The Division of the Damned (25 page)

"A cushy posting in friendly Romania.
Ha!" he spoke aloud to himself and jumped when the unsettling growl of one of the vampires rumbled from within the mine
.

"Madness comes quick to those who are loud in their own company.” It was Arak.

"Jurgen," he had decided to steadfastly refuse the notion that Jurgen was now Arak. "I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”

Arak rose out of the mine and stood in front of him. His tunic and boots were scuffed and tattered. His face looked dirty and his long talon-like nails were black. He smelt of putrefaction and earth.

"Well?" The bottomless power of his voice raised every hair on Von Struck’s body. There was no doubting the predatory malice in the beast that stood before him.

Could this really be Jurgen?

Von Struck steadied his wavering mettle. "It’s about the civilians.” He paused to let it sink in. Arak seemed to be occupied with something else so Von Struck pushed his face into his line of sight to get his attention. "I’m not sure how you and your men view them but they are German civilians and I won’t have them being molested, or worse, by your men. Do you understand?”

Arak didn’t answer immediately. He looked through the trees to where the civilians had set up their camp and, as if seeing them for the first time, his eyes widened and closed as he smiled to himself.

"I asked you if you understood me.”

Arak looked back at him and, ever so slowly, nodded that he understood.

"If any harm comes to them
—
”

"You’ll do what, human? I was given no direction in regards to the civilians from the
Master
and even now he doesn’t speak to me. They are, as I see it, cattle.”

In his anger at the rebuke, Von Struck completely forgot his earlier anxiety about the vampires. He also forgot to call Arak Jurgen.

"I am in charge here, Arak. Your
Master
gave you very clear direction in that regard. The civilians are German and therefore on our side, and not to be touched.” He pointed his finger into Arak’s chest as he spoke. "Do you understand me?”

The naked hostility in Arak’s expression almost made Von Struck take a step back, but he managed to brace himself to back up his demand. Arak said nothing and Von Struck swallowed his fear to meet the va
mpire's gaze full on. The stand
off dragged on for a good twenty seconds, neither willing to give ground and look away. Von Struck only hoped th
at Arak was as obedient to the c
ount’s will as he had been led
to believe. He was in command and Arak knew this, but did he accept it? Without moving his gaze from the vampire’s, Von Struck asked him again
.
"Do you understand me
,
Arak?”

Silence and malice met him. Finally, after what seemed like an hour to Von Struck, but was in fact only a couple of seconds, Arak answered him. "The cattle are safe, for now. You are in
command but when you are gone,
I will say what is to be done with …
" He
paused and smiled again, and drool slithered off from one of his fangs and fell onto his tunic. He ignored it. "…the supplies.” Then he turned and was gone, back into the mine.

A weak, sickly feeling churned in his stomach. They had escaped the nightmare of the Russian front only to be tossed into a new, even worse, nightmare.

Later he told Rohleder and Henning what had happened, leaving the bit about him being nearly scared out of his wits to their imagination. As he spoke, Rohleder turned and looked at the boy and his mother whilst listening with one ear. "If they are harmed," he sai
d after Von Struck had finished,
"I’ll kill them all. God knows how but I’ll kill them or die trying." He looked defiantly at the other two
,
who nodded their understanding.

Henning placed his hand on Rohleder’s shoulder. "Michael, you won’t be alone if that happens.”

Arak had heard them. They were at the other end of the camp but he had heard every hushed whisper. He smiled to himself and settled down to wait for the night.

Chapter 30

Transylvania

Rasch
could not fathom it. It should have been a simple case of refining the dosage, for he was sure that the serum he’d created worked, but it wasn’t. He paced the laboratory and worried at the problem. He had imported the best laboratory equipment the Reich could provide. His patented machinery and devices had been shipped from Heidelberg, along with his entire library, and built in direct copy of his set-up in Germany. He had personally picked his two assistants. From the extensive pool of learned men that languished in the concentration camp system, he had found three brilliant Jewish scientists to help him in his quest.

However, his initial confidence that he could p
rovide a working serum for the c
ount was rapidly dwindling and his nervousness at the realisation of impending failure cloud
ed his thoughts. Scenes of the c
ount’s rampant anger plagued him in the night and sleep was nigh on impossible. Only the saccharine succour of his newest ally helped keep him on the right side of sanity.

He looked up at the clock
—
an hour still to go. The waiting seemed interminable and he knew he would never get anything done here until she came for her daily visit. Every day at eleven o’clock precisely, Iullia visited him at the laboratory. He had come to depend on her visits and he knew, on a different level of consciousness, her importance to him had grown out of all proportion to the depth of their relationship.

He stalked past one of his assistants, a small, elderly professor of chemistry who tended to cower in Rasch’s presence and rub his hands, and casually batted him with the riding crop he had taken to carrying.

"Get on with it
—
" He struggled to remember his name. It was something horribly Jewish, he was sure of it. He carried on pacing.

The three assistants Rasch had selected couldn’t believe their luck when they were told they had been chosen to perform important research for the Reich. Two of them had spent the last year in the quarry at Mauthausen Concentration camp. Eleven hour shifts, minimum rations and beatings on a regular basis had taken their toll on the pair and they both knew that an invalid transport to one of the death camps they weren’t supposed to know about was looming on the horizon.

The third had found a comfortable niche for
himself
in the warehouse known as Canada at Birkenau, the second camp at Auschwitz. The valuables, clothing and possessions of the gassed victims were brought here to be sorted and then either sent to Germany or issued to the camp inmates. Amongst the valuables and clothing
were also glasses, false teeth, false limbs and a whole array of medical equipment. It was his job to sort out what was good and what was not.

The name of the lager, Canada, had puzzled them all. Why Canada? Nobody knew for sure but he had a theory, and as morbid and ghoulish as it was, his associates had all agreed with him. He surmised that the word Canada was a bastardisation of the German phrase,
Keine Da
—
nobody there. The property of the victims was all that remained of them. As loosely fitting and as wrong as the theory was, it summarized for him the tragedy of Canada and the horror of Auschwitz.

Th
e timely transfer from the back
breaking quarry work, and the heartbreak of the warehouse, to the sedate laboratory had saved their lives. However they were now sure it hadn’t saved their souls.

Rasch had them lined up in front of his desk to welcome them and inform them of his plans. He spoke at length and omitted nothing. It didn’t matter if they knew everything because the plan was to shoot them after the work was completed anyway. When Rasch finished apprising them of their task, they all steadfastly refused to cooperate. Despite their medical and scientific background they were all religiously devout men. This, to them, was a crime against God and Heaven that would be paid for in the next life, not in this.

Rasch, however, had anticipated this would happen and had made plans accordingly. He nodded to one of the guards who, without uttering a word, shot the most voluble of the three.

His weapon was already cocked and he shot from behind so there was no warning. The blast was unexpected, and in the close confines of Rasch’s office, unsurprisingly loud. It had the same effect as a stun grenade and even Rasch, who had expected the discharge, found his heart racing and a warning spasm flitting through his sphincter.

He coughed and rubbed at his ringing ears before continuing. Affecting a nonchalant air, he asked them if they were still of the same opinion, adding that he only had to make a phone call and they would be replaced by another two professors on the next train. He left the fact that he hadn’t mentioned their fate, if and when another two came to replace them, hanging in the air.

Mordechai Bluhm, o
netime professor and onet
ime rock-breaker, shuffled his feet. Did he really believe in God nowadays anyway? Somehow he now identified the Synagogue, the observance of the Sabbath and all the trappings of his belief as a representation of the good old times, his life before the Germans. Was there really a place left in his soul for his old religion, now that he had been so long under the Nazi yolk?

It was
true,
his faith had fortified him through the early years in captivity. Nevertheless, as time had dragged on, his convictions had withered and were now merely a warm and distant nostalgia for an
earlier, much different life. And that was the crux of the mat
ter, it was no longer his life;
it was a memory.

He decided there and then that he had laboured under the Nazi whip for too long to die here, in this God-forsaken place, for some remote notion of good over evil. He was vaguely aware of the foetus of guilt forming in the back of his mind but it was being quietly eaten by a very predatory survival instinct. He opened his mouth to acquiesce and was taken aback as the man nex
t to him answered for them both.

"Herr Doctor, we will of course assist you in your program.”

Rasch smiled his best gloating smile and knowingly shook his head. "Typical Jews," he said aloud. "Take them out and feed them. I want them back here in one hour, ready for work." He dismissed them with a shooing motion and returned behind his desk.

Whilst they were eating, Mordecha
i
's new partner introduced himself. The guard had left them alone to eat and Mordechai felt as if they’d been given the keys to leave the building. For the first time in four years he was left in peace to eat. No weapons were pointed in his direction and nobody screamed insults into his ear. The calm was heavenly and he felt an insane happiness creeping through his bones. He actually began to enjoy his meal, as revolting as it was, and he smiled to himself. Perhaps all would be well now … perhaps.

Covering his mouth with the back of his hand, his compatriot theatrically whispered, "Professor Reuben Stein at your service.
Professor of Biology and Typical Jew.”
  Mordechai found it hard to suppress his shock at the comedic introduction and his grin. "And you might be?”

"Professor of Chemistry, Doctor Mordechai Bluhm, at your service, sir.”

"Have you any idea of what he was talking about back there?
Vampires?
Day-walking?
What on earth have we got ourselves into here? If Rabbi Neumann knew I was here, he would throw a fit!”

Mordechai couldn’t believe his ears. Was he making jokes about this?

"I have no idea." H
e smiled shyly and added, "
and
I’ve no idea who Rabbi Neumann is either. What a Mishagoss. I can’t believe that I‘ve said yes to do this devil
’
s work. What are we doing here?”

Reuben Stein, one-time professor and one-time Auschwitz survivor let the smile fall and nodded sagely
.
"We’re surviving, my friend. We’re surviving.”

Mordechai wordlessly concurred before asking, "Why did you change your mind? You were just as vehement against the idea as Peter."

"I was just following you two.” He changed his tone and put on a simple-minded smile
.
"After all, I’m only a Typical Jew.”

"So am I.” Mordechai sniggered at the memory of the phrase and the laughably arrogant way it had been used.
"A Typical Jew.”
He started to giggle and, by force of habit, he put his fist into his mouth to stifle the sound. Reuben started as well and they noiselessly snorted their amusement into their fists until the tears ran into their cabbage soup and their pact with the devil was forgotten.

This first cynical exchange set the tone for their working relationship with Doctor Ernst Rasch. In a cold and damp baroque laboratory at the foot of the ancient and mysterious Carpathian Mountains, Reuben and Mordechai cultivated a new daring in their 'Typical Jew' character.