Ring of Lies (34 page)

His cheek was pressed up against something cold. His stomach was cramping, and there was a sickeningly sweet taste in his mouth. He couldn't seem to open his eyes. Where was he?

Voices above him spoke in German. The words were spit out like sharp metal shards.

Stairs; a narrow corridor; trapped; gas—his memory was coming back.

They might be waiting for him to open his eyes. One of them was very close. His shoes smelled of damp earth. The other was farther away, barking orders.

He managed to crack his eyes open: muddy, rough work shoes and the bottom of dirty jeans; a black floor; the blurred reflection of something moving continuously; a black-and-white image; a huge screen; a large space. The barking one was wearing black moccasins polished to a high shine. A vague odor of sewage. His hand was lying on a cold metal lattice—a drain.

Where the hell was he?

A hand pulled at his hair, lifting his head until the vertebrae in his neck were stretched taut. A groan escaped his lips.

“Stand up, you piece of garbage!”

He opened his eyes and saw silvery walls covered with aluminum.

Oskar Schlaff had an evil smirk on his face. His long blond hair undulated like a swarm of worms.

From the other end of the room, he heard someone stifle a giggle. A third man. Short, almost dwarflike, he was leaning against the large screen. He couldn't be more than five feet tall, and he had piggy eyes. His ruddy bald pate was encircled by a brush of brown hair. The dwarf was rooting around in his ear with a finger. He brought what he found up to his nose and sniffed at it. He was holding an old-fashioned black leather medical bag between his feet, and he was clad in a shabby brown suit and pink shirt.

He must have gotten dressed in the dark.

He giggled again, an oink followed by a snort. His shoes were protected by stained white overshoes.

“Have you two met, Jew-boy?” Schlaff asked, like a convivial host at a cocktail party. “This is Dr. Rauch. Herr Dr. Rauch.”

The dwarf snorted.

“Let me guess,” Alex said. “His parents are siblings?”

“It would be worth your while to stay on his good side. The man is ruthless.”

“It's always good to have a doctor around,” Alex said.

“He is not a doctor,” Schlaff chuckled. “He is a veterinarian.”

Schlaff was wearing a custom-tailored gray blazer over a black turtleneck sweater. His face looked baked from excessive tanning, and the cold look in his eyes was as welcoming as liquid nitrogen. “Do you recognize this one?”

Alex turned his head.

Bald, no eyebrows. It was the other Stasi twin.

“Say hello to Sepp Mauser.”

The twin's eyes were blazing with fury. He raised his upper lip, revealing the fangs of a predator.

“Sepp is mad at you,” Schlaff said. “You killed his brother,
Bruno. I promised him he could spend some time with you before we started the ceremony.”

A harsh kick hit the side of Alex's face, sending his head flying.

Something was crushed; bones were shattered—his eye socket. Blood flowed from his nose and forehead. Pressure throbbed behind his eye as if a spike had pierced his skull. He remained flat on the floor, buying time, but the pain intensified. Forced to protect his head with his hands, he felt a sharp kick to his exposed abdomen.

He moaned out loud. Snakes of pain twisted through his torso. He coughed and gagged, his head throbbing with pain. A bucket of cold water was thrown over him, making his teeth chatter.

He had to get away, get away and stand up.

He could hear a bucket being quickly filled with water in the far end of the room. A hand grabbed his hair and banged his head on the floor over and over again. The room was growing hazy, spinning around him.

Water landed heavily on his head. His clothes were drenched and he was shivering. Drawing in painful breaths, he turned on his side and held his stomach. A harsh kick to the back. He cried out in pain.

Schlaff rasped a short order in German, as if issuing a command to a trained dog.

Come on, you neo-Nazi Stasi twin, show your face . . .

He rolled away in an effort to evade another kick, and managed to catch a glimpse of Sepp Mauser's face. His eyes were protruding from their sockets and his lips were dripping with spittle.

A sharp kick to the kidneys. His whole upper body was a mass of searing pain. He coughed and spit out something salty.

“Mauser,” Alex called out, struggling to produce a smile, “your brother begged me not to kill him.” He grasped his stomach. “He pleaded like a little girl . . .”

A savage kick to the liver. Immediately, his body turned cold and everything went black.

Icy water landed on his face like a barbell. He groaned out loud. His injured cheek was burning. He remained on the floor, not moving. The room fell silent. The sound of his own breathing echoed in his head.

Schlaff issued an order. Sepp bent down and slapped him on his injured cheek. A wave of pain surged through his head, but he managed to stay still. Sepp held his short fingers to Alex's neck, feeling for a pulse.

Alex let out a deep sigh. Taken by surprise, Sepp started to straighten up. With his last ounce of strength, Alex aimed a short, sharp kick at his Adam's apple.

Grunting, the Stasi twin grabbed his injured neck. His face turned red and he sank to his knees. His head hit the floor with a thud. Schlaff ran to him, barking in German and calling out his name again and again. Mauser's rough work shoes twitched against the black floor. A dark stain began spreading over the front of his jeans.

On the huge screen across the room, the Führer shrieked in rage.

Dr. Rauch hurried to Mauser and felt his neck. His eyes glistened like the entrails of a slaughtered animal. He turned to Schlaff and shook his head.

Alex got his first chance to study the cellar. No chairs. The performances put on here were enjoyed by a standing audience.

“Filthy Jew-boy!” Schlaff screamed. “You killed him!”

“You're next, Oskar,” Alex said calmly.

Pulling something from his pocket, Schlaff launched himself furiously at Alex. The Taser emitted a debilitating electric shock. He lost control of his muscles and slumped to the floor, his eyes closed. He felt like he had been detached from his body.

A prick—something injected into his neck.

He opened his eyes.

Dr. Rauch was retreating as if Alex were a tranquilized rhino that was just coming to. The start of an erection was visible in the doctor's pants. His heels clicked faintly through his bloodstained overshoes.

“That will tenderize your flesh, Jew-boy,” Schlaff yelled from afar.

Alex tried to wiggle his fingers, but they wouldn't move. His feet, either. Nothing moved.

Schlaff's black moccasins were now covered in overshoes, and he had put on a white plastic coverall to protect his expensive clothes. Latex gloves made his hands look like prostheses.

He threw Alex's limp body over his shoulder with surprising ease. Alex's neck refused to obey him, leaving his head hanging loosely. Where was the sick neo-Nazi taking him?

Schlaff dropped him on a white tile floor. A shower stall. Except that there was no drain. His large body was pressed against the glass pane. A set of keys clattered above him, and a swinging metal chain hit the wall. Schlaff was sitting on his heels, locking him into nickel-plated restraints. Alex couldn't feel his body.

The huge screen showed a painting of a young girl with slashes in her flesh and three bearded men with big noses collecting her blood in goblets. Above it was the logo of
Der Stürmer
. Alex's eyes were transfixed by the petrifying image.

Schlaff nimbly picked Alex up, passed a steel chain through the restraints, and pulled it sharply upward. His body rose and stretched until his feet were off the floor and his whole weight was suspended from his wrists. The restraints cut into his flesh like razors. Schlaff grabbed him around the waist and swung him like you swing a child. The chain tightened, and his feet flopped limply against the floor.

The walls were closing in on him, as if he were in a trash compactor. His heart was racing, three beats a second, and his body was trembling uncontrollably. A sharp pain stabbed at his chest and spread to his shoulder and down his left arm. He was covered in cold sweat. His stomach was clenched as tight as a fist.

Gradually his muscles began to respond, and feeling started returning to his legs. He looked up. The chain was attached to a ring in the concrete ceiling. In the shower stall there were no faucets and no showerhead.

Just tiny spray holes.

He screamed as loud as he could.

Oh God, he was in a gas chamber!

Monstrous images rose from the depths of his early years. He was helpless. Something inside threatened to break. His mother screaming in her sleep; the memories that were too much to bear; the terrifying sights that buried his childhood. It was all pouring out, crashing around him, and the pain in his heart was unendurable.

The dungeon of horrors filled with Oskar Schlaff's laughter. His demonic face came closer, the blue butcher's eyes gleaming. “You pissed yourself, Jew-boy!” he gloated maniacally. “And we haven't even started yet.”

The warmth in his pants was growing colder.

“You already understand where you are, don't you, Jew-boy?”

Paralyzed with fear, he struggled to steady his convulsive breathing. He felt like a pitchfork had stabbed him in the heart.

But he wasn't dead yet.

Calm down . . .
he said to himself.
Just calm down . . . close your eyes and breathe deeply . . . give your heart a chance to slow . . . deep breaths . . . breathe . . . breathe . . .

His chin slumped to his chest. He opened his eyes. There was something on his shirt.

Yellow.

A Star of David.

“I paid a fortune for this,” Schlaff said. “It's an original, from the Kaunas ghetto.”

His heart started racing again, and he was taking in too much oxygen. The unbearable pressure in his head returned.
Slowly . . . deep breath . . . keep it steady . . .

On the screen across the room, hundreds of flags were waving in the wind. A sea of swastikas. Columns of believers caught up in a mob frenzy, eagerly stretching their right arms straight out in a nauseating “Sieg Heil.” He looked away. His stomach contracted violently.

He remembered how his father used to wake him up from nightmares. How he would stroke his head and wipe his face, gathering him in his arms and holding him tight until he settled back down. He longed desperately for the protective arms of his late father.

His body was on fire. His eyes filled with tears, and from the ruins of his life emerged a grief like he had never known before. It was a bitter grief for his mother, for the atrocities she had suffered, atrocities he could not shield her from.

He wept for the childhood she never had, for the chronic depression concealed under a thick layer of makeup. He wept for the scraps of dry bread she refused to throw away and chewed on at night. His body shook with tears for the blows she had suffered from the butts of rifles and for the innocent joy that had been buried in a mass grave.

His late mother appeared before him, bent under the weight of survivor's guilt.

The tears were cleansing.

For the first time in his life, he was able to acknowledge his mother without feeling guilt, only compassion and heartache.

The pain in his chest was subsiding. His heart was beating more slowly, and his breathing was calmer and steadier. Even the cramped space was becoming tolerable, though his arms in the restraints above his head were cold and stiff.

Just break free.

Dr. Rauch was picking his nose, his finger in his nostril up to the knuckle.

Schlaff approached, a remote-control device in his hand. “It's a shame you killed the Mausers. We had our game. You should have seen them in authentic striped pajamas, removing bodies from the gas chamber . . .” Schlaff clicked his tongue and then lowered his eyes, contemplating, his eyelids twitching.

“I see you're feeling better,” Schlaff said, his eyes sparkling. “Wonderful! We can get started!”

The German pressed a button on the remote.

Something moved.

The folding panels of the aluminum wall on the left slid back quietly along a track to reveal welded-joint steel shelving units. Extending the entire length of the wall, they were loaded with large glass mason jars.

Each jar had a square label with a picture on it.

A face. Dozens of faces.

Alex hurled, covering himself with puke.

The jars contained ashes.

“All your friends are here,” Schlaff said, sounding amused.

Alex spit. His chest was on fire and his stomach was convulsing. He tried to count: eight rows; more than a hundred jars . . . maybe a hundred and fifty!

They were all here. All the people who had vanished. Oskar Schlaff the serial killer kept mementos of his victims.

“Nibelungs,” Schlaff giggled. “More precisely, grilled Nibelungs. And they're not alone.”

The German came closer but still kept some distance. His face twisted at the sight of the puke.

“The media likes to show dramatic pictures of neo-Nazis marching in uniform in Germany or America or wherever. They're not the real Nazis. They're nothing more than stupid kids who have yet to learn how to jerk off! Fucked-up youngsters who do more harm than good. All they do is talk. Talk is easy.”

His face became serious. “We act, Jew-boy. We just act. And tonight we are taking a giant leap forward!”

Pointing to the wall, he said, “The bottom row are Jews we hunted here in Germany, weak Jew-boys with long noses—filth that has been trying to corrupt the Aryan nation for hundreds of years.

“Above them are the coloreds, human refuse that streams here from Asia and Africa. The next two rows are the greatest enemies of Christian Europe—Muslims!”

Dr. Rauch lowered his eyes and nodded like a pious congregant listening to a sermon. He stopped rooting around in his orifice.

“In view of the speed with which they are reproducing, polluting Germany and the rest of Europe,” Schlaff went on, “we have to work quickly and decisively. The international media only thinks
about the next edition, the next news flash, the next issue. No one looks any farther, to the future. The world is simpleminded. It can only see as far as the end of its nose.

“In another ten years, perhaps twenty, Muslims will be the majority in Germany, France, Italy, and Britain. We are cleaning the streets, working quietly and thoroughly. Not counting your Nibelung friends, there are one hundred and twenty-seven jars here—Jews, Muslims, and coloreds that we have cleaned out of Berlin.”

Schlaff cleared his throat and pulled on his nose before continuing. “The cathedral in Cologne, the Duomo in Florence, St. Peter's in Rome—they plan to tear them all down to make way for mosques for the hundreds of millions of Muslims who will overrun Europe. Can you tell me that that is not a cancer?”

“Bullshit, Oskar. You're collaborating with the Syrians. If you haven't noticed, they happen to be Muslims.”

Schlaff chuckled. “Collaboration with the Syrians is a means to a greater end. We will get to that later. You are showing your ignorance, Jew-boy. The Syrians stay in Syria. The slime we get comes from other places. The swarms from Turkey are the
Exxon Valdez
of the Aryan race!”

“I thought Jews were your problem.”

“At the moment—but just for now—there are one hundred and sixty thousand Jews in Germany. There are almost four million Turks! You try to take over the economy; you shove your hands in our pockets and elbow your way up the ladder of the legal system. You are stingy and greedy, but there are not enough of you here that you would be able to seize control. You are a cancer, but an insignificant one. Hodgkin's. There is a treatment for it. Patience, Jew-boy—you will find out about it soon enough.

“You think the world revolves around you. For you, it's a simple equation: World War II equals the Holocaust.” Schlaff clicked his tongue. “Do you know what rank was held by Adolf Eichmann, the architect of the final solution?”

Alex remained silent.

“Lieutenant colonel. And how many German soldiers served in Treblinka?”

Alex remained silent.

“Sixteen. Are you getting the picture, Jew-boy? The extermination of the Jews was justified and necessary, but it was merely a footnote in the story of the great war. Are you ready for act two?”

Alex's heart sank.

Schlaff pressed a button on the remote, and the aluminum wall on the right started folding open. Two lights in the ceiling came on, illuminating a pair of stainless-steel doors about two by three feet in size and three feet above the floor.

Refrigeration units. A metal gurney stood beside the doors.

Alex's stomach and throat contracted, but there was nothing left to vomit.

“I imagine you're wondering what the refrigerators are for. Let me show you,” Schlaff said, pressing the remote again. A red firebrick wall appeared to the left of the refrigeration units. In the middle was a blackened cast-iron door with a round glass window. Flames leaped behind it.

Oskar was beaming.

“It's a crematorium, Jew-boy. A crematorium!” he said gleefully. “You must admit that I have prepared a warm welcome for you.”