Black Cross. Greg Iles
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taking of a detailed medical history. And now—with seeming inevitability—widowhood. The tears had stopped a little while ago, and Rachel had vowed not to let them return. She had to force herself to think, to concentrate on one thing only. Survival.
It was a skill she had learned while very young. As a German Jewish child orphaned during the Great War, she had been sent to Amsterdam to live for a while with a childless Jewish couple. She had grown to love them, but more importantly, she had made sure they grew to love her. Even at four, she knew she never wanted to be hungry again. She quickly mastered the Dutch language and manners, and when the time came for her to return to Germany, the couple had adopted her. Her marriage to Marcus Jansen—a native Dutch Jew—had completed her transformation from German orphan into Dutch wife.
When the Nazis invaded Holland in 1940, and her family was forced to go into hiding, she adapted to the attic room above the Christian family’s shop with such grace that her whole family was able to follow her example. She had actually given birth to Hannah in that attic. But the events of the last week—beginning with the bloodcurdling sound of the Gestapo beating down the door of their hiding place—had stretched her adaptive capacity near to breaking.
“She won’t last much longer,” said a voice in German.
Rachel opened her eyes to see the German nurse moving toward her, instructing Frau Hagan as she walked. The nurse carried a stethoscope in her right hand. “Her ration will not help her now,” the nurse was saying. “Share it amongst yourselves. Just keep her warm and—”
The blonde nurse froze in midstep. “What’s he doing in here?”
Rachel followed the nurse’s gaze. She was staring at Benjamin Jansen, who was trying unsuccessfully to hide under Rachel’s bunk.
“He only got here yesterday,” Frau Hagan explained. “He sneaked in here to visit his grandchildren. We’ll boot him out as soon as you’re gone.”
“You’d better. If Sergeant Sturm catches him here, he’ll be on the Tree by nightfall.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Frau Hagan promised. “What about the selections? Last night was the worst yet.”
Nurse Kaas seemed suddenly in a rush. “We can only pray the worst is past.”
Frau Hagan nodded. “You’d better go.”
Before stepping outside, the nurse straightened her luxuriant hair with both hands. To Rachel, she looked like a knight adjusting armor.
“We pray you will come again soon,” Frau Hagan said hopefully.
“Don’t expect too much.”
“Only what you can do. Auf Wiedersehen.”
Anna Kaas was gone. Frau Hagan turned and marched like a sergeant major back to Rachel’s bunk. “Get up from there, old man!”
Benjamin Jansen rolled out from beneath the bunk and stood beside Rachel.
“Listen to the rest, then get your ass out of my barracks for good. You heard the nurse mention the Tree?”
“Yes. But I have seen no trees inside this camp.”
“It’s not a real tree, glupi. It’s a tall post driven deep into the ground. There are two crossbars nailed to it. One down low, another up high. You’ve seen that?”
“To the side of the hospital?”
Frau Hagan nodded. “The Germans call it the Punishment Tree. We just call it the Tree.” She motioned for a woman to move Rachel’s children out of earshot. “There are three official punishments in this camp. All are administered at the Tree, and all can be fatal. There’s the whip, the rope, and the dogs. The whip is for a first infraction of the rules. They take you to the Tree, tie your hands, and make you let down your pants or lift your skirt in front of the assembled prisoners. Then they bend you over the lower crossbar and lash you with a horsewhip. They lash you until you’re bloody, with the whole camp staring up your backside. The tough ones survive it, others don’t. Some die from exposure, some from shock.
“The rope is worse. They tie your hands behind your back, then loop a heavy rope around the first one and hoist you up to the top crossbar by your hands. Your shoulders pop out of joint immediately. If you lose consciousness—and most people do, after fifteen minutes of agony—the SS throw buckets of water on you to revive you. The rope can drive you mad or it can kill you. In winter it can kill you very quickly.”
Rachel glanced fearfully at her children, who sat silently against the far wall with wide eyes.
“And the dogs?” Benjamin Jansen asked.
Frau Hagan chuckled bitterly. “I think you can figure that out. There’s a set of manacles on a chain attached to the lower crossbar of the Tree. They strip you, manacle one ankle, then Sergeant Sturm sets his dogs on you.” The Pole made a sudden snapping gesture with her hand, like canine jaws. Ben Jansen jumped. “No one survives the dogs, old man. Sergeant Sturm feeds and trains them, and he’s honed them to a fine pitch of killing. It’s a gruesome sight. Sturm was a dog master with an Einsatzgruppe in the East. One of the SS ‘hunters.’ His duty was tracking stubborn Jews into cellars and sewers, then killing them. He brags that he has even trained one of his shepherds to rape women who have been tied down.”
Rachel felt her stomach flip over.
Frau Hagan’s bland face hardened. “If you hear screaming during the night, don’t get up. And when morning comes, don’t let your children look toward the Tree. What they’d see there would be worse than your most terrible nightmare of what Hell could be.”
Rachel buried her face in her hands. “Where in God’s name have they brought us?”
“Forget about God,” Frau Hagan advised. “He’s forgotten about you. There is some good news, though. This camp is better than some. We’re guinea pigs here, not work slaves. You were brought here for Herr Doktor Brandt to experiment upon, and Brandt likes his guinea pigs in reasonably good health. That means the food is edible and we don’t have to sleep in our own shit. Of course, this paradise lasts only until the day you’re selected. Or until you break a rule. Sturm and his men are always watching for infractions. The rule-breakers are their source of entertainment.”
“But what are the rules? Where are they posted?”
“In the Germans’ heads!” Frau Hagan laughed harshly. “That’s why it’s so hard to stay within them! You’ve got one mark against you already, little Dutch girl.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re too pretty. You haven’t been starved yet, so you’ve still got your breasts.” The big Pole reached out and ran her hand over Rachel’s skull. Already a fine coat of black stubble had sprung up. Rachel instinctively jerked away. Frau Hagan laughed again. “Yes, someone might get very creative to get you into a bed. Schörner is drunk most of the time, but sometimes he perks up. His drinking is the best and worst thing about him. Sergeant Sturm is the one to watch out for. He’s a pig. I advise you to start looking as ugly as you can as soon as you can, although I’m sure they already noticed you during the medical inspection.”
Rachel shuddered at the memory.
“The SS may be animals, but remember one thing.” Frau Hagan glared at Benjamin Jansen. “You too, old man. It’s the unwritten law of every camp: The prisoner’s worst enemy is the prisoner!”
The Block Leader squinted at Rachel, as if trying to gauge whether any of her hard-earned wisdom had taken root. “You know, I survived Auschwitz for three years,” she said. “I have no tattoo number. You know what that means? I am less than zero. I helped build that stinking place. I was a kapo there, a good one. I saw a lot of Dutch, and they never lasted long. Especially the women. They couldn’t accept the change. They never bathed, never ate. I hope you’re different, Dutch girl. At Auschwitz the Dutch women became musselmen after only two weeks.”
“What