am," stated Peter. "That falls under bein' a prisoner o' war an' bein' shipped around like a ruddy cow."
"Okay, besides that," said Louis.
Peter shot him an annoyed glare. "Wot d'you want? Are you okay?"
"Non," said Louis. "I am not. You know why? Because I wonder what will become of all of us when we get to wherever we are going. I am scared because I am sure we will all be separated, and I worry that if I lose anymore friends, then I will give up."
"You," asked Peter, sounding worried. "You wouldn't give up."
"'Ow do you know," asked Louis. "Are you some kind of psychic Nazi?"
"No," answered Peter, trying to control his voice. "But I know you. And you wouldn't give up. You're stronger than anyone I've know. Well, maybe me Mum. But wot I mean is, you've never given up before, wot would make you give up now?"
"Being separated from you, Luke, Marcel, and Stephen," answered Louis in a strained voice. It sounded much more strained in the whispers they were keeping their voices at.
"That would stop you," asked Peter, sounding astounded. "Look, if that's wot stops you than you're weaker than I thought. Listen, we probably will be separated, because we're from different countries. But you'll still 'ave Marcel, and you'll both meet new people cause we sure as 'ell aren't the only POWs out there that 'ave been captured by Jerry. Also, think o' this chance you've been given. You're alive! You could very well be as dead as a ruddy doornail, lyin' out in some field in France. But for some reason, we lived. An'…well I'm not very big on purposes in life, but I know better than to throw away a chance when I've been given one. Maybe you were never given a second chance before, but this is my third, an' I ain't lettin' it get away from me."
Louis smiled, and shifted his weight some, so that he was more comfortable.
"I knew there was more," he murmured.
"More," asked Peter.
"More to you," replied Louis.
"Than wot," asked Peter accusingly.
"More than your suspicions and worry," answered Louis. "Just promise me something."
"Yea?"
"You will not give up."
There was a moment of silence.
"I promise."
"Merci. That is all I needed to hear."
***** ***** *****
Stephen woke up coughing, and he was not the only one. The conditions of the car were beginning to weigh down on some of the prisoners. By the time they were all awake, people were coughing and wheezing. The heat bore down on them the further the sun rose in the sky, and especially in the afternoon. They grew tired, even though they were not moving, and the stuffy cattle car seemed to just grow smaller and more unbearable for everyone.
Marcel gave Stephen a handkerchief, and the older Scot muffled his coughs into it. Luke would hit him on the back every now and then to help Stephen get whatever was in him out. The healthy prisoners could only watch as more of their comrades deteriorated around them.
Finally, when delirium and exhaustion was thought to overcome them all, the train began to stop. Peter was sure he would have missed it if not for the screeching of the trains' wheels. Louis had fallen asleep again, and was slouched against his shoulder. He shook him gently.
"C'mon Louie," he said, his voice hoarse. His jaw felt heavy and his tongue limp. He felt like he was learning how to talk again. "We're stoppin'." He shook Louis again, and the Frenchman's head lolled to one side, but he made no response.
"Louie?"
Peter shifted, and Louis fell into his lap. He looked a bit pale, and Peter's heart began racing. He shook Louis again. "Louie! Wake up!" He shook harder. "Please!"
Luke and Marcel looked over. "What's wrong," asked Luke.
"'E won't wake up," replied Peter, his eyes never leaving Louis. Shakily, he put two fingers to Louis's neck. He dared not breathe while he felt for a pulse. For a moment, time stopped. Then, he sighed in deep relief when he felt a steady pulse. "Okay, you're alive. Now, get up." He shook Louis harder and with more determination.
"His body is givin' up withoot the food," stated Stephen. He coughed a few times and turned his head away.
"But why," asked Peter, continuing to shake Louis. "We're all fine. Well, awake at least. An' 'e was fine earlier. I was talkin' to 'im!" He looked down at Louis determinedly. "Wake up!" He patted the Frenchman on the cheek a few times. That elicited a response. Louis's brow furrowed together and he moaned.
"Louie? Louie? C'mon, just say somethin'."
Louis gave another groan and his eyelashes fluttered open. He groggily looked up. "Que?"
"Le train a arrêté," said Marcel, quickly. He thought Louis would understand the situation better in his native language.
Louis frowned and slowly sat up. Peter helped him, and Louis looked at the Englishman with confusion. "You said that?"
Peter's eyebrows rose up in surprise. "Me? No. That was Marcel."
Louis nodded and rubbed his eyes. "I thought maybe a miracle 'appened."
Luke, Marcel, and Stephen laughed, which sent Stephen into a coughing fit. Peter scowled at first, but then smiled when Louis smiled at him. "Sorry, mate. No miracles today."
"We are alive," said Louis, looking at Peter pointedly.
Peter smiled. "Yea, we are, aren't we?"
The cattle car door slid open. "Raus! Raus! Schnell!"
"I'm goin' to take a wild stab at that, an' say they want us to get out o' this train quickly," said Peter, whilst glaring at the guards outside.
"Correct," exclaimed Marcel. "Someone get this man a 'undred dollars!"
Some of the men chuckled as they began getting out of the train. It was slow moving, despite the guards' calls. The sunlight was hard on their eyes which were used to the dim light of the cattle car. Outside, their legs felt wobbly for not having been used in four days. Some of the sicker men needed to be guided away from the train, and leaned heavily against their comrades.
Peter and Louis and their group were one of the last ones out, since they had been against the opposite wall. Marcel helped Stephen out who was coughing at every quick motion he made. Luke youthfully jumped out as if he had never been cooped up. Peter helped Louis out. When Louis hit the ground, he started swaying. Peter instantly grabbed both of Louis's shoulders and guided him from the train.
The station they had come to belonged to a good-sized town. It was laid out in the center of the valley. When the train moved, they could see right to down the main street from the platform. The civilians in the town were trying to go on with their daily lives without noticing the prisoners. Some glanced over as they walked around the streets, and others simply turned their back. The town was rather quiet for its size, and there was a somber, almost depressed mood that hovered in the air. Swastikas hung around the town, but there were not very many Nazi guards among the townspeople. The ratio between civilians and Nazis was unbalanced.
Peter walked up beside Luke, who was looking at the ticket booth of the train station. Hanging over it was a sign with town's name on it.
"Bye-el-skee," sounded out Luke slowly. "Bielski, Bielski!"
"Sehr gut."
Peter, Louis, and Luke spun around. Hauptmann Haussler was smiling coldly at the trio. He took a step forward, and Peter immediately pulled Louis closer to him. The Frenchman did not protest.
"Your pronunciation was correct," said Haussler. He ignored Peter's actions and took a step closer to Luke. Luke subtly inched closer to Peter.
"It doesn't sound German," said Luke softly.
"It is not," replied Haussler. "This is Bielski, Poland. The POW camp that you will be living in is not far from here."
"Okay," said Luke. He shot a nervous glance at Peter, who was glaring straight at Haussler. Haussler eventually took his observant eyes off Luke and shifted them to Peter.
"Not happy with me Engländer," he asked. "Even though I fed you in Nürnberg?"
"You couldn't 'ave us all killed," said Peter. "Your superiors would be rather angry, no? We're protected by the Geneva Convention."
"Not yet," retorted Haussler sharply. "You were never registered. Therefore, your life meant nothing to anyone while we journeyed here. You are correct in that my superior officer would not have been happy to have no prisoners arrive here in good shape. You will become great workers. But, there is no one looking for you Obergefreiter. You could be dead or captured, no one knows. And until we reach that camp, anything can happen to you. I would watch your mouth or I just might get tired of it a bit too soon for your liking."
For a long, tense moment, Peter and Haussler just stared eye-to-eye at one another, each trying to glare the other one down. Louis was looking back and forth between the both of them waiting for someone to make a move. He was sure Peter would be shot right there. Louis winced as Peter squeezed his shoulders tightly.
"Well, besides all that, I never dreamed I'd be in Poland one day," said Luke suddenly. "I mean, from England, it seems so far away, like another world. I've always wanted to leave England and go off on my own for a bit, just travel Europe, and then maybe America. Now this wasn't exactly how I planned it to be, but at least I'm here."
Peter, Louis, and Haussler all looked at Luke as if the young man had just grown another head. Louis could not have been happier. At least the tight tension between Peter and Haussler had been broken. Haussler just scoffed and stomped off, bellowing orders for the prisoners to be organized into formation.
When Haussler was gone, Louis thumped Luke on the back. "You were great, mon ami!"
"Thanks, old man," said Luke, with a woozy smile. "Because I feel like I'm about to fall over."
Peter rolled his eyes, but any remark was cut off by Marcel pulling him into formation.
"You guys are going to get yourselves killed," he said. "Get in line et fermez la bouche."
They all obeyed Marcel, who after satisfied in seeing them in line, went back to helping Stephen stand up as he continued to cough into the handkerchief. Peter placed Louis beside him, where he could keep an eye on him in case things began to go ill again.
The guards began to count them, and it was soon found out that of the men who had boarded the train four days ago, six had died. Some prisoners worried about those who were looking sickly, and wondered if the death count would raise any before their final destination. Peter, Louis, and Luke were apparently the only ones who knew that the final destination was not far. Still, they wondered how long another trek on foot would really be. Peter was beginning to wonder as to whether or not he would even make it. No doubt Haussler really would like to get rid of him in the end.
But like he had made Louis promise, he would not give up.
After the prisoners were counted, and recounted, and recounted again, they were divided into officers and noncoms. The prisoners had known this was coming as well. Officers were meant for an Oflag camp. Unfortunately, the officers found themselves boarding the train again. However, they were handed some bread and water canteens as they boarded. There was some comfort at that. The noncoms watched them get on, as they were counted again. Captain Lawrence turned back once, and he spotted Peter in the crowd. He just nodded in an affirmative good-bye and gave him an encouraging smile. Peter smiled and nodded back, offering his own 'good luck' to the officer. The officers finished boarding, and then the train rolled out. After a final count, the noncoms were finally marched off from the train station and out of town.
Though it was hard to believe, this march was almost harder than the first one. The train ride had made many of the men sick. Before, you were wounded and dropped, but the sickness was something more to overcome because after making it this far, no one wanted to give up. They were convincing themselves they could make it. The plus side was that the prisoners had grown closer, and were watching out for one anther more. When they had tried to do this in the march across France, the guards had been pushy. Now, they were more lenient and were ready to be rid of the prisoners. So, if something made the march go faster, they were okay with it.
The area around Bielski was mainly farms. Off in the distance, someone spotted a factory. They were in a valley, with hills or small mountains around them. Eventually, as the day neared dusk, some clouds began to roll in, and it appeared that rain may be in their future. The prisoners prayed for it; they were convinced that at least one drop of water would save them.
Then, they spotted the camp. It was quite a depressing place to behold. It was a large area; quite a few acres at least. Two sets of barbed wire ran around the perimeter of the camp. Between the two fences were guards with dogs. Outside the wire were towers about every thirty yards. In each tower there were beacons, unlit now because the sun was still out, and also guards manning .50 caliber machine guns. Inside the camp, there were rows and rows of barracks. They were lined up around one large area, a compound that was empty at the moment. From what the prisoners could see, there were another two fences that ran through the middle of the camp as some sort of division line. In between the two fences, guards and dogs patrolled the no-man's land and intimidating towers with guards looking down on both compounds. There were three larger buildings spotted that seemed to be in a neutral zone of the camp. From one, smoke rose up, and one could catch the smell of something cooking. It made the prisoners' mouths water. Finally, there were another two buildings that were set off from the main two compounds. One seemed to be a large barracks of sorts, and another was an administrative building.
When the camp came into view, the prisoners' pace grew steadily. They were eager to finally stop. They marched about a hundred yards closer, and then Haussler called for a halt. He conversed with some of his men, and then sent two ahead. Then, he looked to the prisoners.
"Get into two lines on either side of the road," he commanded. "French on one side, and the English on the other!"
There was some confusion at first, and Haussler went on to give his orders in French. Then, the prisoners began to separate themselves, some reluctantly, such as Peter and Louis.
"We'll be in the same camp," offered Peter hopefully.
Louis smiled. "Oui. Take care of yourself Pierre. I do not want to 'ear anything."
"You too, Louie," said Peter. "You and Marcel take care o' one another."
"We will," assured Marcel. He shook Peter's hand, as well as Stephen's and Luke's. Louis did the same, and gave Peter a brief and awkward hug.
"It was good 'aving you around for all that traveling," said Louis at last.
"Yea, you too," replied Peter awkwardly. "Just be careful."
They finally parted ways, and went to their respective sides of the street. Once everyone was silent, Haussler had them march ahead to the gates. He remained in the middle of the road, and watched them march by. He seemed to be surveying them as one would survey a machine as it rolled out to go out and do its job.
Suddenly, Peter was yanked out of line. He was spun around, and was not surprised to find Haussler's hand gripping his collar, and the muzzle of a pistol in his face.
"Non!"
Peter looked away and saw Louis trying to turn around and come to Peter. But a guard grabbed him and pushed him along. Marcel clung to Louis as well, but shook his fist at Haussler.
"Vous êtes un monstre!" A guard pushed him on as well, and gave him a smack in the head.
"Please don't hurt him," begged Luke, as he was forced on. He distracted him by putting an arm around Stephen's shoulders as the Scot went into another coughing fit.
As they went one, Haussler looked at Peter with a smug smile. "Your friends are very concerned, are they not?" When Peter did not answer, his smile disappeared quickly. "On your knees," he hissed. Peter did not move but just glared at Haussler. Haussler suddenly punched Peter in the gut, and then in the jaw as Peter doubled over. Had it been a time when he was healthy and ready to fight, that blow would not have knocked him to his knees. But he was hardly at his healthiest, and sudden exhaustion took over, so he collapsed to his knees, finding it easier to do that than anything else. Peter looked up tiredly—yet defiantly—at Haussler.
"That all you got…sir," he asked bitterly.
Haussler cocked the gun. The last of the prisoners went by, with the guards practically dragging them along by now. Even as they all walked on, though, the prisoners all had their eyes turned to Peter and Haussler in the middle of the road. Haussler put the gun right over Peter's forehead.
"You have been a nuisance the entire road, Engländer," spat Haussler. "I should have ended your life when you killed my man in that cellar. I should have shot you for treason because you worked with those partisans. Still, you were a prisoner, and I thought I had to protect you. Then, you stole those potatoes. I beat you to nothing, but you surprised me, and recovered. I should have shot you in the barn that morning, and never have given you the chance to survive. You see, I wanted to toy with you, because I was so sure you would die that day. But you did not. Then, I was ready to shoot you in place of some French prisoner who had made a desperate escape. But once again, there was surprise, in your friends. They saved you, and the others. Still, I should have shot you, out of spite. You plagued me, because you would not die. I should have withheld your bread on the train, and seen how long you would last. I should have done all those things. And now, I should shoot you, just because I can, and for all of those things. But, I will not." Peter's eyes went wide with confusion. Haussler smiled, enjoying his prisoner's surprise. "You see, I am not a completely heartless man. I will not shoot you, because—though I hate to admit it—I have found respect in you, Engländer. Though you did torment me relentlessly, I found respect in you because you would not give up. You kept fighting when you never had the right to. I am a soldier as well, and I would have fought just as hard to survive if I were in your position. So—" He pulled his gun away from Peter's forehead and un-cocked it. "—I will spare you. Guten nacht, Obergefreiter." He raised his hand. "Und auf wiedersehen."
Peter gasped in shock as Haussler brought the pistol down and across his face. His head snapped back, and he hit the ground hard. The last thing he saw was the rain filled clouds above.