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Text and original characters copyright 2024 by Teresa Strati
Chapter Five - The Plea
Forty eight hours earlier…
Pervasive darkness engulfed them – unique in its urgency, welcoming in its seclusion. Altogether – a loss of control; of forcing sense in a world that dealt them so many foreign emotions.
It was to be a simple grab and return – one Carter and Newkirk had completed on many occasions. Out the main 'trunk' hatch tunnel into the enveloping trees and onto co-ordinated parachute drops of urgently needed supplies. Simple. And yet – not so simple.
A young man had been found, draped, semi-conscious, over the hatch of their tunnel. Initially, Newkirk thought it was a lazy German guard sitting out his patrol, but when the weight didn't shift, they had to risk it and force the opening, enough to reveal the body.
Hogan and Doc couldn't make it from the barracks to the tunnel fast enough.
They found a haggard young man seated on the tunnel floor, with his back against the wall, taking ragged breaths and muttering – whispered at first then guttural once Carter gave him a few sips of water.
Hogan crouched down next to him.
The young man accepted the tumbler with cool water from Carter, wrapping his hands around it. He nodded, ever so slightly, so as to acknowledge the kindness, then turned and looked at the men that were now around him.
He saw Newkirk and instinctively flinched. "Englander," he whispered.
Hogan tensed. The word and the accent was unmistakably German.
It wasn't lost on Newkirk. "Got yourself in a bit of a tiss, mate?"
"Englander gave his life," he blinked – as if trying to discard a painful memory, "for me."
"Who are you?" Hogan asked, a little too abrupt, seriously concerned that they may have let a German spy into their midst.
"My name?" He almost laughed. "My father gave me the name – Maximillian. A very important name; after my father's father – a very important person."
Hogan drew a quick breath. He didn't want to know about his father's father or his background. He wanted to know who he was now and how did he come across the hidden tunnel entrance. He was also aware that his men were not lost to that concern, however, they were a little more compassionate than he felt. And Maximillian sensed that urgency.
"I am – I was student at best University in Germany. My friends and I – the best students in University," he regaled, pride evident in his voice. "We published the best arguments against this war; against the devil rising."
Doc was abrupt in his medical check-up, acting like he'd misplaced his bedside manner – or, like Hogan, concerned this was all some terrible mistake made by them. If he didn't know Doc better, he'd swear Doc was performing a search.
Doc was pulling at the dirt encrusted clothing to reveal darkened bruising and more dirt mixed with blood from hard encrusted dried out scars.
"They did not like us," Maximillian continued, shrugging, ever so lightly, and giving Doc a sliver of a smile. "We upset the establishment with our literature – all free of course."
Maximillian then grabbed Doc's hand, stopping him from exposing another section of his abdomen – this one clear of mud, yet harbouring something else – purple skin damage and small clusters of tiny blood spots that looked like pinpricks in the skin.
In frustration, Doc forced Maximillian's hand over, exposing his palms. He then grabbed the tumbler out of Carter's hands and pushed it against Maximillian's skin. Maximillian flinched.
Doc's reaction was to push the tumbler against another part of Maximillian's abdomen, frustration now giving way to abject horror. A haemorrhagic rash disguised as fresh bruising together with different shades of bruising presented itself. Sepsis.
Resigned to what was before him, Doc sat back on his heels and hissed through almost clenched teeth "What the hell happened?"
Maximillian shuddered as a wave of exhaustion engulfed him. "My friends and I – we study medicine." He simply started, trying to cover himself up. He suddenly found himself a little embarrassed and overcome with emotion at the empathy and compassion of this man before him. A total stranger. He shrugged – ever so lightly. "I am dying," he whispered.
And he saw the anguish in Doc's face.
He swallowed hard. "I will join my friends."
The silence became so prevalent, Hogan could hear his own intake of breath. "So, you upset someone with your poetry?"
Maximillian looked at him and laughed. "Yes. Yes, we did. Our wording was so profound that we were taken to a very large prison – for political prisoners." He was smiling now, looking at everyone around him. "They did not realise that we were the very people they should not have imprisoned."
Newkirk liked him. "Mate, what did you do?"
"We gave them daily headaches. The guards would taunt us for being Germans against their – devil. So, we found little ways to annoy the guards. We felt it was a game – us, students, in a prison with so many other prisoners of war. British, Russian, even Czech. It made no sense. A prison camp that was still being built with shubbens added to accommodate the many prisoners brought in each day. We were told we were political prisoners. We were not stupid. We saw the women; the children. Tell me. Tell me how children can be political prisoners?"
"We thought we would be released. That this was a horrible mistake. No, we were made to march with other prisoners to their factory and work all day. No food. Then marched back to beg for food scraps. Every day more prisoners would come. 'Arbeit macht frei' the guards would yell at them as they segregated many."
"Left. Right. Every single day. Right, you live."
Suddenly shadows played around them – Maximillian stopped talking – watching the darkness shift until a dark man joined Hogan.
Maximillian stared at him. "Left, you die."
"What happened to your friends?" Carter asked, retrieving his tumbler from an obviously annoyed Doc.
Maximillian swallowed hard, looked around at his audience and voiced what he was never able to admit to himself. "We thought it was all a mistake. We thought they would just make us work for a few weeks and then release us. We did nothing wrong!" His voice broke. "They were building shubbens slower than the trains were bringing in prisoners. Some shubbens were set up to be cleansing places, for the women and children. They were not. We found the open graves."
Choking back his tears, he lay his head against the cool tunnel wall and allowed them to fall. "My friends died trying to escape that very night. I was stopped. By an Englander."
"I thought the other nationalities were prisoners of war but I was to learn there was no difference. They would also be worked or starved to death. My Englander friend told me many died and many more will die. He was angry with me. Called me a young git. I do not know what he meant by that but I know it was not a very nice thing."
He saw those around him smile.
"From that day on I would accompany the Englander on the marches to the factory. They were having a profound effect on my friend. I now worried that he would die on me too. I was selfish for thinking of myself, but I could still not believe that I was where I was. On the marches, my friend often shared stories of growing up in England, and his love of books. On one such march he wanted to know what we wrote in our," he glanced at Hogan, "poetry."
"He asked if I had the courage to tell the world what was happening. He was delirious for we were both destined to die soon." He looked at Newkirk. "He was dying. I knew he could not continue these marches for much longer, so I told him I would tell all of England what was happening. He laughed at me and," he swallowed hard, "patted me on the shoulder as if I was a child. 'You need only tell one Englander' he would say. 'Just one'."
The hairs at the back of Hogan's neck piqued, but he remained silent.
"The next day, again during our march he would ask the same question – 'am I courageous enough to tell'. Again, I promised him I was. And at a particularly harsh incline next to a ravine that was covered with the bodies of the dead from past marches, he pushed me and fell on top of me. The guards were shouting. I was on top of the dead and he was on top of me. I tried to push him off but he wouldn't move." He stared directly at Newkirk. "He called me son."
After what seemed like eternity, Maximillian composed himself and clearly stated. "He was my friend."
"You've just told an Englander, mate," Newkirk stated.
Maximillian visible straightened, his head held high as he pronounced with pride, "My friend said his name was Robert and he liked books about protective bears."
…000…
Reference: 'Allies in Auschwitz' by Duncan Little (published by Clairview Books)