Black Cross

32

Jonas Stern stood in the shadow of a wooden barracks building and listened. At first he heard only the wind, blowing down the Recknitz River. Anna Kaas was right. It was stronger here than in the treetops on the hills.

It took time to separate the snoring from the wind. But that was the sound, he realized: snoring. He moved silently along the row of barracks buildings.

A combination of stealth and boldness had brought him this far. Just before reaching Totenhausen’s back fence, he had crossed over three long, shallow pits dug under the trees. He remembered the smell of burnt flesh from North Africa, and recognized the pits for what they were.

It was the trees that gave him his plan. Tall evergreens grew right up to the electrical fence on three sides of the camp. Since he was outside the fence, he simply slung his Schmeisser over his shoulder, climbed a fir tree, shinnied out along a branch and dropped to the snow beside the barn that concealed the gas factory.

Before his nerves had time to stop him, he straightened his back and marched toward the gate that separated the factory from the camp proper. There was one sentry there, an SS private wearing the earth-brown uniform of a concentration camp guard. Stern made ready to get out his papers, but his gray-green SD uniform and Iron Cross were apparently all the identification he needed. He rapped out a “Heil Hitler!” as he passed the respectful guard.

It was easy enough to get his bearings. Walking with obvious purpose — for the benefit of the men in the watchtowers — he moved through the alley that separated the hospital from the E-Block, turned left, then walked up to the mesh fence that bordered the inmate blocks. He strolled along the fence until he found a spot out of sight of the tower guards. One sentry stood watch at the camp’s rear gate, but he was facing the woods. Stern saw no insulators on the fence wires — no electricity here. He quickly scaled the fence and dropped to the other side.

He’d heard the snores at the first block. He heard the same thing at the next three. Only at the fifth barracks, when he bent low to listen at the crack beneath the door, did he see a faint yellow glow, as from a candle. Then he heard a voice. A whisper, really. The hairs on his neck rose like quills.

The voice was speaking Yiddish.

He took a quick breath and slipped his right forefinger into the trigger guard of his Schmeisser. Then he stood erect, walked up the three steps and into the block.

The candle went out instantly. He heard a frantic scuffling like rats in the walls — then silence. The air was warmer here, thick with the smell of soiled wool and disinfectant.

“Listen to me,” he said softly in Yiddish. “Are you all Jews here?”

No one answered.

“Listen. I am not what I appear to be. Please, are you all Jews?”

Nothing.

He wished he had stripped off the SD uniform outside. “I myself am a Jew,” he said. “I have come to Germany from Palestine. I am a spy. I have come to learn the truth of what the Nazis are doing to our people.”

Stern realized that if he had claimed he was the Messiah sent from God, he could not have stunned the prisoners more. He saw a faint reflection from eyes peering at him in terror and astonishment, like a den of rabbits surprised in the dark.

“Who is leader here?” he asked.

“Our leader is dead, SS man,” said a harsh voice from the darkness. A woman’s voice. “You know that.”

“Who spoke? Please, I have not come to harm you, but I haven’t much time.”

“You know who we are,” hissed another voice. “What do you want, SS man?”

“This is an SD uniform,” Stern said in measured tones. “But I am neither SS nor SD. I am a Jew from Rostock who fled to Palestine. I am ready to prove that to anyone who will speak to me.”

“Say kaddish then,” someone challenged him, “for all the people you have murdered.”

Stern began: “Yis-ga-dal v’yis-ka-dash sh’may ra-bo, B’ol-mo dee-v’ro hir u-say, v’yam-leeh mal-hu-say — is that enough?”

“He knows it,” said a hesitant voice.

“That means nothing,” whispered another.

“What year is it?” someone asked.

“By the Hebrew calendar 5705.” Stern felt the pressure of time, but he was proud of the women for testing him this way.

“What are the Four Questions?”

He smiled in the darkness, remembering the Passover seders of his youth. “Why do we eat matzo? Why do we eat bitter herbs? Why do we dip our vegetables? Why do we recline?”

“He knows.”

“More lies,” said the skeptic. “No Jew would come here by choice.”

“There is only one way to tell,” said a more confident voice. “The same way the SS pick our men from the crowds.”

Stern was confused only a moment.

“Can you pass that test, SS man?” asked the skeptic.

With a flush of anger and embarrassment, Stern unfastened the trousers of the SD uniform and let them down a little.

“Light the candle,” said the confident voice.

In the uncertain light of the candle flame Stern saw five women wearing striped gray shifts. Sallow faces, dull eyes, hair cropped almost to the skulls. Beyond them others waited, watchful in the darkness.

“Come closer,” said one of the women. She was young, with a dark thatch of hair and onyx eyes.

He obeyed.

The dark-haired woman crept forward with the candle and crouched in front of him. “He speaks the truth,” she said. “He is circumcised.”

Several women gasped. Stern pulled up his pants. When the woman before him straightened up, he peered deep into her eyes. She seemed younger than the other women. Healthier, too. When he looked down, he saw not only skin over her bones, but also feminine contours.

“I am Rachel Jansen,” she said. “You must be mad.”

McConnell had been reading Anna’s diary for an hour. He did not want to go on, but he could not stop. He felt numb. Even now, he could not quite accept it. The nurse’s diary described nothing less than the systematic perversion of a renowned national medical community into the utter negation of everything medical science had sought to achieve since the time of Hippocrates.

He had expected some horror stories. For months rumor had been rife in England about the brutality of the Nazi detention camps. But Anna’s diary had little to do with brutality. Brutality was a universal flaw in the human character, commonplace in every society. This diary described atrocities committed on another scale altogether. Even outright murder seemed banal in the face of what he had read in the last hour. One of the most alarming passages had had its effect because of who was involved, as much as what was done.

1-6-43 Dr. Brandt returned from a trip to Auschwitz Main Camp in Silesia. All afternoon he complained to Rauch and Schmidt how the Reich’s money is being wasted there. He said Dr. Clauberg has allowed his professional standards to fall deplorably, that Clauberg’s experiments with mass sterilization border on quackery.

McConnell knew well the name Clauberg. But could Anna’s diary really implicate the physician who had developed the standard test for progesterone action? A test that still carried his name? If the diary could be believed, it could.

Clauberg has apparently taken to “castrating” both men and women by means of massive doses of X-rays. Brandt claims the inefficiency of this method is obvious to anyone with even rudimentary experience of gamma rays and their effects. To prove his point, Brandt requested a male prisoner, which Hauptscharführer Sturm promptly provided (17-year-old Russian POW). After the prisoner had been forcibly restrained by SS troops, Brandt pro- ceeded to perform a vasectomy, to show his protégés how rapidly the procedure could be executed by a skilled surgeon. He accomplished the procedure in four minutes. A discussion of female sterilization followed, in which Brandt again claimed surgery as the most efficient method. He said Clauberg will never regain his prewar eminence. Brandt plans to sterilize six women tomorrow morning to prove his point, before scheduled test of Sarin IV aerosol compound . . .

The shock of this entry had lasted only until McConnell reached the first detailed description of one of Klaus Brandt’s “research projects.” This passage alone was enough to damn the Nazi state for all eternity.

6-8-43 Eight days ago, Brandt purposely infected four boys and four girls with rapidly fulminating Group I meningococcus bacteria (by the droplet infection method, droplets being obtained from live carriers held prisoner in the isolation room). Greta Müller and I were instructed to rotate 12-hour shifts in the experimental ward until the study had run its course. This is my first opportunity to record what happened.

Our functions were to (a) record the onset of symptoms (b) take blood samples and white counts when indicated (c) administer sulfadiazine (and also Dr. Brandt’s own formulation) to the separate patient groups at the proper intervals (d) administer fluids to prevent dehydration (e) chart the progress of each patient until recovery or death. The youngest patient was six months old (female) the oldest five years (male). The average age was three and one half years.

On the fourth day after infection, meningococcus was recovered from the blood of all patients. Most had characteristic rashes at this time. Brandt ordered oral administration of sulfadiazine to two patients, simultaneously giving his secret preparation to two others. The remaining four patients (including the female infant) he designated as controls.

The control group quickly exhibited symptoms of the septicemic stage of the disease: irregular fever, hypersensitivity, rapid pulse and respiration. Most curled up in the characteristic position and cried out when disturbed. All four developed serious rashes, three of these hemorrhagic. White counts of all controls hovered between 16,500 and 17,500.

First fatality in the control group (four-year-old female) caused by overwhelming septicemic infection. 80% of body covered by hemorrhagic rash. Routine postmortem by Dr. Rauch.

Infant control quickly exhibited bulging of the fontanelles due to massive infection. Experienced convulsions, low pulse rate and respiration. Death occurred six days after initial infection.

The two patients given sulfadiazine showed marked improvement within 48 hours. Those given Brandt’s preparation were slower to improve. The controls quickly progressed into the next stage of the disease. The bacteria disappeared from their bloodstreams and localized in the meninges. Patients experienced vomiting and the familiar bursting headache caused by increased pressure of the cerebrospinal fluid. Also constipation, urine retention, and stiffness of neck muscles due to nerve root involvement. Two of the smaller children’s spines and necks drew backward into the characteristic “bow.” None could flex his chin.

Third fatality in control group (three-year-old male) died in agony on Greta’s shift. I had managed to feed him some aspirin that morning, nothing else. Brandt’s postmortem revealed cause of death to be internal hydrocephalus. Ventricles of the brain were dilated, and the brain convolutions flattened by the pressure of a thick, purulent fluid. Also optic nerve involvement: patient was blind in one eye at time of death. Purulent exudate extended all the way into the spinal canal.

Throughout the course of the experiment, Brandt performed several spinal punctures to examine cerebrospinal fluid. He was infuriated by the slowness of his own preparation compared to that of sulfadiazine. The children were terrified of these spinal punctures, and had to be restrained by Ariel Weitz and SS men. On day six Brandt resorted to direct injection of his preparation into the spine of one child. This leads me to believe that his secret preparation is unrelated to the sulfonamides, as local therapy is not required when using those. Brandt plans to duplicate this entire experiment in one week, using a different preparation. Also, one box of polyvalent antimeningococcus horse serum arrived yesterday. . . .

McConnell looked up from the diary. He realized then that he was in a kind of shock. There were at least a dozen separate entries recording similar experiments on children, and references to nearly fifty more performed by Brandt and his assistant physicians — all accurate down to the last medical detail. But what horrified him most was that these experiments had no valid medical reason behind them. It was known that meningitis could be cured by sulfadiazine. Was Klaus Brandt torturing children merely to try and find some new pharmacological agent with which to enrich himself after the war?

McConnell closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips to his temples. How could Anna Kaas record such things without apparent emotion? He had searched for some sense of guilt or revulsion in the record, but after the first few entries all references to her own perspective virtually ceased. Then he realized — or rather hoped he had realized — what she was up to. The German nurse was acting as a sort of verbal camera — recording what she saw in the manner that courts of law would demand evidence of a witness. Injecting emotion into her record would only cloud the issue after the war.

But still, he thought, to realize that she had stood by while these atrocities were committed — and in fact had participated in them — was difficult to grasp. He longed for some expression of anguish or plea for forgiveness, however insufficient or inarticulate, from the vulnerable soul that lies at the core of every human being. But as yet he had not found it.

He was certain of one thing: if he got out of Germany alive, the nurse’s diary was going with him.

Jonas Stern sat in stunned silence in a corner of the Jewish Women’s Block. More than forty women surrounded him. A single guttering candle flickered on the floor. He had never seen such eyes before, not even in the faces of soldiers unmanned in the midst of great carnage. Eyes like black mirrors, at once shallow and bottomless. He had the feeling that if he pressed his finger to one of those eyes, it would shatter and fall inward through a black cavern of grief and loss that could never be filled.

He had learned much in his short time here. He’d asked a few questions about the histories of the women, mostly to keep up the fiction of gathering intelligence for Zionist leaders in Palestine and London. But when he heard some of the answers, all else went out of his mind for a while. Each story was a variation on the same theme: We were doing all right; Hitler came to power; the rich fled; the Nazis came to our town, our village, our city, our house, our flat; they killed my father, my mother, my husband, my sons, my uncles, my sisters, my daughter, my grandparents. And almost every story ended with the same line: I am the last of my family.

As the women spoke, Stern learned that the Block Leader’s death and the brutal reprisals that followed had thrown the block into disarray, and that the young Dutchwoman who questioned him had assumed the dead Pole’s position by default. He had made up his mind to ask her the question he had risked his life to come here and ask, when she said:

“How do you plan to get out of the camp, Herr Stern?”

He knew what was coming. Some of the women had begun to dream of escape. He had to discourage them. They could not know that he had no intention of leaving the vicinity of the camp until — until what? Until he had killed them all, of course.

“Herr Stern?” Rachel said again.

“I’m walking out through the front gate. The same way I got in.”

Rachel was silent for some moments. “But that doesn’t make sense. An SS man without transportation?”

Stern shifted uncomfortably. “I told you before, this uniform is SD: Sicherheitsdienst. More feared even than the Gestapo. Not even the SS question the SD.”

Stern saw a flash of hope in her dark eyes. “I have a favor to ask of you,” Rachel said. “A great favor.”

“I can’t take you out,” he said quickly.

“Not me. My child.”

He stared at her. “You have a child here?”

“Two. A boy and a girl.”

“And you want . . . you want me to take only one child?”

The young woman took hold of his hand and squeezed, her eyes blazing with urgency. “Better that one have a chance at life than both die,” she said. “And they will surely die if they stay here!”

Stern saw desperation her eyes, but also a fierce determination. She meant what she said.

“They are very small,” she said in a pleading voice that drove Stern into a rage of shame and impotence. “You could easily carry one—”

Stern jerked his hand away. The realization that this woman had so honestly confronted the impossibility of her own survival that she would give up her child to a stranger shook him to his core. He stared into the ring of faces surrounding him, searching for some sign of censure.

None of the other women seemed shocked by Rachel’s request.

In Anna’s cellar, McConnell had finally found the diary entry he was searching for. It was near the end, dated only two weeks ago.

2-1-44 More and more civilians are being killed by Allied bombs. In case I do not survive the war, I will here speak a little about things almost too painful to face. I know what the world will ask about me. How could this woman have stood by and watched these horrible things? She was a civilian. She was a nurse! She did not have to do these things. No one held a gun to her head. Well, that is both true and false. I am a civilian, but I live in Nazi Germany at war. And I knew enough about Klaus Brandt after one week here to know that a request to be transferred might mean death. Brandt has absolute power in Totenhausen. If he orders your death, you are dead. Only Sturmbannführer Schörner seems unafraid of him. I think Schörner saw too much death in Russia to be afraid of anything.

Some will call me a coward for not leaving this place, for not refusing to participate in these experiments, even at the cost of my life. Am I a coward? Yes. I have lain shivering in my bed with nightmares of Hauptscharführer Sturm beating down the door of my cottage to arrest me and take me to the Tree. I have been close to suicide. But the world’s condemnation means little. Not all the torturers in the world could cause me the agony I have felt when the beseeching eyes of dying children looked to me for help, and I could not give it.

I have an answer for the world, but no excuse. When I first arrived at Totenhausen, I was already severely depressed, due to the fact that my lover had been murdered by the SS in Berlin. When I realized what actually went on here, I believe I entered a state of deep shock. After I regained some perspective, getting away from Totenhausen became my only thought. But then I considered my situation. If Brandt allowed me to leave the camp, I would succeed in distancing myself from the crimes. But the crimes would still go on. They would continue just as before, but unseen by anyone who was disturbed by them, as I was. I felt like a little fish swimming inside a tidal wave. I could try to swim in the other direction, but the wave would thunder on. For many days I hardly spoke. Then I decided I had been sent to this hell for one reason: to be a witness. To record what I saw. This I have done, and continue to do. I have become hardened to things that would shame a murderer. But I no longer think of suicide. Now I pray that I will survive this war. I pray that my diary will be the noose that finally snaps Klaus Brandt’s fat neck. I worry sometimes that I am beyond saving, that I am damned in the eyes of God. But more often I wonder if God even sees this place. How could God exist in the same universe with Totenhausen Camp?

McConnell closed the diary. He had found the reassurance he sought. Even in this crucible of human depravity, some measure of hope — of human integrity — survived. Anna Kaas had rebelled against the madness she described. But her rebellion was not the empty whining of political dilettantes. She had not offered impotent, moralizing words and then retired into the wings of rationalization or self-delusion. Nor had she committed some brave but vain act of self-sacrifice, as McConnell might have done. She had done something far more difficult. She had sacrificed her humanity in order to attempt the only thing that might ever have some real effect on the men who committed the horrors she witnessed each day — to tell the world what they were doing.

When he realized this, McConnell also understood something else. That Anna Kaas had accomplished something no one before her ever had. She had changed his fundamental belief about the futility of violence. All his life he had stood with his father against war. But tonight, simple written words had bred a cold light that revealed to him something worse than war — or perhaps a new kind of war — a war of mankind upon itself. A self-consuming madness that could only end in complete annihilation. His medical experience gave him the perfect metaphor for his new understanding.

Cancer.

The system that had created Totenhausen — and the dozen other camps he had read of in the diary — was a malignant melanoma festering within the human species. It moved maliciously, under cover of a more conventional malady, but it would eventually destroy everything in its path. And like any melanoma, it could not be stopped without destroying healthy tissue in the process.

As he sat with the closed book on his lap, McConnell came to a conclusion inconceivable to him before tonight. If his father — a physician and combat veteran who had preached nonviolence for twenty years — could by some magic read Anna Kaas’s diary, and then come face to face with Doctor Klaus Brandt . . .

He would shoot him down like a mad dog.

“For the last time, I cannot do it!” Stern said. “It will be a miracle if I escape alive. With a child I would have no chance.”

He forced himself to look away from Rachel Jansen’s face. A light had gone out behind her eyes. Where there had been hope, he saw only ashes. “I want to ask you something,” he said. “All of you. Come closer.”

The gray faces drew nearer to him.

“What is it?” Rachel asked.

“I am interested in a particular man. A Jew from Rostock. We received reports that he died at this camp. I want to know if any of you can tell me anything about him. If you remember him. How he lived . . . perhaps how he died.”

“What was his name? Between us we know everyone in the camp.”

“Avram,” Stern said quietly. “Avram Stern, from Rostock.”

Rachel looked at the other women, then back at Stern. “You mean the shoemaker?”

Stern felt a flush of apprehension. “Shoemaker? He was a cobbler, yes.”

Rachel slowly held out her hand and touched his chin. She lifted his face, turning both cheeks to the light. “My God,” she murmured. “You are his son.”

Stern’s body tensed. “You knew him?”

Rachel looked puzzled. “Knew him? I know him. He’s sleeping less than thirty meters from us right now.”